Letters from the Underworld, The Prequels Part 01

About ten years ago, my wife and I joined a community center in order to get access to exercise equipment and a swimming pool. I was quite a few pounds overweight, and needed to do something about it.

My wife was drawn to the place's seemingly honorable values and ended up taking a job there, which helped exercise her management and creative skills too. Indeed I was encouraged to visit frequently to ramp-up my exercise regimen.

Naturally, there were lots of families with children there every day. The Underworld is the indoor swimming pool which serves as a tremendous draw for young members for frolic and myself for low-impact exercise  I started typing some diary entries after a while, usually the very night of their occurrence, while everything was fresh in mind.

I'd done 13 of these. They're loose ramblings of the observations and brief interactions with interesting members who appeared often and a few random charmers.

Here's the first one.

*Below, you can interpret "ML" as My Lovely (Wife)

I had an interesting encounter at the Underworld this afternoon.

I took some lunch in for ML, which we eat in the little outdoor courtyard formed by the square "ring" of the building. The child care room door faces inside of the courtyard, and I spy a face peering through it from time to time.

Time passes, and ML and I finish our lunch. The woman who runs the child care closes up and comes out, along with her single charge who follows behind: male, five to six years old, reasonably short denim shorts, brown hair + eyes, with a diamond shaped face. He has a nicely solid mesomorphic somatotype with appropriate musculature for an active boy of his development. Despite his age, he's not hard on the eyes and isn't whiny.

So the woman and this boy come to sit at our table to chat - the boy sits across from me. His name's Pea, which is a strange name - clearly a nickname. He bounces a ping-pong ball at me, clearly expecting it to be tossed back.
He has the aroma of a lad with no daddy at home. Soon, he's getting more elabourate with his ball tossing and gets up to wander to my side of the table, about 6-8 feet distant so he has a chance to catch the tricky shots I send his way. It's not long before he's completely engrossed in this activity. He marvels at the length of my arms and my size overall repeatedly, being able to catch the ball "so far" away from me.

After about ten minutes of this, mother comes out (she teaches a class at the Underworld) carrying a baby and comes to fetch her son. Pea doesn't need to be told once that it's time to go, and comes over to say goodbye. I'm on the way out myself, so I follow them out and stop by the desk to say bye to ML.

Mother ends up chatting with someone, and I hear the ping-pong ball bouncing off the wall nearby, which I catch and head back out to the courtyard to redirect his playful aggression somewhere more suitable. I put a hand on his shoulder by way of a gentle hint, and I thought he was going to melt under my paw.

He then hands me his TMNT figure and asks me to use it as a bat to hit the ping-pong ball which he "pitches" at me over the ping-pong table.

After a few minutes, his mother comes by and she collects Pea. Outside of his earshot, she thanks me for playing with him because he "doesn't have any guys at home" and that he "obviously really enjoyed playing with you".

What a shock. What is mommy doing with a new baby if daddy is an irresponsible loser?

Anyway, in 5-6 years Pea will be absolutely perfect and thoroughly delicious.

-- END --

 Rory Graxham


The Headache (Part II)

Emerging a bit lighter from the outhouse, he nearly plowed into His Friend on the way to the bathroom himself. "It's like a real bathroom!" The Boy exclaimed to His Friend, though he just grinned by way of reply and remarked "At this point, I don't care if it's just a hole in the ground!" and hastening his step, disappeared into the little shack.
The Lake was very pretty, and although the light was quickly fading now, The Boy could see the reflections of fires and the smell the telltale perfumes of woodfire cooking.  Strangely, he wasn't that hungry but his head throbbed nearly enough to set him to slamming his head against a tree. Maybe laying down would help, so he dropped himself heavily into the chunky lounge chair by the lake. It was comfortable enough, but unless his head stopped throbbing, it was going to be a long night. At this point he realised he might have forgotten to pack aspirin into his rucksack, but it's not something he's ever needed to worry about including with his usual soap and toothbrush.

It seemed to be going from bad to worse.  He was wearing only his denim cutoffs and a short sleeved shirt with a thin nylon jacket, and despite his tolerance for cold, he was starting to get uncomfortable. Hearing His Friend behind him, he got up to see if there was something he could do. But His Friend had already gotten a small fire going in the stone ring just up from the lake shore, and was unpacking the steaks and wrapping the corn husks in foil to set them under the logs.

