An oldie, but a goodie...from back in the day (in other words, high school crap I wrote)

Jubilee 2003, Otherwise Known As "Catholicstock '03"

Why Catholicstock? Perhaps it reflected the free-spirited openness of the original Woodstock, but only in Catholic form. Or maybe it captured the revival of the importance of youth, whether in pop culture, or in this case, the Catholic faith. Or possibly, it was something that sounded like a good idea, but only resulted in rampant consumerism, overpricing, burnings, rapes, and pillaging.

If you answered the latter, then you were probably close to what Jubilee 2003 was like.

Well, not entirely. I don't remember any burning, rapes, or pillaging, but then again, I left after communion. Hey, who could blame me? Many Catholics tend to sneak out of mass right after communion. You pay your tithing, you get your wafer/Cracker/body o' Christ and sip of wine/grape juice/blood of Christ, and then you get the hell out of there before the insane people try to get you to buy baked goods from whatever youth group is going on a mission trip, or buy tickets for the 50/50 raffle to raise money for the local parochial high school. Or at least, you try to get out of there before the mass mob of people floods the parking lot. Still, didn't Jesus, the man himself, get uber-pissed when he saw trade being conducted within the sacred confines of the church walls? I'm no theologian, but I can vaguely remember that basic story from Sunday school.

This is beside the point. What I'm trying to get at is that although a gathering of the faithful sounds like a good idea, doing it in the Midwest is an entirely bad idea. Granted, it doesn't have to be as nice as Vatican City, but the fact that it took place at the fairgrounds, a place originally built to house livestock and encourage trading and commerce amongst farmers in the state, is just plain absurd.

As soon as I walked in with my mother, for if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have even thought about staying in town that weekend, I saw a flock of seemingly unsupervised children running for the carnival rides. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gang of priests walking across the street. All right, it would be in poor taste for me to even think about making some sort of joke about this, but hell, I know that whoever is reading this right now is thinking the same thing. So, I won't even say anything more. I'll just leave you horrible, filthy, sinners with your minds in the gutter.

All right, I apologize. After a day of brainwashing...er, exposure to so many faithful Catholics, I tend to lose control over my mouth to a more pious, holier-than-thou, force bigger than myself. Keep in mind, this was after one day. Now imagine if I had gone to bible camp when I was a kid...or if I went to a private school. The horror...the horror...

Back to the celebration! And what exactly are we celebrating? The 150th anniversary of the founding of the local diocese. I always thought it was funny that the word "diocese" looked a lot like the word "disease." Maybe that's just a coincidence.

Near the entrance was a little kiosk which was actually handing out bottled water. "Handing out water?" you ask, "Surely, this is preposterous! You can't get anything for free these days! Especially water, at $10 a bottle at various music festivals!" Sure enough, I got free water, two bottles in fact.

Still, nobody ever gives away anything without thinking of their own best interests. I read the bottle, which had the words "Get a life in Christ" printed in large letters on the bottle. Beneath it was the web address for information about vocation, basically, becoming a priest or a nun or some such person of faith who can't have sex.

After reading that, I was a bit hesitant to drink it. For all I knew, they put mind altering drugs in it so that you would end up spending the rest of your life believing that your calling in life was to preach to starving children in some third world country and not have sex.

Once more, I revisit the whole concept of celibacy in the church. At one point in time, priests were allowed to be married and have children. Then, I think that was about the time when God saw all the corruption in the church and decided that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to let these people breed. Thus, he declared that members of the clergy were to be celibate. Some corruption remained, but at least hopefully, they can't pass it down to future generations.

So, I drank the water, which was surprisingly refreshing. Perhaps it was holy water. Then again, holy water is just tap water that was blessed by a priest. I thought it was funny how much they charge for most other bottled waters, which have often been found to be simple tap water with a fancy label, yet holy water is free. After thinking about this, I had the funniest image of a truckload of priests in a water bottling facility waving around rosary beads and chanting blessings in Latin. The way I see it, if they did charge for the water and donate the money to charities, they could sell tons of this stuff. If figure if I'm paying so much for bottled water anyway, I might as well go to heaven for drinking it, right?

At the same kiosk as the holy bottled water were entry forms for some sort of raffle. I've always been a sucker for anything where you write down your name, phone number, and address in order to hopefully win something, so I entered. Strangely enough, the lady told me that the entry forms were supposed to go at the "Vocations" kiosk in the Expo building. She then asked me if I could enter her name in the raffle as well, and with me being a good Catholic girl, I couldn't help but oblige.

So, my mom and I went to the Expo building, which is usually used during the state fair by people selling their wares like cleaning liquids, impossibly sharp knives, and massaging chairs. The irony wasn't completely lost on me since the first table there was selling various items from around the world in order to raise money for, you guessed it, missions. My mother looked at a few "handmade" wallets from Guatemala or something and I looked at the novelty musical instruments. I ended up buying a flute, supposedly from India, for $10. For all I knew, if I just peeled off the "Made in India" sticker, it would have read "Made in China" or Japan or some other heavily industrial nation which isn't India. All right, so I fell for the oldest trick in the book. Still, I collect musical instruments anyway, and I did have a bit of fun playing around with it while I was waiting for my mom to go to the bathroom.

Throughout the Expo building were other kiosks of people selling their wares such as oil paintings of Mary or "handmade" bracelets. There were also booths where people were busily recruiting for parochial schools and private colleges. It sort of reminded me of the college fair I had to cover for newspaper this year, except for the fact I would have never been caught dead on their mailing list, let alone on any of their campuses. I know, I sound like a public school snob, but when you can get the humiliation and pressure at a fraction of the price, I'd rather pocket the money to spend it on something important, like saving the endangered habitat of the pygmy marmoset or something.

At any rate, as if the "Catholic Career Fair/Bazaar" wasn't weird enough, there were corn dog stands and funnel cake stands after that. Since my mother told me that we were going to the 4:00 mass later that day, at the Grandstand (which is the same place where they hold horse races and rock/country concerts, "On SUNDAY, SUNDAY SUNDAY!"), I had the strangest image in my head of some fat guy with beer and nachos watching the mass. Perhaps we'd all be doing the wave when the Bishop took the stage. At the rate we were going, I wouldn't have been surprised about anything.

Don't get me wrong, if I sound like a jaded, cynical columnist...Well, I am, but that's beside the point. There were some useful things there. For instance, people could get their cholesterol and blood pressure checked at the senior center. If anyone cares, my blood pressure was 104/56 and my cholesterol was 188 mg/dL. I'm still not sure what that means, but I'm laying off the donuts for awhile just in case.

