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2008-12-08T05:52:00.000-08:00

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2008-11-14T03:05:00.000-08:00

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2008-07-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

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2008-07-09T20:19:00.000-07:00

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2008-07-08T21:37:00.000-07:00

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2008-07-03T21:12:00.000-07:00

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2008-07-03T21:10:00.000-07:00

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2008-07-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

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2008-06-26T21:22:00.000-07:00

Turning Eighteen, Part Eighteen

2008-06-24T21:23:00.000-07:00

The phone call went really well—it’s what happened afterward that sucked.I caught my Mom in one of her ‘up’ moods. She sounded happy to hear from me. She told me that she missed me and that she was sorry that I felt I had to leave like that. Yes, she had talked to my aunt and so she knew where I was. But she wanted me to know that I was welcome back home.I thanked her, but I told her that I didn’t want to move back home. I was happy with Mr. Mendes.She seemed ok with that. It’s weird—I had never come out of the closet to my Mom. And I didn’t tell her that I was gay during the phone call—but that’s because I didn’t have to. She just talked like that was a given. She told me that she thought Mr. Mendes was cute and that he would make a good boyfriend for me.I felt myself smiling. My Mom can be so cool sometimes.The phone call went so well that I invited her over to dinner. I said I would cook a great meal. I even told her to bring her latest boyfriend, Nick. I can’t stand Nick, but I thought it was time to play nice.She laughed and told me that she had already broken up with Nick. But she agreed to come over tomorrow night—Tuesday, I mean.When I got off the phone with her, I called Mr. Mendes on his cell. I caught him on his lunch break. He was surprised that I had called my Mom and invited her over, but I think he was impressed too. He said that tomorrow night would be fine and that he looked forward to seeing my Mom again.I smiled again as I hung up with him. He’d met my Mom a few times back when I was in high school. She didn’t come to parent-teacher conferences as often as she should have, but Mr. Mendes had always made a point of reaching out to her.I went to pick Mr. Mendes up right on schedule. And when we got home, I dragged him up to the attic and told him my plans for turning it into a studio. He rubbed his chin as he considered all the boxes and crates. For a minute, I thought he was going to refuse—no matter what I did to convince him.But then he turned to me and smiled. “Ok,” he said. “Let’s do it. I don’t even know what half this junk is—it’s time I got it out of here. If you’ll help me sort through it, I’ll help you with the studio. Deal?”I grinned. “Deal.”We had some fun that night—we tried roleplaying for the first time. It was my idea, but I felt silly at first. People make it look really easy in porn flicks, but it’s hard not to worry about making a fool out of yourself when you’re actually doing it.But Mr. Mendes go into it and that helped me get into it too. We tried a bunch of different scenarios—all of them ended with me lying across his lap as he lectured me and spanked my ass.It was another night without intercourse, but I didn’t mind. We satisfied each other just fine and then we fell asleep intertwined.I got up with Mr. Mendes again the next day. I laid out his clothes for him while he was in the shower—I wanted to pick his outfit so that I wouldn’t have to worry about any more fashion disasters. Then I went downstairs and started making breakfast.He came downstairs wearing the clothes I had picked out for him, so I guess he was ok with me choosing his wardrobe. He just gave me a warm kiss, a stiff smack on the ass and then sat down to his food.He told me that I could use the car again. Good thing, because I needed to go food shopping. We had an argument about that before he left for school, though. Not about me going food shopping, I mean, but about who would pay for it.Mr. Mendes figured that he should pay for all the groceries. I said that wasn’t fair, since I wasn’t even paying rent. And, besides, I was shopping to prepare a dinner for my Mom. I reminded him that I had a decent job—I could afford the fucking groceries. He said he knew that but he wanted me to save up in case I decided to go to college.We settled on a compromise—we would take turns paying for groceries. He’d pay one week and I’d pay the next. I was ok with that.I was real careful about the food I bought—I checked that everything was kosher. And I talked to the kosher butcher about the meat I was buying. I told him that I was new to keeping kosher and that I needed some advice. I think he thought I was a Jewish kid who had just come back to the fold, so he was thrilled. He spent a lot of time with me and gave me some good ideas about planning a meal with no dairy in it.I spent most of the day cooking. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to show off Mr. Mendes and his house to my Mom. And I wanted her to know that I was ok—that I was grown up and responsible now.I timed all the food so that I had about half an hour to shower and dress before my Mom got there. I jumped in and out of the bathroom and then spent the rest of my time agonizing about what to wear. I finally picked out an amber-colored button down shirt and kaki pants. Both were from Mr. Mendes’s wardrobe.I glanced at the clock and then raced downstairs. I had just enough time to bring the soup back to a simmer…Mr. Mendes was downstairs already, reading the paper. He had offered to help me, but I don’t like anyone else interfering when I’m cooking. So he volunteered to do all the clean-up instead. But I said we could both do that. After all, he had to go to work tomorrow while I was still off.Once the soup was on again I walked into the living room, batted his paper away and sat myself on his lap. He laughed at that but we managed to kiss before he groaned under my weight and pushed me off.I was laughing too, even when I landed on the floor with a thud—right on my ass. I groaned a little and then knelt up and rested my head on his lap. He started stroking my hair as he went back to reading his paper.Pretty soon Tybalt came over and leaned against the other side of Mr. Mendes. He wanted some petting too. We both laughed again—I guess the dog got jealous.After a little while I got up to go check on the soup. I glanced at the clock again. My Mom was a little late, but only by about fifteen minutes. I didn’t think anything of it. But once another half hour passed, I decided to call her. I called her house and her cell phone. She didn’t pick up on either one.I waited some more. Once she was an hour late, I decided to drive by her house and check up on her. Mr. Mendes stayed at our place in case she showed up.I rang her door bell, but she didn’t answer. For the first time, I was sorry that I had left my house keys—I had no way to go inside and make sure she was ok. Not unless I wanted to kick the door in, I mean. I didn’t think that was a good idea, so I went back home.Mr. Mendes met me at the door. He had a weird expression on his face—the kind of expression people have when they have to tell you bad news.“What’s wrong?” I demanded. “Is my Mom ok?”“Yeah, she’s fine,” he said. “She called here. She said to tell you that Nick called her and wanted to get back together, so she decided to go see him and see if they could make things work.” He paused and took a deep breath. “She, ah, said that maybe she could get together with you next week or the week after instead.”I stared at him. It took a while for his words to sink in.God damn her. She hadn’t even bothered to call me ahead of time to let me know. I was totally disposable to her—I was just something to do when she didn’t have better plans.I walked straight past Mr. Mendes into the kitchen. I didn’t even bother taking off my coat. I just wanted to destroy something—and the meal I had made for my Mom seemed like a good target.But something happened when I walked into the kitchen. It wasn’t just that I heard Mr. Mendes stepping up behind me. It was the fact that I looked around and realized that I didn’t want to destroy anything—I didn’t want to break glasses or splatter food all over the place.That was the kind of thing I had done sometimes at my Mom’s house. But this was my kitchen—this was my home. My home with Mr. Mendes, I mean. Yeah, I had lost my temper a couple of times here too, but I didn’t want to destroy anything. Why the fuck should I hurt something of ours just because my Mom’s a thoughtless bitch? That would only hurt me and Mr. Mendes—my Mom wouldn’t care.I must have stood there staring at the kitchen for about five minutes. Mr. Mendes stood behind me the whole time. At some point he put his arms loosely around my waist and drew me back so that I was leaning against him. Then I felt him rest his chin on my shoulder.“Are you ok?” he asked.I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “But I’m not angry anymore. I—I don’t even hate her. Why the fuck should I bother?”He didn’t say anything to that. He just kept holding me.“I’ll never come first, will I?” I asked. “She only cares about the guys she dates.”He sighed. “I’m not sure what to say, Jason.”“You don’t have to say anything,” I told him. “My Mom’s phone call said it all.”We stood there for a while longer. It’s hard to describe what I was feeling. Back on my birthday, Mr. Mendes had told me that turning eighteen doesn’t magically make someone grown up. He was right.Up till this moment, I had still thought of myself as a kid. Yeah, I kept telling everyone, even myself, that I was an adult, but I didn’t really believe it. I was like a kid playing dress up. I think that’s why I kept calling Aaron ‘Mr. Mendes.’ He was still the teacher—I was still the problem student.Don’t misunderstand me—I still wanted Aaron to spank me. That was still fucking hot. He could still ‘reward’ me for being on my best behavior. But it'd be different now.My Mom’s phone call changed something. I knew now that I would never be important to her—and somehow that freed me from the whole ‘kid’ thing. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Well, maybe I’m not explaining it right.I understood now why my Mom had accepted me being gay without giving me a problem about it. It wasn’t that she was open-minded or anything. It was just that she didn’t give a damn about me one way or the other.But at least I could stop worrying about what she thought of me now. Oh, I’d be nice to her and call her up on her birthday and holidays. And I’d help her out if she needed me. But she’d lost any power she had to fuck me up.Besides, I still had other family. I had my aunt and I had my cousin Kyle. And at least Kyle wanted to hang out with me—even if he thought of me as his token gay relative.And pretty soon I’d have Aaron’s family. I’d be spending Thanksgiving with them, after all, and all the Jewish holidays. I didn’t know how that would work out, but there was a chance that it wouldn’t suck.Aaron was still holding me, I realized. I smiled a little as I leaned further back against him.“Aaron, would your sister be insulted if we invited her over last minute?” I asked. “We could tell her that my Mom had to cancel all of the sudden.”He stared at me for a moment before answering--I think me calling him by his first name caught him by surprise. Or maybe it was that I was willing to speak to his sister again.“I don’t think she’d be insulted,” he said at last. “I doubt she has plans on a Tuesday night—and left to herself she’d probably end up microwaving something for dinner right before she goes to bed.”“Then let’s invite her,” I said, turning around to face him. “I’ll even make the call—it can be a kind of peace offering.”Aaron smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”I smiled back at him. “Yeah,” I said and kissed him. Then I went to pick up the phone.

