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Subject: Carmine Gay Adult-Youth Carmine © 2021 MCVT2017 07 July 2021 Religious strictures and profound reticence impact a slothful man’s life. This tale is entirely fiction and involves sexual liaisons between males of disparate ages. (Adult content.) Characters: Joseph Patterson, “Pat”Security presence MichaelDidi’s son Father GeraldPriest RamonFriend of Michael’s father Carmine November through December only, the red and white candies with a miniscule green tree in the center appear. Soft, chewy, bites of peppermint nougat wrapped in cellophane. Festive bowls of it sat around my aunt’s creche. Don’t care for the nougat, it was the deep red against the snowy-white taffy–seemed a hint of purple in the red–reminded me of him. The color of his pale, clear skin against the dark red sweater he wore. The intensely red color of his lips, scarlet on his cheeks in the chilly air; visually luscious. … Escorted Aunt Bridget to late mass at the end of December. She kept nudging me and pointing to the row of choirboys, “Michael’s so cute–isn’t he?” …Within a manger he was laid – And by his side a virgin maid… Row of kids in white robes, mouths open like hungry chicks, “Ah-men.” Only heard the words laid and virgin. My cock stayed hard till they left the front of the sanctuary. Difficult adjusting my briefs discreetly; gushing pre. Thought about Iscariot’s fate to allay further effluent. Afterward, he came to our pew. Michael recently moved into our building with his mother Didi. Aunt Bridget and Didi were thick as thieves critiquing the other women. I was introduced, my eyes transfixed on Michael’s face. Was he wearing lipstick? Smooth, white skin, jet black hair, hazel eyes and carmine lips. He shook my hand and smiled, “Did you like the Wexford Carol?” He was missing his front teeth; suddenly remembered, covered his mouth. “Sent my heart soaring, Michael.” That was half-true. Reason for my half-enthusiasm was I’d spoken with a priest earlier that afternoon, then visited the confession booth. Only half-absolved when mass began. … Philly became my family’s home after they fled the Potato Famine and arrived to take jobs as laborers, cleaning people in America. Slowly gained a foothold, opened a grocery, “Patterson’s Market.” My great, great, great grandparents lived above the store, raised eleven children there. All my ancestors were devoted members of Holy Angels since they’d landed here. With increasing familial pressure to get my lazy butt in gear, I’d asked our priest for counseling earlier that day. Hounded by my family to marry and bring forth a multitude per custom yet I couldn’t find it in me. My intense phase of sexual experimentation with my older brothers, other boys never passed. That was the first sign. Brothers married, bought homes in the suburbs for their tribes. I didn’t. Speaking with the priest only confirmed what I thought; homosexuality. Father Gerald offered on-going counseling, and asked me to consider becoming an ostiary in the church. “Stay close to god, my son.” Debated how honest to be and only told him half of my inclinations. Figured the other half would resolve itself now that I’d accepted the eternal damnation of my faghood. On the way home, I thought about Father Gerald’s advice. Felt he was acting an errant advisor: “Do what I say, not what I do” echoed behind his counsel. Just a whiff of something else behind his pontification. … Patterson’s Market was an ancient building when I was born. Now the real estate was worth millions. Grandfather kept the historic facade, remodeled the rest into a small three-story tenement. Cell phone store and a pizza take-out rented the street-level spaces. Aunt Bridget managed the building, lived onsite. I lived next door to her on the family discount hoping to replace her eventually. Cush life–better than my security job at the sewer treatment plant. … Cush life but Aunt Bridget pestered me: “Didi’s single, and Michael needs a father.” “Plenty of guys in the church.” Had to stop for a moment, there weren’t many young men in the church but me and a few priests to replace hatay escort the defrocked leadership. “She’ll find someone–nice looking gal.” I tossed it off. “You need to start thinking about a family–talk to the priest. The Pope says…” “Already talked to Father Gerald. He asked me to consider becoming a porter, the ostiary. You know, stand at the door before and after services.” “Oh, you’d meet all the women coming in. Good idea.” … Didi managed two hair salons during the week, and picked up extra bucks styling hair from her flat on Saturdays. First of every month, I trekked to Didi’s apartment with Bridget. I got a trim, then Bridget got a lavender rinse and a set. Didi had the nerve to charge me the same price as the barbershop, but wasn’t as nosy as those old men. Her son, Michael was that charming nine-year-old boy; full of energy, he was. I took him out as Didi’s clientele came for their grooming. Hard to keep up with him on the busy sidewalks–he’d see something bright and race ahead. Told him I had a hard–I mean heart problem, couldn’t run. He believed it and stayed closer, but seeing his rounded cheeks bouncing ahead of me did set me throbbing. Were his nipples pink or brownish? I’d often wonder. … Before the holidays, Bridget wanted a perm. Didi warned us, “This is going to stink for several hours.” We decided to return Michael’s library books and pick up some more; stop for ice