Also, for some reason, there was a group of skateboarders demonstrating their physical prowess in the food-o-rama enclosure. I saw a couple of people that I knew who I would have never expected in a million years to be Catholic, but still, I think it proves my point that there is nothing good to do in this town. I mean, if the skateboarders are hanging out at a Catholic function, what will happen next? Are they going to open a tattoo parlor in the church rectory? Still, I think it's a refreshing change from the old Catholicism. It's not as cool as the Buddy Christ from "Dogma," but I think the Catholic Church would get a bigger draw if they had bowling ball balancers, yo-yo artists, and skateboarders in the church. I figure if they do this sort of thing at Jubilee, they should do it on a weekly, or even a daily basis.

At any rate, after my mother conversed with a few of her friends that she had just met at the Central Illinois Philipine-American Society picnic (which is an entirely different story) last week, we made our way to mass. It was sort of scary how everyone was converging to the grandstand at once. I felt like I was an extra in "Night of the Living Dead" or something, except for the fact that there were statues of Peter and Paul everywhere.

For those of you who are Catholically impaired, Peter was the founder of the Catholic Church, and Paul was formerly Saul, a Jewish guy who used to persecute Christians until he had some sort of epiphany while walking down the road. This weekend was their feast day. I mean, I could be wrong here, especially since I usually nod in and out of consciousness during mass. Still, next to someone like the fat guy over there with the nachos and beer hat, I'm a freakin' theologian.

In the line, we passed yet another tent promoting something or other. My mom was handed a pencil and a pamphlet. I didn't read it, but I saw a headline in there that said something about the "spreading pagan plague" and a "new world order...a call to war." Needless to say, I took offense to that, saying out loud that most of the pagan people I knew were much nicer than some of the Christians I knew. Of course, I received many a dirty look from the bible-thumpers of the Midwest. After that, I held my tongue. If I wasn't too careful, I would probably end up being burned for heresy. Then again, years later, I would probably be pardoned and canonized as a saint, so it wouldn't be a total loss. The funny thing was, as I passed by numerous garbage bins, I saw a lot of copies of those same pamphlets. So, I guess this "pagan plague" has spread further than these people had imagined. Perhaps we should just hold off on this war between the righteous and the sinful until hopefully never.

We finally made our way up the bleachers, and on the way, I was met with another surprise. A guy randomly grabbed my arm and said "Cowboy Bebop is cool," referring to the button of Spike (which was made by my friend Amy) that I keep on my purse. Ah yes, anime, the universal icebreaker. Unlike religion, you can't really offend too many people whenever you talk about anime.

I wish I could say that being surrounded by so many faithful people inspired me and renewed my own faith. However, my sense of spiritual wonder was squashed when I heard everyone reciting the Apostles' Creed with the same fervor that I heard in myself and my classmates whenever we recited the Pledge of Allegiance.

Yet once again, my point is not so much that religion and patriotism is a bad thing. I feel quite the opposite. However, when it gets to such fanatic levels as when people are saying "Fuck Iraq" and "Kill all Muslims," yes, I believe that it is a bad thing. I know that not all people think that the war is a good thing, but they shouldn't have to hide in the dark in order to express their feelings. They shouldn't be considered un-American because they don't necessarily agree with the so-called Conservative right.

I didn't mean to get up on my soapbox about this, but I've found that lately, it is rather difficult to avoid the rest of the world and retreat into my own little idyllic existence. If people actually thought about these things more instead of ignoring them, they might finally come to a logical answer for their problems.

So, as I left the Jubilee, I overheard people commenting on how many people left during communion, and how disgusted they were by it. I found it to be a rather difficult task to hold my tongue, but I knew that like myself, these people would have a hard time being convinced about an opinion outside of their own scope of thought. They can believe in their piety and faithfulness. I just don't appreciate somebody other than myself questioning my own faith, sort of how I seethed a little bit when my mother labeled me as an "Atheist" to some of her friends earlier. In all truth, I'm most likely a Universalist or an Agnostic. I believe in things, but I just question whether or not I should throw so much of myself into it. Sometimes faith can be a dangerous thing.

In the end, the Jubilee experience left me feeling slightly nauseated despite its sweet exterior. If I wanted that, I may as well have just eaten a donut. Then again, I wouldn't have gotten the neat bottled holy water and the "handmade" flute. Instead, my cholesterol would have gone up. So, overall, Jubilee was a lot like religion (and donuts) in general. In moderation, it can be an enjoyable experience, but a full day of it is just nauseating.

Quickie

Random away message I came up with (I might expand later, but in all truth, I've been too lazy/unmotivated/uninspired/:insert equally lame excuse here: to write much of anything lately:):

"The Morning-After Monologue"

"G'Morning sexy. What do you want for breakfast? ... Oh, ok, I understand, you're busy...so busy that you have time for sex but not enough to have your girlfriend make breakfast for you, or to take your girlfriend out for dinner (possibly followed by a movie), or to meet her parents, or to find a real job...I understand. However, I just discovered that I'm going to be too busy to have sex with you...ever again."

For Paul/Mike, not boyfriends, but still sources of amusement.

Supervillain's Girlfriend Monologue, or For Good Girls Who Love Bad Boys
(read with "proper" British accent)

I don't believe this. Here we go again. That jackass is pontificating and explaining his evil plan for world domination when he should really just off Mr. Hero while he's in a state of suspended weakness. Meanwhile, I'm standing here holding a gun to his beloved sweetheart's head.

God. What does he even see in her? Silly bint doesn't even know how good she has it. I'm wasting my life as a groupie in this ridiculous skintight leather getup and she has the perfect boyfriend. I bet he's even super in bed too.

That jackass still hasn't shut up yet. I need a fucking cigarette, but that would require me to put down the damn gun. Things weren't always like this you know. I got my degree in English at Harvard, followed by Law School at Cambridge, specializing in International Law. I could have worked for the UN. I mean, Angelina Jolie has nothing on me. But no, I'm holding the All-American girl-next-door hostage at the bidding of that jackass.

He wasn't always like this, you know? In fact, that was why I fell in love with him in the first place. We met at a peace rally after he had given a speech on the importance of renewable energy. He was in Environmental Law, I was in International. Together, we were supposed to save the world, not destroy it. Hell. I guess some people really do change.

Damnit. He's still going on...and on...and on. You know, we used to denounce nuclear arms and biological weapons, not use them to throw our weight around. I guess it's true what they say about how it's impossible to tear down the master's house with the master's tools.

Yeah. Just as I thought, our hero has sescaped and is now handing my boyfriend's ass to him. Jesus. He's still just my boyfriend? My mom keeps calling me, asking "When are you going to get married? When are you going to get married? You're not young anymore and you have gained some weight...and I expect to see my grandchildren before I'm dead." Yeah. Like that will ever happen...

And now he's in a coma.