~The End~
by J. Rosemary MossGenre: Original SlashRating: R-Rated

Turning Eighteen, Part Seventeen

2008-06-24T21:20:00.002-07:00

The next day was Monday, so Mr. Mendes had to get up for work. I'd been sleeping spooned up against him, but I rolled over and smiled when the alarm went off.“I’ll let the dog out and make you breakfast,” I told him as he groaned and hit the clock.He sat up and yawned before he looked at me. “You don’t have to get up now,” he said, yawning again. “I know you’re off this week.“That’s ok—I want to.”He smiled at that and leaned down to kiss me. “I’ll never say no to your cooking,” he murmured in my ear.I got up, pulled on a pair of sweats and went downstairs while he took a shower. Tybalt followed me down, so I let him out into the yard. I’d take him for a walk as soon as Mr. Mendes left.I found some challah bread in the cabinet—not many people know about challah, but it’s this really good braided bread. Like bagels, it’s Jewish. It’s just not main-stream yet. I learned about it in my cooking elective at the high school. Jews use it for Friday night dinners. That’s probably what Mr. Mendes meant when he was talking about ‘Shabbat dinner.” I’d have to remember that this Friday…I used the challah bread to make thick, buttery French toast. Ok, not the healthiest meal—especially since the challah was white. (I’d have to learn how to make wheat or oat challah.) But at least it was going to taste good.I made a quick apple-and-walnut side dish and squeezed some orange juice too. That made the meal a little healthier.I was all set by the time Mr. Mendes came down, but I cringed at the outfit he had on. Jesus, it was this hideous sweater. The color was all wrong for him. He’s a good looking guy, but he just doesn’t know how to dress. Fuck, it’s true—not all gay guys have fashion sense.I couldn’t let him go out the door like that. Should I say something? He had admitted before that he didn't know how to dress. And that I could help him in that. But did that mean he wanted instructions?I wasn't sure. So instead of speaking my mind, I, um, accidentally spilled some maple syrup on his sweater.“Shit!” I yelled. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”“That’s all right,” he said, dipping a napkin in his water.“No—just take the sweater off,” I told him. “I’ll get it clean. You can wear that cobalt one you have upstairs. That’ll go good with your outfit.”He gave me this suspicious look, but I just pretended to be innocent. It worked. He smiled in relief as he pulled off the sweater and handed it to me. “Thanks,” he said.I put the sweater aside and started cleaning up the dishes while he went back upstairs to change. When he came down, he tossed me his car keys. “In case you want to go anywhere,” he explained. “I’ll walk to school, but pick me up at three o’clock—it’s supposed to rain later.”I stared at him. “You trust me with your car?”He looked surprised at the question. “You have your license, right?”“Yeah,” I said. “I got it last year.”He shrugged. “Then you’re ok. Eventually we’ll have to cover you with my insurance, though—I’ll call about that today. You’re going to need to make this your legal address.”I was still in shock, but I think I managed to nod. I couldn’t believe that Mr. Mendes was trusting me. My Mom never let me touch her car—and neither did any of her boyfriends.In fact, I’d been saving up for one of my own. I’m not the best mechanic, so I didn’t want a used one. I wanted to buy something new.I think Mr. Mendes guessed how surprised I was. He walked over to me and took my face in his hands. “You’re a grown man, Jason,” he said softly. “Not just a kid. And you’ve held a decent job for a couple of years now. I don’t mind trusting you with the car.”He kissed me when he finished talking—a long, slow kiss. I smiled back at him when we broke apart.“I won’t get any tickets or anything,” I promised.He grinned. “The only thing I’m worried about with you is road rage,” he said. “Make sure you keep your temper under control.”“I will,” I said. “And I’ll be at the high school at three.”He nodded and then went to put on his coat. I walked him to the porch, so I could say goodbye. Then I went back inside, let the dog back in and ran upstairs to shower and change. I wanted to get ready quick so I could walk Tybalt and then take the car out.Everything went good. I drove to the craft store on Route 3 so that I could pick up some art supplies. I splurged on a good easel, pastels, water colors (to use as a wash for the background of the pastels) and all the paper and canvas I needed. The whole time I was shopping I kept thinking about the room I had waiting for me back at Mr. Mendes’s. He had told me that I should take one of the spare rooms and use it for a studio.That’s when I realized that I was fucking close to heaven. I mean, I’d have a room that would be just mine. I wouldn’t have to worry about my Mom coming in and snooping around or one of her boyfriends trashing the place when he was drunk.I wanted to set up my studio as soon as I got back, but when I took a good look at the spare rooms I knew I’d have to wait. I wanted the studio to be fucking perfect. None of the bedrooms was right.I went upstairs into the attic. It was a finished attic—it should be a big room on its own. But Mr. Mendes was using it for storage right now. There were crates and boxes and stuff everywhere.This is where my studio should go, I decided. We’d just have to store the junk someplace else. I closed my eyes, picturing what the attic would look like once I cleared it out and repainted the walls.Hopefully Mr. Mendes would say yes. If he didn't, I’d just have to settle on one of the spare bed rooms. But I was pretty sure I could make him see things my way.I went back downstairs to the bedroom—the main one, I mean. The one I shared with Mr. Mendes. I flopped down on the bed and put my hands behind my head. Then I glanced at the clock. It was almost noon.My mom would just be getting up now. She worked a late shift, so she slept late. If I wanted to call her, now would be a good time. I wondered if she was worried about me. Probably not—I mean, my aunt must have told her by now where I was.I should just forget about her, I told myself. She never had much use for me—I just got in the way of her boyfriends. And I had everything I ever wanted now. I had my own boyfriend who was perfect. Well, not perfect. He had no fashion sense. But he was still hot and at least he gave a damn about me. And he liked to spank me. In a good way, I mean.And I had a great house to live in, with a dog and everything. And I had an amazing kitchen—I had to keep it kosher, but it was still amazing—and pretty soon I’d have a studio.And I was even getting along with my cousin Kyle now. So what the fuck did I need my Mom for?Fuck it. I decided to just pick up the phone and call. I reached over and grabbed the phone that was on the night table and dialed my old home number.But looking back, I wish I had just left the phone alone.

