In the morning, I”m pulled out of the cell for my trip to Ft Lauderdale. Billy gives me a slap on the back, telling me to get along up there. His new friend gives me a quick smile. I board the County Detention bus with a group of male juveniles. The County is good business for The Program. After an hour’s drive we enter a military-looking compound, in a rural area east of the Everglades. Hot and dusty, I tell myself: ‘I’m in the Army now.’ We pile off the bus as several angry young adults run up to us and start screaming in our faces. So it starts. I’m not immune to their threats and do my share of push-ups for not moving fast enough. At least with my military-brat background, I can survive this treatment. It lasts all day. As we’re processed, there are always an excess number of screaming disciplinarians, making our lives miserable.
The first stop is to shave all our hair off. Then we’re issued military-style uniforms, tees and fatigues. Everything is regulation. They tell us we arrived too late for school and will spend the day in physical training. Our only break is for lunch, but even then, the discipline instructors kept us from relaxing; speaking to anyone brings immediate push-ups. The only bright spot wi when I see Tommy across the dining hall. He sees me but motions not to say anything. There’s no time. They keep us busy and moving every minute. We’re told that for fifteen minutes before lights out, we’re allowed to do what we want, as long as it’s praying to God. Even the time to go to the bathroom is regulated. If you aren’t done in two minutes, they blow a whistle, and you have to get up and out. Most newcomers have trouble with commodes without walls. Privacy is a privilege we do without. When they finally release us for our final fifteen minutes, a new group of angry young counselors appears. They’re all Christian missionaries. They talk to us while we keep our heads bowed in silent prayer. It’s a relief to have someone to talk with, but the price requires us to pray for our souls together. I especially hate how they place their hands on me while I pray.
Finally, after lights out, I meditate on my situation. It doesn’t look good. My only advantage is I had lived with military discipline before and know I could handle the harassment. I conclude that the degradation and ego-busting is meant to prepare us to adopt their values and deal with a drug-free life. I admit that pot has gotten me into big trouble. I’m just not ready to agree that pot is the whole problem. It isn’t hard to fall asleep. I pray my dreams are better than real life.
Every day follows the same routine: up for physical exercise at six, showers and clean-up before breakfast, classes until lunch and again until three, recreation until dinner, studying in classrooms until 9:30, and then wash-up and prayers until lights out at ten. We march everywhere and are punished for speaking. In a few days I realize that the disciplinarians are other inmates but at a higher level. The reward for completing this initial phase is the power to inflict the abuse on new inmates. Names are never used, so I have no idea who my fellow sufferers are. Even though we never speak, a silent language of looks permits me to become familiar with them. We suffer mutual indignities together. We’re not allowed to ask for a bathroom break. Anyone who can’t wait for the prescribed time is considered sick and sent to the infirmary. My one experience there keeps me away forever; the universal prescription for any aliment is an enema. I learn to regulate my bladder and bowels. The only time we’re allowed to speak is during prayers and only with our assigned religious counselor. Even in class there’s no speaking. Each class ha assigned workbooks, done in silence, no questions asked. Once I complete the entire set of workbooks, the teacher merely starts me again on the same set. Punishment is quickly meted out for any offense to the many rules. It mainly consists of push-ups, but repeated insubordination results in corporal punishment, mainly public whipping. It’s never explained when we’ll get through this brutal level. We notice that our overseers speak and laugh with one another, but when their superiors are around, they are as mute as we are. Physical exercise is strictly calisthenics, never any games or competitions. The only moment of respite is after lights-out, when my thoughts can be my own. All the years of swim training helps me deal with the tedium and isolation. I feel underwater, out of contact with everyone. Like a long distance race, each day is a lap completed. The finish line never seems closer.
Several boys crack under the pressure. After they are hauled away, we’re informed that they were placed in the State Mental Institution for the hopelessly psychotic – the cause: drug psychosis. At times I wonder if this whole experience isn’t a continuation of my Halloween hallucinations. The day-to-day tedium wears against my imagination; I know it is reality, not fantasy. I see Tommy occasionally, but he barely acknowledges me. All we could do is stare at each other for a second or so. Even this contact is punished if noticed. I realize he’s having a harder time than me. The next time I see him, I smile and wink at him. Instantly I’m shoved down on my face and do fifty push ups. In the corner of my eye, I see him smile. It is worth it.
Once a week, every inmate is counseled on his progress. They call it drug withdrawal and detoxification. We’re only allowed to nod yes or no to their set questions. Then we sign a form, affirming we are drug-free, attend school, eat three meals a day, and receive counseling. Although the court is responsible for me, no one from court or the juvenile justice system ever comes to observe. I’m isolated and systematically robbed of my individuality. At night, I imagine what the Vietnam POWs experienced. I’m grateful that there’s only mild torture here but otherwise feel it’s not much different.
New kids arrive every few days, and kids who had been there longer than me are transferred out. I wonder if they’ll soon appear as overseers. They must be in a different program before being assigned to our lowly group. I calculate from the rate that kids leave to be an average of six weeks to complete this phase. One day, I’m pulled out of class, told to strip off my white tee-shirt and fatigues, and issued a blue shirt and khaki trousers. A group of five of us assemble in an empty classroom. After an hour’s wait, one of the senior staff, a tall, white man in a polo shirt, walks in and gives us a long talk on our progress. He congratulates us for surviving the tough detox phase. He admits we had been kept in the dark for so long in order to prepare us for the rigors of the next phases. He talks a lot about the evils of drugs, assuming we all agree with him that the proper goal in life is to be a productive member of society. It.s a strange to be actually getting counseling. He says we’re scheduled next for drug education and reprogramming. Several times he praises us for having finished detox, calling those left behind ‘scum and slime.’ He says our blue shirts are symbols of our new status. Someone raises his hand for a question. An overseer jumps up from the back of the class and yells in his ear, “No questions’. The senior staff member calmly waits for the overseer before continuing. He doesn’t elaborate on the details of the new program. After his talk, we all sign our weekly progress reports with the normal notation, except on the bottom it states we completed drug detoxification. As we get up to leave, I give a high-five to the tall black kid behind me. We both are on the floor doing a hundred push ups. We haven’t progressed much.
