I’ll tell you right off, his name is Alex. Alex Salazar. Everyone thinks he’s Latino, you know, Mexican or Puerto Rican or whatever, but he’s not, no, despite that last name and the way he looks, he’s not. He’ll let you know promptly that he’s Hawaiian, Filipino, Irish, and half Italian. The Hispanic surname is a Filipino vestige. "I’m a mutt," he told me once, and he is, sure, a gorgeous mutt. OK, not gorgeous, not some knockout beauty, but he’s cute, wow, that amber skin, that glossy black hair, those sultry almond eyes.

He knows he’s cute, too, believe me, with that big flirty grin of his. Whenever he needs money, whenever he wants a new game for his PlayStation, he gives me that grin—strong white teeth cheerfully clenched, dark eyebrows arched way up, round cheeks dimpled—the face of some Polynesian cherub. Rascally. Irresistible.

He was grinning just like that when he told me about his plan to kill some people at his school, so nonchalant about it, weird, I thought he must be fooling around. "Like Columbine," he said. "Or that kid in California." I told him not to joke about something so terrible, it’s not funny. But he wasn’t joking. He had access to a gun, his father’s gun, any time he wanted to use it, to bring his own personal doomsday. He said it was a 22-caliber, which meant nothing to me, I admit, hey, I wouldn’t know a 22-caliber from an Uzi.

Maybe I’m not making myself clear. I told you, just before, that Alex can be a flirty young rascal—and that’s true, around me he can. But at school he’s a different boy, you know how it is, he’s a small kid and the bullies pick on him, call him faggot, spic, nigger, everything you can imagine. They spit on him. They throw things at him. Why? Because he’s small and because he’s darker than most of the redneck bigots around here. Because he’s smart and gets good grades. Because he’s different, that’s all, just different, reason enough for hatred to find him.

He doesn’t complain all the time. He’s no crybaby. He’s always kept himself busy here with me, playing chess or reading books and comics, surfing the Web, e-mailing, roaming chat rooms, finding pornography. Usually hetero. Sometimes, just to be a giggly tease, he’ll find a piece of exceptionally graphic homoporn and show it to me. He figures I’ll enjoy it, I guess. Maybe he likes it, too. I’m never really sure.

Did I mention that he’s fourteen? Does that matter?

So beaten down and desperate at school, you’d never expect such a frisky joker here at home. Well, this isn’t his actual home, I know, he lives around the corner with his mom and dad and older twin sisters, a great family, a happy family. But he’s here so often, in and out practically every day, he even has his own cup, his own cereal in the cupboard, extra clothing, you name it. I can go into my bedroom right now and smell him—that coconutty shampoo and conditioner he uses, fragrant on the pillows, plus the muskier, earthier scent of his body on the sheets. Also that stale whiff of boysperm, something new these past few months. I mean, OK, Alex gets excited from all that Internet porn and whatever, he can’t help it, he needs to masturbate. The bed is his favorite place for doing it. And those wads of Kleenex he leaves in the wastebasket, whew, what a raunchy cathouse odor!

Sorry, but I’ve strayed off the point again. Such a shock, that day, when he mentioned the gun. Killing people. My friend Alex. How could I not have realized what he was enduring at school? But what could I have done, anyway, to solve the problem? How do you make the bullies go away?

I need to be honest here, come right out and admit it, when Alex told me about those bullies, those assholes tormenting him, spitting on him, I thought yeah, OK, go ahead and kill the scum. Blow their worthless brains out. Why not? Clean out the stinking gene pool. Oh, I know, it’s wrong, it’s impossible—but it’s also very easy to understand why the boy might feel the way he does, so furious, so crazy with hatred and rage. Very easy to understand.

I’ve never seen that gun. His father’s 22-caliber. I asked Alex, when I realized he was serious, what he envisioned doing with it, I mean specifically, in detail. "I’m not sure," he said, chewing his fingernails, a nervous habit he’s been trying to break. "It’s complicated."

"Those boys at Columbine killed themselves. Murder and then suicide. Remember?"

"That doesn’t sound very fun."

"So just the killing part? That’s your plan?"

"Definitely the killing part," he said.

Even then I was wondering, you know, why Alex would be telling me these startling things. Why not just get the gun and start shooting? Did he want me to stop him? Was that the whole point? Regardless, I made sure every day to keep asking him about school, what’s happening there, encouraging him to talk to his teachers, to his parents, all that stuff. I reminded him over and over that he’s brilliant, he’s funny, he’s handsome. He must get tired sometimes of my fussing and flattering. He’s taken advantage, as I’ve already admitted, by becoming more and more flirty and manipulative when he wants something, a new DVD, new shoes, whatever. But I don’t mind. Spoiling him is a game we play. He knows we’re doing it; I know we’re doing it; we enjoy it.