He was oddly still not hungry, despite the nice smells of burning pine needles and dry wood and the promise of tasty wood-fire grilled steaks to come. He loved grilled steak. The very smell of it on the grill was enough to make him salivate with anticipation.

\Usually, The Boy insisted on helping to make at least some of their meals together, but tonight he wasn't in the mood. He loved to cook, but of course it was never something Mother let him do except for token items at home. "Did you bring any aspirin?" The Boy asked. His Friend frowned a moment in concentration and then muttered that no, he hadn't.  The Boy sighed, and headed up to the porch. His head wasn't going to give him a break. Muttering, he half-heartedly mentioned “I’m heading inside to lay down a little.”
Going inside and The Boy finds his way into the Master bedroom by just what remained of the outside twilight. It was a small but nice room with a big queen sized bed with very soft looking pillows and a feather duvet. It looked like a heap of clouds. It featured a nice big window that faced the lake, but The Boy was in no mood for appreciating the view. Taking off his jacket and shirt, he flung himself into the willowy whiteness and luxuriated in the coolness of the fabric. It did feel really good. Even though he wasn't tired, he could feel himself relaxing despite the persistent throb behind his eyes. It was an improvement at least.

Reflexively moving his legs over the various patches of cool fabric, The Boy relished these first few moments of being in bed when the sheets were still cool. It was a pleasure he was to retain well into middle adulthood. Flipping over onto his belly, he gasped a little at the unexpected shock of yet another untouched patch of coolness. It was great.

Hearing heavy footsteps, he turned to the side to look at the door and saw His Friend peering inwards trying to see, needing a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkening room.  “Aha!  Falling asleep at the job, are you?”, he mockingly accused. “Ugh, I have a headache, leave me alone.” was The Boy’s reply.
 “Maybe I know of something that could help…”, and with that His Friend walked over to the bed, and sat down next to The Boy. It was always most strange and thrilling to be close to another person but not quite touching, especially another person with whom you have no secrets of any kind.

It's almost as if there’s something like electricity, which is invisible when the wires are either touching or far away from each other, and yet clearly visible when they get near enough to arc. Even now after two years, he’d have thought he'd be used to it, but it remained one of the most perplexing parts of their relationship. In the back of his mind he wondered if His Friend felt it too.

The Boy turned his head to face the man and felt a big hand touch his nose, and then find The Boy's forehead. “No, you’re not sick.  Maybe you're just faking it.” the man declared.
“Yeah right. This sucks!  It feels like there's someone hammering at my eyeballs.”, The Boy grumbled and turned his head to the other side.

His friend gently rubbed The Boy’s neck and between his shoulder blades. It was already starting. It never took long these days, but there was something like a switch inside of The Boy when he felt His Friend’s big hands on his body. It felt as if his hands were molten iron and all of that heat and electricity would flow into him like a ready vessel. At each touch, there was a tingle, a shiver, a jolt… they would zing down his spine like a Jacob’s Ladder bolt, and would concentrate in his belly and move its way down. And there was a law of the universe which mandated that IT never ever be in a good place for this sort of thing at the time, especially in last year’s shorts which were already a little tight to begin with.

The Boy’s muscles all relaxed at once, which seemed strange because he wasn’t aware they weren’t, but since he did shift and sink down a fair bit, some of them must have been tensed. They usually had their sex in the late evenings or the early mornings, when both of them could take their time - all the time in the world if need be.

Since the first time, sex was an entire meal with several courses. There was the caressing, the massage on the back, and between the thighs, as The Boy’s erection ached to have the weight released from it. The man usually would lift the boy up, or flip him over completely, to expose the swollen penis, which was softly and gently massaged and stroked, eliciting an excited response at each touch.

Each sensory plateau was savoured, and by the time the final bits of clothing were removed, his penis danced on its own as if it were possessed. Ever the little scientist, The Boy noticed that the dances were synchronous with his heartbeat, which thudded in his chest and roared in his ears.

The first time His Friend masturbated him to orgasm he nearly gasped for air.  The first time he gave The Boy fellatio, he nearly screamed.  While The Boy had discovered the pleasures of his body before meeting His Friend, he'd never had or even imagined oral sex.

