textfiles/sex/EROTICA/0/23_days.txt

23 Days To Go
by Gamin Paramour

The first thing I noticed about him was the reflection of sunlight off of his
bare thigh.  It instantly struck me that his sweet young skin must be so fresh
and smooth it was actually shiny.  As the waitress led me past their table I
tried not to be obvious as I gathered in the sight of him, and tried not to
grin as I realized she was seating me at the very next table.  She placed the
menu at a seat where I would have been facing away, but I would have none of
that, and quickly chose the position at the four-top that would afford me the
clearest view of him.

There were three of them at the table.  The big man with the jet black hair
and the thick moustache wore a uniform with a badge.  This was not as
frightening as it sounds, since the patch on his arm said "Security".  Ain't
afraid of no rent-a-cop.  Across the table from him, with his back to me, sat
a much thinner, somewhat younger man in jeans and a T-shirt, wearing a beeper.
They talked of work, so I assumed he was a rent-a-cop as well.  Next to the
big man sat the boy, doing his best to keep up with the grownup conversation,
darting his gaze back and forth between his dad and the smaller man, laughing
when they laughed whether he understood the joke or not, occasionally throwing
in some comment he hoped the men would find funny.  His intelligent grey eyes
danced, opening wide now and then to register delight when the men included
him in their jokes, then glazing over in boredom when the talk turned to
office politics and what a jerk the boss is.  During one of these lulls the
boy tugged at the brim of his baseball cap, looked around the nearly empty
restaurant in an unsuccessful search for something new and interesting, made
brief eye contact with me, then settled in to play with the only toy at hand,
his own rubbery lips and cheeks.  With his hands he pulled and twisted his
cute features into grotesque distortions.  The men ignored him, but I silently
shared his amusement.  Then just as suddenly something in the conversation
caught his interest, and once again he was a picture of the bright and aware
child, piping in with his high, sharp voice, participating with the men as a
near-equal.

The floor-to-ceiling windows at my back allowed in plenty of light, even under
the table where I had a clear view of one beautiful young thigh.  He wore
clean white denim shorts, carefully hemmed about halfway between his knee and
hip.  These unfortunately were fairly snug around his leg, never allowing even
a glimpse further up.  Still, the visible skin lived up to the promise of my
first impression.  At this angle there was no shiny reflection, but the
streaming sunlight clearly showed that this boy's skin was pink and healthy
and utterly devoid of even the softest downy hairs.  I've seen kids younger
than him whose arms and legs were covered in nearly invisible blond hair, and
though such hair is softer than soft I prefer smooth clear skin like this.
Above the table his arms were similarly smooth, and I imagined him gloriously
nude with not a single hair south of the delicate nape of his neck.

The smaller man teasingly snatched the baseball cap from the boy's head,
revealing close-cropped dark brown hair with short bangs across his forehead.
Despite the fact that I had been thinking to myself over and over, "Man, this
kid is gorgeous!", I suddenly realized that was wrong.  He was a cute boy, but
not beautiful. He had a slightly crooked smile and somewhat too-bushy eyebrows
for one so young, and his two front teeth were just a tad buck for a slight
Chip 'N Dale look.  The short hair also revealed that his ears stuck out a
little, adding to the rodent impression.  I'd seen much prettier boys; indeed
I'd had several prettier boys.  But this one was all boy, and had a great
little body, and obviously struck me enough that I'm sitting here now writing
about him.

Several times the thinner man moved around in his chair and blocked my view,
and I found myself cursing him.  "Get out of the way, asshole!" I shouted
inside my head, though even as the thought formed I knew the man was not
really an asshole.  I felt somehow as though I had a right to observe the boy,
like we had been brought together so that I could see him, share him, make him
part of my world, at least for the duration of breakfast.  I found myself
leaning over into obviously unnatural positions trying to see him, and knew
I'd be noticed if I kept that up, so I reluctantly returned to my magazine.
But then the man moved, and once again I had a semi-clear view of the
prettiest boy, if not in the world at least in the restaurant.

I only caught snatches of their conversation over the hum of the restaurant
air conditioning and the background noise of the few other diners.  I could
better make out what the boy and his father said by reading their lips, but
had no idea at all of the thinner man's contributions, since his back wa to
me.  Still, it was apparent that they were nice people, and I was glad for the
boy that he had a good life and a father who likes him and enjoys his company.
He was clean, healthy and well dressed, and his father smiled at him often and
encouraged his comments. I never saw the father touch the boy or display any
form of physical affection, though I know it's hard to draw any conclusions
from twenty minutes of observation in a restaurant.  Then the boy made it
clear that the thinner man didn't know him, which may have contributed to his
father's reluctance to touch him.

The boy looked at the thinner man and said, "There's only 23 days to go until
my birthday."  I looked him up and down, trying to guess his age, which I put
at 10.  The thinner man must have asked him his birth date, as the boy
answered "July 22nd."  In my brain I asked, "How old will you be?", and the
man must have asked it out loud because the boy smiled and said, "Eleven."

Eleven!  What a fantastic age.  Young enough to be a boy, old enough to begin
to understand there's a world beyond his own experience.  Young enough to
still want to sit on laps and cuddle, old enough to know the pleasure that can
be had with the right kind of touching, and maybe, just maybe, bold enough to
try it.  I remembered being eleven, the desperate longing I had for that kind
of touching with the other boys, of stroking my young cock every night in bed
to visions of all the boys I desired; the ones in my gym class, the ones at
the YMCA, the ones in my judo class, the ones in my scout troop; not knowing
exactly what I wanted to do but knowing ecstasy was out there somewhere.

