Chad, the Ideal Lad
folder
Original - Misc › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
20
Views:
13,248
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
Original - Misc › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
20
Views:
13,248
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction about oral and anal sex between a man and a seven-year old boy. The characters, locations & incidents are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coi
Chapter 4 - A Baseball Bat Between his Legs
©2009 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.
.oOo.
Foster recalls his musical career as well as a threeway with Phillip and a very talented twelve-year old pitcher.
.oOo.
Back in my condo, I tried reading again, but my mind had been set adrift on a sea of memories, which made concentration impossible. I sat down at my piano and began playing the Marine Hymn. I couldn't help myself and sang one of the many mangled versions: "From the balls of Montezuma to the whores of Tripoli."
Back in Junior High, the music teacher handed me a clarinet and said if I practiced I could probably be in the band. I don't know if he could somehow detect any well hidden talent or if the faculty was just desperate enough to try anything to get me interested in school. I had already been tagged a fag, and became the brunt of my peers' vicious verbal attacks. My attendance record plummeted along with my marks. Needless to say, I didn't practice, and never got in the band. But I did enjoy music. I used to play a harmonica as I wandered the streets when I was supposed to be in class. And when I was shipped overseas I picked up a secondhand guitar and entertained my mates.
In my third and last year in the Marines, I was assigned to Fort Hase, or to use its official title, Kaneohe Bay, on Oahu. Shit, it's a tough assignment, but someone had to do it! The commandant heard me strumming one day and ordered me to report to the band director. Soon I was playing lead trumpet, and in the process avoiding a lot of the less appealing duties my mates were doing. Then I picked up the clarinet and amazed myself that I could remember the fingerings from Junior High. By the time of my discharge, I could play any instrument in the band.
I rushed back home to Phillip and we took up where we left off. We were deeply in love, but never monogamous. We both had meaningless but exciting one night stands, and sometimes brought a young guy home for some threeway fun.
Guys like Marshall. Even at twelve, he had a great hurling arm and was the primary reason his team won the Little League regionals. After weekly practice, Phillip would drive him home. Except the kid never felt like going straight home before his dad got off his shift at the factory, because his mom was always drunk, so he hung out at our house. Hung is definitely the appropriate word. Marshall had a baseball bat between his legs. The three of us would take turns topping each other. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the tiles of the coffee table pressing into my kneecaps, my mouth sucking away on Phillip's mantool, my hands grabbing his bare buttocks for support, as the boy behind me rammed his young cock deep into my shithole.
I went on to the local college on the GI bill. The Marines taught me discipline and I did well, majoring in business with a minor in music. In a few years, I owned my own music store and gave private lessons, and earned more than Phillip.
Phillip and I loved each other enough to always use protection with others, that is, except for that one time, that terrible, fateful, horrible night, when Phillip got careless. He was so self-loathing after he got the test results. He told me I didn't deserve him. Told me to find another. Told me he should kill himself. We got past the initial shock and worked on the problem together. I made sure he took his pills and nursed him through his many episodes. We wrote our wills and bought two plots in the cemetery, where Barney and I now visit him every Sunday. I tell him everything I'd done that week, and assure him (and myself) I'm doing ok. I talk about the good old days and laugh at all the stupid, wonderful things we did together.
The morning after my encounter with Chad, I woke early, took Barney for his walk, and then settled down at my desk to attack the waiting manuscript. I was already late getting it back to Humberto. I steeled my mind not to think about my new sweet little friend.
After Phillip got sick, I wanted to stay home as much as possible to be there for him, so I sold the music store. I held the mortgage and that gave us a nice steady income. I continued to give private lessons and we got along pretty well. Phillip, the ex-public school gym teacher, had a good health plan. Still, I kept my ears open for any odd jobs I could pick up without leaving home.
That's how I met Humberto. He was starting a publishing house and one of his first projects was going to be a set of guides to compete with the Idiot series. He asked me if I could look over a manuscript he'd received for the music book in the series. I realize now he only wanted me to check it for content, but I went much further. I scribbled notes in the margins: "This sentence is awkward; should be reworded." "This paragraph is confusing." "This section is very interesting, but it doesn't fit in with the rest of the chapter." I also highlighted all the misspellings and grammatical errors I found.
A few days after I mailed it back to Humberto, my phone rang. "Where the Hell did you learn to edit like that, Foster?" He apparently liked my work. For one thing, I saved him the expense of giving it to another editor. I had simply written the kind of things my professors at college were always putting on my papers. My high school teachers wouldn't believe it, but my lack of success back then wasn't because I was stupid, but because I had no motivation. In college, after my stint in the service, I discovered I really enjoyed reading, and writing as well. Humberto began sending me manuscripts that had nothing to do with music.
I finished the book about the Afghan school, put it in an envelope, stood and went to take my shower. When I stepped out of the shower and started to dry off, I thought I heard a noise in the living room, a muffled voice. What the Hell! I wrapped the towel around my waist and went out leaving wet footprints down the hall. There in my living room was a sight that both surprised and delighted me.