Fellatio was the filet mignon, the caviar, the Grand Finale of the meal. It was never rushed, and The Boy would lose track of time as His Friend would bring him up the spiraling vortex of ecstasy, then rest, then bring him to the edge again, then rest. Every time, the spirals getting smaller with the periods between rests shorter, until The Boy would seize His Friend's head and grunt for him to not stop. It was a lot trickier now that The Boy as a teen, he could cum a bit, and he was less able to have multiple orgasms like when he first started. It also meant then when he did climax, it felt like a nuclear bomb went off inside of him.

As His Friend's hand moved down the right side of his back, he brought his left hand down the left side. The Boy spread his legs a bit in a vain attempt to allow his tortured willy some relief. The tingles were encircling his abdomen now and the heat of His Friend’s hands were duller but somehow felt welded to his skin. It felt good. As always, there was a twofold shock: once when first feeling his touch and once more as they released him.

As his hands arrived to the small of his back, The Boy spread his legs a bit further - an empty gesture, really, as they were already as part apart as they could go. The man's hands spread out and slowly traced the line of The Boy’s hips, and slid down the sides of his body just to the point of the upper thigh, and circled up around his buttocks.  One side of his mind shrieked for the man’s hand to dive between his thighs and grab the turgid organ lurking within.

The Boy knew from quickies in the boy’s room at school that he could wank himself to orgasm in just a couple of minutes, if he really wanted to. But it was never the same as a long and slow build-up to detonation. His imagination provided ample methods and techniques for enhanced self-pleasuring which he’d not even revealed to His Friend, more out of embarrassment than anything else.
In retrospect he doubted most people would ever believe him that a ten year old boy could enjoy the feeling of slinky bikini underwear, which had been given to him as a Christmas gift by some Italian relatives, or that he saved them for those precious times when everyone was out of the apartment so he could strip naked and wear them, whilst looking at himself in the mirror with his stiffy straining to poke its head above the upper line of the briefs. 

Just their feeling was enough to give him a stiffy.  Sometimes, he would get hard just unwrapping the slinky briefs from their plastic tubing. So little material, so soft, and so revealing. He could almost make out all of the veins and bizarre little features of his erect penis through the material. And in another sensory distortion, he admired his body as if he were a god.

On those extremely rare occasions when he could be sure he'd be alone for an hour or two, he'd slowly stroke his penis over the material and slowly build himself up to orgasm whilst fantasising about his classmates. When it came time for the final onrush to climax, he’d flip the briefs down and enjoy the brisk snap of his penis against his belly. It'd spasm a bit in the chillier air, and then be madly stroked to oblivion. Such a marvellous thing, the erect penis. It takes on such a life of its own when it’s aroused, and it has a way of fixating one’s mind upon it to the exclusion of all else like no other part of the body.

The tight jeans shorts were now becoming a serious liability. The Boy’s penis was beginning to really hurt as it valiantly attempted to double in size within a confined space. In the epic battle between a rock and a hard place, something has to give. The man sensed this, reached down between The Boy’s soft thighs, and took his right thumb and forefinger and tried to adjust The Boy’s embattled equipment. It was a nice try, but the sensation only made it spasm twice in response making things worse.

The man put his big hands to either side of The Boy’s hips, and lifted him off the bed a little. At this The Boy, rolled over and opened his legs into a frog leg position. The worst of the pressure was a little relieved, but even through the fairly study denim his penis was clearly outlined. A hand undid the button.  More relief. Another slowly unzipped the shorts… TRUE RELIEF AT LAST. It was like a missile being readied for launch, as The Boy’s penis progressively assumed a more vertical attitude.

It was around this time The Boy usually lost himself completely to his pleasure. All that mattered was his penis. It ached, burned, and throbbed with the fire and agony of an unscratched itch. But this was both worse and better than an itch.