What does this cute boy think about when he strokes his hairless little dick
in his little bed under his little Power Rangers sheets?  Was he like me at
that age, holding its short stiffness between his thumb and the tips of two
fingers, sliding the taut skin up and down furiously as he pictures one after
another of his young friends parading their beautiful bodies before him?  At
ten years, eleven months and seven days since the miracle of his birth could
he experience the miracle of an orgasm, as I could at his age?  I already had
a little hair then, which I sincerely doubt he has, and I remember the feeling
building up in my boyish loins until I thought I would pee all over myself. How
many times did I quit before the summit was reached, afraid of what seemed
ready to happen?  Was that the stage this boy was at now, jacking his
immature stiffie and enjoying the incredible sensations, but not understanding
the peak he was reaching and backing down too soon?  When would he let it
happen, and for the first time feel himself rush over the edge, feel his tiny
balls clench and strain, feel the universe wash through his being like a giant
wave?  Would he have any cum that first time?  Would he feel it climb the
column of that short cock and burst forth into the air, the almost clear
droplets showering down on his smooth, flat belly like hot rain?  Or would he
be like me, feel it climb the short column all right, but rather than burst
into the air like fireworks merely bubble out of his red, raw-rubbed penis and
dribble down the sides and between his still-stroking fingers, not achieving
his magnificent airborne salvos until months later?  Or would his first orgasm
be intense, thrilling and exciting, but dry?  It was frustrating to realize
that I would never know.

The waitress brought their food, and I was amazed as she just kept putting
plates in front of the boy.  He gazed wide-eyed at the feast, which included a
huge plate of pancakes smothered in fruit and whipped cream ("Yuk," I
thought.) plus two fried eggs and four strips of bacon, plus a small dish of
baked apples plus some kind of baked potato-and-cheese casserole.  He ate more
than either of the men, but I was glad to see he didn't finish everything.  I
would have hated to see such a cute boy puke.

I watched him enjoy his food as I drank coffee and pretended to read my
magazine.  Under the table he bounced one leg with nervous energy, just as I
always did at the dinner table at his age.  His father didn't yell at him for
it, though, as mine always did.  "Go ahead, sweetheart," I said in my head.
"Bounce that pretty thigh for me."  I watched the muscles work under his
smooth skin, and enjoyed the quivering of his flesh as he bounced.  The wooden
chair pushed up at the underside of his thigh, warping it out of its normal
shape and giving it an oblong appearance.  I noticed a small scar at his knee,
and wondered if it was a recent injury or a permanent reminder of some more
serious mishap in the past.  Other than a reddened blemish halfway down his
shin which appeared to be a mosquito bite, his young leg was smooth and
perfect, somewhat tanned already I fancied, though of course I had no way of
knowing his normal skin pigmentation without a glimpse under those tight white
shorts.  I longed for such a glimpse.

They finished breakfast and their plates were cleared.  I was afraid they
would leave, but the men settled in to drink coffee and gab some more and the
boy slouched in his chair with bored resignation.  I watched as he played with
a spoon on the table top, pushing the round end down so that the handle popped
up from the table (like an erection, as only I would observe) and spinning it
around under his fingers.  To do this he lifted his upper arm to the level of
his shoulder and bent it down to the table at the elbow.  Since he wore an
oversized T-shirt which could have fit three of his skinny arms through the
arm holes I found myself with a view up to his hairless chest and armpit.  As
he moved I saw his slight pectorals swell and stretch, and cursed the water
glass that partially obscured this lovely sight.  His armpit was completely
hairless and as pink as the rest of him.  His chest and side looked soft and
ever so slightly rounded with baby fat, and I caught two glimpses of a brown
nipple.  Looking back I'm tempted to remember it being erect, but in honesty I
have to see it as flat and soft as it really was.  Still, it was large and
prominent, and I'll bet it really does get hard with very little stimulation.

When the spoon handle clinked off the water glass a third time, his father
finally reacted and shot the boy a reproachful look, and he stopped his play.
The boy slouched there a few more seconds, then suddenly said something to his
dad and was out of his chair, walking away.  As I stared at his beautiful form
moving up the aisle I realized that he was going to the washroom, and I had an
impulse to oh-so-casually follow him.  I pictured us standing at adjacent
urinals, no barrier between us of course, getting the view of that small penis
I so desired after all.  But I was in the middle of my breakfast, and I
realized it might look suspicious to wait all that time for my food and then
go to the bathroom when it finally comes.  What if someone had noticed me
staring at the boy, then saw me follow him to the washroom?  The father may
not be a real cop, but he was a big guy with a nightstick on his belt.  The
longer I debated the more I realized it was getting too late, that the boy
would be finished by the time I got there. I decided not to go, another
opportunity wasted.  Paranoia is a bitch.

It was several more minutes before the boy returned, and I drank in his image
as he drew closer.  He had a very nice body, and walked with poise and
confidence back to his seat.  I made a point of noticing if he had perhaps
failed to zip his fly all the way or anything of the nature, but there was no
such luck.  He was too young for there to be any discernible bulge in those
tight white shorts, though they showed off his nice round ass to great effect.
Then he flopped back in the same chair as before and waited for his dad to
finish the boring work-related conversation with the thinner man.

I had finished my breakfast and another cup of coffee, and had errands to run,
so I reluctantly took my leave.  I was brave enough to smile at the boy as I
walked by, but he either didn't notice or refused to respond.  I didn't look
back as I left the restaurant, but I didn't have to.  This nameless boy is
burned into my memory, and I'm  sure I'll wish him a silent Happy Birthday 23
days from now.

THE END