Date: Sat, 18 Dec 2004 06:50:29 -0500 From: g d Subject: The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities by Parrafan DISCLAIMER: This is just a story I made up. Don't take any of it seriously. If you're over the legal age, you are welcome to read and enjoy it if you want. If you're under the legal age, sadly you have to stop reading now. DEDICATION: I love reading the stories on Nifty, and this story is a humble tribute to two of my favourite authors, Ganymede and Debonair. Chapter 1: The Grazed Elbow. I guess I should have realised something was not quite right a little sooner. But, as happens all too often in these situations, you don't recognise what's going on until events have well and truly overtaken you. It started innocently enough. Looking back, the only "innocent" was me. At the time, I was on lunchtime yard patrol, keeping a general eye on the student population as they played their games of handball, runacross and touch footy. There were two teachers on duty, in accordance with school policy, and the two of us walked our separate patrol areas at either end of the lunchtime playground, a roughly rectangular block about a hectare in size. This other teacher (who taught a Grade Two class, mostly seven year olds) and I were frequently assigned on the same day. So much so that we had become accustomed to keeping in touch with each other by means of a system of hand signals that we had devised between us. There were only ten minutes remaining of the lunch period. All lunches had been eaten, rubbish had been binned and games well under way. I casually meandered towards a game of keepaway between some Grade Sixes that was showing signs of becoming much too vigorous when one of my own Grade Five boys came alongside me and caught my eye. He was holding his right forearm with his left hand, and pointing his right elbow at me. The elbow in question had lost a small patch of skin, about the size of a book of matches, and the resulting contusion was slowly beginning to ooze blood. "Ouch!" I exclaimed, when I saw it. It was one of those wounds that every boy has had, at least once, and it was the kind of wound that generates a stab of sympathy pain in any onlookers. But as Terry wasn't crying, I guessed the injury was so recent that the wound was still numb. Since I would not have associated this particular boy with the sort of rough and tumble game that frquently generates this type of injury, I immediately suspected that he was the victim of a bit of bullying. "What happened, Terry?", I enquired, as I took hold of the hurt arm and carefully manipulated it to check for broken bones. "I was reading my book and walking at the same time and I tripped", he explained, in quite a matter-of-fact tone. "Oh!", I responded. That seemed probable, knowing Terry as I did. No evidence of bullying here, just his typical daydreaming. "Where's your book now?". "Peter is minding it for me", he answered, nodding his head in the general direction of the seats where the less athletic boys sit during luch period. I waved to my colleague the signal that means "Cover for me" and walked Terry back to our homeroom. I knew the school nurse had already left for the day (she only works mornings) so I decided to administer First Aid myself, rather than take Terry to the Admin office to be tended to by one of our ancillary staff. He was one of my homeroom boys, after all. I hold a current certificate in First Aid, as do all classroom teachers at the school. I keep a small first aid kit in the bottom drawer of my desk - no drugs, only creams, lotions and bandages - so when we reached our classroom I escorted Terry to the front of the room (to my desk) and began swabbing the wound with an antiseptic wipe. I noticed a curious thing at that point. I have had to perform this kind of duty many times in my fifteen-year teaching career, and invariably I find that the patient will carefully watch the progress of the operation as keenly as a jeweller's apprentice. Not Terry. He kept his eyes on mine the whole time. It was as though the injury was incidental. It was a bit distracting, really. Instead of paying attention to my attempt at dressing his wound, Terry gazed straight into my eyes. Oh well, I thought, takes all kinds. Terry always had been a bit different to the other kids, or so I had noticed in the two months since he had been in my homeroom. The instinct that told me Terry was a bit different from the other boys should have warned me about what was to happen, but it didn't. Funny how instinct is often confused with hindsight, isn't it? After I finished my ministrations, Terry took his first look at my handiwork, then pointed the elbow in my face and said "Sir, Mummy kisses it better for me when I hurt myself". Now I knew enough about kids to know that I had to kiss it immediately, to avoid one of those embarassing pauses that always makes your next action seem rather forced and unnatural. So I quickly replied "Sure", and bent over to give the crepe bandage a little peck. "How's that?", I said jovially, trying to maintain a caring yet masculine attitude. "Thank you, Sir", Terry answered, a bit dreamily, as he took advantage of me still being seated and partially bent over, to wrap both his arms around my neck and plant a kiss on my cheek. I was too surprised to do anything, so I just sat there like a dummy, mute, but Terry had already removed his arms and turned away from me, skipping towards the door. I was still sitting there in shock a minute later when the bell sounded to mark the end of lunch period. Chapter 2: The Swollen Nipples Luckily, ours was not included among the great majority of schools nowadays that has been caught up in the current wave of paranoia about teachers coming into physical contact with students. Many schools, unfortunately, have been forced (by rabid parents and talkback radio show hosts) to issue new policy directions to teachers, which prohibit under any and all circumstances, any physical contact between teacher and student. These policies are so rigid and narrowminded, that they would even prohibit a congratulatory handshake on the presentation stage during Speech Night. But, as I indicated, our school was fortunate to have a slightly more enlightened parent body. The policy operating at my school simply gave teachers authority to do what they thought a 'reasonable parent' would do. Admittedly, the notion of 'what a reasonable parent would do' varied rather widely (or wildly) from one teacher to the next, and in the case of bachelor teachers such as myself, was open to much interpretation (not to say imagination). As a sensible precaution, any non-trivial contacts between teacher and student had to be recorded in a logbook kept in the Admin office. So I was happy to trot down to the office later in the afternoon to make my entry in the book. "Treated a grazed R elbow belonging to T Gillings, 13/4/02, R Pazko" was all I wrote, and I thought it sufficient. Looking back, maybe I should have mentioned the kiss (his, not mine). The next morning Terry was the first student to arrive in the homeroom. That was not so unusual, as the more academically inclined students frequently arrived early so they could catch up on their reading of latest Harry Potter or Darren Shan books (or whatever was popular at the time). What was unusual was Terry's next action. He walked straight up to my desk (I was preparing an arithmetic quiz at the time) and stated "Sir, is it normal for a boy's nipples to be swollen?". I look back on that day and think "What if I had said 'Yes