Anyway, this isn’t about me, what a nice guy I am, so sensitive, all that bullshit. It was Alex’s own idea to begin a special afterschool club, he didn’t even call it that at first, he just seemed to understand, with no one telling him, that a gathering of friendly and like-minded souls might be therapeutic. So he organized those afterschool get-togethers with a few of his friends, mostly classmates but also some neighborhood kids, girls and boys both, all of them nice enough. They did the usual stuff, playing endless video games and watching MTV, especially that Total Request Live show which was on every afternoon when they got here. Does it seem strange that they came to my house? It shouldn’t. Alex’s parents are my best friends; they approve of his being here with or without other kids. And those other families know me, too. I’m the reference guy they always see at the Sandburg Public Library. I live in a big old house on Lombard Street right between a Lutheran minister and the president of our local college. So what’s the problem? Why shouldn’t Alex and his friends come here?

I forgot to mention before, sorry, that Alex’s father has locked away that gun of his in a new place, a safe place. I didn’t need to tell him the whole story, what Alex had said, all that; he could see for himself that his son was moody and troubled, so many stories in the news about kids like that, not a good idea to leave guns out, accessible, these days.

It was Alex himself, you understand, who decided to start coming here practically every day—beginning when he was just eleven years old, an affable and outgoing little guy right from the start, always so mature, so independent, he decided we should be pals and that was that. His family had just moved in, we all became best friends soon enough, but it was Alex who first explored the neighborhood and found me (mowing the grass, I think), my good luck to be outside that day. He took over. He told me about his old home in Chicago, and about his one in San Diego before that. His father was a history professor moving from college to college, from city to city. An associate professor, really. He teaches now at Sandburg College, you might have guessed.

For a while, Alex decided to call me Uncle Mike. Now he’s older, he just calls me Mike, or even Mikey—you know, to be funny, but in an intimate and affectionate way. Sometimes I’ll return the joke and call him Allie and hug him and nuzzle him like a little boy. It makes him laugh.

What I mean is, I might have confused you, telling you how Alex looks at Internet porn and then uses my bedroom to masturbate. But this is something new. I didn’t have a computer here at my house until earlier this year. I have free and easy access to them at work; that was enough. But Alex kept nagging me about getting one here at home, so I relented and bought an iMac. It’s tangerine, Alex’s choice. First thing he did, he licked it to see if it tasted as good as it looked, typical Alex, very silly—also weirdly erotic, that streak of his saliva wet against the orange plastic.

So that’s when he started with the pornography, and the jerking off. Just a few months ago. He excused himself, that first time, and hurried from the room with a goofy grin, like someone who needed urgently to pee. But he went to the bedroom instead and closed the door and did what he needed to do. Just that simple. He didn’t have to explain what he was doing. All he said afterward, back in the living room, was, "You probably shouldn’t mention this to my mom and dad." I agreed, sort of laughing and not sure how to react. Of course I wouldn’t say a word to anyone—not that first time, not all those times since, something secret for us to share.

See, what I’m trying to explain, what might be confusing, is the whole gay issue. You know, Alex behaving that way with a gay man, being such a tease, using my house, my own bed, showing me queer porn and then rushing off to masturbate, doing it alone. It all sounds a little freaky. But it’s more complicated than that. We’ve never sat down and discussed sex or sexuality, not really, that’s my fault, maybe we should have, maybe we will. But why? And when? We’ve always been good friends, comfortable together, some dirty joking around, some horseplay, he’s slept here countless times, all those things—but I’ve never made some grand announcement of gayness. I’m not even really gay, for that matter. Stupid word, stupid label. What does "gay" mean these days? To march in parades and pretend that sexual desire begins at eighteen? I’m not gay. I’m queer, I’m a faggot, I love Alex, I’m excited by him—but I’m not gay. I don’t even like parades.

Alex certainly understands most of this, or all of this, without having it explained. He knows I like boys. But he’s never really been my lover in that way. No big sexy romance between us. Yeah, as I said, we’ve slept together plenty of times, lots of cuddling and caressing, especially when he was younger, when his sleepovers were more common. But that’s all, really nothing else.