cream. Library was old, small. I read a magazine, keeping an eye on the kid. Still skinny, stick-like arms and bony legs in his shorts and tee shirt; shoes looked clunky under his ballerina-thin ankles, calves. He coursed the stacks and I saw him staring at me with a thick book in his hand. “What is it?” “Will you check this out for me? It’s from the adult section.” He held an anatomy textbook. Took him to a table in the corner, “What are you looking for?” Michael hedged and finally told me he was worried about his junk, it hurt. I opened the book to several drawings. By pointing at the drawings, he told me. His mini-scrotum wasn’t doing well. Without too many questions, I found it wasn’t a serious problem; only sustained pressure. “Stand up and turn around.” Through his shorts I felt the elastic on his briefs; band was low and tightly bound his hips. We stopped by a store on the way for a package of knit boxers in his size. He changed and came out smiling as we walked home. For good measure, I explained that he had to be careful where people touch you. “They have to ask first. People can’t touch your body without your permission.” Figured someone had already told him but I was wrong, then he added the most curious information: “Mom says she’s going to duct tape my nasty peenie in my pants when I make sperm.” Then he told me she flicked his dick and told him it was dirty. “Tell her to leave you alone. Wash your peenie, keep it clean and it’s fine.” I squatted down and stroked his hair, “Your body is your property–the sovereign nation of Michael cannot be duct taped or flicked. Peenies and sperm are delightful, nothing nasty about them.” … Didi’s place still stunk from the chemicals, Bridget’s hair was in tight curls. “Glad you went with him, dangerous people out there.” Didi thanked me. Junk-shaming a young boy was perverse as well, “I’ll pray for his protection.” Michael did need a father, and it was a dicey situation around me–I wanted to lick his asshole and ease myself into Michael-heaven. Frenetic shower–I thought about the knit boxers stretching over his rounded rear. Wondered if his tight hole was the same color as his lips. That next holiday mass, Michael was taller. Saw his carmine sweater on another child in the congregation. I found a deep red jacket for Michael’s gift. Charming child-like proportions, I hoped he’d grow into the size of his adult teeth, still he had his beautiful coloring. … Saturdays Michael and I walked the neighborhood. Borrowed Bridget’s cart, grocery shopped while his mother took clients. Got the boy a skateboard, took him to the park, sat discretely to the side watching his body learn balance, hurma escort coordination improve. Around the year he turned eleven, he turned heads as well, the boy was a jewel among the scruffy, mini-louts on the playground. For his birthday I took him to teen center where he and his friends jumped, climbed and flipped over the foam cushions. Stupid me, I should have gotten him a jock strap and made sure it fit. Could have gone to the restrooms in the park to insure he wore it properly. Exertion brought out that carmine in his cheeks. Beautiful flush of color, like a spanked bottom, I imagined spanking… nah. Too much effort; noisy. … Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness… poor banished children send our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Reworded the rosary: “Hail, perverse queer, chomping a boy’s sweet ass, … jerking and hunching my beloved, filling his valley with cum.” Sacrilege, yet I had so many sins stacked up, I’d surrendered myself to hell as a hopeless soul. Completely hopeless and didn’t know how to find other hopeless men outside the penal system, or if I even should. How does one approach carnal liaison with an innocent? How do I make a situation where I could seize what I needed? … The taller Michael grew, the more sensual he became. Saw other men leering at Michael and smirking at me beside him. Shot a smug, studly smile back at `em–I was a complete fake. Oddly, Michael came down to my apartment for a school project at one point. My favorite pre-teen was gawky, carrying a handful of index cards, laptop in the other. “Oral histories about Philadelphia.” “Bridget, bring the scrapbooks.” I called my aunt. We spent the evening telling the boy about our family. Michael took pics of the old photos. His teacher asked Aunt Bridget to bring the photos, speak to the students. Took the two out to dinner that night. That set Michael in good standing with his middle school classmates–I was circling closer. Happy as Bridget was, Michael was downcast over cheese-laden steak sandwiches and onion rings. Said he had to visit his father over the weekend. I’d heard the arguments from their apartment, but couldn’t make out the words. Rebellion from Michael? He was usually content, even when I began taking him to a young entrepreneur program on Saturdays. Noticed a few of his skateboard buddies in the classes with him. … Spent a Michael-less Saturday at the park and the afternoon at Knack’s bar watching the game, drowning my solitude in diet root beer. Left while the sun was still up, had to collect rents for Bridget. Split a pizza with her, “Do you know why Michael had to visit his father? I thought they were divorced. He never visits his father. Custody problems?” Maybe an opportunity would open for me to get closer to my prey. Bridget’s hand came to mine, “The boy’s gay, like you.” She continued eating, “He told his