Terry, it's normal, now go sit down'". Or maybe I should have suggested that if he was worried he could visit the school nurse at 9 o'clock. It's easy to be wise in hindsight, isn't it?. What actually happened was that I looked straight at his school shirt (it was an automatic reaction, I swear), only to see two small nubs sticking up from his chest through the soft cotton. Terry somehow interpreted that as a signal that he should show me the offending nipples, and before I could stop him, he reached down and grabbed the bottom of his shirt and whipped the light cotton garment up and over his head, dropping it on my desk. Terry was now naked from the waist up, standing in front of me, swollen nipples pointing straight out at me. "Sir, I asked Mummy, and she said I should ask you", Terry explained. He might have been asking about the number of legs an insect should have, or whether the class would be studying Geography this afternoon, he was so casual about it. I stared at the prepubescent chest with a mixture of wonder and terror. All I need is for another student or teacher to walk in right now, and my goose is cooked, I thought. A quick glance towards the door reassured me that no-one was in the immediate area, so I said the first stupid thing to Terry that popped into my head. "Uh, do they feel tender?" Terry looked at me quizzically and said "I dunno, I haven't felt them". Saying that, he pushed his scrawny chest towards me even further, and before I could think even one rational thought, my fingers had gravitated towards the puffy nipples and began to squeeze them, gently stroking and rubbing them in a manner guaranteed to make them even more swollen than they already were. "That feels good, Sir", Terry breathed. I couldn't believe that I was giving this boy what I called in my youth a 'tit job'. "Um, Terry, it's pretty normal for a boy your age to experience some swelling of the nipples", I stammered. "It just means that your body is maturing. Have you talked to your mother about this?" I vaguely recalled hearing that his father had disappeared years ago. "Sir, she said to talk to you about it", Terry replied. "Why do boys have nipples anyway?" I silently cursed his mother for dropping me in it. "Well, it's normal for a boy's nipples to do this sometimes, and I shouldn't worry about it if I were you", I said in what I hoped was a neutral, re-assuring tone. "As for why boys have nipples, well I suppose the short answer is, when you were being formed inside your mother's...er...inside your mother, you were a mammal before you were a male. All mammals have nipples, no matter what sex we are". I stopped groping his tits and reached for his shirt, hoping to get it back on him before any more of his classmates arrived. After I pulled the shirt over his head, I tried to settle the bottom of the shirt on his waist and hips. This left me open to Terry's hug, which he immediately applied, much as he had done yesterday. This time, his kiss was planted on my lips, only lightly, but still a 'lip kiss'. I froze. Terry just strolled back to his desk as though nothing had happened. I spent the rest of the day trying to avoid any interaction with Terry, in a vain attempt to get those puffy, stiff, squeezable, suckable, pointy boy nipples out of my mind. Chapter 3: The Tummy Ache I thought that I had survived to the end of the day without any further Terry-incidents, but I was way off. As the end-of-school bell was sounding, I saw Terry wading against the flow of Fifth Graders rushing to the door to present himself at my desk. Withing thirty seconds, the room had cleared of all personnel except Terry and myself. "Sir, I have a tummy ache", Terry announced to me, one hand lying on the allegedly aching tummy, his other hand on the corner of my desk to steady himself. "Do you want me to drive you home so you can tell you Mum about it?", I asked in a feeble attempt to deflect his question. "Sir, she won't be home until seven", Terry countered. "Anyway, she would want me to ask you about it. She's always telling me to ask you about personal stuff". That's just great, I thought. I put a heap of energy over the last fifteen years of my teaching career into keeping all of my students at arm's length for my own safety, and one skinny, winsome, intelligent, sexy boy succeeds in worming his way under my defences inside two days. It's just not fair. Before I could formulate an answer to Terry's assertion about his mother, he pulled his shirt over his head. Not only that, but he stuck his thumbs under the waistband of the front of his shorts and dragged them down about six inches, revealing a hairless lower belly. I thought about bolting for the door, but Terry positioned himself in front of me in such a way as to make that course of action even more undignified than it sounds. "Sir, it sort of hurts here", Terry muttered, flopping his hand vaguely in the area of his lower intestine. And I do mean **lower**. I sighed and gestured for him to move a bit closer. I knew when I was beaten. Placing one hand on his lower back (to steady him, I assure you!), I turned him sideways and rested my other hand on his flat stomach. I then gazed fixedly into the middle distance, as though I was listening for the far-off wail of a police car siren, and began lightly pressing Terry's alabaster abdomen with the pads of my fingers. I perfomed a "sweep" of the allegedly painful area, covering the whole magnificent torso in much the same way I thought an inexperienced gynaecologist might prod his first pregnant patient's belly. As I moved my fingertips over the translucent, warm, soft yet resilient skin, I asked him from time to time "Does this hurt?", "How about here?" and so on. I had to call forth from the furthest recesses of my memory all the phrases I could remember from playing Doctor with a neighbour boy when I was twelve years old (neighbour boy was 10 as I recall). Terry's answers were non-commital at best, so I was unable to diagnose anything more specific than tummy-ache, which brought us back to where we started. I told Terry as much, then rubbed his tummy a bit (for luck, like a Buddha?), pulled his shorts back up to his navel and reached for his shirt. I had somehow forgotten about the previous shirt incident, but clearly Terry hadn't, as he again took advantage of my distraction in settling his shirt-tails to wrap his arms around my neck and kiss me. On the lips. Again. This time it was a bit more than a peck. It was more like a smooch. Though not quite a slobber. He held onto me a bit longer as well, and looked into my eyes just as he finished the kiss. I am sure he saw the "rabbit in the headlights" look in my eyes. Thankfully, he quickly relinquished his hold on me (and took his arms from around my neck too). I had graduated from startled rabbit and was now doing my beached fish impression at this stage. "Thanks, Sir", he called out over his shoulder as he darted back to his desk, collected his schoolbag and scooted out through the door. Chapter 4: One bigger than the other Utter coward that I am, I hid in the staff room as soon as I arrived at school the next morning. I'd spent a restless night, waiting for the accusatory phone call from Terry's mum, or worse, the midnight knock on the door from the local constabulary. I sat near a window, watching the boys drag themselves to school for another day, trying to pick out Terry's thin frame among them. I was interrupted by a fellow teacher who tapped me on the shoulder and scared 5 years' growth out of me. "Bit jumpy, Russ?" he inquired as I