Shit. Mr. Wonderful's on his way over here. Time to drop the gun and let the lady go with some obligatory line like "Oh, he'd never do that for me!" or "Why is it that good girls go for such bad guys?" Then I'll sigh as he gives me a platonic hug in those masculine arms of his and he'll laugh and fly her off to safety as shit starts getting blown all to hell around here.

So, you're probably wondering what I'm still doing with this jerk, dragging him to the escape pod and such. What can I say? I'm a sucker for impossible romance.

A foray into shifting third-person...although I suck at that sort of thing.

Obligatory Art Museum Piece

Elena continued wandering. For a college art museum, the gallery rotated their collection frequently enough to keep her interest piqued each month. Yet like an old lover, there was one piece she always returned to each time she paid a visit. Although it was a reproduction of the one she had seen in the Palazzo Rosso in Genoa, she still felt herself drawn to the painting. She stood within reasonable distance, shifting weight on one foot, settling in for the long haul.

“I see you’re examining St. Sebastian.”

Shaken from her reverie, Elena frowned as she turned her head to face the stranger. He was a young man, presumably a student like herself. What could have possessed him to use such a word choice as “examining?” Perhaps he was pre-med. She could not help the slight hint of distaste in her mouth at such a clinical term upon it rolling into her ears.

Choosing not to reply, she faced the painting once more. Granted, the male figure was in the full bloom of youth: hair in short curls, beardless and almost nude, his loins barely draped by a strategically placed cloth. The painter, Guido Reni, had even given life to the wrinkles in the cloth, as if the viewer could hear the faint rustle of the cloth unfurling from the juncture of the hip, ready to drop down Sebastian’s lithe legs. His arms were tied above his head to a tree. His back arched, skin taut on the frame of his torso Yet the agony on his face was not from the strain on his back muscles, but the arrows penetrating his ribcage and breast. His eyes rolled up to heaven, full lips parted with a faint flush on his cheek.

“He looks quite alive, considering the fact he’s about to be shot to death with arrows, doesn’t he?”

Elena turned from Sebastian again to face the strange young man next to her. “He wasn’t shot to death. This is the miracle of St. Sebastian. The emperor Diocletian had him tied to a tree, shot full of arrows and left for dead because hew as a Christian. Sebastian walked all the way home to preach again, only to be beaten to death later.”

“Oh.”

Hoping he would be satisfied enough with that explanation to leave, Elena turned once more to the eternally frozen scene.

“So, are you religious?”

Elena took in a deep breath. She had been raised a Catholic, but after leaving home, her only fascination with the religion was with saint iconography, particularly that of St. Sebastian. However, she did not feel like it was any of this stranger’s business what she believed. It seemed like she would not gain enough peace to fully appreciate the painting unless she answered her unwanted companion’s banal questions. However, he did recognize St. Sebastian. Perhaps he had seen the piece before or just read the plaque by the painting.

“Not really. I just find this painting fascinating.” She took pains to sound casual in her answer.

“I can tell.” The stranger said, leaning to whisper into her ear. “You’ve been looking at that painting longer than any of the other pieces in the art museum.”

Elena took a step back. “How would you know that.”

“I’ve been watching you since the Greco-Roman period.”

Her mind raced back. The Greco-Roman gallery was somewhere near the entrance of the museum. This meant that this young man had been following her for quite awhile. Perplexed, she stood frozen. Realizing she had not formed a reply to his statement, Elena opened her mouth to speak.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just felt drawn to you–struck, as it were.” He laughed sheepishly at his own pun.

Elena laughed as well, more at his pitiable sense of humor than the joke itself. She noticed for the first time that others were milling about the museum besides them. For a moment, she pictured herself the way he may have seen her, taking small slow steps through each gallery, coat folded on one arm, the other hand occasionally tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She could not quite understand this young man’s fascination with her. She certainly was not doing anything particularly exciting in the museum.

“Be careful.” She warned. “Arrows of love are still arrows.”

“I take it that I’ve been shot down, then?”

A delighted smile crossed Elena’s face. Some men just did not know when to give up, yet his insistence at playing upon words charmed her. “Not exactly.”

The two sat down on a bench further away, yet still facing the painting.

“You know, I’ve seen so many interpretations of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian: 14th century frescos, Renaissance oils, even modern photography.” Elena grasped her wrist behind her back and stretched, popping her shoulder.

“So why the Reni? Why do you like this one so much?”

“I don’t know. Considering how many painters used different styles and mediums to convey the martyrdom, there are many key similarities.” Elena’s eyes met his intensely as she explained her attraction. “For one thing, St. Sebastian is almost always nearly nude. His hands are either tied from behind or above. Yet the difference, at least for the Reni, has to be in the face.”

“The face?”

“Oh yes. Especially the eyes and the mouth. Sebastian has such an expression of rapture of his face, as if–” Elena looked away for a moment.

“As if what?” The young man took her chin in his hands, pulling her to face him.

“Promise you won’t laugh, or think I’m weird. Please.”

“What?” A grin spread, stretching his cheeks.

“Promise.” She pulled away from him. “I’m being perfectly serious.”

“Ok, so am I. Now will you tell me what you mean. I’m not an art major so I don’t get these things.”

“The expression on Sebastian’s face in the painting, it’s so exquisite in its pain . . . almost erotic.”

He was silent.

“You’re freaked out, aren’t you?” Elena stood up to leave. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No. It’s not that.” He took her wrist, holding her back.

She turned around to look down at him sitting on the bench. “What is it then?”

“I didn’t think anybody else thought that way, saw the painting the way I did.” His eyes widened as he looked up at her.

She smiled and sat down next to him, moving closer to the center than she had been earlier. “You know, you never told me how you knew about the painting.”

“St. Sebastian was the patron saint of the parish near where I grew up. They had a large mosaic of the martyrdom in the vestibule of the cathedral. It had nowhere near the lavish detail of the Reni painting, but it made me curious enough to actually crack open a book and do research outside of school.” He chuckled, continuing to hold Elena’s hand.

“And this is how you discovered the Reni piece?”

“Yes. Although I didn’t like the other painting of St. Sebastian he did. In that one, Sebastian is kneeling with his hands tied behind his back.” He grimaced. “He has too much of a look of supplication than ecstasy, the wrong sort of surrender. Also, the background is too dark without the beautiful detail of the tree. Too somber. Too funereal.”

“I couldn’t agree more. It was obvious that the Italian artists were making a shift from the brilliant lit works of the Renaissance to the darker Baroque period.” She leaned closer to him. “But in the one at our museum, or at least the reproduction of the one at the Palazzo Rosso, doesn’t it look like Sebastian has a look of anticipation as well?”

“Yes, like he’s asking himself ‘Is this next arrow going to be the one that will kill me?’”

“I can’t believe this. This is far too incredible.”

“What?”