The next program was similar to the first phase, except instead of doing calisthenics in the morning and afternoon, we work in the dining hall serving meals. Instead of school, we attend drug lectures, which are on film. We have a new set of overseers, but the rules have not changed. After each film, we’re quizzed on the subject matter. I notice a Cubano kid keeps his pencil after a test. That night, we’re all awakened by our overseers screaming at us. ‘The Program suck’ is scribbled on a bathroom wall. We spend the whole night on our hands and knees, scrubbing the entire bathroom. Everyone is searched for the offending pencil, but he wisely got rid of it after his crime. Each of us is taken separately into the staff room and questioned about the incident, told that all of us would be punished worse than the one guilty person. We’re asked over and over to tell anything we know. Finally, polo shirt speaks to us, noting that the entire group is to be held back an extra week for this vandalism. I know that I’m not the only one who knows something and hasn’t told. Since we don’t know how long this phase is to last, it’s hard to feel we lost anything. The abstraction of an extra week means nothing when you are living day-to-day. My only regret is that I can’t show visible support to the Cubano. One night after lights out, I lay there feeling frustrated and unable to sleep. I know the staff only checks on us every fifteen minutes or more. I slide out of my bunk and crawl under two other bunks to the Cubano’s. I shake him awake, putting my finger to his lips to keep him quiet.
“I saw you take the pencil and want you to know I totally support you,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers back.
“No. The Program is sorry. It does suck,” I answer.
It’s so good to see him smile. By the time I crawl back into my bunk, my heart is pounding. I beat the thought police for once.
At first I thought about Jack every night after lights out. Not in a horny way, though that’s how I often found him in my dreams. The repressed atmosphere of the Program somehow invaded my dreams. I never reached a climax in what was the start of a wet dream. The place had cursed me. Before I fall asleep, I miss him terribly. I know he’ll never forget me. Time is flying by. Gables High School must be out for summer. Had Robby and Jack put on the performance of ‘Sonnets?’ What about the band. I’m sure they’d go on without me. Why did Mike Sr. and Jay abandon me? Did the Stones host my Dad’s marriage to Susan. I look for Jace in my heart to give me the answers. He too is blocked in this cursed place. These nightly pity parties are the beginning of my determination to escape. My only reluctance is if Mike Sr. has been working on my release. Any attempted escape will throw a big monkey wrench into those proceedings. The longer I go without hearing from anyone makes me more and more desperate. Plotting my escape is a sop to this desperation and the repressed atmosphere the Program engenders. There is no contact with the outside world, either by letter or phone. No visits are allowed. I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.
My first change of luck is when Tommy shows up in my cell block. He must’ve blown a counselor or something to be transferred. I don’t ask. The first night there he sneaks into my bunk. A raging hard-on tells him how happy I am to see him. He quickly goes to work on it until I roll away, afraid we’ll be caught. He whispers that he rolled up his dirty clothes to make it look like his bunk is still occupied. He stays until early morning when he sneaks back. In the slightest whispers I explain that we have to plot our escape. He sniffs that he hates the Program and will do anything to escape.
Bad luck returns when my Cubano friend is caught for the graffiti in the bathroom. The senior staffer actually hired a handwriting expert who easily identified the culprit. He’s led away in disgrace, giving me a furtive look. Unfortunately that one glance is noted by staff. I’m an unindicted co-conspirator. Big Motherfucker is always watching. The secret to Tommy’s ruse to make our bunks look occupied is always to turn the head away from the light, so the guard only sees a supposed body while checking during the night. We run several reconnaissance missions, sneaking out of the unit to scout possible escape routes. We time the guards’ rounds, noting when the routine inmate counts are done. We find that two Rottweilers guarding the front yard nixes a flat-out run to the fence. They only way out is at the back, which faces open Everglades swamp.
“Ain’t no way,” Tommy whines, “There’s alligators out there. I ain’t gonna git et.”
“We’ll jist stay to the high ground. There ain’t no alligators out of the water,” though I remembered Stu’s fear after seeing a baby one. We find an empty shed where we stockpile two blankets and a tarp for camping out.
“I ‘spose ya gots ta go right ta see yer boyfriend once we escape,” Tommy complains.
“No way. That’s the first place they’ll look to catch us.”
“Us? Ya means we’s gonna be partners,” he looks excessively optimistic.
“Partners in crime, not in bed.”
“Oh. Well, I can hope.”
I squeeze his hand, which makes him look at me with bedroom eyes. Oh, god, what am I creating? After that we’re almost giddy in the hope we’ll soon leave this hell on Earth.
The night we finally make our break, it is totally dark. Now that it’s mid-summer, it’s monsoon season in South Florida, . The storms roll in at sunset and cloud-cover shuts out natural moon and star light. We sneak to the back fence, using the blankets to climb over the barbed wire. No alarms go off as we fall over the fence and gather our supplies. After about five yards the ground falls off into the swampy Everglades. We slog through the water for about five minutes before coming to a hummock of dry ground. At least we leave no trail to follow. Once the Program staff find our empty bunks with the dummies made from dirty clothes, I hope they assume we aren’t crazy enough to go into the swamp. Tommy is petrified of snakes and especially the ‘gators that we can’t see in the dark.
“We gots to git further from the camp, so we don’t git caught,” I insist.
Tommy grabs me and holds on, saying nothing. He’s in full panic mode.
“Com’n here,” I pull him into a hug.
His ramped up sex drive overcomes his panic, but he wants more, right there 50 yards from the camp.
“We gots to move further into the swamp,” I insist, pulling him to his feet. “We’ll stay on dry ground as long as possible.”
We slowly make our way along a hammock. I encourage him by holding his hand. Tommy is way too young for me to really be interested in him. I figure he’s done sexual favors with other inmates to stay safe, but that kind of sex is sick. I know he thinks I’m just being loyal to Jack. Really, I’m not about to start a new boyfriend relationship. We walk a good ways until we finally have no dry ground to follow. In our meandering, I hope we’re moving away from the Program camp, but it’s hard to tell in the dark.
When Tommy sees that there was only water ahead, he panics again, hugging me around the waist and refusing to move.
“Okay. We’ll stop here and wait for first light so we can get a better sense of direction.”
We spread out the blankets and make ourselves comfortable. Our excitement over escaping has calmed down. I feign sleep, which keeps Tommy from continuing to fondle me. In disgust he moves away. I hear him jerking off. When he finishes, he snuggles in next to me and goes instantly to sleep. Ah, hormones. I’m soon asleep myself. The dark envelops us.
First light gets me awake and alert. Knowing where East is helps me plan an escape route. I need to get to a phone, so I can call Jay. I can’t call anyone else without making them complicit in my new crime of escapee; they would be harboring a fugitive. Mike Sr., as a lawyer, is immune, but he would make me turn myself in. Jay as his assistant also has immunity. I feel he will at least be willing to tell me what’s going on. For three months I’ve been out of contact. I can make further plans after I learn how much trouble I really am in. All this over one sip of beer. But I know that is just grounds for them to investigate all the crap we were into since I joined Robby’s pot gang. Did they really have it in for me and the others, or was I just being paranoid. That set off the Sabbath song in my head.