A curious thing usually happened at this point during their sex together. The man would just gaze at The Boy, it was if he was drinking in the sight of him and it was the last time he’d ever see him. It seemed like an eternity to The Boy, because he was completely and fully aroused. But there was a feeling of being a fine statue under his gaze, as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever lay eyes on. It made The Boy feel a little strange, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

The man took a finger, and gently tugged down the briefs. Catching his penis partway down, he raised it slightly whilst continuing the downwards motion causing The Boy's stiffy to snap loudly against his tummy. It was an oddly satisfying sound, as if it reflected the strength of his body even if it was such a small manifestation.

The man rubbed The Boy’s belly, and in a movement which startled the youngster, he immediately took his penis into his mouth. He’d usually start very slowly, merely touching his lips to the head and lightly licking around the circumcision scar. This time was very different. His hot mouth descended with shocking speed down the entire shaft of his penis, whilst surrounding its head with a good amount of wet tongue and maintaining pressure on the more sensitive underside with the bottom lip. The Boy involuntarily buckled at the sensory assault, and stifled a small cry.

This was faster, and more vigorous than usual. And it was making The Boy writhe in pleasure. He was like a rag doll, with his legs and feet twitching, seemingly without control. The pressure was more vigourous, and the speed of the movement more sudden on each stroke, but the rhythm was slower. There was a loud sucking noise at each pass, and the man’s mouth was very wet.

The Boy was being bodily hauled up the passages of Pleasure, and he was surrendering himself completely to His Friend. It was approaching the part he wished could last forever, nearly to the event horizon of orgasm. He lay bare, completely open to whatever was coming to him. His heart hammered in his chest. His breathing became laboured. Every second breath, he emitted a small grunt - in near-syncopation with his older friend's sucking.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" It was so different this time. So carnal, so savage, so … delicious. It was close now, all that existed was his penis. His universe… His Penis. Release me! Release! YES!

The Boy had practiced many times the old techniques of holding back orgasm for as long as possible, and had varying degrees of success with it. He found he could hold it off for as long as twenty strokes, if he was sharply focused and not too greedy.

He managed to hold off his orgasm for a full pass of His Friend’s mouth. Feeling The Boy’s penis mortally stiffen, the man intensified the final sucking strokes and savaged the head with his tongue. The Boy spasmed in one violent shudder and exploded into the man’s mouth, with the aftershocks spiralling in time with each stroke. Stroke, shudder shudder shudderstroke, shudder shudder, stroke shudder… and finally…samadhi. After sucking The Boy’s penis clean, the man withdrew and switched on the small bed lamp.  He grinned at The Boy, who was already melting into the post-orgiastic bliss of contentment.
Chucking conspiratorially, “So, how’s the headache?” he asked.

It took a moment for The Boy to regain his bearings, but he thought a little, and shrieked, “Holy shit!  It’s GONE!  That’s .... cool!” Many things about His Friend amazed, confused, and perplexed The Boy. But he’d learned that where His Friend led him were the oft-hinted-at secrets and true delights of the human body which everyone possessed, even a chubby nigh-adolescent bookworm with braces who suffered the twice weekly humiliation of always being picked last to join a team in gym class.

He felt oddly strong and powerful in his presence.  It was a feeling that sustained him over the barren weeks of the rest of the year, and made him look forward to the next summer. It was a feeling he would return to later in life, when all other hopes died out.

He felt like the Sun itself, and it was in these half-lucid moments he realised in his heart that THIS is what people talked about when they mentioned love. THIS is what spawns all of the poetry, the songs, and the operas. He wanted to be this man when he grew up, no… he wanted to be this man, NOW.
It was this event which forever struck him perplexed when he heard that sometimes people give an excuse of “Not tonight, I have a headache” when one partner didn’t want sex.

“Hey!  Are those steaks ready yet?  I'm HUNGRY”, The Boy announced. And getting up from the bed, he pulled on his briefs and shorts over his already flaccid penis, and trotted outside to check on dinner.
Rory Graham
[The End]


The Headache (Part I)

The Headache by Rory Graxham

July in New England existed outside of Time and Space for The Boy. The mindless tedium of school was already forgotten, and September still seemed distant enough to not really exist. It was a progression of powerful intensities, from the loud bangs of Independence Day to the wonderfully sweet tastes of fresh corn on the cob and smells of barbecue everywhere.