“That I’ve met someone who actually sees these things the way I do.”

Deciding that carrying on a potentially distracting conversation in the quiet museum would not be the best idea if they ever wanted to enter again, the pair decided to leave. The young man collected his backpack at the coat room before reaching the entrance.

“What about the other renditions?” He gestured, causing Elena to look down the hall into one of the other galleries.

“For the most part, I believe that the Italian Renaissance painters perfected their representations of Sebastian, especially since the Reni is the most flawless one I’ve seen.”

“Why Italian? The Germans painted the same subject matter in that time period.”

“I don’t know. Many of the German painters rendered Sebastian with a beard.” She explained. “For some reason, that always bothered me.”

“Too manly or too old?” A guttural growl escaped his throat at uttering the word “manly.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think Saint Sebastian wore a beard.”

The tolling of bells in the distance drew the young man’s attention away from his conversation. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to get to class. I certainly wasn’t planning on having such enchanting company.”

Elena smirked. “Sure you weren’t.”

“I’m serious.” He removed his bag and withdrew a pen and a pad. “Would you like to have lunch with me sometime and continue this conversation? Perhaps tomorrow? I could call you, or I could give you my number and expect to never hear from you again.”

She laughed. “I would most definitely like to continue this conversation. There’s a place I like to go that’s not far from here.”

She took the pen and pad from his hands. “You may call me, but I never answer my phone. Leave your number, and I’ll call back.”

“Thank you so much.” In a quick, fluid motion, he took her in his arms and spun her around before taking off running toward the sound of the bells.

Just as Elena processed what had just happened and realized that she had never even caught the stranger’s name, he was gone.

* * *

Elena proved true to her word, right down to her quirky habit of letting her machine pick up messages followed by immediately calling the person back as soon as they had hung up. The next afternoon, they met in a café near the art museum.

“Granted, Botticelli was a master of displaying the beauty of the human figure.” He shook his turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich at her as if it would aid in proving his point. “Yet his Sebastian just looks bored, like he’s waiting for a bus.”

Elena laughed. “I never thought of it that way, but I know precisely what you mean. That seems to be the problem with a lot of painters. They’ll paint Sebastian’s body flawlessly, as if he was some sort of homoerotic pin up figure, but they don’t pay enough attention to his face.”

“Sort of off topic, but a friend of mine once sent me a link to a website with video clips of people having orgasms.”

“Yes, I would have to agree with you.” She took a sip from her coffee. “That is off topic.”

“Well, the thing about the videos was that they were shot from the neck up, so all you could see was the face.”

“Are you comparing a high state of religious rapture with the silly faces people make during sex?”

“I wouldn’t call it silly. You even said that you found the Reni painting of St. Sebastian to be erotic.”

“Yes, well that is different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know–”

“I don’t believe it.” His eyes widened as he smiled.

“Believe what?” Elena shot him a sideways glance.

“You’ve never had sex, have you?”

“I have.” She insisted. “I just don’t think that it’s exactly up to par with the sublime.”

“Then you’ve been with the wrong people.”

“And you’re telling me that you’re the right man for the job.”

“No. I was just saying–”

“Right. I believe this lunch is finished.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin and moved her seat back from the table.

“Wait, please don’t leave.”

“I’m serious.” She smiled. “Look at the table. I’m done with my salad, and your sandwich is gone as well.”

“All right. I see your point but–”

“Do you have anywhere else to be later?”

“No, not really.” He paused. “My last class finished before I came here.”

“Good. My car is parked a block from here.”

“Where are we going?” He asked, dropping a couple of dollars on the table for the waitress.

Elena took his hand and pulled him to the exit. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

* * *

If there were any rhyme or reason in how Elena’s car followed the faded yellow lines painted on the cracked concrete, they were not readily apparent. At the occasional stop light, Elena glanced at her companion. She had a feeling that this day would be special. All she could do was hope that he felt the same way, considering how she noticed the way he watched with no small amount of concern their college town disappearing from the passenger side window. Yet she knew there was nothing to worry about, seeing as he stopped asking her where they were going as soon as he got into the car.

The gravel road she inevitably pulled into was a path she had gone down many times before, more often than not, alone. The landscape transformed from ripe, autumn fields of corn into the mellow muted earth tones of dying leaves. These were not the flashy crimson and gold of the maple, but the browns and tans of oak trees. On either side of the road, trees with dark, thick trunks rose from the earth, towering over the small car and its passengers as if to remind them that they were merely trespassing in the domain of a force greater than they could ever comprehend. Even the gravel road they drove on acted as another reminder of the temporary encroachment of humankind, as it stopped at a dead end, fading into a small grassy clearing.

The pair stepped out of the car. Other than the sound of the doors closing, little else disrupted the air of the clearing. The tall grass had faded from green to a pale gold. An occasional twig snapped amidst the rustling of feet against the grass. Elena had nearly made it to the other edge of the clearing when she sat down, almost hidden by the grass. She watched the young man wander cautiously, looking around to find where she had gone while he had been distracted by his surroundings.

When it was obvious he would not find her again, she called out to him. “Over here!”

“Oh.” He smiled, waved, and walked toward her. “Why have you brought me out here?”

“Isn’t it beautiful here? No sounds of traffic, people talking obnoxiously on cell phones or pompous professors who delight in proving you wrong.” She hugged her knees, long pleated skirt rising high enough to reveal her ankles.

“What’s in the bag?”

Elena slid the strap off her shoulder and unzipped one compartment of a long duffle bag. She pulled out a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew but no glasses.

“It’s probably not five o’clock in the afternoon yet, but what the hell? You only live once, right?” The cork came out with a loud pop.

“Agreed.” He took the bottle after she had taken a drink from it.

The two continued drinking and talking about nothing in particular for awhile, occasional lulls in the conversation filled by the near silence of the forest around them. At times, they would exchange glances, somewhat tinged by the blood red wine.

“Last drink. It’s yours.” She passed the nearly empty bottle to him.

“Are you sure?”

“I insist.”

As he downed the last drops of wine, he felt a bit dizzy. He wasn’t exactly a heavy drinker, but he knew that it would take more than just a half bottle of wine to take him under.

“Wow. This is really good stuff.”

“Definitely beats cheap beer from kegs, eh?” She stood up and took his hand.

“Yeah, I guess.” He stood up, legs wobbling, nearly falling into her. As he leaned in, their lips met. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She asked, wide eyes looking up at him.

“If I’ve been too forward.”

“Don’t be. If you were, you would know it.” She kissed him again, stepping toward him.

Elena could hardly believe it. This afternoon was going better than she had anticipated. She was certain that he had been a little more than surprised as well. He ran his fingers through her hair, tucking errant strands back behind her ear so they would not interfere in the meeting of lips again. The soft point of his tongue traced her upper lip, followed by her bottom lip before penetrating her mouth, soaked in the sanguine wine. Elena took a few more steps forward, then pushed him against a tree.

