Stories of an Old Boy

By: XPud
(© 2018 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

xpud@tickiestories.us

Chapter 7

We awake to the sound of the twins' mother calling us in from the patio. The morning air is still wet with dew, and the stagnant air that greets me when I open the tent flap promises for a regularly hot and miserable late August day. For now, though, it's okay.

The twins (who were almost in the exact same sleeping position as each other when they woke up) unzip the sleeping bag to reveal their brief-clad bodies, the way they prefer to sleep. Cory slept naked but puts his boxers on, not caring much who's watching (not that anyone can blame him after last night). Matty doesn't normally sleep naked, but I had advised him that if he laid his underwear out, they would dry better and he could wear them home. Of course, this led to that faint pee aroma permeating the air around our sleeping bag; if anyone asks, I'll take the blame.

Matty pretends to still be asleep, though I clearly see his eyes tracking the movement of the other boys as they leave the tent. Sneaky, sneaky. As they head out, Matty opens his eyes, listens for them, and then gets out of bed.

"Why are you being so secret?" I wonder aloud.

Matty hangs his head ever so slightly. "I didn't want them to see me put on my wet pants."

"But they're not wet anymore. Look, you can barely see it." I reach over and pick up his briefs, brashly putting them to my face to savor the sweet musk of his dried pee up close. Like I said before--don't judge.

"Ew! What are you doing?!" Matty squeaks, horrified.

"What? I was just checking if I could smell it up close versus far away." I move the briefs to arm's length and sniff. "Yeah, you'll be fine as long as no boys put their faces in your crotch. Except me. You'll still be fine if I do it."

"Phillip, you're gross," Matty says though still unable to keep the smile off his face. He puts on his two pairs of underwear and his jeans, which are too dark to even notice where the damp spot from last night would have been. He gets his socks and shoes and puts them on; I do the same until I realize that one of my socks is covered in a mix of Cory's and my cum. I stuff the dirty sock in the clean one, ball that one up in the plastic bag with my toothbrush (yeah, yeah, I can wash the toothbrush, okay? Geez), put the bag in my pillowcase, and together we put on our shirts and head to breakfast.

Now in my many lives, I've had a decent spread of cuisines from around the world, but surprisingly rarely do I get to enjoy home-cooked Russian food. While we boys sit in relative silence at the table, Mr. Fedorov happily whistles a tune, toasting up bread and stirring some bubbling concoction on the stove.

"Did you boys enjoy your birthday?" Mrs. Fedorov asks her sons.

"Yes, Mama," they say, though in a distinctly heavier Russian accent than they usually use. Cute.

"What did you all do last night?" she inquires while setting the table.

An uncomfortable hush settles over us as we all look to each other for help. Kasha speaks up, "We tell ghost stories and talk about ourselves. Told ghost stories," he adds, still working on fixing those bad habits. "You know. Had fun."

A collective exhalation escapes all of us. I'm too invested in appearing to be a shy, respectful kid to speak up, so I'm glad Kasha has the presence of mind to dice words so quickly. Like I said before, I'd be scared of these two if they ever decided to become serial killers.

Mr. Fedorov cuts in, "Ooh, fun! One day, Vik will maybe tell you the story of Baba Yaga, the witch. Eats children. Good story."

"Yes, Papa," Vik responds mechanically.

"What are we having for breakfast?" Cory asks.

"Of course, we eat kasha for breakfast! Kasha, go get knife."

As the rest of the table stares at Mr. Fedorov with a mix of confusion and concern, Kasha rolls his eyes and sighs, apparently having heard this one a few dozen times too many. He explains to the table, "Kasha is like...like oatmeal, but different. Different seeds...um, grains."

I'm familiar with it, but only from a few lives past. It's basically porridge, which is to say utterly flavorless until you drop in a stick of butter and a pound of cinnamon sugar.

Breakfast also includes rye toast with a selection of jams and real butter, some sort of sausage, and a strange, thick, kombucha-like carbonated drink called kvass, which if I were you, I'd just go look it up. It's hard to explain more than that. Anyway, this one is strawberry-flavored, and actually really damn good. Finally, there's also good old-fashioned milk and American cereal available for pickier palates. Matty happens to have one of those extra-refined palates, meaning he only eats extra-refined foods.

The kasha is exactly as described earlier, but with said condiments available at the table, it is delicious and filling, and it goes down great with the kvass. I try to get Matty to try the kvass, but he gags even at the thought of drinking it.

After breakfast, everyone says their goodbyes and gets out their cellphones. As we arrange homeward travel, I overhear Matty's conversation with his mom: "Mom, can you come pick me up? ...Yeah, I'm ready now. ...Oh, he's coming over to our place? I thought I was gonna--okay. When? ...All right." Hm. Sounds like James is going to go to Matty's place, not the other way around.

Good.

I wave at Matty and point to myself and him alternatingly, mouthing 'Ask if I can come over.'

Matty does so, and nods back at me. "Okay, Mom. Love you too. Bye." As he hangs up, he gives me a look of suspicion. "Are you just coming over to do something to James?"

"What? No!" I say, only half-lying; it's not the only reason I want to come over. I lead Matty outside, away from the other boys, and continue. "...But I don't want you alone with James."

Matty looks down, scanning the floor back and forth. "I'll be okay."

"You deserve better than being alone with an abuser. Your mom doesn't know, does she?" The last is more of a statement of fact than an inquiry.

Matty still doesn't look up, but instead squints and shakes his head, flinging a teardrop to the side. "Look, it's...it's fine, okay?"

"No offense," I sigh, "but I don't really believe that. If you really don't want me to come along, I can tell my mom to pick me up when I call her."

"No, no, no," he says quickly. "You can come over. Just don't...just be nice, okay?"

"I'll try," I say with utter insincerity.

"Promise me."

...Fuck. "I promise I'll be nice." Double fuck.

We go back inside to avoid the rapidly encroaching heat of the day, and I call my mom to let her know. She comments that she hardly gets a chance to see me on the weekends anymore, and that my sisters keep wondering where I am, and that Dad says that I need to mow the lawn this weekend, and...

"Mom, mom. Mom. I know. It's just...Matty's new in town and doesn't have a lot of friends, and he's a lot more fun to hang out with than my sisters, you know? Besides, I'll do the lawn tomorrow, I promise. I'll even do the dishes, dirty or clean, whichever is needed. You know I will."

She sighs. "Okay, dear. I do want you home for dinner, though."

"All right, Mom."

"Love you."

"You too."

We say our goodbyes to the Fedorovs once Matty's mother arrives, and we head off to his place. The car ride is mostly quiet, except for the required questions about how it was, did you boys have fun, etc. I notice that she doesn't mention anything about whether everything was 'okay,' her terrible code word for 'were there any accidents.'