OK, to be totally honest, there’ve been times when we’ve done more. Like once, back when Alex was staying here overnight for only the second or third time, he disappeared upstairs for a few minutes, no big deal, then yelled, "Hey, Uncle Mike, I got a surprise for you!" and came back down the steps stark naked, white underpants around his ankles, that was part of the joke, funny little waddling boy. Little honey-skinned boy. I laughed with him and let him sit on my lap, the TV was on, a syndicated rerun of Harry and the Hendersons (the series, not the movie), Alex watching it, more like half watching it, I was smelling his hair, he wasn’t using the coconut shampoo and conditioner yet but that oil-rich black hair of his always smelled wonderful to me, and I was feeling his bare thighs, he’d kicked off the underpants from around his feet by then and was lolling comfortably and had his legs spread a little, no hair anywhere of course, still just eleven years old, his mouth was slightly opened, I can remember the sound of his open-mouthed breathing, as if he’d been running or playing too hard, his penis up and stiff by this time, a leftward curvature to it, just a small puppydick, I kept feeling around it, petting his thighs and his belly so that my hand kept grazing his erection and gently nudging it without ever actually taking it and holding it. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Finally he glanced at me and smiled and put on his underwear and asked if we could play chess. So we played chess.

You’re reading this and thinking I should have done more (coward!) or maybe thinking I did too much (pervert!), but I never seem to know the right approach, whether to be more assertive, more adventurous, to assume what the boy wants, or to do nothing, be safe, discourage the boy’s mischief. I don’t know. So I bumble along and end up nowhere. That night with Alex, for example. We played chess, we had fun, we always have fun—but several weeks passed before I so much as glimpsed him naked again, running down the hallway after one of his showers. Then more weeks, more months, nothing, we both slept in our underwear whenever he stayed here overnight, slowly that started changing, sometimes we slept nude, there was lots of cuddling and caressing, yes, I’ve already told you, but sex never happened, not real sex, maybe we came close, I’d do something provocative like tickling between his legs or squeezing his butt, then finally one night I gave him a naked massage and saw his erection again, he was twelve by then and it was bigger, he even had some fuzzy pubic hair, he pretended to be asleep so I sucked him for a while, I’m admitting it, I sucked his dick when he was twelve, nothing came out, no orgasm or ejaculation, but I figured wow, OK, next time will be even better, we’ll do this again, we can keep sleeping nude from now on and I can give him massages every night, it’ll be great, the massages will get him hard, he’ll want more blowjobs for sure, real blowjobs with real orgasms, real semen. But then suddenly he stopped sleeping over. Terrifying, those weeks and weeks of his strange, standoffish behavior. I started thinking in terms of police, prison, suicide. Whenever I tried cautiously to discuss the situation, Alex shrugged it off with a too-bright, too-intense smile, there’s no problem, I’m just busy, Mike, with school and stuff. This lasted maybe two months, I can’t remember exactly, and then Alex started staying over again as if nothing unusual had happened. But he always kept his underwear on after that, or a pair of shorts, didn’t want any more massages, often slept on the couch downstairs in front of the TV. We were OK, still good friends, I was able to relax again, and yet, hard to explain, that renewed modesty of his felt wary and vigilant, something not to be violated. Hugging was no problem, normal touching and horseplay were fine, but otherwise I was careful to keep my hands off, no fooling around. Alex was the boss. He still is.

That’s how things remained for the next year and a half, Alex was thirteen, in eighth grade at George Washington Junior High, this boy like my own son, no hanky-panky, his cereal in the cupboard, suddenly he’s telling me his plan to shoot and kill people at his school. And suddenly he’s a porn junkie masturbating in my bedroom. What happened? You can understand why these past few months have been confusing, difficult to explain. I wonder more and more if that whole thing with the gun, all that talk about Columbine, was nothing but a ploy for attention. But maybe not. Those bullies at his school were definitely real, I’ve heard the same stories from his friends, hard to believe the abusive shit that goes on. When you think about it, there might even be some connection between Alex’s interest in the gun and his interest in the pornography, not one causing the other, no, not like that, I mean in a more general way, psychologically, hormonally, all the radical changes of adolescence, the flood of testosterone, sex, guns, jerking off, violence, all tangled up and crazy and combustible inside of him. Even the way he likes to be pampered and spoiled now, the way he flirts and manipulates—this is a boy who’s testing his new powers while still clinging nervously to childish habits. He’s experimenting with himself, with me, playing with our relationship, examining it, growing up, changing, surprising both of us every day.

He started his afterschool club at this same time, of course, just like Alex to do that, taking the initiative, taking charge, organizing. The alliance of those kids, both here and at the school itself, had a hugely positive effect, strength in numbers, walking the hallways together whenever possible, not a perfect system, gym class always a problem for Alex and some of the other, smaller boys. But manageable. Tolerable. Not so bad as before, according to Alex himself. No more talk about guns and Columbine and massacres.