mother. She sent him to his father to straighten it out.” Outed–both Michael and me. Didn’t know what to say. “Despite what the pope says–I know it has to be something already inside you. There’s no reason anyone would choose being gay–they’d be excommunicated.” “You’re right.” Had to kiss her cheek. Sunday night, I heard Michael going into his apartment. Everything was silent, no arguing, nothing. … Next Saturday I found a confident Michael, smiling quietly as we walked to the park. “Missed you last weekend.” “Mom sent me to dad for a straightening out. I’m queer.” No shame shaded those words. “You got straightened out?” Was that possible? “What happened?” “What do you think?” He grinned. “Didn’t get straightened out, I’m still gay and I like it.” He looked me square in the eyes, “You know you got a magic button inside your asshole? When a guy’s dick presses your button, you feel magic.” Had to write out an IOU for a pair of inline skates to get the details: “Mom doesn’t want a queer boy–she says they’re too much trouble, I’ll steal her makeup and start begging for a sex change.” He laughed, “She sent me to Father Gerald to straighten me ığdır escort out first. I’m horny all the time.” He stopped; his countenance became serious. “I had to knee that jerk Gerald. He touched without asking. Touches are fifty dollars–no free lunches off me.” Mercy, he’d taken on his mother’s mercenary skills. “Good job. He shouldn’t be touching anyone’s privates but his own.” “He wanted to kiss me, said I had beautiful lips. Twenty for kisses.” Considering the situation, Michael’s prices were reasonable. “What did he do after you bruised his nuts?” “He said I had to confess to an assault. I refused. He got mad, said I was double-damned if I told anyone. When he started yelling in Latin, I left. Did I break a commandment?” “Don’t think so.” This was worrying, “What happened with your dad?” “He didn’t know what to do about me being gay, his friend Ramon did.” He glanced around, “Ramon said he’d screw the queer out of me. Told my dad to leave and he’d call him when we were done.” “What?” Devious trick! Michael smiled, “It was great. Ramon’s got a real nice cannon and my sovereign nation got invaded.” With a dreamy look and a long sigh, “Conquered two times.” … Had to wonder why I didn’t get straightened out when I was Michael’s age, I would have surrendered as often as possible. “This guy, Ramon–was he nice to you?” “Yeah, he explained everything. Told me the porn I was watching was fake.” Couldn’t stop grinning. “He’s got some boy porn he’s going to show me.” “What did your dad say when he came back?” “Nothing. Ramon told him I was bisexual like him. Not a problem, he’d guide me in the right direction.” Got an itch to meet this Ramon, he was slick. … Bright morning at the skatepark. My confident little devil was flipping the skateboard around and making his jumps, talking with the other boys. Bought the gang of kids snow cones and popcorn–they went over behind the play area to discuss something. Must be planning a race or some kind of skateboard competition. The entire time they were in their huddle, my mind was busy imagining Ramon and Michael and that first moment of penetration. A virgin– A dove-like man cooing and plunging– Spiritual ecstasy…. I leaked like the Reagan administration with that fantasy. Went to mass to find a new priest. Father O’Shea gave the homily. … Michael’s queer encounter restocked my fantasy-fodder for several months and it emboldened me. Ready to ask the boy, still not sure how or if I should ask first, maybe a grab-tickle-suck approach would work. Sunday, I went to Knack’s for soda, scout around for a younger-looking guy, someone with a little brother. Maybe, just maybe, I could straighten out a gay boy or give it my best shot. Needed some experience before Michael. Played video games, bought a few scratchers when in comes Father Gerald in a Hawiian print shirt. Sat beside me at the bar. “Howszit hanging Pat?” “Where’ve you been?” I smiled. “Missed you at mass.” “Moving on.” He took a draw of his ale, “Never have that stench again. All the incense in the world won’t hide the stink of a congregation, especially on a rainy day in February–smell like wet sheep.” “Got caught, huh?” I snorted. “Heard one of the boys slammed your nuts for trying to kiss him.” Smug smile on Gerald’s face, “Ah, my little angels, my little Michael–so feisty, hottest little homo ever.” He turned to me, “I’d like to find the dickhead who told him a priest couldn’t touch his junk. Kid said something stupid about the sovereign nation of Michael.” He chuckled. “Imagine a kid depriving me of my professional benefits.” … Behind him a man approached in a bright, white singlet, scraggly beard, long dark hair. Teeth seemed to glow brilliantly white against his deep tan. Stopped behind Gerald, put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Ramon, I’d like you to meet Pat, another fallen angel. Pat, this is Ramon.” Gerald stood, “I’m off to New York, reassigned upstate for a few years.” He left. “Glad to meetcha, Pat” Ramon’s voice was almost melodic, soft, soothing. He leaned close, “What say we split a fish sandwich platter and go to the park. There’s a dark-haired lad down there who runs a stable of boys looking for a Hamilton in the bushes after dark–if you know what I mean. Not the best blow, but a hell of a time.” End Let the spirit move you to make a donation: fty/

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