Both men sat, expectantly, waiting for an answer from me. There was no way I could lie to these two fine gentlemen; they’d welcomed me into their home- a stranger who stepped up in the time of peril and need to assist one their own and thanked me graciously for it. Even though my original purpose in visiting this small river community was to seek an interview with them, tell their story in print, and perhaps profit from it, I just couldn’t put falsehood ahead of truth, so I smiled weakly, shrugged my shoulders, and replied,
“Yes, I do! Not only is she my literary agent and publicist, but a dear friend! I didn’t lie to you when I said Chad Bentley has no books or works to his credit, but my alter-ego, my pseudonym, the author does, so I really don’t care to mislead you concerning my motives.”
I stopped a moment, took a deep breath, stood, and said, “I think I’ll just say thank you for the breakfast, the wonderful fellowship, and your warm welcome and leave.”
As I rose from my chair, preparing to depart the premises, Dan quickly held up his hand.
“Don’t be so quick to judge where we’re going with our line of questioning or your own self-worth or confidence. Please sit back down. We still have much to visit about.”
“We do apologize,” Bill added quickly and sincerely, “but over the years we’ve become cautious and when we heard you were interested in writing about us, we naturally wanted to check out your bona fides. Lori, Dan’s cousin twice removed, was a natural for us to call, early this morning I might add which made her not altogether happy, and after Dan cajoled and pressed her, she finally admitted you were one of her clients and friends. She further confirmed you were indeed a successful published author in a certain field, but refused to tell us anymore.”
“We took her word for it,” Dan said, “and questioned her no more, but Bill insisted on trying to see if you’d admit to it. After all, we don’t want just anybody telling our story; we want someone we can trust, who we can confide in, and someone with depth, clarity, understanding and will be able to tell with feeling how two queer boys (now gay, the term is) fell in love, grew up together, and lived their lives together.”
“Are you that person?” Bill asked me.
All of a sudden the weight of the world seemed to evaporate from my shoulders, but another stronger, strengthening of my heart and resolve, replaced it. A strength of resolution and pride to do as they bid, whether I ever published the story or not; to tell the story the best I could of their deep love, not only for each other, but for their family as well.
A silent tear crept slowly down my right cheek as I choked out, “Yes, I am!”
“Please tell us about yourself,” Dan asked softly, comfortingly, “so we can know you better,” and so I did.
I told them of growing up, my college degree, my rape experience on campus, my quest for work, and finally how I began writing fiction romance as “Annie Palmer,” and why I chose the name as my pseudonym. The three of us laughed heartily about that! Bill and Dan thought it was absolutely hilarious- a gay man writing straight love stories who was relatively successful at it!
“What do you tell people when you’re asked what you do for a living?” Bill queried.
“Well, I don’t lie, but I don’t tell them exactly what I do. I generally say I’m a private consultant and write position papers for selected subjects or customers. Of course, I don’t say what position my subjects are in or seeking, whether horizontal, upright, or bent over a hay bale, and let it drop or change the subject by looking about furtively saying ‘I really can’t talk about it- if you know what I mean- all hush-hush’ and wink. Ninety-nine percent of the time people just nod their heads knowingly and shut up, figuring they’re now part of some great secret government operation. They’re not of course, but I’m not going to say so!”
“I never do public book signings or allow my picture to appear on a book jacket or any promotional material so my readers are unaware who I really am. Apparently, they’re satisfied with that! I think it’s sort of like wondering what the cause of a bulge in some guy’s bikini swimsuit or underwear is. Imagination is sometimes more erotic than reality, but not always! Readers like to live vicariously through my stories and I love to provide them with the material to do so. I think we all like to believe we are much like the heroes or heroines or could be. The characters I create allow them to be just that or at least live in their shadows. It’s great and I enjoy it, especially when they write telling me how much they enjoyed a story!”
I don’t know where the time went as we sat and visited, but when the telephone rang interrupting our visit and Bill got up to answer it, I looked at my watch and realized it was almost eleven o’clock in the morning! We’d spent the entire time talking about me, my life, and some of the books or stories I’d written. The two of the effectively and subtly changed me from the interviewer to the interviewee and I was much the richer for it!