Now it’s summer, Alex turned fourteen in May, his afterschool club has largely disbanded, both because of vacation and because most of the kids are moving on to high school in the fall, a different environment, everything new, no telling what the situation will be when they get there. The bullying, who knows, might be even worse, which is why Alex says that the club is "in hiatus," to use his own expression, a mutual protection and support group waiting to be revived should the need arise. In the meantime, he continues to see two of the kids who live around this part of town, both of them are boys, maybe that’s a happy coincidence or maybe Alex planned it that way from the beginning. One of them is named Ray, he’s a black boy who’s very mixed looking, he must have a white grandparent or two, prettiest round face you’ve ever seen, prettiest dark eyes with extravagant lashes, ridiculous dimples, a gentle kid, soft-spoken, still slightly pudgy with baby fat that he’ll undoubtedly lose in another year or two, right now it’s sort of cute, that pudgy teddy-bear butt of his. The other boy’s name is Jeff, he’s a white kid and he’s not as friendly or likeable as the others from that afterschool club, his hair is an ordinary brown but he dyes it silvery blond and wears it spiked, also wears a lot of black, has the nail on each of his thumbs painted red.

What they have in common, all the kids from Alex’s club, is being bright and being outside the pack, for some reason unpopular, whether because of race or appearance or attitude or some combination thereof. Have I made it clear that they’re not all classmates? Some of them were eighth-graders now moving on to high school, others were seventh-graders, one was already a freshman in high school who lived on our block but has since moved away. They’ve always used my house for their get-togethers because both of Alex’s parents work until after five o’clock and his twin sisters are college students usually away from home—so the kids come here instead, to the house with an adult who can supervise. Why not to someone else’s house? Because Alex is their ringleader, they gather around his flame, and this is Alex’s second home.

But why do I keep trying to justify myself? It’s pathetic, I’m always being skittish and defensive, you can’t imagine what’s been happening here this summer. More surprises from Alex, I probably shouldn’t even write about these things, dangerous, a little scary—but scary only for me, not for Alex, he seems better, happier, as I’ve told you, he’s not thinking about guns these days or shooting up his school, he’s replaced those dark obsessions with other interests maybe even more incendiary, let’s be truthful, this society looks more kindly and forgivingly on murder than it does on certain types of sex.

Alex, you see, has been doing a lot of experimenting this summer, no other way to describe it, almost as if he’s been trying his best to shock me this whole year, first with the gun bullshit and then with the pornography and the jerking off, using my own bedroom, now with this new monkey business he’s started, I’ll try to give you some idea. He told me, just a small example, frisky look in his eyes, those dark Asiatic eyes, "I don’t think guys have to be gay to fuck around together." Another time he said, "I’ve never seen another guy’s boner. I mean in person, a real one, not just a picture." OK, well, what could I say? I smiled and nodded and made some jokey response, not wanting to discourage him, that’s for sure, I’m not going to lie about it, Alex is a lovely boy, he’s exciting, I wondered what game he might be playing. But we didn’t tear off our clothes and have sex, nothing so dramatic, I’m always afraid of some fatal miscalculation even with a friend like Alex, he’s only fourteen, I can never do anything unless he starts it himself, his initiative, then yeah, anything can happen, everything can change.

There’s much more he’s been up to, what I mean about experimenting, maybe I’m reluctant to describe all of it. He’s changing in so many ways, big changes and little changes, like the crewcut he has this summer, his black hair shorter than I’ve ever seen it, very brushy on top, makes his head look sort of square, funny but cute, also those pukka shells he wears, a white pukka shell necklace always worn with an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, that’s his style now, Alex the stud, it’s a sexy look, those little white shells against his bare, brown chest. He also has a small gold hoop earring that he started wearing a few months ago, around Easter. He told me, just before he got it, about the protocol for earrings, about the right ear being for gays, the left ear for straights. He asked me, with an eyebrow-arched quizzical expression, "So, Mikey, which ear should I get pierced?" I told him that he needed to decide for himself. He decided on the left. At the time, it seemed like a statement meant for me, none too subtle either, no more mystery about Alex Salazar’s sexuality, good red-blooded hetero boy.

But maybe I was wrong. Alex has a key to my house, he can let himself in and out, and this summer he’s been busy here while I’m at work, busy with Ray and Jeff. I told you about the Internet porn and I told you that Alex uses my bedroom to jerk off—but he’s also doing it now with the other boys, first time was a surprise, one evening he and Jeff got all goofy and hyper looking at girlie sex sites and went together into my bedroom upstairs, told me I had to stay down in the living room, so bold about it, laughing, they were gone about twenty or thirty minutes, big smug grins on both their faces when they came back, as if they’d just managed a very clever trick at my expense. "Too much secrecy," I remember saying, not real happy about that feeling of being mocked, old dumb Mike, real funny. "It’s my house, guys, don’t forget." I couldn’t say anything more direct, especially with Jeff there, and the boys seemed hardly to hear or notice, but later when they were leaving, Jeff already outside, Alex hung back and said he was sorry, no need to elaborate, just said he was sorry and then gave me a nice hug and a kiss. That’s not unusual for him, by the way. He’s always been an affectionate kid, even now that he’s older, never shy or uncomfortable about kissing and hugging me hello and goodbye.

