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Here is an odd one. This might have happened last year. No sex.
Waiting in Line
I was waiting in line one late summer day in one of those state bureaucracies, the kind where you have to wait in one line in order to get a number to wait in another line, and I just happened to be behind a woman who obviously had her hands full with three children. They were in front of me in each and every line so I had the opportunity, having nothing else to do but observe the various citizens subjected to the same interminable wait that I was, to follow what proved to be an interesting development in regard to two of those children. The woman had a stroller and in that stroller was a small girl that was very fussy, the atmosphere in this holding area was hot and quite close, and the small child demanded nearly all of the poor mother's attention. While she was occupied with her small daughter before her, this woman had very little opportunity to supervise the two boys behind her.
These two boys were immediately in front of me as we applicants wound our way back and forth in the taped off aisles that led to the next station in our shared bureaucratic journey. This gave me ample opportunity, over a period of about thirty or forty minutes, to pay very close attention, but not obvious attention, to the behavior and conversation that occurred very nearby.
I guess I should describe these two boys as best as I can to you the reader. This being a bureaucracy of a certain type, many of those in line were compelled by economic circumstance to attend to these form-filling affairs themselves, rather than employing others to avail themselves of these services. Humbly, I don't exclude myself from these same circumstances, but certain assumptions may follow from the socioeconomic state which compelled us to loiter in one another's company. The boys, who appeared to be eight or nine years old, were dressed in what could be honestly be described as rather worn and infrequently laundered clothing. Each had a T-shirt: the first brown-haired boy, a dingy gray one, what at one time had been white; the second boy, a dirty blonde, a most unflattering mustard brown with the faded remains of some sort of team logo. The first boy, who will be our main focus, definitely appeared to be the son of the woman with the stroller; the second, possibly a near relative, a cousin or half-brother. Why the surmise about their relationship? These boys may have shared genetics in some uncertain way, but their familiarity denoted a close relationship as we shall see.
Anyway, to describe them from head to toe beginning with their apparel: The back of the brown-haired boy's T-shirt had many small clippings of the boy's hair, obviously from a haircut, probably done at home. However, the boy's longish, and unwashed, locks hadn't been shorn today or within the last few days for that matter. I imagine the boy pulled on the nearest available clothing at the beginning of the day from a laundry pile or that which was scattered about on the floor of his room. The same could be said of the other boy judging from the uncoordinated aspect of his shirts and shorts. The shorts of the first boy were of the cotton drawstring variety. They had been black at one time, but now were so worn, not threadbare, but halfway there, that they had a graying appearance. The shorts fell loosely about the legs of the boy, but seemed to adhere closely, and revealingly, to the boy's lower torso. His blonde compatriot had on a pair of perforated nylon sport shorts, dark blue in color. Each boy's outfit had a fitting, but not egregious, spattering of stains. This being summer, neither boy wore socks in their much worn athletic shoes. I would imagine these once white shoes had been new at the beginning of the school year eleven months past. Now they were scuffed, grass stained, and each heavy crease was lined with dirt.
Truly, the poking and prodding behavior of these boys would've been merely of passing interest, no more involving than any other enervating observation of the denizens in a bureaucratic carnival of flesh, such as the exaggerated eyebrow liner applied to the scowling visage of a recently emigrated domestic or the arm tattoos of a uniformed service technician, except that, due to proximity, I couldn't help but oversee their behavior and overhear their conversation and being boys they were spontaneous and uncensored with each other.
After about five minutes in the first line we occupied, I began to notice the frequency with which the brown-haired boy was reaching down and fiddling with his penis. When he wasn't directly grabbing and squeezing his noticeably limp member, he spent a considerable time pulling semiconsciously on the white drawstring that held up his shorts. That coupled with his agitated moving about, rolling his feet over at the ankles, and his occasionally squeezing his knees together led to an obvious conclusion that was soon confirmed when he yanked at his distracted mother's sleeve and delivered a direct statement.
"Mom, I gotta go pee."
The woman turned around and asked an inane question, but one quite common for parents with children to ask.
"Are you sure? I can't get out of line now, Brandon."
"Yeah, I gotta go," the brown-haired boy iterated.
"Okay, but make sure you come right back," the harried woman directed.
"Troy, do you have to go?" she added.
"No, but I'll go with him."
With that the two boys went off to a nearby restroom. Shortly, one heard over the conversations in the waiting area the echoing exclamation of the boy, who we now know by the name of Troy, coming from behind the closed door...
"Eww, that's gross! Ewww, that's really gross."
Many waiting were oblivious, a few ignored, but it was obvious to those listening, as I was, that Troy was commenting upon what had been left by previous occupier. Within no more than a minute, an animated Troy burst forth followed by Brandon still tying the drawstring of his shorts. As Brandon came closer two things caught my eye. One, I could see the waistband of his white cotton briefs as he finished tying his close fitting cotton shorts. This was of note only because of the second and much more salient detail – a small dark stain on the front of the boy's shorts. I considered, as casually as I could, the particulars of this sight. At the apex of the prominence that indicated end of the boy's penis, held forward by the small bulge made by his scrotal sac, was a quite noticeable wet darkening of the grayish material of the worn black shorts. Even though it must have been noticeable to the brown-haired boy, he seemed unconcerned. Now for this much urine, even though it was a damp spot no larger than a quarter, to appear on the outside of the boy's shorts, it indicated at least an equal amount of wetness must be present in the pouch of the boy's briefs. This wasn't a drip or two.