Shortly after we arrive, his mom gets the call that James's plane has landed and she needs to go pick him up. We promise that we'll be fine here, and with that, she's off before she even had a chance to sit down. Matty and I head to his room; he sits on the bed, and I sit alongside him.

"So," I start, "what did you think about last night?"

Matty's eyes go wide with excitement and wonder. "It was awesome. I want my birthday party to be like that!"

"When is it?"

"September 18th. I'll be 12 finally!"

"Oh?" I feign ignorance. "I thought you were already 12, and were gonna be 13." The truth is that, as I was planning that fateful day in Gym, I had sneaked a look at the class rosters to find out his name, and his date of birth was of course printed next to it.

"No, I'm actually a year early."

"Really?! Did you skip a grade?"

Matty gets this wonderful look of incredulity on his face, as if the very notion were inconceivable. "No, I wish. Before I was in Akronis, I went to private school, right? Growing Grove Academy. It was a Montessori school, so we went at our own pace, and they let people start early if they're ready, so I basically started right before I was 5. I mean, I did okay and all that, but then last year when I got cancer..." He pauses, a glum sigh escaping him. "I did as much work as I could while I was in chemo, but a lot of the time, I was either really sick or really tired, or really just both. I found out that I was going to have to go to public school because my parents didn't have the money anymore to keep me in private school."

"Sucks," I say. "But hey, at least I got to meet you, right?"

Matty can't help but smile a bit. "Yeah, but...so anyway, my mom had to fight with the school because they wanted to hold me back a year because of my attendance, but my old school said I did just fine and recommended I keep moving. Akronis said I was too young, GG said I did just fine and I should stay...why are you laughing?"

"Sorry," I say between snorts. "GG Academy is the best name for a school ever." GG, for you non-gamers out there, means "Good Game"; it's said at the end of a match of any online game, but usually by the victor to the defeated.

Matty doesn't get it for a moment, and then realizes how it sounds. "Oh, hah, I never thought of that. That's awesome." (He clearly doesn't find it as funny as I do.) "So yeah, Mom basically says to put me in remedial classes so I can stay in 7th grade like I was supposed to, and they finally agree, so here we are."

"Cool, cool," I say, nodding as I absorb the info. "So, back to last night, did anything make you uncomfortable?"

Matty considers. "No, not really. I mean it was really sexy. Oh, you know what? I had really weird dreams last night about it."

"Oh, really?" I inquire.

"Yeah. I mean, I can't remember it all, but so like, first I was in the tent, but it was just you and me except I had a twin, and we were all sitting naked talking. And then like, I remember messing around with you, like, you know, jerking you off? And my twin was...I think he was sucking my dick? Either that or just watching. So then I was at school, but I wasn't wearing my pants. I said I had to go to the bathroom to find my pants, but I walked out of the room and into my shower...I don't know, it was weird. But then I started peeing, but it was, um..." he trails off for a moment, "it was...I was peeing on you." He wiggles uncomfortably at that last statement, adjusting himself with one hand.

I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't gotten off yesterday multiple times, I'd be close to shooting in my holster right now. Goddamn, that's hot. I can almost bet you that the peeing part was prompted by me leading him outside; he doesn't seem to remember doing so. "Dreams are allowed to be weird and uncomfortable, but they often tell you things. Not always, but still," I add, hinting. "Was that the end?"

"As far as I can remember, yeah," he replies." After a pause he adds, "You know, I think I probably am gay."

I shrug. "Well, like you said: you like what you like, right? It's cool if you are. I mean, I'm okay with it," I say with a knowing smile. He snorts a small laugh. "So," I continue, "what was your favorite thing that happened last night? Other than having your dick in my mouth." The thought stirs up my arousal even farther.

"Watching you having sex with the twins was really...wow. And Cory...why, um, why did you let him cum inside you?"

"I dunno," I said. "It was just the heat of the moment. I didn't tell him not to."

Matty ponders this. "Isn't that supposed to be unsafe?"

"I mean, technically yeah, but only if he has an STD or something, and I really don't think he's had much chance to have sex with someone who has one." Matty has a point, though; who's to say he doesn't have something he got from birth? Or even worse, from being molested? As I'm keenly aware, the second one is all too real of a possibility. "But you're right," I say. "I should have been more safe."

He shrugs. "It was really awesome to watch, though." He adjusts himself slightly again; I can't see the bulge, as he points too close to his belly to prevent that. Hm...he's still wearing those jeans. We should probably get those changed; I say as much.

"Actually, I'll get into new ones after I take a shower." With that he drops them straight off and heads to the bathroom. I swear, I'm not sure how he does that with that round bum. No hips, but still.

I'd rather not be in there with him if his mom gets home, so I wait in his room. Now that I've got a moment to myself, I look around a bit more. Apart from his TV and game system setup, all he's got is his twin bed, a dresser, and a dirty clothes hamper; it's all that fits in the main area while still having room to sit. In his open closet, I see his shirts hanging up, some boxes of who-knows-what on the shelf above, and a large...what looks to be a treasure chest complete with gold-painted trim and big keyhole. If that's his toy chest, that's just amazing; it's like it came straight from a dragon's hoard. The walls have plenty of posters, of course, and the wall-mounted shelves not only have a decent collection of action figures, but a couple of dusty trophies. I'll ask him about those later.

For now, though, I really can't help myself. There're two pairs of underwear and a pair of jeans that are filled with the intoxicating scent of pee (not the kind that you crumple up and leave wet--that just smells like gross mildew; I have standards, you know) sitting right next to me, and I've just been talking with my crush about his sex dreams. I take the inner pair of briefs and put them up to my nose; as I inhale, the thrill is both ineffable and incomparable. My dick immediately starts straining even harder against my pants, and I look in the direction of the shower, deciding if I have time. I mean, he'd probably be okay with it, but I'd rather just get this done now without having to explain. I unbuckle and unzip quickly, and start beating furiously while pressing the underwear to my face. I look absolutely absurd, I know, but nothing else matters at this moment, just a nose full of pheromones and an orgasm begging to get out.

It starts to ache a bit--I mean, collectively, I've spent a lot of time being hard over the last 24 hours--but after one more lung-full of that irresistible aroma, I pass the point of no return; I furiously pound until the last possible second and clamp Matty's briefs on my dick. The orgasm shoots stars through my eyes and spasms up my spine as it pumps a volley or two of cum into the now doubly-soiled briefs (after that, I shoot blanks for the rest of it). It takes a moment for the effects to subside, but it feels like an eternity of bliss.

I hear the water turn off through the pipes in the house. Uh oh. I scramble to shove the soiled briefs into the other ones, ball up the whole mess, and have just enough time to zip myself up and go slam dunk the bundle of soiled clothes into the hamper before Matty comes bounding naked into the room. He looks at the floor, and at me, and remarks, "Oh. You didn't need to do that; I coulda got it."