Since that day, well, Alex has been behaving like my accomplice—that’s probably a bad word, let’s say my partner—seeing what he can do to be daring and outlandish and shocking for my benefit, my entertainment. Most surprising is how readily Jeff and Ray go along with whatever Alex wants, although it makes a kind of sense when you think about it, he’s the dominant personality among them, Ray especially seems to idolize him, a year younger than Alex, a crucial difference at that precarious adolescent stage. Ray is one of those seventh-graders I mentioned who’s moving on to eighth grade in the fall while Alex and Jeff begin high school. Whatever the older boys do or suggest, he plays along with a big cheerful smile, just happy to be one of the gang.

Oh, I forgot: The day after Alex and Jeff had their private session in my bedroom, I said to Alex, "Well, at least now you’ve seen another guy’s boner."

He said, "Why? Whaddaya mean?"

I said, "Because you guys were beating off together, come on, I’m not totally stupid."

He put his head down and grinned and said, "Yeah, but Mike, I mean we didn’t really look."

So that confused me all over again. Horny but hetero, that seemed to describe Alex’s profile, he’d said himself that guys can "fuck around together" without having to be gay. But then the other stuff started happening, definitely not hetero stuff. Alex does this thing with Ray, they put a hand into the back pocket of each other’s pants whenever they’re walking around the house—from room to room, up and down the stairs, you get the picture—Alex did it like a joke to Ray the first time or two but Ray obviously didn’t object, it made him laugh to feel Alex’s hand unexpectedly in his back pocket, he started reciprocating soon enough, like a secret handshake between them only naughtier, commonly now they bypass the pockets altogether and stick a hand directly into the back of each other’s pants. They do this even when I’m around, part of the fun for Alex to let me watch these games of his. Ray just follows Alex’s lead, amazing what boys will do together when one of them is a free-spirited instigator and nobody interferes to stop them, amazing how quickly all of their inhibitions evaporate, how quickly they choose to forget everything they’ve been taught to hate and to fear by parents, by teachers, by McGruff the fuckin’ Crime Dog. Alex and his kind are dangerous. They have a power for subversion. Sometimes they end up at school with guns and bombs. Sometimes they end up in another boy’s pants.

I came home from work one day to find all three of them, Alex and Ray and Jeff, playing strip poker. Alex knew when I’d be home, so did the other boys, they had to realize I’d catch them, Alex and Jeff in their underpants and socks, Ray in just his white socks and nothing else, baby-smooth brown body barely pubescent, a shock to see him sitting there naked in my living room, all of them on the floor, cards strewn among them, cans of pop, a bag of potato chips, everything normal except for their discarded clothing. "Oh shit, oh shit," they started laughing, scurrying, grabbing for shirts and pants. I said no, it’s OK, don’t break up the party because of me. But they’d had enough for that particular afternoon, I guess, Ray already pulling on his underwear, facing away from me, that bare ass soft with baby fat, I could see the underside of his hairless scrotum when he leaned forward.

Maybe it seems strange to you, but Alex and I never really discuss these episodes afterwards, he’s busy, I’m busy, these things happen, next day we’re involved with something else. Thursday he’s playing strip poker, Friday he’s making bread in my kitchen (he’s a good cook and baker), Saturday he’s with his family, Sunday he’s at it again with one or both of the other boys. Usually with Ray. Like a love affair between those two. They give massages to each other now, I was there when Alex first thought of it, these are like games they play more than anything romantic or passionate, I was sort of kidding about their love affair but still it’s fascinating to watch them. Alex makes sure I get to see mostly everything that happens with him and Ray and Jeff, no telling what goes on when I’m not here but I think Alex saves the good stuff for me, and not just to be generous, no, my presence is beneficial for Alex as much as for myself, it makes everything feel somehow supervised and validated and therefore OK, not like sneaking around and hiding and doing creepy homo stuff in private, furtively, this way it’s overt, whatever they decide to do is in plain sight like any other game or activity, Alex is masterful at making it all seem relaxed and nonchalant and simple, no major deal, see, even Mike the grown-up is here and knows what we’re doing and doesn’t care so, hey, it must be all right, nothing queer about it, nothing wrong.