Tommy woke up as I sing,
‘I need someone to show me the things in life that I can’t find
I can’t see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind
Make a joke and I will sigh and you will laugh and I will cry
Happiness I cannot feel and love to me is so unreal’
ANTHONY IOMMI, WILLIAM WARD, TERENCE BUTLER, JOHN OSBOURNE
“What are you singing?” he stares at me.
“Sabbath, man. I needs inspiration, and I gots Paranoid,” I laugh at him.
I hum the bass line intro, “Dah dah… dah, dah.. dah dah.. dah dah.. dah dah dot.”
Tommy jumps up. We thrash around, finally knocking each other down. Actually, I knock him down and fall on top of him, laughing.
“We did it,” he proclaim. “We beat those fuckers and escaped.”
The euphoria lasts about ten seconds, until we hear the baying of blood hounds.
“The fuckers have the dogs out looking for us,” Tommy shouts.
“Hush. We gots to move. Now.”
We pick up the blankets and dash into the swampy water. Fears are washed away by the baying of the hounds. Moving due west, the sound of the dogs seems to lessen. We find another hammock and run as far as it goes before splashing back into the murky water.
“Tommy, you live in Lauderdale. Where is that State Route that crosses the Everglades. Is it north or south of us?
“It’s gots to be south. But we cain’t go there. It’s Alligator Alley.” His fears return with the dogs falling behind.
“You gots ta stop bein’ so afraid. ‘Gators only attack when their young’uns is threatened,” I espouse Mr. Watt’s theory.
“How ya know that?” he challenges me.
“I camped out here. My boyfriend’s dad told us.”
“Jack’s dad?” he asks.
“How many boyfriends ya had?”
“Four, I guess,” I include Joey but exclude Doug Weston.
“Why ya won’t love me then?”
“I love ya, Tommy, but yer jist too young .”
“Ya gots some rule?”
“Naw. I can’t stop feelin’ like yer my little brother. Brothers don’t fuck.”
He throws himself at me. I let him sob awhile until that is done. Fourteen-year-olds can be so emotional.
“Ya done?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he sniffs. “But I’m gonna stop runnin’.’”
“Wot? We gots ta git away from them dogs.”
“Not me. I jist wanna be with you, in that special way.”
I pick him up and French-kissed him deep and long. He’s putty in my arms.
“Com’n. They’s gonna catch us both if’n ya stop now.”
He looks at me, totally confused. I guess that’s my fault. At least he doesn’t give up. How easy to deceive with the lies we weave .
We turn south and run for at least two hours, stopping only to drink the murky water. At one point, the baying dogs seems closer. Suddenly they stop baying and are yelping, whining and eventually silent. Tommy’s paranoia convinces him that a big ‘gator ate them. Finally we see the edge of a suburban town recently built into the Everglades. We slog right into someone’s back yard, dripping and dirty. We have to find a ride out of this tract town because we’re sure to be noticed. Following the residential streets, we soon are on a main drag. I see a 7-11. Oh, thank heaven. I run up to the pay phone and dial the operator for a collect call to Jay, saying I’m Max deBowser. He accepts the call instantly.
“Hi, Jay. Still love me?”
“I escaped. I’m somewhere west of Ft Lauderdale.”
“Jesus. Why’d you do that? We were told you were in rehab.”
“That’s their cover, but it’s really a youth prison. There’s no rehab ‘cept we’re locked up all the time. No drugs there.”
Tommy pokes me. “How come ya talks different on the phone?”
“Hush,” I tell him.
“Who’s that,” Jay asks.
“That’s Tommy, my fellow escapee. He’s 14.”
“Jesus, Tim. I can’t be aiding and abetting.”
“Just be my lawyer and tell me what my chances of being cleared are.”
“I just work for your lawyer. You’re a juvenile. They have you until they decide you’re safe from bad influences or you turn 18.”
“That’s what they say. I have no rights. They’ll do what they want to me.”
“There’s no rehab?”
“Just beatings, whippings, and if you don’t cooperate, they send you to the mental hospital as incurably psychotic.”
“That’s what I say.”
“I’ll talk to Mike. We can investigate all that you’re saying.”
“Great. I can’t go back. I’ll be charged with escape. Tell me what’s happening with everyone.”
“Well, the band’s defunct. Michael and Robby are fighting. Jack’s been sent to school in Switzerland. The girls are all grounded. Hippie’s getting married. The band’s all over, Tim.”
“Fuck. Why’s Jack gone.”
“His parents are afraid the police will go after him. I hear he’s miserable, too.”
“He’s fine. The Watts are great foster parents.”
“How about you?”
“Work’s fine. Not much fun now that you’re gone. I know you were just flirting but I don’t deny I like it.”
“So you are gay?”
“Just say I had a strong weakness for a certain 16-year-old.”
“I love you too, Jay.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Tell Mike to get off his ass and clear me of these trumped-up charges. No one’s ever contacted me, you guys or my folks. I guess it’s not Jack’s fault if he’s in Europe. Fuck.”
“I’ll call again. I’ll keep using Max’s name for collect calls. But it doesn’t seem like there’s any hope for me now.”
“Don’t give up. The authorities are lying to us. Mike won’t put up with that.”
“Thanks, Jay.” I hang up and sit down hard on the curb.
Tommy sits with me. “Everything’s fucked?”
“Totally. Jack’s in Europe to escape the law. The band’s done. My lawyer’s clueless. My folks won’t help.
“Is Jay one of yer 4 boyfriends.”
“Naw. He’s 23. I just flirt with him.”
“If you can love a 23-year-old, why not me. I’m just 2 years younger. I really love you, Tim.”
Shit. I realize I don’t know what the date is. I go into 7-11 and look at the Miami Herald. It’s August already. I’ve been gone over three months.
I look at Tommy. “I missed my birthday. I’m 17 now.”
“Fuck. You’ll never love me.”
“Stop it,” and I kiss him quickly. His mouth s open to me, but I don’t go there.
“Get outta heah, you boys. Ain’t no faggots at my store,” the clerk comes running outside.
We run off, laughing. I kinda enjoy being abused.
“Where the hell is we?” I ask, reverting back to my good ol’ boy persona. “You know, Tommy. Yer from roundabouts here.”
“Sure. We’re on State Route 84. Goes all the way back ta the Beach.”
“Where’s it go to the west?”