clutched my heart and my breathing returned to normal. "Uh, yeah", I replied. "What's up?" "One of your kids is at the side door. Um, skinny, dark brown hair, freckles, Gillon or something, I think his name is", he replied. "It's Gillings, Terry Gillings, and thanks", I answered, hauling myself out of my chair. I met Terry at the door and waved at him to follow me to our classroom. He fell in behind me obediently as we trudged the thirty five metres to our room. His compliant attitude made me even more nervous, if that was possible. I had the feeling of impending disaster that a Christmas turkey must have around December 22nd. We arrived at our homeroom and I led the way to my desk. Terry followed behind me. He had been silent the whole time, but I sensed it was a silence full of foreboding. "Sir", he began, "Is it normal for a boy to have one testicle bigger than the other?". He looked me in the face with a demeanor as open as any I have ever seen on a boy. "I asked my Mummy, but she said-" "To ask me", I finished for him. I had heard this refrain often enough that by now I could sing it without the manuscript. "Well is it normal Sir?", he asked again, and before I could stop him he had grabbed the sides of his school shorts and dragged them to his knees, where they continued on their downward journey and dropped to puddle around his ankles. Terry did not appear to have included underpants in his school uniform today. I noticed little things like that in a boy. My first instinct was to insist that he pull his shorts back up again, but all of the sensitivity training that the Education Department puts teachers through made me hesistate. Would that traumatise him, make him think that I was repulsed by his naked body? Before I could rationalise any further, he had shuffled forward to within a handspace of me and pushed his hips forward. His modestly sized (but well-proportioned) wedding tackle jiggled at me as I made a snap decision - to save my teaching career. "Terry", I said as gently and calmly as I could. "Can I pull your shorts up first, then we can talk?" As I reached down for the skimpy garment, I kept up what I thought was a reassuring patter. "The fact is," I continued, "I don't need to look at your testicles to know the answer to this one. Anyway, I wouldn't want one of your classmates coming in the room just now, and seeing your bare bottom. He might think I'm giving you a spanking for being naughty." Terry gave me a look that suggested that might not be such an undesirable outcome, but allowed me to pull up his shorts. As I got them past his knees, I felt his body sway to accommodate the raising of the shorts up all the way, in that enchanting way that only a boy's body does. I tucked his shirt in for him as he continued to gaze at my face. I put my hands on his hips (once he was fully clothed), as I had seen a parent once do when addressing his wayward offspring. "Terry", I began, "I want you to know that I will always try to answer your questions, but I don't always have to see the part of the body you are asking about. Is that okay with you?" He nodded his head and smiled in reply. "It's okay that you showed me, but I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed if another boy came in and...um...saw you. Alright?" Terry nodded again, and smiled as if to say that he got it all the first time, and it's no big deal. "Terry, How many boys in our class have got blue eyes?", I asked, waiting patiently as he mentally totted up. "About a dozen, I think, Sir", he replied carefully, sensing that this was some kind of test. Terry liked to do well on his tests. "Good answer", I countered. "Now, is it normal to have blue eyes?" "Yes, I suppose so Sir", he replied slowly. "Hmm. And how many boys have hazel or brown eyes?", I continued. "Well, there's 22 in the class Sir, so I guess around 10, including me", he answered. I think he sensed where this interrogation was leading. "And is it normal to have hazel or brown eyes, may I ask?" "Um, I suppose so Sir", he replied, rather sheepishly. I pressed home my argument. "So, a boy can have blue eyes, or hazel eyes, or brown eyes, but still have 'normal' eyes, would you agree? "Yes Sir", he said softly. "The same goes for a boy's...er...testicles. The left one can be a little bit bigger than the right, or vice versa, or they can be both the same size, and it's all normal. Okay?" "Um, yes Sir, I guess so. But what if one was as big as a...uh... a golf ball, and the other one was as small as...um..." "A peanut?", I volunteered. "Yeah, Sir, a peanut, exactly", he smiled triumphantly. "Well," I mused, giving his hips a little swivel as I did so, "that would be abnormal, but I have a little confession to make". Terry raised his eyebrows to indicate I should continue. "When you pulled your shorts down before, I couldn't help myself, I glanced at your private parts. I hope you don't mind. But I can assure you, your testicles look normal to me." "But Sir, you have to...I mean...can you tell just by looking at them?", Terry replied, a look of concern on his face. "Ah, I can see you are worried. Would you feel more reassured if i gave...uh, them...a...um, a touching, I mean, a physical examination. Not just a visual examination, I mean. For the sake of thoroughness." I watched his face closely. "Oh, yes Sir, I think it is important to be thorough in cases such as these." Terry's earnest reply assuaged my fears that I was taking an unwelcome advantage of him. He began to pull his shorts down again, but as my hands were still on his hips I was able to stop him easily. "Terry", I explained, "You don't have to take your shorts down again. I can easily do the examination through the material (**especially as you have no undies on**, I thought). Will that be okay? That way we won't get c- er, that way, you won't be embarrassed if anyone comes in the classroom. Just shut your eyes and relax". The boy's eyelashes fluttered down to the closed position as I turned his body to face the blackboard, with his back to the doorway. "Are you ready, Terry?" I asked softly, my hand already on his thigh just below the hem of his school shorts. My other hand rested just on the top of his little round bottom, to balance him. "Yes, Sir", he breathed almost inaudibly. "Okay, here goes." My hand slowly crept above the hem of his shorts, then groped inwards towards his crotch, where it struck it's first obstacle. Terry's legs were together like a soldier at attention. "Uh, Terry, just move your legs apart a bit, would you". The little fellow almost did the splits in his eagerness to accommodate my meandering hand. My fingertips moved further up until I encountered the material of his crotch. "Okay, here is the left one", I murmured as I gently palpated his family jewels. "It feels fine. Does it hurt, Terry". "No Sir it's fine", he whispered, eyes still lightly closed. I only had to move my fingertips a finger's width to find his right testicle. I decided to be a bit more forward with Terry, partly to see what he would let me do, partly just out of curiosity about his intriguing and enticing body. I felt around for the right testicle for a few moments, then stopped. "Terry, I can't quite seem to find your right testicle. Can you pull your shorts leg up for me?" Without opening his eyes, the boy's right hand went to the hem of his right side trouserleg and pulled it up and across roughly, as far as it would go. Naturally, without any undies on, all of his genitals were exposed by this action. His little penis lay on top of his scrotum, so I edged it out