“Oh, well then. I had no idea you were that sort of girl.” The words slowly slurred off of his lips from the back of his throat.

“What sort of girl is that?” She purred, undoing the buttons of his shirt before pulling it from his shoulders down his arms.

“The sort of girl I like.” He watched her kissing him all over, traveling down his chest and stomach before she hit the buckle of his pants.

Elena smiled up at him, almost fairy-like with the mischievous gleam in her eyes. As if in a flash, the belt buckle was in her hands and his pants around his ankles. She was so beautiful, or would be if she didn’t go blurry so much.

“Wait a minute, what’s going on?” He murmured as she raised his hands above his head.

“Don’t worry about that.” She kissed him again and knelt before him once more.

“I can’t move my arms.”

“You won’t need to.” She carefully took his erection out of his boxers, cradled it in her hands for a moment before caressing it in her fingertips. “I must warn you. I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing. I’ve never done this before, but I’ve always wanted to.”

Elena pictured the tableau she had placed herself in. This was not a pieta like that of Michaelangelo, with Mary cradling the dying Christ in her arms. This was different. She wondered what this was meant to be: she the quiver to his arrow shaft. No more hesitation, she had to take this shot.

“All right.” His head lolled back and forth, peaceful and content as he felt her mouth engulf him in smooth heat. As much as he wanted to enjoy the free ride, he had difficulty keeping his eyes open. Eventually, they closed entirely.

* * *

The young man was not quite sure what woke him first, the sudden breeze against his bare flesh, or the searing pain which stabbed throughout him after that. He never imagined that it would take all of his strength just to lift the weight of his eyelids. Looking down, he could not believe what he saw. Elena was no longer kneeling before him. Instead, he saw an arrow piercing through the right side of his ribcage. Dully lifting his head, his eyes met with Elena’s some distance away.

“You know, I wasn’t lying to you when I said I’ve never done this before.” Elena keenly locked one narrowed eye at him as she drew the bowstring once more. “At least I’ve never done this before in broad daylight. Most of the time I could never get young men to come out here willingly, let alone during the day. Although, there is something to be said the way a nearly nude young man looks beneath the moonlight.”

He parted his lips in an attempt to speak, only resulting in a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.

“I’d go to bars, you know. Go through the whole rigamarole of small talk and ‘let’s go back to my place’ after pretending to be drunk.” She laughed as if shrugging the whole thing off like a funny joke she heard a long time ago. “In all truth, I had drugged them the same way I drugged you.”

She put down the bow and arrow and walked over to him, as if a change of heart came upon her. Elena kissed him, licking the stray blood from his face. “We can’t have that now. It wasn’t in the painting.”

His eyes widened more as he tensed, bare back pressing against the rough bark of the tree. The arrow shifted slightly in his side, causing his jaw to drop in a scream, or at least an attempt to scream. His eyes swam, rolling upwards, nothing but the whites visible.

“Now where was I?” Elena took up the bow and arrow once more, but frowned upon turning around to view her subject. “I swear. Young men these days have no fortitude or physical constitution.”

His body relaxed again, neck drooped, head slumped with his chin to his chest. He slowly lifted his head to glare up at her, snarling, yet still silent.

“That’s entirely the wrong sort of look.” She sighed, breathing slowly, finally releasing the arrow between heartbeats. “Oh well.”

Knowing what was to come, he barely had time to close his eyes before the arrow hit its mark on his left pectoral muscle above the nipple. Gasping, he looked down for a moment at the shaft, along its length to its flight path back to the one who had sent it to him. She smiled warmly at him the same way she had over lunch and coffee earlier that day.

“Oh God. That’s it, right there. Perfect. You’re so beautiful.”

Elena pulled a camera out of her bag and started snapping pictures. Each click and whir of the mechanism hit him in the ears as her arrows had struck him in the chest before. His mind told him that each photograph taken was a mere second, yet the rest of his body wondered how much longer it would be until the end. To his horror, he looked down and realized that his erection had not yet subsided. All he could do was watch as Elena knelt before him, but not in supplication. He felt her hands running up his thighs to his boxers. The cotton slid down his legs around his ankles.

“In a way, I almost envy you.” She said, running her fingertips down the shaft of his erection to the head before kissing it. “You get to experience le grande mort.”

He closed his eyes, knowing it would not change what he was about to feel. In a way, he had always been curious, but he did not think he would meet death like this. Despite the pain of the arrows imbedded into his body, he was still able to feel the warmth envelop him, her lips softly wrapping around, followed by her tongue. Was it possible that this felt better than when she had been doing it before? The idea was monstrous, yet it still lingered. He felt additional moisture on his body, most likely the blood draining out of his wounds down his chest and legs. Eventually the warmth fully spread throughout him. Wracked with convulsions, he attempted to open his eyes to meet those of his executioner for the last time, only to meet with his own, reflected in the cold glass of the camera lens.

An Old "Favorite"

Boy Next Door (version 2.0, the one that wasn't in Literotica)

Connor was beautiful. Through the years I have spent living next door to him, I have found no other way to describe him as other than the beautiful boy next door. Yet despite all of my admiration, he never acknowledged or even appear to notice my existence.

His family moved into the house on 87 Stockton Drive in the summer of my seventh grade. I remember watching the movers outside with their bulky brown boxes and color-coordinated furniture from the window in my room. One of these otherwise ordinary boxes caught my attention. It read "Connor's Room" on it in bright red marker.

As a gesture of openness, my parents had invited his family over for dinner from across the imaginary boundary between our properties. From the fuming and mumbling I heard on my mother's part, I took it that they had declined the invitation.

"Don't worry, they're just a bunch of snobs," my dad returned to his all-important evening paper without a second thought on the subject.

I didn't care what my parents thought. I still wanted to see Connor for myself.

People tend to throw around the term "All-American." However, people generally picture "All-American" as being white-bread, cornfed Midwestern farm boy. The way which Connor dressed did not at all match the general image people have of Asians: the mandarin-collared, pajama-like clothes that they see in martial arts movies. Instead, Connor was the embodiement of Asian-American, the fusion between the two cultures: the deep, dark, almond-shaped eyes often exotified in movies and the golden skin which Caucasian America tried to emulate through unnatural tanning; but at the same time, he was taller than most of my male cousins back home and sported the same faded blue jeans and red baseball cap that many American boys do during their adolescent years. He looked just like me, which was something I was not accustomed to from being in predominantly-white classrooms in school.