“Ends in Tampa, but we sure ain’t going that way. It’s Alligator Alley.”
“Why you so dead set against ‘gators?”
“Because they’s always tellin’ ’bout people who go out Alligator Alley way and never git heard from agin.”
“Another urban legend.”
Then I think that can work to our advantage. If the locals in this tract report our presence, the authorities might conclude that the ‘gators got us after we haven’t turned up in a while.
“Let’s git our butts out o’ these parts and live it up with the ‘gators,” I announce.
“Oh, no,” whines Tommy. “Yer jist doin’ that ta harass me.”
“Ya ain’t got no ass ta harass,” I joke.
He looks at me seriously before breaking out into a shit eating grin.
“We’ll be Tom and Huck, living large in the wilderness. ‘Course I’s Tom.”
“Heck. I gots ta be Huck the Hick?”
“Naw. You’s Huck the Slick.”
We set out on State Route 84 after snagging fresh clothes off clothes lines behind several tract houses. We fit right in.
After walking a mile or so, a pickup stops and asks where we were going.
“Just up the road a piece,” I answer. “Me and my brother out lookin’ fer adventures.”
“Ya sure ain’t ready for an alligator adventure. This ain’t Disney World. This here’s the Alligator Alley.”
Tom moves closer to me with that concerned look on his face.
“Ain’t no alligator et me yet,” I flash false bravado.
“Let me give you boys a ride up to the Sawgrass Campground. Y’all smoke weed?”
“Shur ‘nuff,” we both answer.
“Well, spark it up, Sparky,” as he hands me a joint.
Soon we’re goofin’ and gawfawin’ in his beat up pickup. I start singing,
‘One toke over the line, Sweet Jesus,
One toke over the line..’
Songwriters: BREWER, MICHAEL / SHIPLEY, TOM
One Toke Over The Line lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
“Man, you gots a sweet voice,” our new friend says.
Tom tries to do the alto part, ‘Oh, sail away..’ but his voice cracks which makes us totally break up. I haven’t been high in over three months. I almost start crying, I’m so happy. My more mature self keeps the tears from falling.
“You boys don’t git high much, do ya?” he remarks.
“Not lately. We don’t git out much.”
“Folks are assholes, right?”
“Ain’t they all,” Tom answers.
“What’s y’alls names?”
“I’s Tom,” He responds without thinking.
“I’m goin’ by Huck.”
He bursts out laughing again. “You boys are crack ups. Ya ain’t runaways are ya?’
“Naw. It’s summer’s end and the crops are in. Our folks jist ‘bout kicked our asses out the door ‘til school starts.”
“Lookin’ fer adventure. My word. Well, here’s to ya,” and he pulls out a pint of Jack Daniels, takes a swig and hands it to me.
We both make faces at it.
“How old you boys, anyways?”
“14,” Tom says.
“16,” I lie for the first time about my age.
“My, my. Well, soon y’all will have a hankerin’ for Jack. Not yet, maybe.” He’s smiling like it’s Sunday and Christmas, all rolled up in the same day. I’m really high. Not a Robby maintaining high but a total body high. I can’t move. It feels so cool.
Tom falls asleep against my shoulder as I sit in the middle singing with my new best friend.
His name is Vic. He’s camping out at Sawgrass Campground, off Route 27 toward Orlando. He takes us there. It’s like a little city with little houses, except the people weren’t little – tall, long-haired dudes with their brown-eyed mamas. Vic shows us where to wash up. When we join him, about fifteen hippies gather around for a sing along. They ask me what I know to play, handing me a beat up acoustic guitar.
“Well, let’s do the song we did together,” I motion to Vic. We did a replay of ‘One Toke Over the Line.’ I tell Vic to pinch Tom when his part, ‘oh, sail away’, comes up and to harmonize with him if he’s off-key. We both wink.
“Com’n, Tom. Git up here, too. And don’t fuck up the ‘sails away.’”
He grins as we sit in the middle of their circle. Sure enough, he’s off, so Vic pinches him, He hits the right note, with a little help from his friends.
Everyone knows the song and everyone is a little bit off. I blame Tom, but who knows who’s fault it is.
I play a medley of Dead songs, ending with ‘Truckin,’
“Well, time for us to go,” I end, getting up and pulling half-asleep Tom to his feet.
They refuse to let us leave before stuffing us with beans and rice. It tastes great. Who knew?
When Vic realizes I’m determined to leave, he pulls me aside.
“You boys is runaways, right?”
“Naw. I jist gotta git Tommy from crushing on me so much. We gots ta be on the road to adventures so as he stops makin’ me his hero. T’ain’t normal. The first time I run away from an alligator, he’ll be crushed. I can have my life back.”
“He’s like yer right hand, right?”
“Part o’ me misses him right now ‘cause we’s neva apart. Ya understand?”
“Yer a pretty cool dude. Come back after yer alligator adventure and let us know.”
“Hell, we’s goin’ to Disney World, after that.”
We laugh and go back to the circle.
“Wake up, stoner boy,” as I shake Tom, “We gots ta go.”
“Ah shucks,” he murmurs.
Several people say not to go, offering a couch. We end at Vic’s beat-up Airstream. I lay Tom on the couch, while Vic gets him a blanket. He puts his arm around me and asks if I want to sleep with him.
“”S’cool,” I say. “But Tom will come and git in, too. Ruin the party.”
He shakes his head. “What a trip.”
We get up early and sneak out at dawn, not leaving a note.
“Where to today, Jose?” Tom grins.
“Off to Alligator Alley. Off to meet the Wizard, the Wonderful Gator of Oz.”
Tom sulks, “Why you gotta be pushin’ gators on me? You know I hates ‘gators.”
“Y’all don’t jist hate gators. You’s afraid of gators, and snakes, an’ spiders, an’ everythin’.”
“I ain’t afraids.”
I reached over, kiss him lightly on the cheek and lick his lips. His hips start humping right there beside the road.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Yer makin’ a spectacle.”
He pants, “A what–a-call?”
“A spectacular hard-on,” As I wink at his bulge.
“That’s my spectacle?” he laughs.
We go on like that until we run out of puns and rhymes. And his hard-on is gone.
Once past the campground, we walk until I see a good-sized hummock veering off Highway 27.
“Check it out. Let’s look fer a hideout away from the road.”
“Why not jist stay in the campground where there’s food and comfort? They’s jist back the road a piece.”
“Those Program assholes will eventually come a’lookin’ for us. We needs a camp to run to when we hears ‘em a’comin.’”
“Can’t we jist go back to the hippies. I liked ‘em.”