Turning Eighteen, Part Sixteen

2008-06-24T21:20:00.001-07:00

We got to the ‘condom talk’ that night. I knew that Mr. Mendes was going to be a hard-ass about that—and I was right.I couldn’t see the point. I mean, I was technically a virgin. I’d never gotten any further with a guy than mutual masturbation. (And I sure as hell never touched a woman.) And Mr. Mendes is the careful type—he probably always used condoms before.But he was strict about this. He wanted us to use them even for going down on each other. I rolled my eyes but I finally agreed. I wasn't going to get anywhere if I didn't. But I got him to promise that we could revisit the question later—after we’d been tested and stuff.It was still a good night. He undressed me slow and then pushed me down onto our bed so that I was lying naked on my back. And then he stroked my dick and teased my balls with his fingers until I was painfully hard. That’s when he took the condom out and sort of massaged it onto me, if that makes sense.I closed my eyes as he brought his mouth down on me. I could feel him even through the fucking condom. Oh God—I had to grip his shoulders. I wanted him to go faster and harder but he kept teasing me instead. Then he developed this slow, deep rhythm that just about finished me. When I came it was like I was releasing every pent-up feeling I’d ever had.I tried to do all the same for him, but it was harder than I thought. I couldn’t even get the frigging condom on him the right way. We both laughed at that, though, so it turned out ok. I just had to get a new condom from the box and start over.I guess I did something right, because he sure seemed to like it as I pumped him with my hand—slow and steady, just like he taught me—and suckled his balls. (I was guessing it was safe enough to do that.) And he looked ecstatic when he came.Once we were cleaned up a little he pulled me to him and we nestled against each other. But I wasn’t about to let him just drift off on me. Not without another talk.“When are we going to have intercourse?” I demanded. "I want you to fuck me."He smiled at me and started stroking my hair. “Is that important to you?” he asked.I frowned at that. I’d heard that some gay guys—even long term couples—didn’t have intercourse, just out of preference. Whatever. But I’d never tried it and I wanted to know what I was missing. I wanted to feel Mr. Mendes inside me.But what if he was one of those gay guys who just didn’t do that?“Don’t you want to have intercourse?” I asked.He looked at me for a long moment. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But it’s complicated. There’s some feeling in Conservative Judaism that a committed homosexual relationship is sort of acceptable, except for that one act between two men.”I stared at him. I kept forgetting that religion actually mattered to him. He really believed in God and all that stuff. “That’s what your church—I mean, your synagogue—says?”He sat up and grinned down at me. “Well, that’s one opinion. Our Law Committee actually issued three separate statements on the issue so that both majority and minority opinions would be respected. But that’s the gist of one of them.”“Is that what you think?” I demanded.He shrugged. “I’m not sure, to tell the truth. Probably not—maybe this is one issue, like intermarriage, that Reform Judaism has a better handle on. I don’t think they put any such restrictions on a homosexual marriage.”I sat up too so that I could look him in the eye. “What do you mean, intermarriage?”He looked surprised by the question. “Marriage between a Jew and a gentile,” he said. “Reform Judaism allows it; Conservative and Orthodox don’t.”I thought that over. “So two guys can get married in your synagogue only if they’re both Jewish? That’s not fucking fair.”He narrowed his eyes at me. “Your Church never looked fondly on intermarriage either,” he told me. “They didn’t outright forbid it, but it’s only since Vatican II that it’s become acceptable for a Catholic to marry a non-Catholic. And they don’t marry gays at all.”I didn’t say anything back to that. I couldn’t—I had no idea what the Catholic Church allowed or didn’t allow. Well, I knew that they didn’t let gays marry, but I didn’t know much else. I never went to Mass after I made Holy Communion. I was never even confirmed.I stared down at the covers. “What happens if we want to get married someday? Do we just get a civil union and forget about the religious stuff?” (That’s what I would have wanted—but I had a feeling he’d need some kind of religious ceremony.)He shrugged. “That’s one option. There are others too. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”I rolled my eyes again. “I want to know now. I hate putting things off.”He smiled at me. I think he was amused by my impatience. “Don’t you think we’re moving fast enough as it is without discussing marriage?” he asked.“Yeah,” I admitted. “But I’d still like to know. What other options?”He sighed. “I don’t think the Catholic Church is anywhere near allowing gay marriage, so that’s out. We could get married in a Reform synagogue. Or—well, you could convert to Judaism, in which case we could get married in my synagogue.”I panicked at that. He wanted me to convert? “I can’t learn all that Hebrew stuff!” I told him.He reached out and tousled my hair. “No one would expect you to become a Hebrew scholar, Jason. But don’t worry about it. That was only one possibility. We’ve got plenty more.”He kissed me then—one of those long, slow kisses. Then he pulled me up against him.“I love you as you are, Jason,” he whispered as he kissed the side of my face. “In an ideal world, I suppose I’d want to end up with a Jewish partner. I’d like someone to share Shabbat dinners with—and someone to share the holidays with. But you can do that without converting.”I gave him a half smile. “At least I’m already circumcised.” That’s one of the few things I knew about Judaism—guys have to be circumcised.He laughed and pulled me even closer. “Yeah,” he said. “You’ll be glad for that if you ever do decide to convert.”I grinned, feeling a little more comfortable about the whole thing. “But it’s not a deal-breaker, right?” I asked. “I mean, you won’t leave me if I don’t convert.”“It’s not a deal breaker,” he agreed.I nodded and nestled up against him again. Then I thought about intercourse again—I couldn't keep my mind off it, I guess. God, I wanted it bad.But it could wait a little longer, I decided. It didn’t have to be tonight. I wanted Mr. Mendes to be sure about it—I could tell he had some issues, so I didn’t want to pressure him. So I just shut my eyes as we snuggled under the covers and fell straight asleep.