It was also the month of true freedom for The Boy. For two years now, The Boy was released from his captivity to spend three weeks with His Friend who lived in a rural part of Northeastern Connecticut. Three weeks without Mother, whose loving but oppressive presence drowned his personality and self-confidence in the honey of devotion endemic in single mothers left to raise two children by themselves.

It was an altogether too common casualty of the Free Love spirit of the 1960s: as the product of this free love bound them to suffer the same fates they rebelled against in their own parents. Unlike their parents, however, they felt empowered to pretend these responsibilities simply didn't exist.

The Boy was shy and soft-spoken and never comfortable with too many people. It was easy for him to let other people hold court in conversations or social situations, since that was second nature to him at home; for Mother was King, Queen, Judge, Jury, and Executioner. What she couldn't shout down, she punished with a wooden paddle quaintly referred to as the Board of Education. Little did Mother know how little it really hurt The Boy, but even then he realised it was better to let people have their illusions than confront them with the truth. In the end, they will have their way regardless of proffered justifications.

It was for this reason The Boy hid his intellect and imagination behind a mask of cheerful smiles and an eternally agreeable disposition. Few knew the truth. It took a minor outburst of destroying books in the fourth grade for him to come to anyone's attention at the small public school he attended. Fortunately, this was during an era when public schools actually cared to attempt to understand such things. The school's principal was an earnest man, and recommended The Boy to be tested by the school district's psychiatrist.
He determined The Boy was simply a very bright and gifted child but woefully under-stimulated and completely and utterly stone-cold bored. What could be expected from a fourth grade child who understood Einstein's Theory of Relativity and could demonstrate how short or heavy things would get as you neared the speed of light via the Lorentz equations. Later that year, the shy bookworm won a city-wide contest with a paper on this very subject, earning him a terrifying five minutes reading it over the local radio station.

His Friend knew The Boy's gifts from the moment they met. His Friend saw him in ways he'd long abandoned hope of ever experiencing from another person. He was not a child to be proud of, or protective of, or to be told where to go, or what to do, or congratulated, or praised. He was for the first time in his youthful memory, a real person who existed in his own right and not in relation to someone else, or how smart he was, or how much like his father, mother, grandparents, aunts, or uncles he looked.

The Boy was to understand this miraculous feeling much later in life as the fundamental recognition of ones intellectual peers. It was in His Friend, The Boy found another like himself, and even though he was much older than he was; it was as if he found an island in a great grey ocean of dullness and stupidity. That such a person could see his true self was a gift exceeded only by His Friend's invitation for The Boy to visit him during the summer holidays.

Nature in its way shields the young from too sharp a perception of time, whether past or future. Things proceed as if they had always been and always shall be. And so it was this July, nearly two years after that fateful day they first met. The Boy had forgotten what it was like to not have His Friend in his life, just as he took it for granted that he would always be there.

It had been the first weekend after his arrival, and the sharp ragged emotions and excitement of actually being with His Friend had softened to the warm glow of contentment and happiness. The Boy would have been happy to have mowed his vast lawn or spend some time camping in the woods behind the house, but His Friend had a better idea. They were going to spend their weekend together motorcycling their way around the forests of Northwestern Connecticut and Southwestern Massachusetts. It was absolutely brilliant. His Friend had a big Gold Wing motorcycle with saddlebags fore and aft, and a big white bucket for Herbie to sit inside comfortably in the back.

What made these things so purely enjoyable was how easily such plans took shape. His Friend told him that they'd be going for two overnights, and to make sure he had everything he needed packed into one saddlebag. And that was it. He wasn't nagged endlessly about toothbrushes, toothpaste, clean socks, or any of the rest of the repetitive trivia Mother would spend hours belabouring. The Boy had room for some books from His Friend's library, which again did not need special permission.

His Friend had told him once that all of his books were open to The Boy, but that he should regard them with the same respect and care as if they were his own property, and that they should be returned in the same condition they were taken.

Early Friday afternoon with everything packed and ready to go, as if on cue, Herbie did his one, two, three step and hop from peg to saddlebag to bucket, and the trio finally set off into deep green woods of New England.
The senses are curious things. Much of philosophy and even science itself is built upon a premise that perceptions reflect varying aspects of reality. And yet, there are moments when we perceive that reality in its stark and unaltered form only momentarily. Such momentary glimpses occur when The Boy is riding behind His Friend on the powerful Gold Wing, when he realises just how large His Friend is compared to himself. He's a vast human being, easily weighing at least 350 pounds. Even though The Boy is big for his age, he can barely get his arms completely around the person in front of him.