of the way with my thumb, and grasped Terry's right testicle with two fingers and thumb. I must say, I was surprised that Terry did not have an erection by this time. I remember clearly that when I was eleven, if my nuts were being fondled, even by the ugliest, most hateful monster, I would have been as stiff as a walking stick. I rolled the marble-sized gonad around in my fingertips as Terry breathed in deeply, letting his breath out in a sigh. "Seems okay to me Terry. They both seem okay", I advised, as I returned to his left nut for a final fondle. I reluctantly let his scrotum go and pulled his shorts leg back down to its proper position. "Are you satisified now, Terry? Your balls are normal, or as normal as anyone else's." "Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir". He opened his arms, and with his legs still wide apart, he simply let himself overbalance and fall forward into his now customary embrace. I got a smooch as well, on the lips again. I was ready for it so I didn't freeze up this time. Instead, I gave him a cuddle in return, even holding the back of his head for a few seconds while he kissed me. If anyone came to the door, well, to hell with it. Chapter 5: A Grain of Sand At morning recess, when I reached the staff room for a much-needed cup of coffee, I found a telephone message slip in my pigeonhole. It was from Mrs Gillings, Terry's mum. "Fornicate", I thought (because I despise cursing, even in my private thoughts), I'm busted already. But it couldn't be from this morning's incident, because Terry hasn't been home yet. Oh well, executions are best carried out speedily, a wise mentor once told me. I found a phone and returned Mrs Gillings' call. "Oh, Sir, thank you for getting back to me. Terry has been on my back for ages about this and I keep letting it slide", she gushed. "Uh, Mrs Gillings, the name's Russ Pazko, it's only the pupils that have to call me Sir", I rebuked her gently. "What can I do for you?" "Well, at our home I hear nothing but 'Sir this' and 'Sir that' almost every waking hour, so I think of you as Sir also. Silly of me I know. Terry's got quite a crush on you, you know". I could almost see her smirking over the phone. There is a certain sort of person who simply revels in causing discomfort to others, and I immediately suspected Terry's mum to be a member of that clan. "Um, I think it's natural, and quite a compliment really, for a boy to think highly of his teacher," I suggested, trying to deflect what I thought was an implied criticism. "Oh, come on now Sir, don't get all defensive on me, I only meant it in the nicest way. I think it's quite sweet, really. You know you're the first male teacher Terry has had since he started school. He's got no daddy, or any uncles, poor little tyke. He absolutely dotes on you Sir," Mrs Gillings repeated. "Uh, well, thank you for the background info, Mrs Gillings, but was there something in particular I can do for you?" I persisted. "Oh yes, that's right. Terry told me that teachers at your school are permitted to have an occasional meal with the families of students, but that the request must come from the parents, not the boys themselves. A very sensible precaution Sir, I must say. Terry has been nagging me for almost a month now to invite you to dinner at our house. Is Friday good for you, Sir?" Mrs Gillings seemed to have jumped straight over "Would you like to come?" and gone right on ahead to fixing a night. I felt both trapped and relieved. Dinners with students' families are almost always no-wins for the teacher, but good PR for the school. The parents always have the wrong motives and usually turn it into a lecture night for the poor kid. But in this case, the instigator seemed to be the boy himself. But since I had her on the phone, I thought I'd best defuse the other issue into the bargain. "Well, thank you Mrs Gillings, I'd be delighted to join you and Terry on Friday. Is six o'clock a good time?" Before she could come back with another 500 word answer to a simple question, I jumped in again. "Actually I'm glad you rang, because there's something I've been meaning to ask you about. Terry has been coming to me lately with a number of...well, I guess the best way to describe them is 'delicate' matters, and I just wanted to make sure that...er...I guess I wanted to be certain that you were happy for me to be dealing with them". Phew! That felt better off my chest. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that!", Mrs Gillings enthused. "I think Terry's getting near that age, you know, that age when a boy starts to get inquisitive about...well, about **boy** things, I'm sure you follow me. Well, I was an only child myself, you see, no brothers of my own, so when a little boy starts to ask about such things I really don't have a clue about, I suppose I took the easy way out and told him to ask you. In fact, I suppose you must think I'm dreadful for putting this on to you, but when Terry asked me last night about his...er, his...um...his boy parts, and whether they were the right size or some such thing, I made it very clear to him that I wanted all such inquiries directed to you. I hope he didn't embarass you too much?" she asked solicitously. "She finally drew a breath," I thought, but what I said was "No, he didn't embarass me, and I can advise that I have answered that particular question for him satifactorily. He's not really a shy or overly modest boy, is he?", I enquired carefully. "Oh, tell me about it! During the hot weather he gets around the house with little or nothing on. He visits the toilet and doesn't worry about closing the door. After his evening bath he walks back to his bedroom, which is at the other end of the house, without a stitch on! Yet he doesn't seem to play with himself constantly, like I heard most little boys did". Isn't it a universal rule, that mothers think nothing of their children's privacy when gossiping with other adults? I had to find a way to finish this call gracefully. "Um, thanks Mrs Gillings, I guess we can discuss Terry in more depth on Friday. I shall see you then. Bye", I rang off. Terry had no more health crises during the week. In fact, his behaviour was unremarkable. I half expected him to become my shadow, following me around like a needy puppy, but he stuck to his own routine. He was respectful in class, he didn't take any advantage over the other boys out of hosting his teacher to dinner, or put on airs as though he was beyond correction. Quite amazing, really, such social maturity in one so young, and it only served to make him all the more appealing to me. By the time Friday arrived, I was quite looking forward to dinner at Chez Gillings. I brought a chilled bottle of Chablis with me, because it goes with everything, and everyone likes white wine.The biggest danger for teachers at events such as these is that they will turn into an ambush - that is, your host will have invited half a dozen other people to "round out" the dinner party, and you end up having to defend the whole teaching profession against the silly nonsense spouted by a bunch of creeps whose only proven child-related talent is the ability to either get pregnant or get someone else pregnant. But I was pleasantly surprised. Dinner with Mrs Gillings and Terry turned out to be exactly that, and nothing more. Terry wore a pair of boxer shorts and a tee shirt. Mrs Gillings immediately told me that she insisted he wear something, so I wouldn't be "scandalised and never come back", to use her words. After inviting me to sit on the couch in the family