Turning Eighteen, Part Fifteen

2008-06-24T21:18:00.001-07:00

We can’t spend Thanksgiving with my Mom,” I said. “I don’t even want to speak with her.”We were still lying on the couch together and I was still holding him. I know my voice sounded angry when I spoke. I couldn’t help that. I didn’t want to have anything to do with my mother.But I could feel myself tensing up as I spoke. Thinking about my Mom always did that to me. That’s funny, because I can’t say that she ever did anything terrible to me. I mean, she threw me out of the house a few times, but that was because I couldn’t get along with whatever boyfriend she had at the moment. I never liked any of them.I had told Mr. Mendes that my Mom used to make my life hell. But was that really true? She never beat me up or anything.But that didn't matter, I told myself. I still didn’t want to see her for Thanksgiving. And I was looking forward to telling her that—or I would be if I were speaking to her.“I don’t want to see her,” I repeated.Mr. Mendes didn’t say anything to that. He just nodded his head against my chest and kept his arms around me. “Fair enough,” he said. “We can go to my parents’ house.”I cringed. “Why can’t we just stay here—just you and me?” I asked. “And Tybalt,” I added, remembering the dog.I heard a smile in his voice as he answered. “If I don’t show up for at least part of Thanksgiving, I’ll hear it from now till Passover,” he said. “But don’t worry about it—we’ll figure something out.”Passover? Fuck, he had different holidays than me. I forgot about that. Not Thanksgiving, I mean. Everyone celebrated that. But I didn’t really know the Jewish holidays. I frowned a little and decided that I should mention that.“I don’t know much about Passover and stuff,” I told him.He shrugged. “Why would you? Don’t worry—you’ll pick it up easily enough when the time comes.”“Which one is your Christmas holiday?” I asked. “That’s Chanukah, right?”He chuckled at that. “Yeah, Chanukah’s the one we celebrate around Christmas-time. Passover is usually around Easter.”I held him a little tighter. I guess I wanted to reassure him that I still thought he was normal, even if he had weird holidays. “Is your sister going to be at your parents’ place for Thanksgiving?”“Yup,” he answered, nestling against my chest.“I don’t think I’d be good with her there,” I told him.“I’ll think you two will do fine together eventually,” he said. “My sister just needs to realize that you’re a grown man with your own talents and aspirations. Right now she’s seeing you as a kid.”A stupid kid, I added to myself. But I kept that to myself this time. I was beginning to believe that Mr. Mendes didn’t see me that way. He really believed that I was smart in my own way.I sighed, wondering if he was upset about the way I handled what his sister said. “You don’t seem angry with me over the whole ‘locking-myself-in-the-bathroom’ thing,” I said.He peered up at me. “You did ok, Jason, considering how thoughtless she was. I’m not upset with you.”I digested that—and then I gave him my best sexy smile. “Does that mean you think I earned a reward?” I asked.He raised his eyebrows at that and then sat up. “Stand up, kid,” he ordered.I grinned and just about jumped off of the couch to obey him.“Did you see where I kept the wooden spoon?” he asked.I nodded.