Bill returned and I stood, saying, “As much as I’ve enjoyed our visit, I really must go. I’ve taken your entire morning and I’m certain you have more to do than just listen to me.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Bill, “we’ve enjoyed it so much, so much, haven’t we Love?” addressing Dan with a smile. Turning to me again, he said, “Please stay and have lunch with us and after lunch we can begin to tell you our story, such as it is!”
I hesitated, since by now I’d pretty much made up my mind I wasn’t going to write anything, but just fade away and let these two remarkable gentlemen, now married, enjoy their life together and their families without my interference! However, I acquiesced to their warmth and sincerity and accepted their invitation to lunch, at least. I enjoyed being in their presence; two lovers who, together, were whole, open in their affection, honest, and proud to be with each other.
While I set the table, I picked up snippets of conversation Bill and Dan were having concerning the earlier telephone call. Bill said something about someone returning here, living with his sister, and Bill invited him to live with them in one of the spare bedrooms. Evidently, according to what I overheard, there were five other children in the house and room was scarce. To me it was just another example of these two men opening their hearts and home to a member of the family, giving sustenance and shelter to one who needed it.
Lunch was to be “light,” according to Dan as he grilled a steak (medium- pink in the center). He sliced it into thin strips, garnished a crisp, fresh garden salad with it, sliced an egg and added it to the salad, finished with shredded Asiago cheese, and Ranch Dressing on the side. Warm French bread and a glass of red wine made up the remainder of our meal – fantastic!
After lunch, we returned to the porch, only this time Bill and Dan asked me to bring my brief case with me. Seated, I pulled out a note pad, my tape recorder, and said casually, “I’ve told you about me; what do want to tell me about you two?”
“I don’t know,” Bill said hesitantly, “I guess we met, fell in love, and finally got married.”
“Bullshit!” Dan snorted. “When you first came to town, you were a skinny little runt almost afraid of his shadow!”
He paused, placed his hand on Bill’s and continued, “And the most beautiful person I’d ever seen and still is!”
Bill smiled, patted Dan’s hand affectionately, and said, “You’re right, my Love; I really didn’t want to move here, but Momma said we had no place else to go.”
Turning to me, he began, “It was right after the war, the Second World War; a time of great hardship and trauma for everyone living in the world and especially for a little boy born on a Friday in June of 1935.”
Momma and I moved in with my grandparents, her mom and dad, in 1946, at the end of my sixth grade year in school. Her job at the Badger Ordinance Works came to an end shortly after the war’s end and, according to Momma, we really had no place else to go!
Daddy left to fight in the war in 1944, was sent to some god-awful place in the Pacific, and Momma received word in July of 1945 he was “missing in action.” Finally in December of 1945 we were told he was killed in action on some little piss-ant (not the words of the Army guy that delivered the letter and news used) island in the Pacific Ocean. I was nine years old when he left, never to return, and I missed him so! In the spring of 1946, after school was out, we moved! It was hard leaving the only town I’d ever lived in, but move we did!
The move here wasn’t really all that bad, except for missing Daddy; the problem was this little town grandma and grandpa lived in had a k-6 elementary school and a 7-12 Junior-Senior High School. I’d be going to the same school with high school kids along with other seventh and eighth graders. My old school, if we’d stayed, had a separate Junior High School, well away from the high school and all those older boys! Now, I’d have to take gym class and gym class meant sports of some sort and showers – nude showers with other boys; all of us exposed and showing our big and little boy parts!
Now in those days I was not a very big person, in more ways than one- well, one in particular!
On a good day, even if it was stiff as a three-day corpse, my circumcised dick would stick out, maybe three inches – at best; soft, I’d be lucky to sport a robust two inches. My balls hadn’t dropped and were bare as a pool hall cue ball resting on the felt covered slate waiting for a game of eight ball or spots and stripes. There wasn’t even fuzz around the root of my boy sprig. I was afraid the other boys would laugh at me! Not only laugh, but probably pick on me and thump the living shit out of me as well. You know, they sometimes do that to new kids, just to test their mettle or their place in the pecking order – chickens do that too- use their peckers on each other to establish dominance! Let me rephrase that – chickens peck on each other with their beaks not their peckers, unless they’re a rooster treading a hen, then that’s different, but they don’t use their peckers on the hen’s head!
Dan interrupted the conversation at this point; “Yeah, but he grew- nicely too, I might add. Although, hell, it wouldn’t have made any difference to me, but you know how little boys are! I always bragged to him I had the biggest cock in the county and he never doubted it! Of course, I gave him no reason to look around to find out either.”