room, she retreated to the kitchen, to continue fixing the meal. Terry sat with me on the couch, then called to his mother. "Mummy, can I ask Sir now, please?", he enquired, rather politely I thought. "Oh yes, dear, that's right," Mrs Gillings called from the kitchen. "Uh, Sir, Terry has another one of **those** questions for you. Would you be so good as to help him with it - dinner will be another ten minutes yet." Terry scampered up to my end of the couch and climbed into my lap like a docile house cat. He then lay across me, his bottom in my lap, feet down the couch, head on the armrest, arms by his sides, and explained his latest problem. "Sir, when your foreskin hurts underneath, what does that mean?". I was, I admit, somewhat terrified by the question, not least because Mrs Gillings was easily in earshot. I tried to formulate some words when Terry said "Look!", and pulled the boxers down. He flexed his torso to lift his bottom clear of my lap so as to get the boxers down easily. He then lifted the bottom of his tee shirt up to his neck, making him naked from knees to ribcage. He reached for his little soft penis and held it between thumb and index finger, giving a little grimace when he touched it. I nearly jumped a foot in the air when I heard Mrs Gillings' voice right behind me say "Could you do something for the little fellow, Sir, I don't know hardly anything about his...uh...boy parts. He told me about it last night, and he wanted to ask you today at school, but I told him, No Terry, I told him, you leave Sir to have a nice peaceful day, not wagging you boy part in his face at school, and you can ask him about it before dinner, I says to him. It's not an infection or anything is it Sir? It looks a bit red to me, but I don't really know. Terry, take your fingers away from it and let Sir have a proper look". With that, Mrs Gillings bustled back to the kitchen. When my heart rate had slowed down a little, I realised that I had been given open slather to inspect Terry's nude body, so I decided to take charge. I took Terry's little penis in my fingers and felt around it gently with the pads of my fingers. Again I wondered at the fact that he was not stiffening up. I also felt a tiny bump behind the ridge of his glans, under the foreskin. At first I thought it might be a little pimple, given Terry's proximity to puberty. Terry winced when I touched it, but did not cry out or shrink away from me. Not a pimple, I realised, but some foreign body underneath the foreskin, caught behind the ridge. "Can you roll your foreskin back, Terry?", I asked him. He shook his head No, then said "I never tried, Sir". Amazing. An eleven year old boy who has never tried to retract his foreskin. He maybe doesn't even know what it look like underneath, I thought. "I'll do it for you, if that's okay". I slowly pulled the delicate skin down the stalk of his penis, a tricky task when it is flaccid. I felt the back of the couch bump a bit and heard Mrs Gillings breathe behind me. She had left the kitchen (again) and come to watch proceedings. Lucky for Terry his foreskin was not one of those tight ones. It retracted easily all the way past the ridge, and I immediately saw the culprit. A grain of sand had somehow found its way under there. It had rubbed the tender skin and probably would have caused a minor infection had it been left unchecked. It occured to me to wonder why Mrs Gillings didn't simply take Terry to the local family doctor for matters such as this. I picked up the offending crystal of silica and held it up triumphantly for Terry and Mrs Gillings to see. Both smiled at me, then Terry bent upwards to hug me. Right in front of his mum he planted a kiss on my right cheek, then glanced at her before giving me another on the left. "How European", I thought briefly, but while I was distracted with my own thought, Terry smooched me on the lips, making a loud smacking noise as he did so. "That's Terry's way of saying thanks, Sir. He really is very fond of you", Mrs Gillings said as she returned to the kitchen, picking up plates and bringing them to the table. Terry jumped up, boxers still around his knees, and called to his mum, "Mummy, now that Sir has seen everything, can I leave these off", indicating his shorts and shirt. Mrs Gillings looked to me (for approval?) but I wasn't going to buy into this one, so I just shrugged. "Alright", she said, trying to sound disappointed but not even coming close. "Take them to your room and wash your hands for dinner". Mrs Gillings took advantage of Terry's absence to fill in some more family background. She related that even though she permitted Terry to call her 'Mummy', she was in fact his grandmother. Terry's natural mother was Mrs Gillings' daughter. "The Slut" she called her, and it was clear that her daughter had wounded Mrs Gillings deeply. Apparently "the Slut" had begun sneaking out of the house at thirteen, was already sleeping around at fourteen, gave birth to Terry at fifteen, and died choking on her own vomit in a filthy dosshouse at sixteen with another drunken teen. Mrs Gillings regarded that as the best thing "the Slut" could have done for Terry. "He's had a terrible start to life, poor little dear. And he's so obliging, so helpful around the house, I hardly have to say a single cross word to him. He has some funny ideas, like this nudity thing, but he's such an innocent boy I just haven't got the heart to tell him to cover up". Terry returned to the table, naked and unashamed, and pulled his chair around next to mine. The three of us spent a delightful remainder of the evening; it was one of the most pleasant PR dinners I can recall. Actually I could not remember much detail of the conversation because Mrs Gillings kept topping up my glass of Chablis. She only had a tiny amount and Terry of course drank fruit juice. At the end of the evening, Mrs Gillings made a further dinner date for the following Friday. She also suggested that I was welcome to bring some overnight things if I wanted to avoid the risk of driving home intoxicated, and sleep in the spare bedroom. I instantly understood, despite my slight intoxication, that this offer was exactly what it appeared to be at face value. Mrs Gillings was old enough to be my mother, and was definitely not lusting after my body. She just wanted me to stay alive. Terry, however, was another matter. Chapter 6: An Unscratchable Itch I threw myself into work for the next seven days: in the garden over the weekend, and in the classroom during the week. Friday's dinner approached and I looked forward to it with a mild anticipation. I enjoy home cooking, especially when someone else cooks. Terry had no more medical or personal problems during the week, but every time I looked at him in class, he was smiling at me. It got a bit disconcerting so on Thursday I asked him to wait back at lunchtime. Rather than just ask him to stop it, I thought I'd try a different tack. His classmates cleared out in about fifteen seconds, and Terry came out the front to my desk. I went on the offensive by holding my arms wide for a hug. His smile broadened and he ran the last few steps and nearly leapt into my arms. I held him tight, then turned him around so his back was across my lap, his heels dragging on the floor. I kissed his cheek, then looked him square in the face. "How are you, friend Terry?", I began. Earlier in the week, when the class looked at the Russian Revolution, a boy had asked me what "Comrade" meant, and I replied that it meant "friend", and it was a perfectly acceptable word to use