“Later. Let’s go set up our hideaway. ‘Don’tcha wanna a place we can be alone together.” I wink at him.
I swear his hard-on bursts, then and there, messin’ his jeans. He tries to hug me, but I push him away.
“Doncha git that jizz on me.”
We laugh. I kiss him on the cheek again, with a quick lip lick.
As we walk along the hammock, we whistled Snow White’s ‘Off to Work We Go’ together.
I call him Dopey. He calls me Doc. At its far end, the hammock spreads out like fingers into the swamp.
“We’ll set up here,” I decide.
“Yessir, Captain Huck,” Tom answers. He spreads out our blankets. Laying in the middle with his arms stretched out to me, I leaned over for another kiss and lick.
“Later. We gots to make camp ‘fore the thunderclouds rolls in.”
“Ah. Yer no fun. What about what y’all said about us gettin’ it on, once we had our privacy.”
I can see his dick straining to get out of his stolen jeans. I know what was gonna made him cream.
“You know I loves ya.”
Pop, spunge, spurt. He is an automatic. I lick the front of the jeans while he keeps climaxing, rubbing his butt as he rolls back his eyes and moans at each spurt. It’s getting harder to deny this boy, all of 14 and ready to grow up.
“Now, git up and act like ya wants ta make a camp here,” I order.
He looks bewildered but does move. We collect palm fronds and tree branches, enough to build a lean-to, where we spread out the blankets.
“Firewood next,” I order.
“What’s we needs that for. Hot as hell out here,” he complain.
I start bringing in dry wood and breaking it into logs. He follows me around.
“We ain’t gots no matches, y’know,” He continues to whine.
“All in good time, boy.”
We build up a decent pile and place a circle of stones in front of the lean-to. I find a couple of coconuts, which I crack open.
“Have a drink. Looks like ya needs one,” as I hand him the split shell.
“I’ll bet ya taste sweeter,” looking wickedly at me as he wipes his lips. “Ya owe me a pair of orgasms. Let me collect now.”
I grab his stiff dick and it goes off like the noon whistle.
“That ain’t no fair. I gits no time ta enjoy it,” he complains.
I pull him close and make him comfortable.
“This is love. Not that,” As I point to his messy jeans and kiss him, just not so long as to get him horny again.
He jumps up, pulled off his jeans and dragged them bare-ass into the swamp. He wiggles his ass at me.
“Ya tryin’ ta be ‘gator bait,” I mock him.
Startled, he jumps back up the bank where he squeezes the water out of his jeans and hangs them from a branch.
Bare ass and hanging, he’s not looking like he’s only 14.
“When’s yer birthday, Tom,” I ask.
“Not ‘til October thereabouts.”
Well, maybe I best treats ya like yer 15 now,” I smile at him.
His dick is instantly hard as he scoots under the shelter.
“If ya ain’t gonna fuck me, kin I fuck you?” he asks mischievously, wagging his stiffy at me.
“And I thoughts y’all was so innocent,” as I slap his ass.
“I’ve wanted to ever since I seen ya take it up the ass from that jock, the first night ya was in juvie.”
“I bet you creamed yer pants, right then and there.”
“Damn right. Especially when ya turned the tables on that prevert.”
“Yeah, the good ol’ days of juvie, before The Program.”
“Yeah, we thought we had it bad then, but little did we know.”
I kiss him, long, hard and deep. His reaction is immediate.
“Ah shit, here I goes agin,” as his body stiffens.
I took all five inches of him into my mouth. At least he has decent pubes. He keeps squirting. Done, he clings to me as he pants and moans. To my discredit, I’m measuring him for a good fit up my ass. I rationalize that he was already 15 and me still 16. Like Jace and I used to be. That thought kills my hard-on.
“What’s wrong. I had it up the butt before, if’n ya ain’t gonna let me do ya. I can go agin.’”
“I bet. All night long, too.”
“Ah, yer a tease.”
“Who was wigglin’ his ass in ‘gator beach?”
“Just windin’ up yer clock so it kin strike eleven.”
“That’s fer later,” he giggles.
We just sit there hugging.
“I love ya, Tim.”
“Its Huck. Huckleberry Flynn.”
“Naw, ‘in like Flynn.’” As I wiggle a finger into his tight, pink ass. His legs start spasming as he rolls side to side.”
“Ya like that, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbles, reaching across my lap to check my dick. With a disappointed look on his face, “I ain’t fuckin’ no limp dick.” He pushes me away.
I pull him back. “Ya gots ta play the love card if’n ya expect any action from me.”
He looks me in the eye. “Cain’t we jist get down an’ dirty? Jist let me fuck ya anyways.”
I laugh and turn away from him to unbuckle and push down my jeans. My XXL hose flops out.
Tom looks at the size of it in wonder. “Holy shit. Ya ain’t never gonna git that thing inta me.”
“It has its ways,” as I twitch it and make him jump.
“Ya better fuck me sooner ‘n later then,” as I roll on my stomach.
He’s on me faster than flies on shit. This time he keeps control like he know what he’s doing. I start moaning and fucking him back. He reaches under, grabbed my tits and hangs on as I give him a ride. Soon as he starts sounding like he’ll cum, I roll him off and start rubbing my rock hard dick against his pink hole.
“No. No. No,” he complains, afraid of the size. Yet his butt hole is pulsating in anticipation. I roll him back on top, pull my knees up, and let him sink into me again. Every time he gets close, I reverse the positions and tease his hole with my tip. He can’t help himself from trying to suck me in. I always roll over to let him back into me before pushing too far into him. It goes on like this for at least thirty minutes. We move out from beneath the lean-to and are rolling on the grassy hammock. Dirt, leaves and sticks are stuck to us as we keep changing positions. I worry that all the time of no sex in the Program would make my built-up load too much for him to handle. I visualize it coming out his mouth, nose and ears. I pull out just in time to cum all over his back. It flies into his face as he was turns to watch me. He pushes me backwards, enters me and shoots multiple times up my ass, before finally collapsing. I drag him into the swamp to wash off. He clings to me exhausted. Looking over his shoulder, I see the strangest thing. Four round protuberances swimming right at us, twenty yards away.
“Gator,’ I yell, barely waking him up. Holding him, I run for the bank. He is looking backwards and sees the ‘gator.
“Holy shit,” he squeals, reminding me he isn’t 15 yet. Once up the bank, we stop, feeling safe. The ‘gator comes right up the bank. I pull Tom up the nearest tree and shove him out of the ‘gator’s reach.
“He’s gonna git us. He’s gonna git us,” he keeps squealing.