So one evening we were watching an X-Files rerun and Alex said that his neck was sore, he slept on it funny last night, he told Ray that they should give each other back rubs, he was already taking off his Hawaiian shirt and Ray joined right in and pulled off his own shirt, a red Chicago Bulls tanktop, both of them in those baggy shorts they always wear, they sat on the floor and exchanged cautious shoulder rubs. Next time they each stretched out for a full back rub. Time after that they decided to take off their shorts, hot day, those shorts so heavy and uncomfortable, grotesque things, better without them, Alex wearing his usual white Hanes briefs, Ray in blue checkered boxers, Jeff also here that day, it had to be a Saturday or a Sunday because I was home and not at work, Jeff also wearing white briefs and obviously stoned, he always smells of marijuana and incense, he kept giggling the whole time Alex was rubbing his back and his legs, they were giving each other full massages by then. He’s a thin kid, I’m talking about Jeff, pale and bony with that spiky platinum hair like some scrawny vampire boy, he says he has a girlfriend now and that’s why he’s not around as often as before, but girlfriends quickly become irrelevant whenever boys get together and Jeff proved it, I think everybody was surprised when he stood up after his massage and didn’t even try to hide his erection, being stoned probably played some part, he even pulled down the front of his underpants to show it to us. If Alex was still waiting to see a real boner, he finally got to see a wicked one, we all did.

Jeff wandered to the computer after that and spent a while looking at pornography, I thought for sure he’d want to masturbate, but he kept getting dopier and sleepier and gradually lost interest, ended up eating Hostess cupcakes and watching music videos, Alex and Ray were also finished by that time in front of the TV, one of those days that promises so much and then just fizzles out like a soggy firecracker. But Alex and Ray were back at it a few days later, Jeff’s lewd example hadn’t been forgotten, he’d set a new standard for what was allowed, what was permitted, getting a boner had now become part of the joke. When Alex and Ray were here that next time I knew what was likely to happen, both of them sweaty and excited after several hours at the annual July Fest downtown, a big carnival with rides and a funhouse and a go-cart track, they were in the ideal mood for more foolishness and mischief and eagerly started another game of strip poker at the kitchen counter, that’s where we eat breakfast when Alex stays over, a granite-topped counter with high cushioned stools and a small television at one end, we all had drinks with plenty of ice, it felt like a little party. Ray invited me to play with them, Alex didn’t object, so I said OK, I’ll play a few hands but not all the way, I’m too shy, that made the boys laugh, nothing to worry about for me however once we began playing, Alex is good at poker but obviously wasn’t trying to win and Ray never had a chance, no skill at the game whatsoever, down to nothing but his white socks again after only twenty minutes. I said to him, "Ray, buddy, you’re supposed to take off your socks first, aren’t you?"

"Oh yeah," he said, looking at me with that huge cheerful smile of his, that happy-go-lucky smile forever dimpling his slightly pudgy cheeks. Alex has dimples too, but not like those. Ray didn’t appear embarrassed to be sitting there naked, this was the second time I’d seen him that way, although this time I couldn’t see all of him because of his position across the counter from me, he was hidden below the waist. (I couldn’t actually see his stockinged feet either, you’re right—but I was keeping track of his pieces of clothing as they came off, believe me.) Alex got up as we all were talking, he was still wearing his denim shorts, I remember noticing the handsome broadness of his bare young back and shoulders as he walked to the refrigerator for more ice to put into his glass of lemonade. Ray, just then, put his blue checkered boxer shorts (he must own several pairs of them) onto his head and sat there wearing them like a crazy hat. Alex turned and saw him and laughed. I was shuffling the cards in preparation for the next hand of our poker game. Alex came back to the counter and set down his glass, his hands were still wet from the ice, he had a chunk of it in his mouth and was sucking it like a piece of hard candy, I expected him to sit back down but he stayed behind Ray instead and put both of his icy hands onto the younger boy’s shoulders, of course Ray flinched away from the sudden shocking coldness but then laughed and said it felt good, he said refreshing, it feels refreshing. Alex nodded, he took the chunk of ice from his mouth and held it delicately with his fingertips and ran it up and down Ray’s spine, around Ray’s neck, the younger boy ticklish and giggly from the delicious strangeness of it. Alex put the mostly melted cube of ice back into his own mouth and continued massaging Ray’s shoulders. I was still shuffling the cards. Ray looked at me from across the counter and said, "Remember last time? With Jeff? Now it’s my turn."

"For what?"

"You know," he said. He’s brown-skinned but he was blushing anyway. Alex told him, "Stand up, dude, Mike can’t see." Ray mumbled a quick "oh yeah" and stood balancing on the low rung of his stool, both hands on the edge of the counter to steady himself, the whole front of his body now displayed for me to see, his erection just what you’d expect, not very big, almost no hair, chubby little balls. I made some lame crack like, "This party is getting exciting," glancing at Alex, who said, "Yeah, this is a new highlight." All three of us laughed. I asked Alex, "So you’ve never seen this before?" He said no, no way, then repeated, "This is a new highlight for me." Ray laughed again, those blue boxers still on his head.