Curiously, while The Boy has seen enough people to realise just how overweight he is, there isn't a trace of a single unkindly thought or perception of his older friend. Even words like "fat" or "chubby" aren't in his framework when he regards His Friend. Much art has been devoted to how expressing how blind Love can be, but its expression during the scattered moments in which we are blessed to exist within its glow always overlays our perceptions as surely as if we were blindfolded.

Most of New England is rural and consists of small towns which generally follow the course of rivers or other bodies of water. The Boy delights in the relatively cool air and all of the different smells from the pleasant perfumes of lavender and the cedar and pine trees, to the not-so-welcome scents of manure from nearby dairy farms.

Seeing any new landscape is at its most immersive on a motorcycle. You are not shielded from the heat of the air, its various flavours, or even the sounds of the environment around you. It is not tedious in the way a bicycle is, when trying to cover a range of hilly terrain. It is not the shielded "television screen" which traveling in car presents. You hear the insects, feel every little crack in the road, and the very act of turning requires your active participation.

But one unpleasant aspect of motorcycling is the limited range of occupants' motion. After about an hour or so of continuous riding, the body begins to beg for some stretching and movement, and when it's really hot, something to drink. In the small town of Stafford Springs, The Boy, His Friend, and his dog made their first stop.

True to form, Herbie waited until the motorcycle was switched off before leaping from his perch in a single bound. The Boy was greatly relieved to get off the bike and stretch while His Friend disappeared into a package store for a few minutes. Emerging with a pair of Moxie colas and a cut-up milk carton, he filled the carton with water and left it for Herbie by the front tire of the Gold Wing.

The Boy loved Moxie cola, which is a slightly bitter cola made with gentian root; he was much later in life to discover it was modeled after an Italian bitter cola called Chinotto of some renown.

That was another thing about His Friend. He remembered things. More importantly, he remembered what The Boy liked and disliked. To be sure, Mother possessed that same trait, but with her it was inconsistent. Sometimes it was the trial of Job to get her to acknowledge what he wanted, and other times she would give him what he hadn't realised he even wanted yet. Invariably it was a battle of wills, and he always lost.

They were within a few miles of the Massachusetts border, but out there the towns were small and most of one's vision was filled with trees. It was just prior to setting out from their first stop, when the onset of a headache began to afflict The Boy. Sometimes it just happens on such hot sunny days, particularly since you're always exposed to the elements. One uncomfortable aspect to this kind of riding is that as you move around groups of trees, the alternating shade and fully bright sunshine filtering through branches and trunks can throb with uncomfortable frequency. The helmet's face-shield reflects much of the glare from sight, but the inescapable fact is that you are fully within the outdoor environment, for good or for bad.

It started off as the usual throb behind the eyes. "Maybe I'm just thirsty," he wondered. He finished off the entire 16 ounce Moxie before they set out in hopes of staving it off. His Friend saved half of his, and perched the bottle in his customised holder that was a hollow tube offset from the kingpin of the motorcycle’s front fork. Chattering with His Friend and the old man at the petrol station had taken his mind off the then-dull ache, but after about ten minutes into their trip it had regained its place within his awareness.

The Boy knew they were heading for a lake in western Massachusetts, because His Friend had mentioned it last year towards the end of The Boy's stay. There wasn't time to go then, but he must have remembered talking about it because His Friend had intended to take The Boy there over his first weekend. The Boy had forgotten all about it, of course, but was reminded only now on the way there. In any event, The Boy resolved to bear out the headache until they made it to the lake. He knew it'd be a special place and that it'd be perfect.

With great relief, they pulled into their second rest stop in a small village dating back to the early 18th Century. They must have been close to the Connecticut River, since all of the oldest Southern New England towns were never far from it. His Friend must have noticed The Boy's great relief when he announced it was less than 15 minutes away now, and that they'd stopped primarily to pick provisions as much as to top up on fuel.