Perhaps the perceived snub my parents received from his parents hurt that much because my parents were seeking solidarity they wouldn't have been able to find elsewhere other than the pitifully small Asian food store in our town. I couldn't blame them, since I often got tired of answering the same questions such as: "Where are you from?" or "No, where are you really from?" or my personal favorite, "How come you don't have an accent?" Maybe making some Asian friends, or potentially having an Asian boyfriend would help ease my annoyance.

That was not to be, not so much because of racial politics, but the politics of high school. Connor was a great pitcher for the baseball team, and became one of the most popular boys in my class, with people tripping over themselves just to get him to sign their yearbooks. I just stood on the sidelines with my friends, hanging out whenever, all the while silently pining for the beautiful boy next door. During the brief, despite seeming excruciatingly long, period of time I spent waiting at the same bus stop as him, neither of us said a word.

The event most anticipated in high school was hardly a cause for celebration for me, since I didn't have a date for my junior prom. My friends had pitied me and set me up with a guy they knew from another school who would be best described as less than a gentleman.

"What's your problem? I just want to have some fun with you, that's all," Chris put an arm around me, reeking of the cheap whiskey he had smuggled in his coat-pocket flask.

"Well, in that case..." I leaned towards him, unbuckling his seatbelt and pressing myself tight against him.

"Yeah, that's more like it," he closed his eyes in anticipation.

"You disgusting jerk, get the hell away from me!" I opened his door and pushed him out of the car as hard as I could. After slamming the door, I started the car and drove away, leaving him confused and alone in the darkness.

Looking back on it now, the conclusion to my junior prom night was almost amusing, especially since I never even made it to the actual dance. But that night, I snuck into my house, feeling humiliated and not wanting to talk to my parents about it. I stumbled into my dark room and threw open a window to help air out the mustiness around me. I just happened to look up to see Connor sitting in his room. It's funny how you can live next door to someone and not realize that their bedroom faces yours. I was more surprised when I realized what time it was. Court had barely been announced, with Connor crowned king, but he was already at home. I was surprised that he wasn't at one of the numerous after-parties he would have undoubtably been invited to that night.

Out of all of the new discoveries, the look on his face was the most surprising, especially since it looked like he had been crying. He had never struck me as the lonely type, never even struck me as the type who would ever have a reason to be lonely. Yet he was sitting on his bed, staring at the tacky crown awarded to him, smiling wistfully. Of all people, why Connor? What right did he have to be sad? He had everything he could ever want. Then again, I guess you could say that I did too. We were both two kids, living out the dreams of our parents, but it seemed like we never really had time to figure out what we really wanted out of life.

I watched his mother enter his room with a glass of water and a bottle of pills. He took a couple and lay down on the bed after she left. For all I knew they were Prozac, or Lithium, or even just common aspirin or sleeping pills. Still, despite the medication, Connor had a trouble-filled sleep, convulsing and tossing about. He paled in the moonlight, silver beads of tears and sweat rolling down his pallid face. It didn't seem fair. If Conner couldn't be happy, then what odds did the rest of us have?

The mundane routine of school returned on Monday, and it was like nothing had happened. Connor was his sweet, smiling self, high-fiving his teammates on their victory over the weekend. Girls were babbling about who had the cutest dress. I was back to my regimen of class, extracurriculars, schoolwork. For all I cared, junior prom never happened, and my quiet moment attempting to understand Connor was just a dream. During my calculus class, I overheard the girl Connor had taken to the prom talking with her friends about how Connor randomly ran out on her, and cringed at the artificial indignation the girls showed about how much of an insensitive jerk he was.

I figured the only way I could better understand him was just to watch him as I had before. It was innocent enough at the beginning with occasional glances out the window while he studied or worked on his computer. Sometimes he would be working out in the way most athletic teenage males do with his pushups, situps, and weightlifting. No matter what he did, Connor was beautiful as ever, an example of physical and intellectual perfection.

After awhile, it got to the point where I was sitting in the dark with binoculars.

The rest of the year passed uneventfully outside of my nightly observations. Connor and his family went to Florida or something over summer vacation. I had my first taste of "summer romance," knowing full well that it would go nowhere after the email addresses were exchanged on the last day of music camp. I had almost forgotten about Connor until I ran into him again. Literally.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I winced, barely able to look him in the eye.

"It's all right, I should have been looking where I was going," he smiled and helped me gather the pieces of what sadly was my life, my schedule book, my rough drafts, and my schoolbooks amongst the trampling herd of teenagers.

Before I could utter a "thank you," he was gone, and so was whatever notion I had of being over him.

So, my nightly observations started up once more. From any other point of view, my fixation was either an unhealthy obsession or a careless adolescent longing. I loved him for the same strengths he showed to the rest of the world, but at the same time, I loved him for the weakness he only showed on quiet weekend nights alone in his room. Although we were separated by the distance between our houses and the distance between high school social cliques, I still felt a connection to him.

Senior year was spent writing the typical admission essays and picking up the last few necessary credits and extracurriculars to guarantee as many scholarship opportunities as possible, as well as hanging out as much as possible with the friends I may not see again after going to college. Despite the monotony of it all, the year had passed so quickly that I didn't realize that it was already spring break.

"So, Connor? Are you going to Cancun with us or not?" one of the swarming girls around him pleaded.

"No, he's going to celebrate being all alone in his house with us, right?" his teammate Josh clapped him on the back.

"I don't know guys...the prospect of being alone in a house with you assholes doesn't seem very promising," he joked, stealing Josh's hat.

As for me, I continued my nightly observations and caught up on what I hoped would be the last pointless set of essays I would ever have to write. Connor's routine of working out, reading, and sleeping seemed to stay the same, with an occasional breakdown followed by sleeping it off after some pills.

One night was different. Like junior prom night, the moonlight drifted in as he approached his window. I ducked in case of being spotted, but my window was dark with the curtains partway drawn. I was a little afraid he would close his curtains, but he didn't. Maybe he wanted to be watched.

I could barely breathe as he started removing his clothes. Although I had seen him change in his room, he had never been completely naked, vulnerable like this. His muscles, once tensed, finally seemed to relax as he fell upon his bed. He seemed to like the feeling of the white cotton sheets against his bare skin, bronzed by the afternoon sun of baseball practice.

For awhile, he just seemed to lie there, finally comfortable in his own skin. Then, a casual hand traced down his stomach to a steadily growing erection. I could not believe what I was witnessing. The junior prom king was masturbating, a word I had once thought of as something filthy, but what I was watching wasn't even half as sordid as I had imagined.

My heart pounded in my chest at each stroke, each caress. I wondered what it would have been like if it were my hands feeling him, exploring the immaculate bronze statue of his frame, controlling his delicious agony. I wondered what it would be like if he would touch me. I ached all over my body, longing to find out, longing to reach out to him and scream his name.