"It's cool, I mean I was just sitting here, right?" Play it off, play it off, play it off--

"Well, thanks." He gets yet another pair of identical briefs from the drawer and puts them on. He decides to put on another pair again, as it did seem to help with at least preventing the accident from running down his leg last night. I spy that though most of his underwear is plain white, he still has a few with cartoon figures on them; I think the top pair was Transformers. He gets fully dressed in a pair of lighter blue jeans and an old, faded olive green t-shirt with a 'GG Science Fair' logo on it complete with a bubbling beaker, a graduated cylinder, and a Rutherfordian atomic model (the one with all the intersecting ovals that people think of when they think of atoms). I still can't help but snicker at the ridiculousness of having 'GG' on everything.

Afterward, we play a few rounds of Black Ops before his mom arrives with cousin in tow. We go out to the living room to meet him: an average-height boy in his late teens with long, silky brown hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing khakis with a Tommy Hilfiger polo. What is with these guys dressing fancy on the weekend? I may never understand that.

When he sees Matty, he cracks a one-sided smile and waves. "Hey."

"James!" Matty says, practically hopping over to hug him. "What's up?"

"Nada. You?"

"Nada lot more." They both chuckle. Sounds like dad-joke level inside humor to me.

"Well, boys," Mom says after a short and awkward silence, "I know that I'm basically living in my car today, but I need to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Will you boys be okay for an hour or so? We'll all do something fun when I get back."

We all reassure her that everything will be fine and nothing will be set on fire that can't be put out quickly (I'd like James's sense of humor if he wasn't a filthy rapist) and she's out on trip three of the day. We all hang out in the living room for a little while longer, having small talk.

The rage builds within me; I can't stand sitting here seeing the rapist of my little Matty and pretending that he doesn't deserve to be punched in the face. So, as he gets up from the sofa to go to the bathroom, I haul off and jam my fist straight into his worthless balls.

As he doubles over, confusion blossoming on his face before the pain sets in, I bring his head down and my knee up, the two meeting in his left eye socket. All of this happens in the span of a second; immediately afterward, I start yelling at him, "How DARE you rape Matty? What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Matty screeches, "Phillip! Stop! Stop!!" as he waves his hands frantically in front of himself. Why is he protecting this shitbag?

James has rolled over to his side, holding his eye with one hand and his crotch with the other. Honestly, I expected more fight out of the guy. If I'd have known he'd roll over and take it, I wouldn't have bruised my knee. The adrenaline is preventing me from feeling it, though.

He grunts out, "What...the hell, man? What are you talking about?"

"Matty told me everything," I said, crouching down over his face. "You piece of shit, raping your own little cousin--"

"HE DIDN'T DO IT!" Matty screams, crying profusely. He runs a step or two over towards us to intervene, but is overcome with emotion; he sinks to his knees and hides his face with his hands.

You've got to be kidding me.

"No. He didn't do it! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Matty repeats, wailing the last one. Apparently I said that last thought aloud. "You promised you'd be nice!" he yelled between sobs.

A promise I had no intention of keeping. "Matty, I..." I sigh. "Fuck. James, I'm sorry. Matty told me you molested him. I was just protecting him."

James, by this time, had already gotten to his knees. I offer him a hand up; he grasps it, pulls himself up with one hand, and strikes me across the cheek with a backhanded fist. I stagger backward, my mind flaring with agony and rage as I regain my footing. I realize, though, that as he's not making any further moves to attack me, that he deserved to get that hit in, and I deserved to take it. I dealt with this in the most base, immature way possible, and I absolutely deserved that.

The right side of my face throbs and my vision takes a moment to clear up. "Thank you," I say, head still turned to the side.

James doesn't comment on it. Instead, he says, "I would never--NEVER--hurt Matty. We messed around, but it was all just showing him how things work down there. I never went near his butt, not even a finger. Hell, the only thing I ever did was show him how to jack off by putting his fingers on his own dick and demonstrating. Matty, why did you say I hurt you? Why would you even bring all that up, anyway? What the hell is going on here?!" James's voice has risen to a shout by now.

Matty is just crying in a heap a few feet away, not answering. I remain silent, as well, taking it all in. I can't believe Matty lied to me, and no, the irony of that doesn't escape me. Worse, there's nothing I can do to rewind this, either; not only will Matty not confess until this point, but there's no way I could know this unless Matty were to tell me. Further, I'm not rewinding with Matty anymore. I'm playing it all out this time around.

"James, hold on. Let me say my part. For one, I sincerely apologize for attacking you. I really only was doing it for Matty." At this, Matty cries out in a full-lunged wail. "I could have...handled it better, though."

Rubbing his eye, James mutters, "You think? Fuck, dude. You're lucky I don't kick your ass right now."

"Would you have done the same for Matty?"

He considers this, and shrugs in begrudging agreement.

"As for why we talked about it...Matty and I, well, really like each other, and--"

"PHILLIP!" Matty squeals. This really isn't his day. "What are you doing?!"

"Telling the truth. All of it. He deserves to know. We all have a lot of truth to tell right now, and I'm going first. James, Matty and I were messing around, and when I was going to, well, show him the thing you didn't show him, he freaked out and ran away. He claimed that someone had molested him, and he blamed you."

"What the fuck, Matty?" James snaps. "Why?!"

"Please," I say over Matty's continued howling, "you're not helping by yelling at him. He feels bad enough already." It hurts me to let him sit there and cry, but calming him and comforting him isn't going to solve this. I need to know what happened. "What's important is that I don't think he's lying about the molesting part, even if he lied about it being you."

James is seething, both at me for my assault and Matty for throwing him under the bus. Nevertheless, I see reason come to his eyes as he switches gears to protecting Matty instead of yelling at him. "Matty? Is that true?"

Matty stops crying for a moment and looks up at James and me with one of the most pitiful looks I have ever seen a young boy give before his entire face contorts and he lapses into another body-wracking cry of anguish. That's answer enough, I think.

"Matty." I sit next to him. "This is important. Who molested you?"

Matty, finally running low on tears, sits up and looks at James and me. James sits down where he is, a few feet from us both. Closing his eyes and squinting against the urge to keep crying, Matty manages to say, "Daddy."

My heart hits the floor. "Are you absolutely telling the truth, Matty? This is a very very serious thing, and James and I both care about you a whole lot. You're telling the whole truth?"

Matty nods slowly, swallowing sob after sob.

God, so many questions. James is poleaxed; his wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare says everything. He whispers, "No way. Oh my God."

"When did this happen?" I ask softly.

"A couple of times."

The pit in my stomach tightens up at this. I barely even realize that I'm whispering, "No. No, no, no..." Not my Matty. I take a deep breath, and compose myself. "When did he start?" I whisper.