“Go up and get it,” he told me, “and the lotion that’s right next to it.”I grinned again and ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Ok, so that wasn’t very dignified of me. I didn’t care.I grabbed the spoon and the lotion and then raced back downstairs. I handed them over to him and held my breath.But he just placed them on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Come here,” he said.I stepped closer to him and he undid my jeans. Then he pulled me jeans and boxers down so that they were pooled around my ankles. I caught my breath as he patted his lap.I bent myself over his knees and stretched out so that I was lying on the couch. He shifted a little to get me comfortable and then rested his hand on my ass. I felt myself getting hard—and I could really feel it because of the way my dick was lodged against his leg.He must have felt my hard-on too, because I heard him chuckle again as he began to massage my backside. Meanwhile he rested his free hand on the small of my back. I liked it there—it was firm and comforting, and it made me feel like he had everything under control.He massaged me for a long while before he reached for the spoon. Then he brought the spoon down hard against me, catching me right where my ass meets my thighs. I caught my breath as he kept bringing the damn thing down again and again.God, it hurt. But it hurt in such a good way. Every stroke was firm and convincing, if that makes sense. It was like Mr. Mendes had a duty to do—a duty he really enjoyed—and he meant to make the most out of it.Even when he put the spoon down, he kept spanking me with his hand. I gasped—his hand hurt like hell after the spoon. I guess he was striking all my welts. But I took it without complaint.Soon he stopped spanking me so hard. His hand became almost gentle and then suddenly he was massaging the lotion into my skin. It felt cold and prickly against the heat of my backside.The massage hurt too, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel his hand there. I didn’t want him to stop.It’s weird, but the spanking must have cleared my head. I felt all relaxed by the time it was over. Even my hard-on was gone. I had other stuff to think about.I let my mind drift around. Eventually it came back to the whole family holiday thing. I sighed and twisted around a little so that I could look at Mr. Mendes.“I don’t really hate her,” I said.He gave me a questioning look as he patted and pinched my ass. “My sister?” he asked.I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “I mean, I don’t hate her either. But I was talking about my Mom. I don’t hate my mother.”He gave me a slow, sympathetic smile. “I know,” he said.I gave him a weird look as I straightened out again. He went back to massaging me. I enjoyed all that attention, but I wondered why he didn’t seem surprised by what I said.“How’d you know I didn’t hate her?” I asked.He gave a short laugh. “Because she’s your Mom,” he said.I rolled my eyes. “Do you think I should hate her?” I asked. “She’s a bitch sometimes.”He was quiet for a while before he answered. “No,” he said finally, patting me again. “I think you may as well accept the fact that you love her, even if she never figures out how to be a parent.”I thought about that. I hadn’t said that I loved her—I only said that I didn’t hate her. But I decided not to call him on that.“Maybe I’ll call her after all,” I said, acting nonchalant. “But I’m still not going to spend Thanksgiving with her. Let’s spend it with your folks instead. I might have to work part of the day—the diner doesn’t close—but I’ll probably have a late shift. So we can spend the afternoon with them.”Mr. Mendes gave me another firm pat. “Sounds good,” he said.I smiled. It’s funny—I couldn’t see him, but I knew that he had a satisfied look on his face. I let out a long, contented sigh as he started the massage up again. If I were a cat, I’d be purring my ass off.I knew that I’d be scared to death later when I thought back to this conversation. I’d be kicking myself for agreeing to spend the holiday with his parents.But so what? Right now it seemed like a perfect idea.