now that the Soviet Empire had collapsed. For the rest of the day every boy addressed every other boy as "Friend Cory", "Friend Michael", "Friend Shayne", and so on. I thought it was simply charming, and only put a gentle stop to it when one boy went too far and addressed me as "Friend Russ". He only got a stern look, though. At that age, that is usually enough for most boys to realise they've stepped over the line. "I'm very well, Sir. Looking forward to dinner tomorrow", he answered. I took the initiative again, and kissed him on the lips. I hadn't really thought out where I was going with this, I was flying on instinct alone. "I think I figured out why you don't wear underpants, Terry," I declared to the boy in my arms. He raised an eyebrow at me, so I continued. "It's because you'd rather be nude, but you can't go nude at school, and going without undies is the next best thing. It gives you the feeling of being nude without actually being nude. Am I right?" "Now you know one of my secrets", he replied in a dreamy voice. "So I will tell you one of yours". My eyes widened as Terry proceeded. "You teach boys because you love them. Not 'love' as in 'sex' but you love them like my Mummy loves me. If you didn't love them you'd do something else. Drive a truck, or build boats or something". A hundred emotions must have flitted across my face just then, all watched carefully by Terry. Surprise, fear, curiosity, admiration, each took their turn and was replaced by another. Was I such an open book, or was Terry an exceptionally perceptive boy? "That is my biggest and only secret, friend Terry", I admitted. "See you - all of you - tomorrow". I released him from my hug and stood him on his feet properly. He skipped out to enjoy his lunch. The constant smiling in class stopped, thank goodness. Maybe Terry just wanted a little more attention than usual. When I arrived at the Gillings' home the next evening, I had a bottle of Verdelho in one hand and a small overnight bag in the other. I was determined to take up Mrs Gillings' kind offer, and see where it led. Terry met me at the door, tonight wearing a large white bathtowel around his waist. As soon as he saw me, he removed the bathtowel to reveal that he was naked underneath, then turned and called to the kitchen, "Mummy, it's Sir!". An answering call came back, "Show him in please Terry". Terry took my overnight bag from me and deposited it in the spare bedroom. He returned his towel to the bathroom before joining me on the couch. Grinning, he held open his arms for a hug. I obliged, pulling him onto my lap for a kiss. I locked lips with him and held him a little longer than I usually do. He rubbed my back a bit, then broke off the kiss. "Thanks", he said. "What for?", I asked "Just for being nice to me", he answered coyly, sitting down on his usual part of the couch. "Mummy, can I ask Sir now", Terry called to the kitchen. In reply, Mrs Gillings lumbered into the family room to greet me personally. She 'tsked' at Terry's nakedness, but smiled to show she didn't mean it. "Before you ask Sir, have you cleaned your bottom like I told you", Mrs Gillings asked the boy sternly. I cringed inside. It was the kind of question parents insisted on asking their children in front of other adults, seemingly to suggest 'Do as I say or I'll embarass you even worse'. But it did get worse. "Yes Mummy, it's clean", Terry replied blandly, without a hint of the exasperation I usually hear in children's replies to their parents. "I mean did you clean it properly, right up inside your crack?", Mrs Gillings continued, then turned to me. "Terry has a little problem he wants to ask you about, if that's okay. Dinner will be in twenty minutes," and back to the kitchen she turned. "Yes Mummy, I cleaned it thoroughly, inside my hole as well", Terry replied to her departing back. I thought I was used to the frank speech of the Gillings household, but it appeared that I had yet much to learn. Terry turned to me and asked "Sir, you know how your skin can be itchy?". I nodded sagely in reply. "Well, is it possible to be itchy on the inside as well as on the outside of your body?" Before I had a chance to formulate a reply, Terry crawled across my lap, laying face down with his little round bottom right in front of my eyes. He reached back with both hands and pulled his cheeks apart. "Just starting last night, it feels really itchy right up inside my hole. I didn't want Mummy to touch it because I know she doesn't like doing that sort of thing with little boys". "That's for sure, Terry", boomed her voice right behind my head. I only jumped half a foot this time. "I got some Sorbolene from the pharmacist. They said it was good for itchiness. Would you mind doing it for Terry please Sir", Mrs Gillings said, handing me the bottle. It had a pump-action top. What could I do but oblige? I pumped a millilitre onto the palm of one hand, then dipped my index finger into the gooey white gel. "Looks a bit like semen", I thought to myself, "but I don't think they sell that by the half litre bottle at the pharmacy". Terry was still patiently holding his bottom cheeks apart, exposing his pink hole. He seemed relaxed, so I pulled his hands away from his nearer cheek, then tipped the goo off my hand onto that cheek. That meant that I could now use that hand to hold his bottom cheek, a feeling which is utterly indescribable even to those who have travelled in outer space. I moistened my index finger in the goo again and rubbed it around his tiny pink hole. My fingernail was closely trimmed (luckily) so I had no fear of making the itch any worse. I prodded inwards, expecting Terry to flinch. He was remarkably calm for a boy who was about to be skewered up the anus by his fifth grade teacher's finger. "Now when I go in, you'll have to guide me to the itch, Terry" I counselled, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "Uh huh", he replied in that sleepy, dreamy voice I had come to associate with pleasure. "Terry!" Mrs Gillings called from the kitchen. "Answer Sir properly! I've spoken to you before about grunting like an animal!" "Sorry Mummy", Terry repented sincerely. To me he said "You can push your finger in my hole now Sir, I'm ready." Terry's words made the whole operation a lot less erotic than I feared it would be. It was almost clinical. I wondered whether a gynaecologist feels like this when he looks at a woman's most intimate parts. Just a routine procedure, nothing to see here, folks. As I pressed further into his hot tight passage, he guided me with his words. "That's it, Sir...a little further in, please...good, now a bit that way" (here he waved his hand and pointed) "now more sort of down, yes, oh, that's it...now a bit further in. Can you sort of twist your finger around a bit, please Sir?" "I think I'll need more Sorbolene", I gasped, slowly easing my finger out. I wondered if he would notice a change to my middle finger instead? It's a centimetre longer, and slightly thicker. One way to find out. I greased up my largest finger and began to ease it into Terry's anus. His directions resumed. "Mm, um, good, yes, deeper now please Sir...er around that way a bit...good oh yes good...now a bit further, almost there...now can you do the twisty thing Sir mm". I had my middle finger fully inserted up to the last knuckle. It wouldn't go in any further, but it was extended straight. I tried twisting it but it was like turning a screw inside a stripped thread. Suddenly inspired, I used my free hand to push Terry's other hand off his bottom cheek, the one