His Friend was the most resourceful person he knew, his house littered with gadgets he'd fashion to do the most extraordinary things. He never seemed to compromise on anything he valued, even if getting what he wanted seemed impossible. It didn't surprise The Boy to see a few gadgets for various cooking implements in one of the saddle bags as His Friend packed some steaks and husks of fresh corn into one of the four-packs. The headache was bearable now that he could see a nice dinner awaited him and it was going to be SOON.

The air was getting much cooler, as the sun was setting and they were deep in the woods that kept much of the ground under a merciful canopy of leaves. After passing a small wooden sign that looked hand-painted, they turned off the road onto what quickly became a dirt path. Riding in one of the tracks, they topped a small rise, which quickly led down to the surprisingly large lake below.

It was surrounded by cedar and maple trees, and there was a strong scent of pine and cedar which struck you in the face. There were small cabins scattered around the lake, but it seemed they were cleverly placed so that you couldn't see them from another cabin. It's as if you had the entire place to yourself, though some other cars were visible so there had to be other people nearby.

His Friend took them down a narrow trail and made one last turn, which placed them just behind a small wooden cabin fronting the water. It was a classic bungalow with large windows on all water-facing sides, with a generous porch. There was an envelope in the mailbox with both of their names on it, which contained the keys.

Boys and water seem inseparable in summers the world over. While His Friend took the various supplies and saddlebags inside, The Boy sprinted for the lake, kicking off His shoes as he went. He couldn't wait to just jump in, but after touching the water tentatively with his toes, it seemed a bit cold. The sun was nearly completely set now, and the air was getting chillier even off the motorcycle.

Besides, he had a stiffy from needing to use the toilet so badly. He'd skipped going to the bathroom on both stops and was getting sore from needing to relieve himself. It was strange how it would get hard when he had to use the bathroom really badly because there was nothing particularly pleasurable about the sensation.

He knew the plumbing for both products of his penis were connected, but it seemed that there must be a valve which regulated which liquid came out depending on its function. He couldn't pee when it was hard, and he couldn't cum when it wasn't. The body is so strange that way. He always meant to ask His Friend, but then again, he would just answer the same way he usually did when asked a silly question he felt the Boy could answer on his own: "LOOK IT UP!"

Fortunately, the sanitation of the campground wasn't primitive like they sometimes are. It was outside the cabin, but clean and modern with a wooden floor made of latticed slats. It wasn't uncomfortable to walk on barefoot. And most importantly, it had a REAL TOILET. So far, it was looking to be a great place.

Rory Graxham 

To be continued -


Best Friends (Proclaimed in Pee)

I had a very good friend during the second and third grades, long before either of us discovered anything about our bodies. We constantly hung out together. Among other marks of friendship, we pee'd together in secret places such as the bushes in the alley behind his house.

I overheard my mother tell my dad that it was cute the way Drew and I had become "best friends." That phrase was new to me, but I immediately liked it. I couldn't wait to tell Drew what she had said. The two of us agreed that we were definitely "best friends."

Not long after that, when we were pissing side-by-side and observing each other's little weenies peeking out of our zippers, Drew had a bright idea. He said we needed to have an initiation ceremony to prove our friendship. Neither of us really knew what "initiation" meant, but we proceeded to make up a ceremony.

We talked it over and knew without any doubt that mingling our pee would be the sort of deep secret that we needed. We had just pissed, so we were fresh out of ammo at that moment. But Drew ran into the house and came out with several paper cups which we hid under their garbage can rack.

The next time we pissed, we made a big deal out of it. We pulled our dickies farther out of our pants than usual. Drew held a cup for me to pee into and I held one for him. Then we mixed our piss together and stirred it with a twig, whispering funny but meaningless magic words. Then we divided the mixture, each of us holding a cup about half full. Still hyping the secrecy and the cosmic importance of our little ceremony, we hurried to his front yard where he poured his small cupful of our combined urine into the flower bed and stuck a Popsicle stick in the wet spot as a marker.

Then we walked a block and a half to my house. This part of the plan worried me. I could imagine encountering some older boy who would ask "Wha'cha got there, man? A cup of piss?" Or an adult who would make the ultimate threat, "Does your mother know about this?" Of course nothing like that happened, but my stomach was churning anyway while we walked along the sidewalk. I carried my little container of pee, frightened that people in every house were watching and knew we were up to something no good.