The look that Matty gives me is one that I've seen on prisoners of war, on kidnapping victims, on those who have suffered extended trauma. "Before he left."

"You mean he did it here?" James says, incredulous. "How did your mom not know? Why didn't--"

"James, please," I say firmly, even with a high crack in my voice on 'please.' "I know we're all freaking out right now, but we have to stay calm. Please." James shuts his mouth impatiently, but somewhat obediently. At least the boy has some sense. "Can you tell us more? I understand if it's hard to talk about."

Matty takes a shuddering breath. "Daddy was drunk one day while Mom was at work. Daddy started drinking a lot all of a sudden, don't really know why. Sometimes he'd come home drunk, but he only ever drank at home when Mom was gone. I was eating dinner, and he...he came in from the living room and he asked me why Mom never had sex with him anymore. I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't. He asked me if I knew what sex was. I said yes. He asked me how and I said because James showed me." At this point, the faucets turn back on in his eyes, and the words pour out as the tears do. "He made me tell him what James showed me, and then he said he would show me the rest. He pushed me into my room, and put me on the bed, and he put...he put his...it hurt so bad but he wouldn't listen to me when I said stop, he just..." He trails off, visibly shaking, staring into nowhere, tears streaming steadily off his face onto his legs.

I've watched people die, outside and inside. I've killed. I've been in wars and watched people come out as hollow shells. Nothing, though, has as powerful an impact on me as the spiritual death of a young child. I lunge forward and grab him, hugging his head to my chest. I don't really care that my tears are dripping into his hair, or that my shirt is getting wet from his.

Matty continues, "He promised me that if I ever told anyone, especially Mom, that he'd take away everything he gave me and make sure Mom goes broke. After that, he never talked about it, like it didn't happen."

"Matty," James starts, "I didn't mean to, I mean, I didn't know he would..."

Releasing Matty, I hold up a hand for silence. "If it wasn't you, it'd have been me. Or someone else. You're not at fault." I turn to Matty, placing a hand on his. "You said he did it a couple of times. When else did he?"

"When Mom and Daddy separated, I started going over to his place every other weekend, before I got cancer. The first night I was there, I was sleeping on the couch-bed and I wet the bed. I don't know why. I didn't normally wet the bed. It wasn't on purpose. I tried to hide it, but Daddy smelled it. I knew he'd be mad, but he was already drunk in the morning and...he told me he'd teach me to grow up and stop wetting the bed." The sudden squinting silence from Matty fills in the blank. After a pause, he collects himself. "I begged Mom not to make me go over anymore, but I was too scared to tell her why. I just said it was boring, but she said I had to because of custody rules. He never did it again, even though I had started wetting the bed sometimes, but then I got cancer so that messed up things anyway as far as going to his place."

A silence settles over the three of us. Matty looks up at me with the most pitiful eyes and asks, "You can fix it, right? All this?"

I wipe the tears out of my eyes. "If you can trust me--I know I literally just broke a promise earlier--but I swear to you that I will find a way to make this better. When is the next time you go?"

"I was gonna go today, but Mom convinced him to let me stay since James was gonna be in town. I'm s'posed to go over there the next two weekends now. I still don't wanna go. What if he's drunk again, and I make him mad? What if..."

"It's okay, Matty, it's okay. We'll figure something out." I stare into his eyes to make sure he understands me, and then abruptly change volume and energy level. "Well. We don't know when your mom's going to be home, and I don't think you're ready for her to know, are you?"

Matty just shakes his head vigorously.

"So we should probably go clean up, then. James?"

"Dude," he responds, standing up. "His mom needs to know. Now."

"I know this may seem weird, but that could make things worse right now. Trust me. What we need right now is an ice pack for your face. We were...we were rough-housing and your head hit mine right here," I say, pointing to the massive lump on my cheek. Matty, if she asks, you were crying because when we were wrestling, I accidentally stepped on your fingers and it hurt really bad. Clean story, no worries."

"Well, rough-housing hasn't sucked that bad since my brother broke my arm. Good job."

"I do my best," I say with a shrug. "Come on, we're on the clock here."

James gives me an analytical glare, but eventually steps to it.

We all head to the kitchen, where Matty washes his face and James and I make ice packs for our own faces. I could use one for my knee as well, but oh well. If anyone asks, I'll say that I fell on it. Regardless, no sooner does Matty sit down than his Mom comes in the door with bags of groceries that she nearly drops in shock at the sight of us. She hurriedly puts them on the counter while chiding us, "I leave for less than an hour and you boys do...ugh, what happened? What did you do?"

"Sorry, ma'am," I say with downcast eyes. "We started talking about wrestling, and then we started wrestling, and...yeah it was really stupid. We're sorry." The other boys know well enough to stay silent.

"We'll figure the rest of this fiasco out in a moment. All of you, come help me get groceries so it'll only be one trip." I at least have to admire her sensibility.

Each step hurting a little more than before thanks to my knee, we get the groceries in and put away post-haste and she grills us on what happened. James and I work together to assure her that it was really just an accident and that we both feel stupid about it, no nothing's broken in the house, yes James is 5 years older than me but I started it really, we both should have known better, no we won't do it again.

"Well," she begins, "I had an idea earlier that at least will get us out of the house and occupy you two so you don't get any 'bright ideas' again. What do y'all think about going to the Museum of Natural Science?"

Matty instantly pops up out of his chair in the kitchen. "YEAH!"

I blink, not used to seeing quite that level of excitement from him. I mean, I knew he was a science kid, but damn. "Sure, sounds cool."

James nods. "I haven't been to this one in years."

"Excellent." She picks her purse back up for the umpteenth time today and announces, "Boys, go use the restroom now--it's a long drive in traffic, but if we leave now, we'll have time to enjoy the museum and maybe catch a movie there. Matty, get a drink after you're done, please."

Matty scrambles practically over the back of the chair in a rush to the restroom, though I think it's just to hurry things along rather than an emergency. James takes the master bathroom, and I wait my turn. Soon, we're all packed in the sedan, James in the front and Matty and me in the back, off to an exciting day in the museum.

The drive itself would have only been 30 minutes if not for the Saturday traffic (traffic in the downtown area is never good, not even on a Sunday during church). On the way, Matty starts to get a bit antsy, worry putting soft creases in his smooth skin.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" I quietly inquire.

"I don't know," Matty whines softly. "I can't tell until it's usually too late. I mean, if I push a little bit here," he indicates by pressing down just above his pelvis lightly, "I can feel the need, but I don't know how long I have."

I slide my hand over the seat and place it on top of his. "Worrying about it is only gonna make you need to go more. We'll be fine."

He doesn't reply, but the concern on his face doesn't lighten much. After a few more minutes of stop-and-go traffic, we break free of the clog and hit a nice city cruising speed (and more than a few red lights). When we arrive, Matty sets the pace by essentially power walking to the museum. He doesn't even wait for confirmation before booking it to the restrooms.