further from me. I then grabbed that hip and pulled Terry's rump higher in the air. His groin was no longer touching my lap. I curled my finger and Terry sighed. He got the message and pushed his bottom up even higher. "I think you've found it Sir", he moaned as I scratched the wall of his lower colon. He was resting all his weight on his knees and shoulders at this stage, his bottom raised almost as high as my chest. My arm was beginning to grow weary so I finished off the scratching exercise by vigourously pumping my finger in and out about a dozen times. Terry grunted, but Mrs Gillings made no comment, if she heard. Tired but happy, Terry slumped back down onto my lap, a contented smile on his face which was turned towards me. Mrs Gillings appeared from the kitchen and said that dinner was about to be served. She asked Terry to take me down to the bathroom to wash my hands. Instantly invigorated, Terry leapt up and grasped my clean hand, pulling me up off the couch and dragging me down the hallway. I was again amazed to see that Terry did not have an erection. Surely all that moaning and sighing signified some kind of sexual delight? So where was his stiffy? Chapter 7: Is it supposed to get stiff? Dinner was delightful again, Mrs Gillings surprising me with her culinary skills. It was not fancy fare, but it was presented with imagination and flair. I polished off the whole bottle of Verdelho, minus one glass which Mrs Gillings nursed all evening. Terry asked me for a taste of it, so I immediately glanced at Mrs Gillings for her approval. I held the glass to his lips (it would be a shame to spill even a single drop) and he must have only taken the smallest of sips before screwing his little nose up and shaking his head in mild disgust. "How can you drink that stuff Sir?", the naked little boy sitting next to me asked. "It tastes like...like wee-wee, er, like urine!" Mrs Gillings and I both smiled benignly at him. "It is what's called an acquired taste, Terry. For example, some people like the taste of avocado - to me it tastes like soap." Mrs Gillings also added her piece. "Alcohol, Terry, is something that adults enjoy, not just because of its taste, which you get used to eventually, but because it relaxes them after a hard day at work trying to knock some brains into silly schoolboys' heads." Turning to me, she continued. "Oh yes, something I've been meaning to ask you Sir, uh, your name, Pazko, is that Russian, or Ukrainian perhaps?" "I wouldn't know, to be honest, Mrs Gillings", I replied evenly. "It's the name they gave me at the orphanage. Maybe they just made it up; I wouldn't be surprised". "Oh you poor man, an orphanage, how...how, er, how unfortunate", Mrs Gillings tried to search for the word that would convey her dismay without sounding too judgemental. "Actually it wasn't as bad as many lurid news stories nowadays make out", I countered, in an attempt to rescue her from the embarassment of asking me such a personal question and getting a completely unanticipated answer. "In a way, it was a lot like living in a boarding school, except you couldn't go home at the end of term for holidays. The caregivers took us on plenty of interesting outings, maybe more than a child in a regular family might experience. I grew up feeling like I had sixty three brothers and five parents. The saddest times where when a boy you had been friends with would get adopted, and you never saw him again". I had been so focussed on replying to Mrs Gillings that I momentarily forgot about Terry on the chair next to me. A soft sob made me look towards him, and what I saw took me aback. Tears were streaming down his face, making me instinctively put my arms around his shoulders and pull him to me chest. "Terry, Terry, shhh, it's okay, really, the orphanage wasn't so bad, shhh", I rocked his little body a bit to calm him down. "Did...did your Mummy le-leave you at the...or-orphanage because you were...bad?" Terry gasped out between sobs. I heard Mrs Gillings' sharp intake of breath at Terry's words, so I spoke quickly. "No, no, Terry, I don't think so. I don't think I was any more bad than any other boy. No, I don't think my mother would have done that. Orphanages as a rule do not encourage boys to question why they are there. They expect a boy to get on with their lives and make the best of his situation. In my case, when I was old enough to ask about my parents, I guess I must have been about six years old, my caregiver simply told me that they had passed away. He didn't actually say it in so many words, but he hinted that the subject was closed, so I never gave it any more thought, or worry. Nor should you. You feel my pain, don't you?", I asked gently. "It made me so sad when you said about the orphanage", Terry whispered, his sobs now stilled. "I think it might be somebody's bedtime", Mrs Gillings wisely suggested. "Would you like Sir to tuck you in tonight Terry dear?" The boy's big smile and vigorous nodding were ample reply, his tears already forgotten. He hopped off his chair (his legs not quite long enough to reach the floor when he was sitting) and ran around to Mrs Gillings, gave her a hug and a kiss and raced to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The Dental Association probably would not have approved of the much abbreviated brushing, because he rushed past the table within a minute and headed straight for his bedroom. Mrs Gillings had one more shock for me that night.Clearly she had been waiting for Terry to depart before broaching the subject. "Will you stay over tonight, Sir? Tomorrow is a Saturday, no school, and you did have quite a bit of wine. Also Terry would love to spend some time with you in the morning, if you're up to it. I know you see him five days a week, and deserve a break from him-" "I'd be delighted to sleep over, Mrs Gillings, thank you. It would not be a happy experience to have to explain to the school principal how I lost my driver's licence, or how I wound up in the emergency ward. As for Terry, I find his company...well, I guess I enjoy his company a lot more than I expected I would ever enjoy any student's company. He brings out instincts in me that I didn't even know I had". After I said that, I realised how ambiguous it sounded, but Mrs Gillings must have taken the more wholesome meaning, because she just gave me one of those maternal smiles and a nod. She continued with her conversation, and I began to worry that Terry might fall asleep before I tucked him in. I glanced towards his bedroom, but Mrs Gillings noticed and said "It's alright, he'll probably read for half an hour or so before he starts to get really sleepy. That will be enough time for me to screw uo my courage to ask you another favour." "A favour, Mrs Gillings? I'm sure whatever it is, it will be my pleasure," I replied, trying to indicate that whatever she asked, I would try my best to accomplish. I saw a funny little turn of her head when I said the word 'pleasure', though, which gave me a niggling worry. "Since you grew up in the company of so many little boys, I'm sure you will know what I mean," she began. "When I got custody of Terry after The Slut left this world, he was in a bad way. Physically I mean. I blame myself that I did not see it right under my own nose, but I swear I never knew she could be so mean to her own child. That poor boy was underfed, pale from being indoors all the time, and bruises, my Lord, you should have seen the marks on that poor boy's frail little body. That's the reason I never force him to put clothes on. I can't really deny