by Rafael Henry

Chapter 3

A Discovery.

My mother is a great reader, so we have many yards of bookshelves in the house, and more yards every time I come home from school it seems to me. Books for me fill many hours which otherwise would be wasted I'm sure on some fruitless thinking or other meaningless occupation, like weeding the garden for instance. So I run a finger along the rows of books from time to time to see what might trigger some reaction in my otherwise turgid intellect. Now what's this? Definitely not seen this before. With the tip of my finger I pull back the top of the spine, grab the paperback book and take it out. The title is quite small, in white letters, and there's a photo on the front. It's a side view of the head of a boy, older than me, looking at another boy about the same age. I read the title; A Beginners Guide to Gay Loving. Oh my goodness, I think I need to be up in my bedroom to peruse this.

Oh Lordy! I start by scanning the index, reject the first of the two sections; Girls Loving; and flick through to the start of the second section; Boys Loving. There are a lot of illustrations, line drawings that look like they were made from photographs of what looks like quite young people, sans any hair in the wrong places, not that I'm any kind of expert, not having any myself; yet, thank goodness. Each drawing is accompanied by long explanations; more like instructions really. To put it mildly, this is an eye opener, an entirely new concept in my very limited education about what happens in the real world. I know what 'erotic' means, but in my experience, limited as it is, this is off the scale. The boys' nightly banter is always on the subject of innumerable erotic situations they would like to find themselves in, and all about sex. It's always the same sort of thing centred around a sexual climax. It's part of the nightly routine; a roundabout way to achieve the twice-daily 'come' as they call it. 'Come' as a verb as well as a noun, thus it has two meanings; an activity which almost everybody is doing soon after lights out, again in the morning, and as the noun; a substance to be examined, played with on a soft tummy, smelt to see if it smells of anything at all, [it does] and privately tasted out of sheer curiosity under the bedclothes. At a certain age, coming seems to be on most boy's minds, nocturnally. A typical conversation, in the dark, and in low voices might go like this……

'Has anybody come yet?' The little pipy voice enquires.

'I have.' Answers another voice in a tone that suggests he's on the cusp of voice-change. Then……

'Did you get any?'

'Yes, loads came.'

'Really? You're lying Robbie.'

Three boys, mid-play, pyjama bottoms undone and down around their thighs, and hands, fingers more likely, firmly gripping their rigid assorted lengths, leap out of their beds to seek confirmation of Robbie's boast.

'Fucking hell Robbie. How did you manage that?' Simon exclaims, standing over Robbie's bed, vigorously masturbating, and totally inspired by the revelation of Robbie's prodigious achievement. Simon stops to feel the texture with his fingertips. I'm watching from my bed opposite all the action with a very good view. Simon continues as if possessed.

'Are you going to come on me you bastard?' asks the concerned Robbie. No answer from Simon because it's far too late. He reaches his climax with one last sharp exhalation, a few more rapid jerks, just two fingers and a thumb involved with his pleasantly curved little member, and then the inevitable little watery jet all over Robbie's rather gorgeous tummy; and a droplet or two on his bed sheet.

'Sorry Robbie.' Simon apologizes in little gasps, still enjoying the gradually descending and gripping vibrations, the very last of his own produce glistening on his fingers, the rest of it; what wasn't on the pristine sheet, mixed with Robbie's.

'I should think so, you filthy bastard.' Admonishes Robbie as he examines the wet spots on the white sheet, clean on this morning, his other hand poised to do the necessary with that day's underpants. 'What am I going to tell Matron. She's bound to notice. Oh fuck!'

Quite. A totally unreasonable lapse on Simon's part, but I have to say, a delight to the likes of I. As you may have guessed, Robbie and Simon are a little ahead of the rest of us in the………well you know. I can't write that word again.

I'm assuming that mum won't notice that her book is missing from the bookshelf at home. I've brought it to school hidden at the bottom of my tuck box, a possession every boy has to keep stuff in that is private and personal, a place that will never be invaded by anyone else, including the masters. I thought about splitting the thing into two parts; the girls bit separated from the boys, but decided against it. The slim volume would cause a sensation here if it ever got out that I had such an astonishing insight into all the possibilities open to like minded boys, whichever their preference. Basically, it's dynamite with a capital D. Just imagine passing that around our room after lights out? Even the monk-like Rory might be moved by it; Rory, who would read until lights out, then place his spectacles on his bedside cabinet, turn over and go to sleep. No one claims to have seen him entirely naked, let alone in an excited state, something that can't be said of the rest of us anti-learning and anti-social morons. But live, and let live. We're all different and different people want and need different things.

So Rory is given his space, just like the others that don't quite fit our filthy minded, odourful mould. So when Simon nudges me one morning as we get dressed for the new day, I turn to look at Rory. Gone are the capacious under garments with the large X shaped hole at the front through which the hitherto unseen object will appear. Enter the sleek modern boy's version that the rest of us enjoy……and that first sight of what makes our Rory a real boy. I look at Simon, eyes widened now in awe, as he looks back at me. A smile gradually forms as we observe the new Rory. Phew!

'Look Jonny. Can you believe that?' Says Simon softly.

'Not really.'

I love Simon. He's funny and entertaining, not very bright, but a faithful honest hound. If ever a boy needed help, he would be there. He's part of the faith we have in each other. We bond for our own protection here. We have to keep the Faith to survive everything that they throw at us on a daily basis. I help Simon, and he helps me in return. We both agree that it's much nicer to have it done for you by another helping hand; and then return the favour. When they move us as they no doubt will at some point, and our beds are no longer adjacent, then with luck we'll find another willing partner. Lord knows what we'll do if we don't.

We watch as Rory pulls his new kit upwards to enclose the pleasing contours of his body, amidships, all neatly packed in there. A revelation indeed.

On page fifty-nine of the Guide, something else I've been wondering about becomes clear.

Mum is pretty good when it comes to minor medical matters, so when I have a small problem in a very personal place, she has the answer in the form of a tube of……..whatever it is; for my ongoing use. She watches me ease the skin back over to expose the part in question and applies the clear slippery substance. The next morning she takes another look. All fine now. The pinkness and slight swelling all gone. On page fifty-nine in the Guide there's an illustration of another tube. And guess what? The tube she gave me has exactly the same name on it. And there's a detailed explanation of it uses. Crikey! I had no idea that it was that useful; or where you could put it. A small bead of the clear gel between finger and thumb carefully placed between skin and skin, makes light work for slippery Jim it would appear.

I've read that chapter three times now. Before I embarked on the second reading, I held the photo of Lael up to my admiring eyes. I'm inspired to do something I try to restrict for bedtimes, but it's all too much for a boy such as I.

When I had finished the relevant section of the book I have, after another mis-deed, another thought. Why has my mother got this exciting tome amongst her collection of books? It's a thought I've relegated to the very back of my mind, my dear mama. Maybe she's going to give it me for Christmas!

Just now I had a horrible thought. Why did Dad leave?

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