"I'm going to go, too," I say over my shoulder as I try to keep up.

Matty whimpers, "I can feel it--I have to go!"

"Can you make it?"

"I think so. I hope so." He slams the bathroom door open like a running back going for the touchdown, wheels around the corner, fumbles with his button, and unleashes a torrent into the urinal just in time.

Well, I was going to go, but now watching that act of desperation has made it a lot harder to pee, so to speak. I mean, I feel sorry for him and his condition, but I can't help it if it turns me on, too. He zips back up after a solid 40-second pee, and I can see beads of sweat on his forehead under the harsh lighting as we wordlessly head out of the bathroom.

He perks back up quickly after receiving his ticket to the general exhibitions, and before long, he becomes our de facto tour guide.

"So these guys are crustaceans," Matty says, pointing to a group of conch shells on exhibit on the evolution of marine life, "which means they have to have water to survive, not like amphibians. But you know those little bugs, those roly-polies?" Matty is practically chattering at the rate he's explaining things.

James asks with an obviously amused smile on his face, "You mean like pillbugs?"

"I grew up calling 'em doodlebugs," I add, "but yeah, what about 'em?"

"They're totally crustaceans. They have gills, or at least they need to breathe water, even though they live on the land. Pretty neat." He seems both smug at his knowledge and utterly excited about the entire thing; it's fucking adorable. I try not to smile constantly, but it's hard.

When we get to the physics area, I'm able to fill in some of the blanks on things he doesn't know (which isn't all that much, considering). We spend a good deal of time bouncing the gargantuan Newton's Cradle balls back and forth, floating Styrofoam balls on air currents coming from little cones, and sending ridiculous whispers to each other across the entire room via two huge dishes on opposite walls. I always liked that one.

Eventually, Matty's mom points out that we have just enough time to grab a quick bite to eat before the 3D Journey into Black Holes show is on. On our way over to the café, Matty tells us all about how black holes are actually not really holes, but they're also not really a 'thing' anymore because all the matter goes into a tiny point but the event horizon is huge...if I were any other kid, I'd probably be very annoyed. As it is, I feel almost proud of him, as if I were a family member listening to him enumerate his accomplishments. We scarf down some burgers and get a couple of large sodas for the movie, and then head into the theater.

It's decently packed, but we manage to find a spot for three in the upper middle seats. The movie itself is pretty awesome, I have to admit; entering a black hole with 3d glasses on is trippy, to say the least, and the science is explained pretty solidly. After half of my soda and not going earlier, though, my bladder finally catches up to me; I excuse myself near the end and head to the restroom, where there's already a line.

Now, I know that I've been around a while in my mind, but this body hasn't, and it's not used to having to wait a super long time to go to the bathroom. Admittedly, by the time the line is through to me, I feel a little bit like Matty looks when he pulls his undies down and blasts. Granted, I have a little bit more to fish out than he does, but I damn near wet the top of my briefs as I barely get it out in time. I bask in the wonderful spine-tingling relief of letting out an angrily full bladder for a good while (though soda usually makes me have to go before my bladder is all the way full, sadly). I shake the last few drops out and move out of the way for the next guy, a rotund, red-bearded guy who blocks my path for an awkwardly long time as we try to maneuver around in the small restroom area.

As soon as I get past him, though, Matty flings the door open, bouncing. His face is filled with panic. As soon as he sees all of the urinals taken, though, his eyes widen more, and he quickly grasps at his crotch. It doesn't help: his bladder is done holding, and there's nothing he can do about it. A dark spot spreads quickly across the front of his light blue jeans and down his legs as pee drips from between his fingers. It continues long enough for him to turn beet-red and tears to fill his eyes before he's even done peeing; by the time the flow stops, his entire inseam area is soaked through, and there's a puddle surrounding his feet, slowly trailing off into the central floor drain.

Red-Beard and the guy next to him at the stalls both look over at the sound of liquid dripping on tile, and like true men adhering to the Man Code, neither says a word, instead just walking around him like he (and the puddle) didn't exist. Matty just stands in the center of the bathroom, paralyzed. A younger boy, probably around 3 or 4, comes out of a stall with his dad; as they walk by, the boy points at Matty and says, "Uh oh Daddy, he pee-peed!" The dad just yanks the boy's hand and jerks him away silently, not even bothering to stop at the sinks before exiting.

I can tell that Matty is straining against every impulse to break down; he is practically quivering with the effort. I take him by the shoulders and lead him to the back stall, opening it for him. He obeys silently, standing in front of the toilet.

I assure him, "I'll be right back. Just stay here for a moment. Take off your pants and sit on the toilet, so you don't have to sit in wet pants."

Though tears are falling, I'm guessing he's dealing with it by just listening to me and doing as I say. Whatever works. Once he gets himself situated, I hang his pants up by a belt hook on the back of the stall door and start heading back to the theater.

His mom sees me halfway and smiles. "Hey, Phillip. Did you see Matty come this way?"

"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "look, you might want to stop by the gift shop and buy a souvenir towel. A big one."

James looks a bit confused by the suggestion, as if I were speaking code, but Matty's mom gets it immediately. "Damn it," she whispers under her breath.

"Wait, what's up?" James asks, but before he gets an answer, she's off to the gift shop.

I head to the bathroom with James in hot pursuit. "What happened? Is everything okay?"

"It's fine, it's..." I start, but sigh. "Matty had an accident."

"He peed himself?"

I blink. "Yeah. That's why we're getting a towel."

"He's a little old for that, isn't he?" James asks cluelessly. Apparently he doesn't know the story.

"He's...he's got a condition," I say, not offering more.

James opens his mouth to say something, but it's intercepted by an epiphany. "Oh. This has to do with the cancer thing, huh?"

"Yeah, basically. Look, don't talk to him about it at the moment. He's fragile right now, and it's best to keep the illusion that you're not aware of it."

James gives me another look like he did earlier this morning, that scrutinizing look when I started barking orders. "How old are you?" he asks.

"Twelve, going on twelve hundred," I reply matter-of-factly.

James's eyebrows lower further, but he shakes his head. "You're weird."

"I get that a lot." Maybe I should watch my vocabulary a bit more; then again, maybe not. It's kinda fun watching people try to figure me out.

Matty's mom comes back with a galaxy-themed beach towel and hands it to me. "Dry him off with one side, and we can use the other side for the car seat. It's big enough."

I take it back in and over to Matty, whose red-rimmed eyes barely register my presence. I take his pants and, with one side of the towel, carefully squeeze the wetness out of the crotch and the inseams of each leg, wringing the towel out a bit over the floor drain between stalls. (Whoever figured out to install those is a damn genius and I salute them.)