Bill just rolled his eyes, leaned over, giving Dan a light kiss on his cheek, and resumed his narrative.
I was eleven years old; going to be twelve in late summer, stood four feet five or six inches tall and weighed around eighty pounds. Now that’s not Charles Atlas in anyone’s book! I thought I was more like the cartoon character “Sad Sack” rather than “Superman” or the “Green Hornet.” Hell, I didn’t even know how to fly so I couldn’t even think I’d be “Sky King!” for god’s sake!
I was not looking forward to going to a new school in the fall!
Momma tried to assure me I wouldn’t have any problems; after all this was the town she grew up in, made friends, and I would do the same – right- and pigs fly! But, I vowed to try my best, smiled sweetly on the outside, but my gut clenched up with fear on the inside. It took some getting used to, the move and the new town, but after a couple of weeks, it really wasn’t so bad, I thought! I did have cousins and aunts and uncles close by; Uncle Philip (mom’s brother) and Aunt Fran lived in La Crosse and they had four children (three boys and one girl) and Uncle Le Roy (mom’s other brother) and Aunt Grace lived across the river and had three kids (two girls and one boy), so it wasn’t as if I didn’t know anybody at all!
I was feeling fairly confident, by the middle of June, I’d probably be fine – no one thumped the living hell out of me by then and I’d seen other kids around town. They all looked at me as though I had two heads, though. I think they do that to all new kids, especially in small towns!
I was just beginning to think things weren’t so bad, even if I hadn’t made any friends yet and doubted I would if you want to know the truth, until one sunny, breezy June afternoon, after seeking permission from Mom, I walked the few blocks to the Junior-Senior High School grounds to fly my kite. There was a large area the school used for outdoor gym classes next to the baseball diamond that was an ideal place to fly a kite, I thought.
The wind was good, not too strong, not too light, but steady, perfect for flying a kite. My kite was not one of those diamond-shaped types, but a box kite! Now, box kites are a different sort of critter to fly and it takes a certain skill to do it well, a skill I learned and practiced while we lived at the Badger Ordinance Works from soldiers who worked there. Not only did I learn to fly them, but I learned to make them as well. God, I was so proud of my skills!
I launched my kite, guided it up, letting it twist and turn until it reached sufficient height and had enough lift from the upper air currents so it sort of hung there, luffing lazily back and forth, tugging on the string tethering it to earth. Once I was satisfied it was going to remain aloft, flying above me in what I considered a majestic manner, I anchored the string reel (made with a small piece of one by four pine notched at each end and two empty wooden thread spools on opposite sides and ends to hold on to while I either reeled the kite in or let it out) to a stick I stuck in the ground, I stretched out on the grass to watch the miracle of flight unfold above me.
Granted, my kite wasn’t a P-38 or Mustang or Grumman Navy fighter, but I could dream couldn’t I? Couldn’t I imagine, as I lay there, I was a fighter pilot avenging my Daddy’s death on the enemy that wreaked havoc on so many defenseless cities on islands so many miles away and killed other boys daddy’s or brothers ? Once I’d done that, couldn’t I further imagine it was carrying me away to places I’d never been and probably never go but only read about or saw in the movie theaters? Couldn’t I be a hero or a dashing young man seeking adventure or fame or fortune instead of being in new town, lonely, without my Daddy, and no friends to play with or talk to or share my deepest darkest secret with?
Lying there, eyes closed, clad only in a tee-shirt and shorts (sans underwear which I thought was quite naughty, but comfortable) I dreamed all sorts of fantastic things such as a warm hand on my thigh, sliding up under my shorts leg, slithering up toward my best friend! When the errant hand reached my now stiffening penis, I opened my eyes. Leaning over me grinning into my face, body apparently naked except for a pair of bib overalls with one strap hanging limply and not attached as it should be, giving me the opportunity to see down inside them almost to his black-lace-up tennis shoe clad feet, was a boy, an older, taller, tanner, thin, but well-proportioned teen-age boy!
His head was adorned with a shock of long, brown hair not quite reaching past his ears on the side, a face decorated with sparkling blue eyes, and infectious and captivating smile, and thin, delicate lips being moistened by a soft, enticing tongue. As he swiped his tongue across his lips, almost sexually I thought, my little dickie leaped with joy.