him any small joy, to make up for the pain of his first year of life. Terry saw more pain in his first twelve months than a lot of people see in their whole lives." I kept silent, hoping she would get to the point before I started bawling myself. "The bruises on his body were not from beatings, the doctor told me afterwards. They were from pinching. The Slut used to pinch my dear little grandson, my little Terry, on his legs, his bottom, and even on his...his poor little boy part. When I got him, his boy part was blue all over from bruising. He howled like the damned when he...passed water, but the bruising eventually faded. Now I will be the first one to admit that I don't know much about little boys, but I do know that they are always getting...that is, their boy parts often get..." She was beginning to flounder, so I rescued her. "You mean little boys often get erections, or stiffies", I stated gently. "Thank you, yes, that's what I'm trying to say. I remember from my own teenage years that boys can get them all the time. Terry has been running around this house naked for over ten years, and he has never once had a...never had a single one. Ever. I thought that maybe he was less, er, less easily stimulated than others boys. But you already know how open he is. I'm sure that if he ever got ne, he would have asked me what it was. I fear that the Slut somehow damaged his boy part, and that it will never satisfy a girl. He will never be able to get married. He will be alone, for ever". Mrs Gillings buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as sobs wracked her large frame. She looked up at me with tear-streaked eyes. "Can you find out if Terry is able to...to get it...to be a whole man? Please?" she begged. I found myself in the unusual position of being the only person in the house who had not turned on the waterworks that evening. I got out of my chair and went around to her. I rested a friendly hand on her shoulder to offer some human comfort. "I will have a talk with Terry tonight when I tuck him in. We'll talk more tomorrow, too. May I ask, just in case, if Terry wants to sleep in my bed, will that bother you?" "He's never had a friend sleep over, or slept over at anyone's house himself. If he wants to sleep in your bed I doubt you or I would have the heart to stop him", she said with a wan smile. "Just be true to those instincts you told me about earlier. I have confidence in your good judgement, Sir". I really must get her to stop calling me that, somehow. It's so disconcerting. Must be like how a new priest feels to be called 'Father' by elderly parishioners. I patted her shoulder again, and headed for Terry's room. He was still awake, as Mrs Gillings had predicted, reading a novel about the boy who became a half-Vampire. He looked up as I entered his room and put the book on his nightstand. "Hi, friend Terry", I smiled at him. He smiled back. "I'm having a sleepover tonight, if that's okay with you". "Mummy told me this afternoon that she had invited you. I'm glad you accepted, Sir", he replied. I sat on the side of his bed and lightly patted his hip through the bedclothes, which stuck up like a little mountain as the boy lay on his side. I was pretty sure he was naked underneath the bedcovers, for why would a dedicated nudist wear pyjamas? I ran my hand over his hip then up to his ribs, still on the outside of the sheets. Terry smiled again, then rolled onto his tummy. I seized the opportunity. "Would you like a backrub, Terry, before you go to sleep?" "Can I have a tummy rub too, Sir?", he asked, shamelessly. "Anything for you, friend Terry", I returned. "That's just like in that song, Sir!", Terry replied eagerly, and then, in a thin high voice, began to sing 'I'd do **anything**, for you, Sir, **anything** For you, Sir, **anything**, for yooooou' before dissolving into giggles. "That was lovely, Terry. I think there is no more beautiful sound in the world than a treble voice. It must be what the angels sound like in heaven", I answered, wiping my eyes. He really was getting under my skin (darn, another song lyric). "Now for my backrub", Terry declared, throwing the covers off himself. I beheld the back view of him in all his naked glory. A thought passed my mind, that Terry and his grandmother had conspired to produce exactly this outcome, but I dismissed it immediately. Would a pleasantly plump, down-to-earth grandma pimp for her only grandson? Surely not! Perish the thought. I placed both hands on his shoulders and commenced a gentle massage. I worked my way down his shoulderblades, his lower back, his nicely rounded bottom cheeks, his thighs and finally his calves and heels. I tried to give all parts of him equal attention, I honestly did, but perhaps his bottom received slightly more of my hands' caresses, if truth be told. After lightly scraping the soles of his feet with my fingernails, making him wriggle and squirm (but not pull his feet away), I simply said "Okay", whereupon he rolled over in an instant. I saw right away what Mrs Gillings had feared. His little penis was still flaccid. Maybe my backrubbing skills were not sufficient to light the fire in his young loins. I began manipulating his chest (marking my second adventure with his puffy nipples, mmm) then on to his ticklish tummy. I showed no false modesty as I worked my way straight down to his little weapon. I stroked his little doodle, massage his testicles, plucked at his foreskin and stroked his perineum. Nothing. Not even a little lengthening to suggest a future stiffness to come. I decided to cut to the chase. "Terry, have you ever had a stiffie?", I enquired gently. "What's a stiffie, Sir?", he asked innocently. That pretty much settled it for me. Any eleven-year-old boy who doesn't know what a stiffie is could not possibly have ever had one. But I owed it to Mrs Gillings to be absolutely certain. "It will be easier to show you than try to explain", I replied, standing up. "I'm going to my room to change for bed. Then I will come back, okay?" "Do you wear pyjamas to bed, Sir?" Terry enquired sweetly. He lay back with his head on his hands. "No, Terry, I sleep like you do, in the nude. I will be coming back into your room nude, so I can show you what a stiffie is, is that okay?", I clarified. Terry smiled at me. "Thank you, Sir", he whispered. I slipped off my clothes in the room across the hallway from Terry's room. Mrs Gillings' room was on the other side of the family/dining room. A sliver of light showed under her door. The rest of the house was in darkness. I returned to Terry's room, and I must admit that I was, as they describe in the classics, rampant. I am only modestly equipped in the reproductive organ department, but apparently I had enough to impress Terry. His reaction was very flattering, really. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. Then he gulped. He licked his lips. I could almost see the gears turning inside his head. I sat on the bed and resumed my fingerplay with his tiny tossle. Still no response. Maybe he was resolutely heterosexual? At any rate, I didn't think I needed to tell Terry what a stiffie was anymore. He sat up and reached one hand out to my hardened organ. "It's lovely", he breathed. "It's warm, almost hot! It's soft and hard at the same time! Will mine get like that when I'm older, Sir?". Terry looked me in the eyes, and I think it was at that instant, when he saw the pity in my eyes, that he realised he was not, and would never be, like most other boys. His eyes glistened with tears. (More to come). parrafan@ureach.com