What had happened? Probably this: given the brief time the boys were in the restroom, Brandon probably decided to curtail relieving himself prematurely, anxious to follow his friend out of the restroom. I glanced over at Troy's nylon shorts; there is no indication that he had made use of the toilet. What I did notice was that Troy, while not as large as his friend, appeared more defined in the thinner nylon material. The explanation – the blonde boy wasn't wearing any underwear. This was noticeable upon closer observation. One, there was no white cotton or any other fabric that appeared under the perforated double layer fabric of the nylon sport shorts. Two, when viewed from behind, and since I was behind these two boys in line it was quite easy for me to observe, the taut muscles of the blonde boy's buttocks were clearly defined as he shifted his weight while standing. There was no line or ridge visible under Troy's shorts. On the other hand, when I looked at Brandon's backside, the lines running around the boy's thighs from the leg holes of his cotton briefs were apparent.
I assessed this as Brandon's mother, children in tow, was called to an open window at the front of the waiting area. After my turn with the same dour public servant, I was directed to an even longer, slower moving line. Again, I was behind the boys.
Now this line was critical. In order to accomplish what you needed to accomplish it was imperative that you didn't lose your spot in the queue. It was going to be at least twenty or thirty minutes before reaching the end of our shared tedium. It is during this half-hour span that a singular event occurred that distinguished this bureaucratic visit from any other in my experience.
As I waited, I looked about disinterestedly. There was the same mix of people that are in every bureaucratic waiting area the world over, some angry and frustrated, others tired and resigned, clutching at joyless paper. Every few minutes I attended to the, while not carefree certainly not careworn, boys a foot or two away. I noticed Brandon, amidst boyish conversation, besides grabbing his penis with his twirling and pinching fingers, was now clutching and poking the cotton-covered-cleft of his bottom. He again was rolling his ankles and looked as uncomfortable as he did before his visit to the restroom. He would at times press his backside against the painted concrete cinder blocks that formed the back wall along which our line slowly advanced. Troy poked at him. What was being said between the boys was intermittently audible.
"Quit it!"
Brandon looked distressed, but giggled repeatedly along with his blonde-haired pal. Another minute or two in this purgatory and the line was ready to move another three feet forward. As we did, I could smell a distinct, pungent odor. Troy punched Brandon.
"You farted!" Troy accused Brandon in a quickly lowered voice.
Brandon looked embarrassed.
"Shut up, Troy," he replied in a loud whisper.
"You did," his pal accused.
"Shut up," Brandon repeated quietly, but forcefully.
It was clear that Brandon wasn't going to tolerate any more kidding. His blonde friend kept his mouth shut, but he began a new tactic to torment his friend. He would every so often come up and grab Brandon by the waist, squeezing forcefully. Brandon would push him away. Troy launched a different type of assault on his buddy that would've been difficult to see if you weren't directly behind the boys. Troy would sneak up and run his fingers firmly under Brandon's butt. Brandon would then throw an elbow at his friend. This went on repeatedly for good few minutes. Brandon would cover his rear with his hands and squeeze his legs together trying to prevent his pal's assault. He didn't look happy.
Slowly, but surely we supplicants moved forward a step or two at a time. More than twenty minutes passed and we neared our audience. Over the last four or five minutes of this stretch of time Brandon had been frowning and looked quite uncomfortable.
"Mom, how much longer?"
"Were almost done Brandon, honey," she consoled; still the frustration of the wait was clear in her voice.
As soon as Brandon's mother turned her back, Troy launched an assault from behind, squeezing the cranky boy with both arms. Brandon broke free and turned around quickly.
"I told you to quit it," he said angrily.
He punched at his tormentor. Brandon looked like he was going to cry.
"Brandon! Both of you boys behave yourself," the frazzled woman snapped at her charges.
"He started it," Brandon accused.
"No, I didn't! Brandon ..."
"Shut up, Troy!"
Brandon looked really upset.
"Both of you stop it! I have to finish here and I won't have you creating a scene."
The little girl in the stroller began to fuss at the disturbance. Brandon's mom made a quick decision.
"Troy, you go sit over there," directing the blonde-headed boy with a point of the finger to a steel bench a few yards distant.
Troy complied. For the next three or four minutes I was behind Brandon and his mother while we made our way the final few feet to the final pylon before we were called forward. It is here where I noticed Brandon had a problem. I could see the boy was standing uncomfortably stiff. I could just detect an earthy odor. Brandon had had an accident. When it came time for Brandon to follow his mother up to the clerk ten feet away, I could tell with certainty. The boy walked awkwardly, trying not to move his slightly clenched buttocks; he covered his behind with both of his hands, one over the other.
I was called to another clerk and I was only able to glance over as Brandon, his mom, and the blonde pal made their way to the exit. It was obvious to me, but apparently not to anyone else what had happened.
Dear Reader,
If you have read this far I would be interested in hearing about what you think of this observed incident. Have you ever had an experience where you have been conscious of what one's not supposed to be conscious of in society?
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