I found my own hand tracing a path down my body, the breasts which were barely developed despite my legal status as a full-grown woman, the stomach softened by enjoying too many French fries in the cafeteria and take-out eggrolls with my friends on Friday nights, finally the patch of hair which marked my womanhood. I slipped a curious finger in, grazing the hot button of flesh that I had only read about in magazines, but was never fully aware of until now.

During the day, both of us continued our separated lives, keeping to ourselves, occasionally going out with friends. But at night, I continued watching him, relishing the feeling of being in control of things for a change. The following nights continued in the same way, watching him and finding my own release in my own private way. My favorite part of the evening was watching his face contorting in pain and pleasure at the same time, his eyes closed, watching him writhing, toes curling right before the final release. Depending on how I timed it, I could climax at about the same time he did. Even if he was ignorant of our mutual gratification, for all I cared, the barriers which had previously separated us no longer existed.

One night the impossible happened. It was the Saturday night before we were to go back to school. Things were going as they usually did, with his slow lingering before climax, but what was different about this time was his eyes opening upon the moment of release, locking onto my own in the expansive darkness. He hastily jumped up from the bed, still shining with sweat, with fear and panic in his eyes, and closed his curtains. I was shocked at the sudden barrier. It was the first time I had ever seen the curtains drawn.

A wave of terror washed over me. Was he going to call the police? I was sure that he hated me now. All I had ever wanted to do was tell him how beautiful and wonderful he was, and now I would never get a chance. I started sobbing to myself when the phone rang. Fortunately, there was a phone in my room so I could get to it before my parents could wake up.

"Hello?" I choked, my voice barely recognizable.

There was heavy breathing on the other line, and I was about to hang up when I heard Connor's voice, "Please come over."

"I--" I could barely make a syllable come out anymore.

"Please..." click. Dial tone.

Now I was terrified. Was this a trick? Did he want to hurt me for invading his privacy? He didn't sound all that angry, desperate, but not angry. So, I figured that I didn't really have all that much to lose, so I went next door wearing nothing but my bathrobe and a pair of flip-flops.

I had never been so scared in my entire life as I was when I rang his doorbell. Time froze as he opened the door, a faint creaking piercing the night's silence. He was standing in his boxer shorts. I was overwhelmed by the newly formed proximity between us.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said softly.

"I almost didn't," I shivered as the cool night air blew through my robe.

"Please come in," he closed the door and gestured past the living room, "My room's just down that hall and to the right."

It felt so strange to be in his room. I had seen it all so many times in my nightly observations: the posters of various rock bands and occasional bits of clutter, but to actually be sitting on his bed was almost too much for me to take. The bed was softer than I had imagined, perhaps even more comfortable than my own.

"So, why did you call me?" I asked, breaking the intense silence.

"How long have you been watching me?" his question answered my own question better than any other reply he could have thought of. I knew I had no right to be asking him questions, but I felt so awkward sitting there with his obsidian-dark eyes piercing through me.

"I don't know, since about junior year...if you mean watching you from my window..." I trailed off, breaking eye contact.

"Why were you watching me?" I could still feel his eyes on me as he continued his interrogation, so I felt compelled to look at him once more.

"Well...because any other girl would have," I explained, giving the first answer that came to my head.

It wasn't the right answer, at least not to him, as he looked down sadly "Any other girl?"

"Well, it's just that you're so beautiful," I felt my nerve and purpose returning to me, "I've never known anybody as wonderful as you, yet I don't even know you...it's just that I could never say it because you were so inaccessible, always around your friends or on the arm of another girl."

"Oh..." he sighed. "When you said 'any other girl,' I was afraid that you were like all the other girls. Any time I'm with another girl, they don't know how to react to me, especially when I talk to them the way I do."

"What do you mean 'when you talk to them the way you do'?" I asked.

"It's just that they don't see me," he said, fumbling for words to explain himself, "It's just that they want to be seen with Connor, the friendly jock everybody loves. When I try to explain to them who I am..."

"But who are you?" I asked when I realized that he could no longer explain himself.

"In all truth, I don't even know anymore," a tear rolled down his cheek and landed on the floor.

I reached towards him, and whispered in his ear, "Connor, I don't think that anybody really knows who they are, not now at least. Anybody who tells you that they do know is probably lying to you."

"Really?" he looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"Yes, really," I smiled and placed a hand on his cool shoulder.

"Even you?" he asked skeptically.

"Of all people, especially me," I laughed and asked him, "Why would you think that me, as clumsy and as crazy as I am, have everything together?"

"I don't know, it's just that you've already picked out your college and major," he explained.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Yeah, but even before that, when I'd see you with your friends, you'd always look like you knew what you were doing. You looked like you were above all of the stupidity around you, the pettiness of high school."

"I'm hardly above it."

"Yes, but that's what it looked like to me."

"When did you see me with my friends?"

"At a basketball game. You know, you're not the only one who watches others."

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Ever since middle school."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he scratched his head, slightly messing up his perfect jet-black hair, "My parents were so weird about moving here. They didn't want me associating with too many people since we weren't sure that we were even going to stay. When we did, everything else fell in place, but I don't ever remember talking to you. All I know is that the first day I saw you standing in your window, I wanted to meet you."

"How come you never talked to me at school?"

"Once again, it's just stupid high school stuff. I thought you'd think I was weird to talk to you since we don't hang around the same people."

"That's crazy Connor, I would have talked to you. I wanted nothing more than to talk to you."

"Well, why didn't you?"

"Stupid high school stuff..."

We laughed it off for awhile. When I opened my eyes again, it was as if we were in middle school again. Connor, the new boy in town, adjusting to his new surroundings. Me, scared and awkward at twelve as I was now. The next thing I knew, we were seniors in high school again, more than ready to grow up and get out of our small town trap. He t0uched my face with one hand and running the other hand through my hair. Connor's eyes penetrated mine, causing my spine to freeze like ice. I was more still than I had ever been in my life. When his lips touched mine, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

He drew back from the kiss, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"It's all right," I said, "I just didn't know how to respond."

I took the next move after he couldn't find anything to say to me. I leaned towards him, touching his arm gently, and kissed him. He deepened the kiss, the heat growing stronger between us. Once again, he pulled back from the kiss.

"What's wrong?" I asked, wanting him to return to me.

"Nothing," he said, "It's just that since you've been watching me all this time, I think it's only fair that I should get to watch you..."

"In my room?"

"No, don't be silly, right here, on my bed" he laughed, his eyes crinkling in the most adorable way.

After he stopped laughing, I looked into his eyes again. There was something more demanding, more forceful about him than I had ever seen. Not even in the privacy of his room had I seen this in Connor before. I felt entranced by him, almost powerless against his will, but even more willing to surrender to my own.

"All right..."

I licked my lips and slowly untied the string holding my bathrobe closed. I felt self-conscious and was about to close it again when his steely grip held me fast.