Turning Eighteen, Part Fourteen

2008-06-24T21:17:00.001-07:00

Mr. Mendes stayed leaning against me like that throughout the rest of the game. The Cowboys killed the Giants, but we watched till the bitter end anyway. We’re alike that way—neither of us will abandon ship.Mr. Mendes drifted off during the post game show. I liked that—I liked lying there holding him while he was sleeping. I liked the way I could feel him breathing, especially as his breaths got deeper and deeper.Then the stupid phone rang. It was right on the lamp table behind me, so I tried to pick it up quick before it woke him. But no luck—I could feel him coming awake.He made a groaning kind of sound as I answered the call.“Hello?” I said.“Jason? It’s me, Kyle.”Damn—I should have checked the caller id. If I’d known it was my cousin, I wouldn’t have answered. But I forced myself to answer politely. Mr. Mendes would appreciate that.“What’s up?” I asked.“I wanted to know if you can make it to Medieval Times. We’re going to go on Thursday night.”I rolled my eyes, remembering the invitation. “I guess I can make it,” I said. “I’m off this week. But I’m going to bring Mr. Mendes if he’s not busy.”“Cool,” Kyle said. “That’s even better. That’ll prove to this girl that you’re really gay and that I don’t mind hanging out with you.”What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I thought about it, but then I decided to let it go. “What time?” I asked.“The show starts at seven-thirty,” he said. “I’ll get the tickets. Let’s meet there at around quarter to seven.”“Ok,” I said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow to let you know about Mr. Mendes.”I clicked off the phone and hung it up. Then I realized that Mr. Mendes was smiling up at me.“Think you can manage to refer to me as Aaron?” he asked.Jesus—I started blushing at that. “Sorry,” I said. “I forgot. But don’t worry. Kyle didn’t notice. Even though he didn’t have you in high school, he still remembers you as Mr. Mendes.”He sighed and shook his head at that. “This’ll teach me to date a former student,” he teased. “Now what was that about?”“Kyle wants us to go to Medieval Times with him on Thursday night,” I answered. “You know that castle-place in Lyndhurst with the jousting show?”He nodded.“Can you come?”“Yeah,” he said, snuggling even closer against me. “That’ll be fine.”I smiled down at him again, but then I realized that I had to tell him why Kyle invited us. It was only fair that he know.“Kyle wants to impress a girl,” I said. “He wants to act all sensitive by hanging out with his gay cousin and his boyfriend.”Mr. Mendes let out a low chuckle. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve just become the token ‘gay’ of your family.”I thought about that. “That’s fucking annoying,” I decided.“Tell me about it,” he said. “I’ve occupied that position in my family for years. But you’ll get used to it. Besides, it’s good to see you getting along with your cousin.”I started running my fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t get along better with your sister.”He shrugged. “There’s time for that. Hopefully she’ll manage a decent apology. The rest of my family will be easier.”My mouth dropped open. “The rest of your family? You mean your parents?”He nodded.“When do I have to meet them?”He stared up at me again. “You don’t have to make it sound like you’ll be facing a firing squad.”I blinked at that. “Seriously—when do I have to meet them?”He propped himself up so that he could look me right in the eye. “Jason, I’ll admit that we’re moving fast. Usually I wouldn’t bring you around to my folks until we’d been seeing each other for a couple of months. But this is different. You moved into my house. I can’t stop them from dropping by—and I don’t want to have to hide you.”I swallowed hard. “I guess that makes sense,” I admitted.“Not only that,” he continued. “But Thanksgiving is coming up. Are we going to spend that together?”I think my face must have gone white at that point. I’d never even thought about holidays.“Fuck,” I said.I couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was like I was suddenly paralyzed. I mean, I always fantasized about Mr. Mendes spanking me and fucking me and even holding me afterwards—that’s the whole reason I moved into his place. But I never realized that we’d have to worry about whose family to spend the holidays with.Jesus, how could I picture him sitting down to a Thanksgiving meal with my mother? If I ever talked to her again, I mean. Or what would his parents think if he dragged me to their house for Thanksgiving?“Fuck,” I repeated. My head was stuck on that one word.Mr. Mendes smiled—and it was that relaxed, easy smile he has. Then he curled up back against me. “Don’t panic,” he said with another chuckle in his voice. “You don’t have to think about it right now.”Easy for him to say. Now I couldn’t think about anything else.