“Hush. He ain’t gonna climb this here tree.”
Tom clings to me, shaking and out of his mind from fear. I definitely am not his hero, bare ass, up a tree, waiting for the beast to give up on making us his dinner. The ‘gator finally gets bored and wanders back into the swamp. We climb down.
“I ain’t stayin’ here. That thing kin come out of the swamp anytime and git us,” he whines.
“We’ll build us a door to the shelter so as he cain’t git in,” I try to reason with him.
“No way. I won’t sleep a wink ‘cause of worrin’.”
I put my arms around him as he kept shaking. After a bit, he seemed calmer.
“Alright,” I gave in, “we’ll go back to the hippie campground fer tonight. But just to git some tools ta make the lean-to safe from ‘gator attacks. I’ll tell ‘em we lost our first battle with the ‘gators but we’s not givin’ up.”
Tom eyes get big. “We gots to come back ta this here hell hole?”
“Ya didn’t feel that way when we was rolling around on the ground.”
“I’d plumb fergot there was ‘gators here. I’s scared, Huck.”
I kiss the top of his head. “Let’s jist git back ta the hippies and git us weapons and tools.”
At least our clothes are dry. Soon we’re out on Route 27 and quickly got back to the campground.
“Howdie, boys. Y’all stayin’ awhile?” an older hippie asks.
“We had our first Alligator Alley Adventure. It didn’t go all that great.”
“Ya met a ‘gator.”
“He almost et us,” Tom adds.
“Well, that’s what ‘gators do.”
“He was humongous – 18 feet I bet,” Tom is unconsciously exaggerating.
“Well, not quite,” I correct.
The hippie laughs.
“Y’all be stayin’ wid us, now?”
“Yeah, is Vic ‘round?” I ask.
“Well, he works in town. I bet he’ll be back about now. Y’all stayin’ wid him?”
“We ain’t givin’ up on our ‘gator adventure. I’s hopin’ he’ll lend us a knife or ax.”
“Ya gots guts, boys. I’ll give ya that.”
“Hell, a ‘gators jist an animal. Cain’t blame it fer bein’ hungry.”
Tom looks worried again. He is standing pretty close to me, like a shadow. We go and sit on the steps to Vic’s Airstream. Some of the younger hippies come over and ask us about our adventure. Tom gets worked up about how we were attacked. He spins out the tale like a true troubadour, calling it our tale of ‘Gatorsaurus. Vic soon shows up.
“Where’d y’all go this mornin’?” he asked.
“We had a ‘gator adventure and we was the losers,” Tom explains.
“I tolds ya. Whatcha all expect?”
“We ain’t givin’ up. Kin ya lend us a knife and a hatchet fer protection?” Tom asks.
“I think we can handle that. Y’all shure ya want to be back out there?”
“Well, maybe tomorra if’n we kin sleep here agin.”
Vic winks at me while Tom recounts our encounter with ‘Gatorsaurus. It gets better with every retelling.
Soon it is afternoon thunderstorm time. Vic let us into the trailer and sparks us up. Tom’s next recounting of our ‘gator encounter is even more vivid and the beast more lurid, with gangrenous flesh and ‘at least a hundred teeth.’ He even describes its fetid breath. We’re in stitches from laughing. Suddenly my mood drops me into a funk. I’m not used to smoking now. Previously it has always been fun. Now I start thinking about all the people I’ve lost in life, always moving as a kid, the Scott fallout, Jace and Max now dead, Jack gone, the band kaput. I pick up Vic’s beat up acoustic guitar and start playing the blues – Grateful Dead. Vic gives me a quick look, seeing the tears just on my eyelashes, then looks away as I brush them off. ‘I Will Get By:’
‘Dawn is breaking everywhere
Light a candle, curse the glare
Draw the curtains I don’t care ’cause
It’s all right
I will get by
I will get by
I will get by
I will survive
It’s a lesson to me…
And try to keep a little grace
It’s a lesson to me…
Try to give a little love..
My dog has been dead for years
It’s even worse than it appears
But it’s all right…
We will get by
We will get by
We will get by
We will survive’
Writer(s): Robert Hunter, Jerry Garcia
Copyright: Ice Nine Publishing Co. Inc.
“Why ya so sad, boy?” Vic asks. “And why’d ya change the words about yer dog bein’ dead?”
“Cops killed my dog, an’ it jist makes me so sad. Had to sing ta let it all out.”
Vic looks at me sharply, “Ya said cops killed yer dog?”
“Yeah. Well, ‘twas my fault. Max was protecting my friends. The cops shot ‘im.”
“Max?” Vic again looks quickly at me. “The dog killed at the Skynyrd show last Spring?”
“I knew ya was too good a musician to not be a pro. You’s in False Gods, huh?”
I just hang my head. Tom looks confused. We aren’t supposed to let anyone know who we really are. I’ve blown our cover.
“Whateva happened after that show. Y’all blew away Skynyrd. No one’s heard of y’all since.”
“No way we blew away Skynyrd. They came out and played with us after the shooting ‘cause everyone was runnin’ away. We gots ta play ‘Free Bird’ with ‘em and everyone come back. We be jammin’ with ‘em. That’s all.”
“Who cares, yer a hella musician, even I kin see that.
“Ain’t doin’ me no good now.
I pick up the guitar and start playing ‘A Friend of the Devil.’
‘Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night,
The first one’s named Sweet Anne Marie, and she’s my hearts delight.
The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff’s on my trail,
And if he catches up with me, I’ll spend my life in jail.’
Writer(s): Jerry Garcia, Robert C. Hunter, John C. Dawson
Copyright: Ice Nine Publishing Co. Inc.
Vic’s face lights up, “Ya boys are on the run, ain’tcha?”
“Cain’t say, puts y’all in harm’s way. We’ll leave before there’s any trouble.”
“No way. Jist makes us fellow pardners in crime. Y’all kin stay here. No one’ll eva turn ya in.”
I just shake my head and start playing ‘Truckin’.
‘One of these days you know you better get goin’
Out of the door and down on the streets all alone…
Got a tip they’re gonna kick the door in again
I’d like to get some sleep before I travel,
But if you got a warrant, I guess you’re gonna come in….
You’re sick of hangin’ around and you’d like to travel;
Get tired of travelin’ and you want to settle down.
I guess they can’t revoke your soul for tryin’,
Get out of the door and light out and look all around.’
Writer(s): Bob Weir, Philip Lesh, Robert Hunter, Jerry Garcia
Copyright: Ice Nine Publishing Co. Inc.