.oOo.
As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.
As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.
.oOo.
Foster recalls his musical career as well as a threeway with Phillip and a very talented twelve-year old pitcher.
.oOo.
Back in my condo, I tried reading again, but my mind had been set adrift on a sea of memories, which made concentration impossible. I sat down at my piano and began playing the Marine Hymn. I couldn't help myself and sang one of the many mangled versions: "From the balls of Montezuma to the whores of Tripoli."
Back in Junior High, the music teacher handed me a clarinet and said if I practiced I could probably be in the band. I don't know if he could somehow detect any well hidden talent or if the faculty was just desperate enough to try anything to get me interested in school. I had already been tagged a fag, and became the brunt of my peers' vicious verbal attacks. My attendance record plummeted along with my marks. Needless to say, I didn't practice, and never got in the band. But I did enjoy music. I used to play a harmonica as I wandered the streets when I was supposed to be in class. And when I was shipped overseas I picked up a secondhand guitar and entertained my mates.
In my third and last year in the Marines, I was assigned to Fort Hase, or to use its official title, Kaneohe Bay, on Oahu. Shit, it's a tough assignment, but someone had to do it! The commandant heard me strumming one day and ordered me to report to the band director. Soon I was playing lead trumpet, and in the process avoiding a lot of the less appealing duties my mates were doing. Then I picked up the clarinet and amazed myself that I could remember the fingerings from Junior High. By the time of my discharge, I could play any instrument in the band.
I rushed back home to Phillip and we took up where we left off. We were deeply in love, but never monogamous. We both had meaningless but exciting one night stands, and sometimes brought a young guy home for some threeway fun.
Guys like Marshall. Even at twelve, he had a great hurling arm and was the primary reason his team won the Little League regionals. After weekly practice, Phillip would drive him home. Except the kid never felt like going straight home before his dad got off his shift at the factory, because his mom was always drunk, so he hung out at our house. Hung is definitely the appropriate word. Marshall had a baseball bat between his legs. The three of us would take turns topping each other. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the tiles of the coffee table pressing into my kneecaps, my mouth sucking away on Phillip's mantool, my hands grabbing his bare buttocks for support, as the boy behind me rammed his young cock deep into my shithole.
I went on to the local college on the GI bill. The Marines taught me discipline and I did well, majoring in business with a minor in music. In a few years, I owned my own music store and gave private lessons, and earned more than Phillip.
Phillip and I loved each other enough to always use protection with others, that is, except for that one time, that terrible, fateful, horrible night, when Phillip got careless. He was so self-loathing after he got the test results. He told me I didn't deserve him. Told me to find another. Told me he should kill himself. We got past the initial shock and worked on the problem together. I made sure he took his pills and nursed him through his many episodes. We wrote our wills and bought two plots in the cemetery, where Barney and I now visit him every Sunday. I tell him everything I'd done that week, and assure him (and myself) I'm doing ok. I talk about the good old days and laugh at all the stupid, wonderful things we did together.
The morning after my encounter with Chad, I woke early, took Barney for his walk, and then settled down at my desk to attack the waiting manuscript. I was already late getting it back to Humberto. I steeled my mind not to think about my new sweet little friend.
After Phillip got sick, I wanted to stay home as much as possible to be there for him, so I sold the music store. I held the mortgage and that gave us a nice steady income. I continued to give private lessons and we got along pretty well. Phillip, the ex-public school gym teacher, had a good health plan. Still, I kept my ears open for any odd jobs I could pick up without leaving home.
That's how I met Humberto. He was starting a publishing house and one of his first projects was going to be a set of guides to compete with the Idiot series. He asked me if I could look over a manuscript he'd received for the music book in the series. I realize now he only wanted me to check it for content, but I went much further. I scribbled notes in the margins: "This sentence is awkward; should be reworded." "This paragraph is confusing." "This section is very interesting, but it doesn't fit in with the rest of the chapter." I also highlighted all the misspellings and grammatical errors I found.
A few days after I mailed it back to Humberto, my phone rang. "Where the Hell did you learn to edit like that, Foster?" He apparently liked my work. For one thing, I saved him the expense of giving it to another editor. I had simply written the kind of things my professors at college were always putting on my papers. My high school teachers wouldn't believe it, but my lack of success back then wasn't because I was stupid, but because I had no motivation. In college, after my stint in the service, I discovered I really enjoyed reading, and writing as well. Humberto began sending me manuscripts that had nothing to do with music.
I finished the book about the Afghan school, put it in an envelope, stood and went to take my shower. When I stepped out of the shower and started to dry off, I thought I heard a noise in the living room, a muffled voice. What the Hell! I wrapped the towel around my waist and went out leaving wet footprints down the hall. There in my living room was a sight that both surprised and delighted me.
.oOo.
As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.