I lead a rather vacant Matty out of the bathroom wearing his damp jeans; there's no real way we can hide the evidence, so the other three of us walk around him in a protective clump to minimize notice. We get to the car, drape the dry side of the towel over the back seat leaving the damp part on the floorboards, and all load into the car.

Only at this point does Matty burst into tears. After a moment, he starts apologizing, "I'm sorry," in drawn-out cries.

"You don't need to apologize, Matty," I say to console him. "It was an accident."

"B-but we had to-to leave because of meeeeee," the 'me' dissolving into another wail.

Looking in the rear view at us, his mother remarks, "That was the last thing we were doing there anyway. We had basically seen all the exhibits."

Matty responds, "But I messed up again, 'cuz I-I can't learn how to not pee my pants like-like a big baby."

I look at him with pity as I realize there's really nothing I could say right now to calm him down. He's sitting in wet pants after having 'ruined' a trip to one of his favorite places, embarrassed himself in front of a bunch of strangers and his older cousin, whom he seems to respect, and is so frustrated I can see the veins popping out near his temples. I try to hold his hand, but he yanks it away angrily, on the verge of throwing a tantrum in the car.

We all pointedly ignore his fit until he calms down, and the rest of the trip is in silence. Matty looks practically deflated by the time we reach home, having had to stew in the silence and the evidence of his own powerlessness.

When we get home, he changes clothes, whipping his wet pants against the wall where they fall into the hamper. He comes out of his room in light gray cargo shorts.

His mom states, "We need to talk. Matty, Phillip too. James, you can go hang out in Matty's room if you don't want to be part of this."

"No," James insists, "I really don't like seeing Matty like this. I want to help."

Matty stays silent, but looks sullenly at everyone before plopping down heavily on the couch. I sit next to him; he doesn't resist. His mom sits in the recliner, and James pulls up a chair from the kitchen, closing the irregular circle.

"Matty," she begins, "I know things have been hard for you since the surgery. I want you to know that I'm not mad about it when you have accidents; it's not entirely your fault."

"But it's still my fault a little bit?" Matty says with an accusatory sarcasm.

She ignores it. "That's not the point I'm trying to make here. I care about you and want you to be happy, and I want you to be able to do the things you want to do without having to live in fear of having an accident."

"But how can I do that?!" he snaps.

"This isn't going to be the easiest thing for you to hear," she admits, "but I need to you think carefully about possibly, until your system adapts, assuming that it will...I want you to consider wearing, well, protective underpants."

Matty doesn't fall for the euphemism at all. "You mean diapers. I knew it. You're just proving that I'm a baby." He whips the last words out in hate and anger, less at his mother than at himself.

His mother sits up, raises her chin, and announces, "Matthew Kenneth Petersen. You are not a baby. If you want me to treat you like a baby, then you can go straight to bed without dinner if you're going to throw a fit right now."

Matty sinks visibly at the 'full-name treatment,' and mutters, "Sorry, Mom."

"You're not a baby. I don't think you're a baby. Phillip, do you think he's a baby?"

"I've already told you, Matty, that you don't look like, or act like, any baby I've met. That doesn't change, even if--heck, especially if you have an issue that arose from a serious, life-threatening thing. You're way stronger than a lot of people your age. Well, our age." Matty sneaks me a knowing sidelong glance at my slip-up, but I continue. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure a baby wouldn't be able to stay as cheerful and as happy as you have. James, what do you think? Baby or not?"

"Well," he says with a smirk, "are we talking about his fit he had in the car? Because if so..." he trails off, noticing the daggers coming from Matty's mom's eyes. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Look, Matty, I was a bed wetter until I was 10, and I didn't even have cancer to blame for it."

Matty challenges him with, "Yeah, well, I'm still one now," though it's easy to tell his heart's not in it.

"Did you hear the part where I didn't have cancer to blame for it? Guess what: you have an excuse." James seems out of ammo, but it was a good shot, at least. Matty looks away, but an experienced eye can see the words sinking in.

"As I was saying," his mom interjects, "I know you don't want the embarrassment of wearing a diaper, but look at the alternative. You do okay sometimes, but there are times when it's hard to keep drinking the amount of water you need to and still get to the bathroom in a reasonable time, like movies or long car rides." She lets the 'realness' of those two situations sink in before continuing. "Also, they're good for...other times." She subtly leans her head toward his bedroom. "And it's not like you're going to be walking around with a huge baby diaper or anything. I can show you a couple online that I researched--"

"Mom!" Matty interrupts. "You were already looking at diapers?!"

"Honey, I care about you, and it hurts to see you get so frustrated when you have an accident. Of course I was looking for solutions. You HAVE been having more accidents recently, after all."

"MOM!" Matty screeches, tears filling his eyes. "It's just 'cuz...it's 'cuz I get distracted sometimes, but it's mostly just when Phillip is, um, when Phillip's around." The realization hits him in a way that I don't think he was expecting. Hell, I wasn't really expecting it, either. Once the words are out of his mouth, though, he gives me this look, one that I can only describe as seeing something in a whole new way. I don't think I like it.

"I mean, yeah, I've been over a lot, recently," I say, "but it's not like I try to make you pee or anything. I don't want you to be embarrassed." Ironically, those words burn into my chest and face as I say them.

Matty leans in toward me a bit and says, "Oh yeah? Well, why didn't you stop it from happening?"

Oh my fucking God, he did not just pull that card. I very carefully state, "You don't know what you're asking right now. I think you're just trying to place the blame on others, and I won't let the conversation go that way." I put special emphasis on the right words to make sure Matty knows that I will do what I must to protect my secret, even if I've vowed to stop rewinding with him.

Matty stares at me with seething suspicion, but his mother interjects again, "Okay, I think emotions are getting out of hand here, so I think we're done for now. Matty, I won't force you, but I really want you to think about it, okay? I promise they're not as obvious as you think they are."

"Yeah, right," Matty says petulantly.

I sigh. "You remember Zacky from last night?"

"Yeah, why?" Matty replies.

"Did you see his diaper?"

He stares at me with furrowed brows. "What?"

"That's what I thought," I say, shrugging. "Even you didn't see it. That's what I went to talk to him about. He wears diapers."

That actually seems to hit a critical spot in Matty's logic. "Why does he need diapers?" is all he can think of to ask.

"I didn't ask him. Not my business. But if he can get away with it, you can, easily. Besides, like your mom said, you don't have to wear them all the time. Like, you could probably get away without them at school; you've done pretty well at avoiding accidents and all that. That way, you wouldn't have to worry about, like, changing out at P.E."

"Yeah," Matty says absently, still processing everything.

James stands up and stretches. "I'm sorry to cut it short, but do you mind if I go take a shower? I was in a hurry this morning and didn't get to, and I always forget how sweaty I get down here."