“Sure wish ya was stayin.’ But I’s understand why yer movin’ on.”
I see that the rain has passed.
“Well, not tonight. Looks like the weather’s cleared an’ we kin have ‘nother singalong. It’ll be a hoot,” I brighten up and smile.
“Ya gots friends here, so don’t ya worry ‘bout cops.”
“Best not to tell what ya figured out. The less people knows, the safer y’all is.”
“Sure. But I kin tell my kids someday I knew a real rock star.”
“Fer right now, keep it under yer hat. So as, when the cops come a lookin’ fer us, just tell the truth ‘cause we’ll be long gone. They always know when yer lyin’.”
‘Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town?
I’m counting on you, Lord, please don’t let me down.
Prove that you love me and buy the next round,
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town?’
Songwriters: LEVERT, GERALD EDWARD / GIBSON, ANDY
Mercedes Benz lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
Everyone sings the last verse. Tom hugs me around the stomach and everyone is swaying to the slow dirge. The singing goes on, with Tom leaning against me, sound asleep.
Afterward I talk with Vic, as I carried Tom back to the trailer.
“He’s still crushin’ on ya, ain’t he?”
“Yup,” I nod. “I thought that he”d get the message I’s jist as chicken shit as ‘im runnin’ bare ass from the ‘gator and climbin’ a tree.”
“Did it work?”
“Naw. He thinks I’m gonna wrastle that ‘gator now, as I’m gittin’ a knife from y’all. The quest goes on.”
“I hopes not. Just so’s you tell them cops where we went an’ how we neva came back.”
“Sounds like a legend.”
“Call it wot ya may, we gots to be movin’ on, not that the hospitality hasn’t bin A number 1.”
I lean over. He hugs Tom and me. Again he asked if I’ll sleep with him. I tell him Tom would throw a fit, so we leave it as a mutual admiration society thing. He has to be at least 23 or more.
“Kin ya drive me to 7-11 in the morning?” I remember I should call Jay.
Of course Tom wakes up horny and tries to molest me on the couch we share.
“Jist wait ‘til we’s back at camp,” I fend him off.
“Stop teasin’ me,” he complains.
“It ain’t a tease when ya knows we’ll be doin’ it soon as we’s alone,” I argue. I gave him a squeeze. I’m rewarded with spunk all over my hand. He goes back to sleep instantly.
Vic and I drive into town where I call Jay again.
“Hey, Max,” he answers . We giggle together. “You still hiding out.”
“We gots a safe place,” I answer, falling back into my Huck accent.
“Sounds like you fit right in.”
“Any word from Mike?”
“He raised hell with the County Youth Authority. They have to release the paperwork on all the kids who have filed complaints against The Program. He threatened a class action suit.”
“Wot’s that. I’s in senior class now, if’n we straighten out the last few months. That makes me like high class?””
“Not high school class, but a class of victims of a crime.”
“How’s that gonna help?”
“If we proves… shit, I means prove… Now I’s talkin’ like a hick.”
“Ya kin take the boy outa the country but not the country outa the boy,” I laugh.
“Anyway, if he can prove you were abused, then they can’t contend they took you into custody to protect you.”
“Great. Kin I come home now?”
“Not ‘til we proves the abuse and gets a judge’s order.”
“Shit. Well, wot’s happenin’ with my dad. He and Susan git hitched?”
“Yeah, the Stones threw a big party.”
“I bets no one misses me t’all?”
“Not true. Ur dad told ever’one y’all was doin’ good in rehab.”
“Like he even knows.”
“Well, we all will git it straightened out. Jist be patient.”
“Love ya, Jay.”
Vic has been slouched against the side of the 7-11. When he hears me say I love Jay, he said, “I knew y’all was gay. They even said it in the papers.”
“Don’t be all thinkin’ ‘bout that. Jay’s ur age. Ya wanna an introduction. He’s way cuter than my scrawny ass.”
“Well, umm, I don’t..” he hems and haws. “Maybe..”
“No problem, but ur gonna havta wait ‘til they’s cleared my ass from the bogus charges.”
“I’ll jist crush on yer ass ‘til then.”
“Ur so romantic, ya horn dawg,” we both laugh.
Popularity had yet to breed contempt. I wish I could stop turning everyone gay.
“Wot?” Vic asks.
“I’s such a slut.”
He hits me with a bro’ punch to the shoulder.
Once we get back, Vic cooks a real breakfast of eggs ‘n grits. The coffee gets Tom and me wired and ready to go take on the ‘gators. Or, maybe Tom an’t see past our next session of ‘private’ time. Vic gives us a Bowie knife, a hatchet, matches and rope, to which he added a couple of joints.
“Y’all be careful and come back,” he cautions.
“Y’all’s the best,” I say, as I gave him a bro’ pat on the back. Tom gives him a quick hug, grinning at me.
Soon we’re back on the road again,
heading out to the first camp. Hi Ho , Hi Ho. When we get there, the blankets have to be hung out to dry from the previous evening’s thunderstorm. I move the lean-to’s frame so it is adjacent to the tall tree we used to escape from the ‘gator. We use the hatchet and rope to construct a more permanent four-sided shelter, with a flip-up door that make us feel secure inside. By being attached to the tree, not only was it more sturdy, but we can easily climb into the branches if need be. We eat coconut for lunch, drinking the juice to refresh us from all the work. Additional palm fronds are gathered and the shelter is fairly rain-proof. It is late afternoon by the time we finish. The blankets are finally dry. We create a little nest to be comfortable in our new camp. As the skies darken with the approach of the thunderclouds, we wait inside the shelter to test the rain-proof-ability of our design.
“How’s it ya knows so much about campin’?” Tom asks.
“All them years as a military brat in Alaska. We was always goin’ a’hikin’ and a’campin’.”
I tell him about the time we got caught in the rain after Vince tumbled a thousand feet down a steep slope tryin’ to catch his hat in the wind. We all camped at the bottom as his ankle was sprained. It rained so hard that one tent was soaked. We all huddled together in the other tent, sleeping two to a sleeping bag.
“Y’all getting’ it on, huh?” Tom jumps to the assumption that we all were gay.
“Naw, we was younger’n you is now. Never thought ‘bout that. Jist tryin’ to stay dry.”
“I never bin nowheres but Florida,” he whines.
“Ain’t ya havin’ fun now. Not bad here in the Sunshine State.”
“We’s the OJ State.”
“Hell no, he’s a lame football player.”
“Tell me ‘bout the band, Huck,” he orders. “Bet ya did lots o’ drugs.”
“Mostly pot. Our drummer was a dealer.”