Terrible timing, but I had to leave the kitchen at that precise moment, my bladder was full from two glasses of lemonade and I needed to piss, no alternative. I was back as rapidly as I could manage but Alex had worked even faster, all his clothes off in just that minute or two, not a thing on him except the string of white pukka shells at his neck and the tiny gold hoop in his left ear. Yes, he was standing there with his cock up, a full erection. It seems impossible, but this was the first time I’d seen him naked since he was a twelve-year-old, such an eternity, two years since I’d seen his entire bare body with penis soft, with penis erect. Now, so generously, he was sharing all of it, showing me everything. His denim shorts and underpants and socks were bunched and piled on the stool next to Ray, who had also taken off his socks, two completely naked boys now in my kitchen, both of them with hard-ons, Alex was still massaging Ray’s back and shoulders, they both looked in my direction with the same type of sheepish yet excited grins, waiting to see what I might say or do. So I told them not to worry, it’s OK, relax. Alex grinned more easily and said, "Both of us, Mike. We’ve got boners!"

"Yeah, I happened to notice."

"It’s just for fun," Alex added, he still sounded nervous, talking too fast, he had to be very aware of my eyes on him, my hunger, two long years since I’d seen his body that way, he’s still a small boy, short, a flyweight, but he’s ripely adolescent now and looks every bit a fourteen-year-old between the legs with plenty of dark hair and plump balls and that big boner—well, not a whopper, nothing above average, but it looked big to me, it looked big and red and startling between Alex’s legs as he stood there a few feet away. And of course his ass, his beautiful lean ass which he always keeps covered and hidden beneath those baggy pants he wears—there it was, revealed, bare, perfect.

Something had to happen but none of us, certainly not me, knew how to orchestrate a finale. Even Alex was at a loss, things had probably gone further than he’d expected, naked in my kitchen with another boy just as naked and just as uncomfortably aroused as he was, oh well, they needed someone’s help so I said to Alex, "You can take Ray upstairs. If you want," making a quick jack-off gesture when he glanced at me, Ray still turned away, not looking. "You know, like you did with Jeff. In the bedroom."

"You wouldn’t be mad?"

"No, honestly, I wouldn’t be mad at all."
"Cool, Mikey, thanks," Alex said, then he took Ray by the elbow and Ray smiled and together they hustled from the kitchen to get upstairs as fast as they could, I wondered if Ray even knew for sure why they were going up there—until Alex told him, or showed him, or whatever happened once they closed themselves into my bedroom. Did Ray, here in the kitchen with the boxer shorts on his head and even on his way upstairs, still think that he and Alex were just horsing around? Just pretending and acting silly? Was he amazed when he and his best friend ended up actually masturbating together up there on my bed?

That’s not quite the end of what happened here that day. After the boys had finished and gone home—funny how subdued they were, a little embarrassed, I’d say, following their trip to the bedroom, a little self-conscious and quiet—after that, a few hours later, Alex came back by himself and watched some TV, we played a game of chess, he made root beer floats for both of us and then he asked me was it OK for him to spend the night. He gave me one of his flirty, exaggerated grins with clenched teeth and upraised eyebrows as if I might need coaxing or convincing, so ridiculous, unnecessary, of course I said yes, you know you’re always welcome. Nothing very unusual so far, but when it came time to say good night, probably about one in the morning, Alex didn’t stay downstairs on the couch and he didn’t make sure to keep his underwear on or a pair of shorts, no, not this time—this time he finished using the toilet as I went back and forth turning out lights, he came into my room, he started chatting about something he’d seen or done at the carnival earlier that day, maybe one of the rides, he stripped to his white briefs and then he took those off too, there he was naked again for the second time in eight hours, and there he was with another erection, he looked at it and made a fretful "uh oh" face as if the hard thing might be ticking and dangerous, ready to explode.

He joined me in my bed, we both were naked, he allowed me to hold him and hug him as we rested atop the sheets, the room comfortably air-conditioned, my bedside radio set to a classical station playing something by Brahms, a violin concerto, I asked Alex if Ray had been as much fun as Jeff that other time and he made a quiet chuckling noise and admitted that nothing had happened that other time with Jeff. They’d been pulling a prank just to tease me, nothing had happened when they went upstairs, just a practical joke. "But you let me go on believing it all these weeks," I said, laughing at him, laughing at myself. "You dirty dog. So was today just another prank? With Ray?" Alex said no, jeez, you were watching, you saw us.