Matty's mom points James to the shower and towel closet. As they leave, Matty asks softly, "Can we talk real quick in my room? While James is away."

We go into his room and sit on his bed. I wait patiently as Matty struggles for a moment to collect his thoughts. Finally, he asks, "Phillip? Why did you let it happen? Why did you let me pee myself in front of everyone in the museum?" His eyes mist up, but his voice doesn't quaver.

"Matty. I can't save you every time something's going to happen. You'll just start expecting it, and then what happens when I'm not there?"

"But you WERE there."

"Not the point, and you know it. I can't be your training wheels. Besides, you know how I said I wasn't going to rewind anymore with you? That goes both ways. I really want to live this one out normally for once. I know that sounds weird, but I've been doing this for over a thousand years, and because of you, I'd like to try playing things out normally again. I want to be normal with you. Well, as normal as I can be, I guess."

I expect Matty to crack a smile, but he's already moved on to the next concerning topic in his mind. "Um, so, I was thinking about it when you said about P.E. and all that. Was it on purpose?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Did you...did you make Timothy get in my way on purpose so I'd pee myself?"

The fire of exposure rips through my heart. Fighting every urge to rewind, I quietly respond, "I didn't know you then."

Matty looks down at his crossed legs. "So it WAS on purpose. You embarrassed me on purpose."

"Okay, stop," I say firmly. "I know where this is going, and I'm putting a stop to it now. Yes, I did it on purpose. Yes, it was a totally asshole thing to do, it was selfish, and I did it because it was a turn-on. BUT. I didn't know you when I did that. Literally since that day, I realized how special of a person you are, and I've never tried to embarrass you in any way since. You mean a lot to me, and after a thousand years, that really says a lot."

"But why?" he asks breathily. "Why would you do that to anyone at all?"

"Because I've been a jerk for a long, long time," I admit with a heavy sigh.

"I can't believe it," Matty laments, shaking his head. "And then you protected me afterward, like it wasn't on purpose. You tricked me."

"No, I did not," I insist. "I admit that I did it for my own selfish reasons, but the protection was not a trick. From the moment you left the shower, I knew there was something different and awesome about you, and I wanted to make sure I at least repaid you for what I did. Besides, you let me get Rod really good, and that bastard deserved to be taken down a peg."

"Yeah, but..." Matty begins, and halts to form his thoughts, "couldn't you have done that without...you know..."

"To be honest, I had no idea you had an issue with your bladder, or I absolutely wouldn't have done what I did. I feel like shit for that now, but by the time I learned about it, I was so interested in you that I didn't want to rewind and mess everything up."

Matty gets that furrowed expression he had when he was trying to put the pieces together back on that first day. "I'm still mad at you for what you did. You could have done it a better way."

"I'll own up to that."

"And now I don't know if I can trust you." Matty stares me down with a very determined, searching gaze.

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my eyes, mainly to focus on something other than my emotions. I take a long pause before answering, "You have almost every reason to doubt me, but there are three big reasons to trust me. One, I gave you my biggest secret. If I really wanted to mess with you, I wouldn't ever have told you, and I still haven't come out to anyone else with it. Two, I stopped rewinding my mistakes for you. You've seen me in embarrassing moments, especially with you, and I could've made them never happen. I didn't, though. This is proof," I say, pointing to the bruise on my cheek.

After a moment, Matty asks, "So...what's three?"

"I love you." The words feel surprising even to me as they come out, even though I know they're true. It's been an eternity since someone tugged at my heartstrings like Matty. "I love you exactly as you are and I want to care for you and protect you, and I don't want to mess things up for you."

Matty's eyes widen at the admission. "You love me? I mean, I just thought you were playing around last night, but..."

I nod.

He looks back at his legs to avoid my gaze. "I..."

Adult-me knows that this is way too much for a kid his age, but 12-year-old-me wants to scream at the rejection. It's strange living in the present with memories of alternate pasts and futures. I pick up the slack from his pause: "I'm not expecting you to say anything back. I just want you to know why I act like I do with you. You're very important to me, maybe more than most of the other things in life. I mean, I've already finished school so many times, and the regular friends I had the first time around are annoying to me now. It's hard to explain, but you make me feel different in a way that I've rarely experienced in my life. I promise you that I won't try to embarrass you or anything, but I can't save you from everything. I WILL, however, figure out what to do about your father. That is a vow."

Matty soaks it all in for a moment silently. "So...you wouldn't just maybe, like, go back to the first day and make it never happen?"

"If I did that, we may never have met up. I mean, if that's what you want, I can rewind it all, but even though there have been a few moments over the last few weeks, I'd hate to see you lose all the good times we've had. Just knowing that I'd experienced all this with you and not being able to tell you about it would drive me crazy. I...probably wouldn't talk to you at all, to be honest. It'd be too hard." I realize how manipulative that sounds, but I readily admit that it's true. Judge me how you will.

"No!" Matty practically shouts, and then lowers his voice: "No, I...I really like a lot of the things that we've done. I'd probably be really depressed if you weren't around. Between random bullies and me wetting the bed, and being in remedial classes, and not really having any friends yet, except maybe some in Choir, I guess...I mean, I'm glad you're here, but I just...wish I didn't keep embarrassing myself, is all."

"We're working on fixing that, right? I'm here for you, I swear to you. Can you forgive me?"

Matty considers me for a long, painful moment. As soon as he opens his mouth to speak, though, James calls out, "Matty! I forgot to get a towel; could you bring me one?"

"Sure, be right there!" Matty makes a move to get off the bed, but pauses. He whips back around to stare me in the face for a moment longer before suddenly lunging in for a peck on the lips. It takes me by surprise and I pull back, losing my balance and flailing my arms wildly as I fall backwards off the bed with a loud yelp.

"Phillip!" Matty exclaims, reaching for me as I tumble.

I land on my head with a resounding thump, but manage to throw the rest of my weight into a backward somersault and land sitting on the carpet near the TV. Matty looks torn between serious concern and cracking up laughing; between how ridiculous he looks and how stupid I feel, I can't help but to bust out laughing, which sets him off as well.

He crawls off the bed and kneels next to me. Between snorts, he asks, "Are you okay?"

I just nod, laughing. The dull throb in my head is less important than the hilarity.

"Matty?" James calls again.

"Sorry, coming!" Matty looks back at me again, snorts in laughter, and scrambles off.

A few minutes later, we're all in the living room when my phone vibrates a text notification. "Sister picking you up" from Mom. I let everyone know that I need to head out for the night, but that I had a killer time and it was good to meet James, etc.

Matty's mom says, "You know you're welcome over here anytime. Just let me know. Actually, here's my number in case you need anything." She lists it off to me, and I text her so she can save mine.