We lay there while I tell him stories about the band’s glory days. It hasn’t been a year but it sure seems so long ago, just history now.
“Ya done so much,” he sighs. I can see the tears forming in his eyes.
“Wot’s this?” I ask, brushing away his tears.
“We’s doomed. Y’all done so much. I’s just some hick. We ain’t got nothin’ in common.”
“Com’n, Tom. We’s makin’ our history tagether, right now. The Alligator Alley Adventure.”
“Ya ain’t bored wid me?” his eyes sparkles from the tears and wonder.
“Yer so cute,” as I kiss his eyes shut, pulling him into a full body hug. “Cain’t we just get through these days and see how it turns out. Neva give up today what might not last tomorra.”
“Y’ve bin sayin’ I’s too young fer us to be real boyfriends. I guess you’s right.”
“How’s ‘bout we stay brothers, brothers on the run.”
“How s’bout brothers with benefits?” Tom can’t help his hormones.
“I ain’t askin’ s’xactly wot that is, but I kin guess. Ur ol’ sperm factory cain’t stop the volcano yer dick keeps eruptin’.”
We just laugh. Then we fall asleep together.
“I’s hungry,” Tom whines that evening. “Let’s head over ta the campground fer some rice ‘n beans.”
“No way. We needs to fend fer ourselves. Wanna learn how to caitch fish?”
“How’s we gonna do it with no line, hooks or bait?”
“Just you watch,” as I step into the swamp. “And look out fer that pesky ol ‘gator.”
Tom shivers, even though it’s close to 90 degrees. I stand still, carefully watching the water. Soon a catfish lazily swims near my legs. Swinging an arm without moving my legs, I scoop it up and it flies up on the bank.
“Git it,” I order Tom, who falls on it before it can flip back into the swamp. I get one more, enough for that night’s dinner.
“How’d ya lern that?” he asks.
“Jist watchin’ Grizzlies swat salmon outta the Kenai River in Alaska.”
“Ain’t cha sumthin’?” he beams at me. I show Tom how to gut and cut the heads off the two catfish. Next I strip out the bones. We build a fire and roast the fish like they’re ‘smores. I strip off the tough skin and Tom tries the tender filet that’s left. Without butter, spices and cornmeal, I think the catfish is tasteless, but Tom is ravenous. To him it’s miraculous. We’re living off the land. He burps and lays his head in my lap.
“Tell me ‘nother band story,” he demands.
I recount the whole Samhein/Halloween exploit, explaining that the two little kids identified me as an abuser, which is one reason I ended up in juvie.
“Wot’s the name o’ that flower?”
“Belladonna. Dontcha go messin’ with it. It’ll fuck you up.”
“I bet that Robby guy’s ur drug dealer. I gots ta meet ‘im.”
“Oh, he’d love you, have ya wrapped ‘round his little finger.”
“’Til he’s done wid ya. That boy don’ care ‘bout nothin’ but hisself.”
“Got a mean streak a mile wide.”
“Sounds like y’all hates each other.
“Oh, we be best friends ‘til he tried ta rape Jack. I kicked his ass from here ta Sunday.”
“Ew. Ya likes ta fight, dontcha?”
“Ya knew that the first day ya saw me.”
“Yeah. Ya beat the crap outta three guys widout throwing a punch.”
“Yeah. I likes ta fight. Where’s that ‘Gatorsaurus ?”
We laugh, but then Tom jumps up and locks our new door.
“We be right comfy here now,” as he throws himself at me.
“All that fightin’ talk made cha horny, huh?”
“Like a bitch in heat,” he winks at me.
I stick a hand down the back of his jeans and finger his tight little hole. It pulsates from the stimulation. I pop his buttons and his dick is as stiff as a board, just not as long. I take him in my mouth and suck it in rhythm with my finger going further and further up his ass.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he moans. I keep at him. He instantly cums, shooting again and again down my throat.
“It’s always too quick,” he complains.
“Jist wait. Ya gots plenty more where that comes from,” as I dribbled excess cum onto his belly.
He swipes a handful and undoing my jeans lathers up my semi-hard-on. He starts jerking me hard.
“Yer pretty good at that,” I compliment him.
He blushes. “I gits lots o’ practice.”
“Yer a automatic jizz machine. “
He keeps working on my dick. After a while he leans over and takes me into his mouth, careful not to go down too far. I enjoy torturing him by not cumming. He doesn’t care as long as he has my attention. I push his head all the way down, my tip deep down his throat. I hold him down as he gags.
“Breathe thru yer nose, pussy,” I mock him.
Following my instructions, he soon relaxes and is taking me all the way down, then getting his breath as I pull back out. He keeps pulling me down his throat. Suddenly I lose my control. I’m spurting deep inside him, holding his head down as he takes it all. His gagging excites me more. I keep cumming, fifteen, twenty times. He’s sputtering, with cum flying out his nose and mouth and tears out his eyes. Afterward he looks so sad. I kiss both his eyes. He turns away from me. Then crying out, he turns back and hugs me so tightly I finally have to hug him back. He relaxes.
“Why’s it so hard. I loves ya. I wants ya. Ain’t it enuff?”
I keep kissing his eyes, while he passively lets me hold him. I;m harder than ever. I Frenched him deeply and long. He sits on my lap, positioning his ass on top of my straining dick. We keep kissing as he lowers himself onto my dick, his ass spasming with rapid contractions. My gut wants to push fully into him. He’s bouncing on the tip of my dick when he cums again, short bursts that splatter onto my face and chest while his ass clenches over and over. Finally he is done. His butt relaxes. I just slide into him, all the way to my pubes, his body flexible as rubber. I cum instantly, firing three then another burst into the depths of his anal canal.
“Oh, that feels so good,” he moans.
I slide out as he rotates into my arms and falls asleep. I lay back, holding him tight.
It’s dark when we awake, Tom moving to a more comfortable position bringing me out of my dreams.
“Ya’s so mean,” he looks at me with a half-smile.
“Brothers often are,” I answer.
“Are we lovers?”
I kiss him and fall back asleep. He places an arm over my chest and snuggles into my near shoulder. It’s getting light when I wake up again. I feel like I’m being watched. Looking up through our palm frond roof, I see a big yellow cat sitting on a tree limb, staring intently at us. I smile at it, causing its tail to wag back and forth. I nudge Tom, nodding at the cat when he opens his eyes. He gasps. The panther jumps away.
“That there a lion?” he asks, still half asleep.
“Naw. Just a panther.”
“What was it doin’?”
“Watchin’ over us.”
“Nice.” He goes back to sleep.