"No, please don't. If you're half as beautiful as I've imagined, you've got nothing to hide."

"Imagined? You think about me?" I yelped when I felt my cold, nervous hands on my skin. It was almost alien how my fingers felt inside me when I was in front of someone else.

"Of course. Who do you think I'm thinking about when I'm in my room? Whose name do you think I whisper right before I come?" he whispered with his lips brushing against the outer edges of my ear.

"God Connor...Why do you have to make this so..." I could barely get any words out as I felt his hand brushing against my thigh.

"Easy? If you want, I'll help you, but from the look of it, you know what you're doing," he nibbled on my earlobe, causing me to moan softly.

Connor slipped the robe off of my shoulders, down my back. The whisper of the fabric made me shiver more than the newfound coldness. He kissed me, pressing his body against mine. I felt his need straining in the depths of his boxers, pushing against my abdomen. I reached for him, but he placed my hand back where it was.

"No, not yet. I want to watch you first." he took a chair and sat in front of the window.

I opened my eyes and looked at him again. I felt the heat rising within me again as my climax started to build. Our eyes remained locked perfectly. I could sense how bad he wanted to touch himself, but for some reason, he restrained his hands. All he could do was watch me surrender to my own pleasure.

After I was finished, he returned to me on the bed. We kissed again, a bit more forcefully this time. I bit his lower lip playfully.

"Your turn," I slid a hand into his boxers and felt the smoothness of his length.

"Not yet..." he grinned wickedly and took hold of my wrists.

Connor took a necktie off of the floor and bound my wrists together. He moved me on the bed so he could tie me to the headboard of his bed.

"Connor! What are you doing?" I looked down at him in awe.

"You'll see..." he spread my legs apart with his knees.

I soon saw what he was up to. I was more than ready to go after my first climax. He wanted to be sure that he would provide me with the next one. Connor started off by kissing me at first, my lips, down my neck, each one of my breasts, and then all the way down. I felt his warm, almost rough tongue probe the hot, wet darkness within me. It slid deftly back and forth and side to side, causing me to convulse violently. I wrapped my legs around his head, trying not to hurt him in my involuntary throes. He steadied himself, never breaking eye contact with me. I felt hot all over. I wanted to touch him, but my hands were bound.

My blood boiled as the climax built again. This time, unlike whenever I would do it myself with my hands, the wave was unrelenting. It didn't stop until Connor wanted it to be over. I soon found myself screaming his name, over and over again. At one point in time, I would have been afraid of the whole neighborhood hearing, but now I didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. Connor and I were the only two people in the universe.

I shook awhile longer as beads of sweat rolled down my face. "Connor...that was amazing."

"I'm glad. I was saving all of that for you." he untied my hands.

"Your turn?" I looked at him in anticipation.

He nodded, touching my face and kissing me. I had never tasted myself before, but on his lips, it was wonderful.

His boxers dropped to the floor quickly. I pushed him onto the bed and tied his hands. I had never given a blow-job before, but I had read enough magazines to get a rough idea as to go about doing it. I stalled by just staring at the perfection of his body, each line and curve in harmony with each other, each feature in complete, almost mathematical balance with the next. When I finally touched him, I started off by gently raking my nails against his inner thigh. He laughed softly. I guess he was ticklish. Then I moved in for the kill. I planted kisses up and down the length of his erection. Then I licked it up and down, paying special attention to the head since I had heard so much about how sensitive it was. From watching him, I knew how he liked to go about things. So, I ran my hands up and down, slowly at first, as I took the head in my mouth. I gradually increased speed with my hands as I started swirling my tongue around. I slowed down again suddenly, knowing that he was almost there. I kept tormenting him under my control, stopping when he was right on the edge.

"Please...please..." he begged, his eyes pleading with me for release from his torment.

"Not yet," I mumbled with him still inside of my mouth, continuing to stroke him.

The vibration from that alone was enough to send him over the edge. I felt the hot rush in my mouth, filling me up inside. It wasn't as bad as I had heard. He moaned loudly in pleasure, thrusting deeper, causing his hot seed to rush down my throat.

When I was sure he was finished, I made my way on top of him and kissed him. I pulled back as he tried to deepen the kiss. I used the same technique on him as I had before. Connor was soon at his breaking point. He could take no more of my subtle teasing. He broke free of the bonds I had made for him and pinned me to the bed.

"Connor, you're hurting me!" I gasped.

"I'm sorry, it's just that you make me so crazy..." he moaned softly and started nibbling at my ear again.

"Connor...please..." I sighed, arching my body against his.

"What do you want?" he gazed at me intently.

"Connor, I want you to fuck me." At this point, it was beyond making love. I wanted him. He wanted me. Nothing could be simpler.

He smiled, "I was hoping you'd say that."

He got up and walked to one of his drawers. He fumbled with a condom once he got back onto the bed.

"Let me help you with that..." I gently pulled it down, making sure there was room at the tip.

Connor maneuvered himself over me. From the look of it, he was preparing himself for routine pushups, but tonight had gone far beyond routine. Our hands and mouths explored what had once been unknown territory, now familiar to our travelling senses.

"Are you ready?" he asked, brushing his nose against mine.

"As I'll ever be..."

Connor separated my legs again with his knees and pushed his way in. The full length and width of his cock took me by complete surprise. I was more than certain at first glance that there was no way he would be able to fit it inside me. Not only did it actually go in, it seemed to fit perfectly. I had never had sex before, so I knew that the first time would hurt, but it was a good sort of pain.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No."

Connor quickly caught on to my technique of varied speeds. Sometimes he would thrust hard and fast in rapid succession. Other times, he wouldn't thrust at all and would just hold me close, no space between us so we could enjoy complete contact. His flesh felt cool, yet the blood beneath boiled as much as mine did. Connor and I were bound by this new sensation of fire burning beneath silken-polished bronze.

I felt my inner walls tightening around him as he thrust faster and harder. I wrapped my legs around his waist so I could take him in as far as possible. In that moment, we were the same, collapsing and completely melting into each other, the fire which had burned so ardently now completely spent, years of mundane expectation dissolved away.

Connor and I spent the rest of that night in each other's arms. Neither of us could sleep from the sheer excitement of it all. Or maybe it was because we were afraid of waking up and finding that it all had just been a dream. As the sun rose, we both knew I had to go. Connor loaned me a t-shirt and a pair of his boxers to get me back to my house.

"So, I guess this is it?" I asked hesitantly, opening his front door.

"No, this is only the beginning." he kissed me softly and held me close.

Needless to say, I started sleeping with my windows open. Sometimes he paid me late-night visits. However, neither of us breathed a word of our encounters to anybody. We never even spoke at school. You know, stupid high school stuff.