“Hi!” he said as he began to fondle my dick and balls.
I sucked in my tummy, shivering just a little as he began a slow, gentle, up and down motion on my stiff spike.
“Hi!” I gurgled back, flexing my butt cheeks as he continued to play with my now very special personal friend who, it seemed was now becoming well acquainted with a stranger. I raised up a little and looked down the front of his bib overalls and could see a much larger, thicker male instrument, but different than mine I thought, twitching in anticipation as well.
“Like that?” he asked.
I just nodded and smiled up at him.
“Feels different than mine,” he commented.
“Maybe mine is just smaller,” I offered.
“Nah,” he decided, rubbing his thumb and finger over the slit and down the sides, “It doesn’t have a cap on it like mine.”
He puzzled a minute and announced, “Let me look,” and pulled open my shorts at the waist and stuck his head down close to inspect my pieces parts.
“Reminds me of that Civil War place we learned about in history, in Gettysburg, where they fought that battle.”
“What place was that?” I stammered, wondering if he was going to let go of my cock anytime soon, but really hoping he wouldn’t!
“You know, Little Round Top,” and laughed heartily, but yet didn’t let go of my cock or close the front of my shorts, instead seemed even more fascinated with my dick.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “I’ve seen you around town the last couple of weeks or so.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m eleven but I’ll be twelve in another week.”
“What’s your name?” I asked hesitantly.
“Danny Fielding and I’m fifteen and going to be a sophomore next fall. I probably should be a junior but my aunt held me back a year. My aunt said I was born on a Sunday in September of 1931 and she thought I was too young to start school.”
“I’ll be in seventh grade,” I squeaked as his index finger began probing behind my balls, heading toward my little fleshy star-fished spot located in between my ass cheeks.
“Great, we’ll be in the same building and can see each other every day!”
“Yep,” he said with a smile, “you’re just too damn fucking cute for me to pass by!” and grinned again as he slipped his finger up my poop chute!
“What are you doing?” I said, my eyes wide with surprise and pleasure.
“Why,” he said matter-of-factly and confidently, “I’m sticking my finger up your asshole – can’t you feel it?” and wiggled and jiggled it back and forth and in and out.
“God, yes,” I moaned. I’d never had anyone else’s finger, other than my own, in that spot and he was hitting my really, really, tickly spot every time he wiggled that finger!
“Someday I’ll slide something else in there,” he whispered softly into my ear, “but I don’t have time today, my cousins are waiting for me. We just stopped to take a leak and I spotted you over here. Shit, I thought you were just too cute to pass up,” and pulled his finger out, leaving me empty and wanting more.
“Where do you live, Bill?”
“With my Mom at Grandpa and Grandma Sorenson’s,” I answered.
“No dad?” he queried.
“No!” I said softly, sadly. “He got killed in the war,” and my eyes began to tear up.
Using a handkerchief he extracted from one of his pockets, he gently wiped away my tears, and said, “Me too, only I never knew my dad. My mom never married and she died when I was born. My aunt and uncle raised me.”
“Hey,” he said, “I gotta go but you can bet I’ll be seeing you again, real soon,” and stood up, looked around quickly, and with a “flick of his hand on the front of his bibbies, popped out his fleshy, huge, uncut, slowly deflating teenage cock. “Have quick look,” he said, “It’s not the last time you’ll become acquainted with it,” grinned and turned to leave tucking his pony back in the barn.
Off in the distance I saw three or four other boys standing beside a rather junky looking pickup truck, waving and hollering in our direction. Dan Fielding, grinned one more time at me, winked, and started walking in their direction. Once there, they all climbed in the pickup truck, either in the front or in the bed, and off they went, Dan hollering “see you soon” back at me.I slowly wound my kite back down from the heavens until I could grasp it so it wouldn’t smash up landing on the ground, tied the tail up so it wouldn’t drag, and began my walk toward home. I was confused, curious, but happy; convinced I’d found a new friend, older, but much wiser in the ways of boyhood, and had the same feelings for boys I did – I hoped!
Thank you for reading “Fielding Boy” – Chapter Four-
“…..Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child has to work for a living,
But a child born on the Sabbath Day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.”
(Ann. Nursery Rhyme )
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental or used in a fictional content.
The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.
Positive comments are welcome and appreciated at: firstname.lastname@example.org.