Well, I guess we talked for a few more seconds, I was tickling him as a sort of gentle punishment for having tricked me with Jeff, he was laughing a little but I could sense the urgency in his body, I could feel the heat and the horniness of him, I could almost smell the sex coming from him, my tropical boy, coconutty and fragrant against me on those cool sheets. I put my hands all over him and he waited for more, there was no tension in him or holding back, I had a willing lover in my arms really for the first time, I was laughing softly and calling him "Allie" and "my beautiful boy" and kissing him in ways that should have made him recoil but didn’t, two years of caution and vigilance tossed aside that night along with his underwear, I kissed those hula-boy pukka shells at his throat and continued kissing my way down the naked front of him, he wanted to be sucked, god almighty he was so leaky and eager for it, the first taste of his semen that night made me dizzy, made me weak, I took it all and I swallowed it and Alex watched me do it and smiled as if pleased by that gesture in particular, a very tired little smile, sweetly gratified that I would accept and swallow the gift of his cum.

Maybe I should apologize for misleading you earlier, for not coming right out and telling you about me and Alex and what we’re doing now, for not telling you the whole truth about that boyspermy odor in my bedroom. But this is difficult, trust me, it’s as frightening as it is exhilarating. Alex, meanwhile, couldn’t be happier, he loves this randy free-for-all he’s created, this is the fulfillment he was after when he toyed with those Columbine fantasies several months ago, this is the power and the adrenaline rush he needed to counter his hopeless rage—but with sex instead of bloodshed, with his own cock instead of a gun.

He’s here all the time with Ray, they still walk around the house with their hands in each other’s pants like a couple of moonstruck boyfriends, they usually end up undressed and giving each other massages, always nude, nothing else will satisfy since that day of the carnival when they first got naked together in my kitchen. They can’t stop themselves. They always use the living room, that plush carpet so comfortable for them as they rest on the floor and rub each other down, last week Alex was doing his trick with the ice, you remember, he holds a chunk of ice in his fingertips and uses it on the other boy, Ray was on his back this time and Alex was running that icy chunk all around his throat and his chest, Ray had his eyes shut and a dreamy grin and he kept making spastic little movements whenever the ice touched one of his nipples, his penis was so stiff, you’ve never seen such a twitchy and impatient boner on any boy. I was in and out of the room while this was happening, I don’t just sit like a goon and stare at them, finally I walked in just when Alex was leaning forward and licking at the water puddled on Ray’s chest, he looked up and said oops as if flustered at being caught, Ray opened his eyes and made the same kind of "oops, we’re busted" grin and giggle, Alex explaining that the ice had melted too fast, there was too much water, then leaned forward again to show what he’d been doing, like this, once more slurping at Ray’s chest and around his nipples until Ray was giggling louder and couldn’t stand it and started swatting at Alex’s crewcut head, he was trying to talk, he was saying, "I gotta finish, come on, I gotta finish!" That’s how they refer to jerking off—which is all they ever do together, as far as I know—it was Ray himself who invented this simple code for whenever he and Alex manage to get each other too horny, that’s when they rush off to "finish" in another room, usually upstairs in my bedroom, sometimes even in the kitchen, anywhere I can’t see them.

That’s right, anywhere I can’t see them—which is fine, I understand how this works, I appreciate how skillfully Alex has choreographed this entire summer and stage-managed these other boys, Ray especially but also Jeff, don’t forget Jeff, he’s not around so much lately but he’s still a player in this intricate game, these boys don’t even think of me as gay or queer or whatever, no way, I’ve never touched either of them or done anything to register on their Evil Pedophile radar, to them I’m just this cool guy named Mike who allows them to use my house and who now lets them indulge in these new and intoxicating pleasures without intruding or being judgmental. You see, they’re not leaving the room to hide from me or to exclude me, no, they’re just being polite. Ray hurries off with Alex to another part of the house because he can’t imagine that I’d want to see a boy masturbate, he’s being thoughtful and doing me a favor by leaving, it would be rude and sort of gross otherwise, like taking a crap with someone else watching.

Alex could alter this bit of choreography, I’m sure, easy enough to keep Ray in the living room all the way to the finish, Ray does whatever Alex wants, he’d masturbate right in front of me if his best pal did it with him. But then I’d be a more blatant participant in all of this and at greater risk. Alex is protecting me, he’s saving me from that quagmire of trouble and pain. And he’s having his own fun at the same time. My reward comes later when we’re alone, when Alex shares my bed, when I can touch and smell and taste the naked ripeness of him. He doesn’t even try to hide how much he enjoys it, how much he wants it. I don’t know if he’s queer. Maybe this is just a fever that will come and go, a boyish lust, that’s common enough. You can’t expect anything so hot to burn forever. But for now Alex is happy. He’s OK. He’s safe.