We got to my house and looked all around to make sure none of the neighbors were outside. That in itself probably made us appear guilty as hell. Then I poured my portion of shared pee into the flower bed and planted my own Popsicle stick. Drew said to me, "You are now my best friend." I repeated the words to him and felt like something spectacular had taken place.

Drew and I performed variations on the shared-piss ceremony again and again. We became much more familiar with each other's little peters and got bold enough to drop our pants and undies so we could tickle our little packages of exposed junk. We giggled at the eerie feelings and prickly goosebumps that we gave each other.

And we constantly reminded one another in secret whispers that we were "best friends."

 Martin Davis


Cub Scout to Man Scout

A few years ago we met a family at a neighbor's party. They had two young children, one girl and one boy. The boy was in Cub Scouts. Since I was a Scout as well my son was, so I got into a nice conversation with the dad about Scouting. They live several blocks away, but every year their boy would appear at our door in his Cub Scout uniform to sell us popcorn, the big Scouting annual fundraiser. As he aged, he soon became a cute little kid in his Boy Scout uniform ringing the doorbell.

This past year, I didn't even recognize him when he showed up at our door. I was puzzled he seemed to know me, and it was so embarrassing when he had to tell me who he was.

Now he is at age 12, he had grown quite a bit since last year, put on weight and muscle. Interesting that his voice had already changed into a deep masculine tone. It was all I could do not to stare at him up and down because he had changed so much. He apparently had already gone through some rather dramatic, quick, and fairly early pubertal changes. I think I embarrassed him when I mentioned how much his voice had changed.
 He's only in 7th grade. I'm suspecting he's currently among the most developed boys in his class, which could indeed be embarrassing at times for him.

Some may recall showers and feeling challenged if you are a freak with a massive bush of hairs down there, and insecure of so many strange things about your body. Not sure if kids even shower in PE now, or maybe only if they are in School sports? I suspect the coaches are ready to sign this boy up though.

Former Scout-  


Would you like to buy some Cookie Dough?

It is the time of year that Students are asked to perform fund-raising duties for their schools, and the  various projects the kids are partaking in. I was out with friends at a local Bowling center on a School night, yet there was a young fellow doing his duty to raise money. He stopped by our group and asked if we would be interested in buying anything from his catalog. It seemed to be mostly Cookie Dough, or Christmas related items. I took a turn after my friend who seemed to know the boy and his Mother. Although the boy was without Mom in this endeavour.

 I took the booklet and quickly found a few selections to purchase.  While I was filling in my information, I inquired about the fund-raising project. Apparently it is for his Band. I found out that he plays trumpet, and he is in 6th grade. I also inquired his name, and when he would be turning twelve. He told me, and I happily remarked that it was just 2 days after my own birthday. I noticed silently by this point that he seemed to have a slight speech abnormality, he spoke quite soft yet also had detectable slurring. He was not weak in the mind, he only carried some nuance to his speaking that was similar to a lisp, yet I could not detect exactly why. I presumed his mouth form had not caught up to the mass of his tongue.

 I then asked what school he attended, and upon his reply I asked if he knew a certain administrator whom I am friends with from that very school. He was not sure, but since this person is the principal, I suggested it might not be someone he needs to meet right away. He smiled, and thanked me for my order. I signed a check and handed it to him, and said I would see him again when the order comes in.

 I paid closer attention to the qualities of this young fellow. Indeed for a boy almost twelve, he was quite small. Probably under 70 pounds. His face also denied any aspect of approaching teen years. His skin was milky and clear,with flowing dark blonde locks lightly curled and draped upon his shoulders. A quaint button nose and deep brown eyes accumulated to an almost angelic appearance. His hands were also small yet his feet were beginning to lengthen. I also noticed through his plain white T-shirt, his shoulders were gaining width. Indeed the teen years are setting upon him soon. Although he wore his hair long this was no Diva-boy at all, he is all boy. as I later saw him rough-housing with a long-haired younger brother, indeed they are regulars there and I presume he might be an active youth bowler in his own right.    
I look forward to taking delivery of my purchase and checking how his band progress is going. Hopefully he has not yet met the principal.