Matty breaks the awkward silence that follows. "Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

He hesitates. "I guess I'll give the diapers a try. But they HAVE to look okay, and not be all obvious."

"Tell you what, hon," she replies, "if you can get me Zacky's mom's number, we can set up a dinner date to talk about it with her, since it seems to work out okay for him. How's that sound? We can even go to that burger place you like."

"Sure," Matty stammers, "uh, I think...I can ask the twins if they have the number, or if they can ask him for it. They're pretty cool."

The conversation is interrupted by a doorbell and my oldest sister Katie. Of course she'd be picking me up; now that she can drive, Mom isn't going to show up anywhere she doesn't have to. The car ride is mostly silent; Katie and I don't have a bad relationship, but the 6 year gap makes it hard for her to relate. I don't mind, though; silence is better than awkward conversation. There's only one interesting bit in the whole ride:

"What the heck did you do to your cheek?"

"Wrestling."

"That was stupid."

"I know."

We get home just in time to see Mom checking the oven. I know the drill: I immediately get the plates out, Katie grabs the paper towels, and Stephanie grabs the silverware. We sit down to garlic-bacon mashed potatoes, marinated chicken breast, green beans (more garlic there), and dinner rolls. Mom really likes making at least one big meal a week, and I don't mind it one bit.

The conversation over dinner is as boring as expected, with a recount of the mundane things that happened over the weekend: I tell them about the museum and the Russian twins, and about my 'wrestling' injury, but not much more. Mom insists I get an ice pack, but I point out that I can't eat with an ice pack in my hand. The talk moves to school topics, where the parents grill me over the remedial classes and if I'm picking everything up okay; Mom tries to make sure I'm doing well, while Dad tries to guilt me into trying harder so I don't get remedial classes again next year. I know he's itching for an argument--he does this sometimes--so I just agree with him on everything just to frustrate him.

Dinner wraps up; I pick up the dishes, Katie gets the trash and rinsing duty, and Stephanie wipes down the table. We are nothing if not efficient when it comes to food around here. That may be the only thing we're efficient at, but we do have that. As I'm leaving to go upstairs, though, Mom calls out, "Phillip, dear? Could you come sit down for a moment? Dad and I would like to talk."

Uh oh. "Um, sure." I sit in the love seat, and Mom and Dad take the sofa. "So what's up?" I ask innocently.

"Well, dear," Mom says, "we just wanted to say that we're really happy that you have such a good friend now. I personally was worried that you were going to be, you know, antisocial."

I roll my eyes. If she only knew. "Most kids my age are annoying, though."

"Yes, dear," she says perfunctorily. "But we just want you to know that we love you no matter what. Right, Herbert?"

Dad nods. I have a feeling I know where this is going, and if so, this should be a very interesting conversation. I respond, "Well, yeah. Why are you telling me this, though?"

"Well," Dad chimes in, "I don't know if you know this, but your mother and I met in the 7th grade."

"...And?" I say. Being dense is fun.

"As soon as I met her, I knew there was something about her." He looks at her with disgustingly adoring eyes. I don't care if I'm older than they are in my own mind; they're always going to be my parents, for better or worse. Mostly worse, when it comes to lovey-dovey stuff. He continues, "I had never really felt romantically about anyone before that, but in 7th grade, give or take, lots of changes start to happen with people's minds and bodies, and lots of times, people start looking for a girlfriend."

I stare blankly.

Mom picks up, "Or boyfriend. We just couldn't help but notice that you're over at Matty's an awful lot, and you've never really been interested in sleepovers or other friends all that much."

"Well, yeah, he's pretty cool, and has an XBox that we play games on."

"So he's just a friend?" Mom asks bluntly.

"Wait, wait," I say, getting mock-incredulous. (Honestly, I'm surprised they were this perceptive; maybe I should have covered my tracks more.) "Are you saying that you think I'm gay for Matty?"

It's easy to tell that Mom is getting flustered. Dad takes over: "Son, we're not trying to say what you are or are not, but we just want you to be...informed. Relationships are hard work, and not everyone your age is ready for something like that."

Mom adds, "And, sweetie, it'd be okay if you were interested in boys, I just want you to know. I'll love you just the same."

It's cringe-worthy just watching them fumble through this conversation. "O...kay," I say slowly. "Glad to hear it? Anyway, can I go now?"

"Phillip," Dad says, "listen. If you find yourself interested in someone, just take it slow, okay? It's easy to jump into things headfirst when your hormones are running high, but if you take it slow, you can make better decisions and avoid getting, you know, hurt."

"Uh, sure."

"Okay," he says abruptly. "Oh, and you really need to mow the lawn tomorrow morning. It's going to rain in the afternoon, and I'll still make you mow it." With that he stands up, kisses Mom on the forehead, and heads out to his garage office/workshop/Man Cave.

Mom waits until he's out of earshot and asks me quietly, "Phillip, I know you pretty well, I think. Are you sure it's just a friendship? Like I said, it's totally okay whichever way it is--"

"Mom..." I moan. "You're embarrassing me." I mean, watching her does make me embarrassed for her.

"It's only because I really care about you and want you to be happy." That must be a stock phrase that parents say; I'm pretty sure Matty's mom said that earlier. I know it's the truth, as well: each time I've ever come out to her, she's always been extremely happy that I had the courage and bravery, and all that. In fact, I'm pretty sure she actually wants me to be gay.

I decide to lead her on a bit. "Well, he is pretty cool...and we have a lot of fun together..."

"That's good to hear, honey," she says carefully.

"...but I don't really know yet if I like him like that. I mean, I don't know if I like boys like that. Or girls, really. I don't know."

She smiles soothingly. "That's okay, Phillip. You'll know when you know." She comes over to me and places both hands on my shoulders, kneeling down to look me in the eyes. "But you do know that I'll always love you no matter what, right?"

"Right," I say with an awkward smile on my face, not entirely feigned.

"Good. Give me a hug." She's a real hugger, my mom. Can't imagine a soul in the world who wouldn't like her. Maybe, like, people who hate to be touched, I guess. I give her a big hug, and point out that I'm almost as tall as her now. It'll be two years before I am, but it always makes her so happy to see me look proud of something so simple and out of my control as growth. Ah, kids. She holds me by the shoulders at arm's length again. "Now remember that we actually want to see you once in a while, okay? You're still my baby, even if you're almost a teenager...and it's still my job to feed you, not your friend's mom, right?"

I just smile my most disarming smile at her until she releases me. I go upstairs and play on the computer for a bit, still distracted by the events of the day. For once, I honestly don't even feel like jacking off, but then again, having awkward conversations with my parents isn't one of my fetishes. Eventually, I get out my backpack, do a little of my homework (yes, I'm that bored), and head to bed, unable to sleep due to vivid replays of upsetting Matty, and from continuously coming up with plans to castrate his father.

To be continued...