Turning Eighteen, Part Thirteen

2008-06-24T21:16:00.002-07:00

I was so angry that I wanted to bust up the glass of the bathroom mirror. But I didn’t do that. I bent over the toilet instead and hurled my guts out. That’s how upset I was—my stomach was all in knots. The pizza I just ate kept coming up and up.Mr. Mendes knocked softly on the bathroom door. At first I didn’t answer him, but then he knocked on it again.“Leave me alone!” I managed, in between hurling.I could hear him sigh, even through the door. “Are you alright?” he asked.“I’m fine,” I said. “Just leave me alone!”“Ok,” he said. “For a couple of minutes, anyway. I’m going to walk Monica out. When I get back, we’ll talk, ok?”“Fine,” I snapped.I heard him walking away—and then I heard Tybalt’s footsteps following him. The stupid dog must have been hoping for a walk.When I finished hurling I flushed the toilet and then washed out my mouth. Then I sat down on the toilet and put my head in my hands. Monica was right—Mr. Mendes was crazy to get involved with me. I was no where near as smart as him. How was I supposed to keep his attention? Even I knew that looks could only get me so far.I remembered the time when I found out that I was slow. I remember the exact moment. I was sitting outside the principal’s office when I was in second grade. My Mom was angry and frustrated at whatever the principal told her. I can remember what she said back: “I don’t want to meet with a Special Ed teacher! I want a son who’s normal!”I don’t think she knew I could hear her. Even she wouldn’t have said that to my face. But I never forgot it.That’s when I first started hearing about dyslexia and test scores. I kept having to take these tests over and over. And they all said the same thing: my IQ was lower than average. The dyslexia doesn’t affect my IQ—I know that. They’re two separate problems. But they both suck.I remembered something else too: one time, during detention--this was when I was a sophmore--I asked Mr. Mendes why he wanted to teach retarded kids. Kids like me.He gave me a serious look. “You’re not retarded, Jason,” he said. "Mental retardation is a different set of challenges from what you have to deal with."“My IQ’s below average,” I reminded him.“A little,” he agreed. “But only a little—not low enough to be considered mentally retarded. And a couple of IQ points here or there don’t make a difference, believe me.”I thought about that. “I’m dyslexic too,” I said—just in case he had forgot. “My Mom was real upset when she found out I was dyslexic and slow.”Mr. Mendes gave me a half-smile. “Dyslexia won’t make your life any easier,” he admitted. “But it’s not related to your intelligence and, besides, you’re learning how to compensate for it.”He paused and gave me this stern look. “Jason, you’ve got a bad habit of selling yourself short. There’s no reason you can’t go on to college and a good career. Or, knowing you, maybe you’ll go to a specialized school and become a chef or an artist.”I don’t remember what I said back at that point. But I do remember this feeling I got—I don’t know how to describe it. This satisfied feeling, I guess. Sometimes when I’m with Mr. Mendes I can almost believe that I’m not stupid.There was a knock at the door again. This time I got up and opened it. Mr. Mendes was standing there.“Hey,” he said.“Hey,” I said back.“How are you?” he asked.I shrugged.“Monica went home,” he said. “She wanted to apologize for what she said—but I thought now might not be the best time.”I stared at him. “She has nothing to apologize for,” I said at last. “She just called it like she saw it. And she’s right—I am slow. Compared to you, at least.”He shook his head. “Jason, we’ve been over this before—”“What are you going to do when I can’t talk about the stuff you like?” I asked. “You like to have debates about—about history and politics and things like that.”He didn’t answer that. He held out his hand instead. “Will you come into the living room with me?” he asked.I stood there for a minute, but then I shrugged again and took his hand. He led me back to the couch. We both sat down, facing each other.He looked me in the eye as he spoke. “My last boyfriend was every bit as well-read and intellectual as me,” he said. “Probably more so. And it was a disaster.”I was surprised by that. “Why?” I asked.“Because he was such a keen debater,” he answered. “Everything became a debate--and everything was a competition. I like to argue, Jason, but not every second of my life. I get enough of it, believe me, from my father and my sister. The last thing I want to do is debate with my lover too.”I tried to take that in. “So, are you saying that you’re glad I’m slow?” I asked.He rolled his eyes. “You’re not slow,” he said. “I wish you’d get that thought out of your head. Let’s say I’m glad that you’re good at things I’m not. I can’t find my way around the kitchen. I can’t draw. I can’t even put an outfit together—that’s a hard thing to confess as a gay man, but there it is.”That got a smile out of me. “I can help you dress better,” I admitted.“Thank God,” he said, smiling back. But then his face got serious again. “Jason, you might want to ask yourself if you’ll get bored of me. I can’t talk about sketches or cooking.”“I don’t care,” I said. “God, we’ve known each other for four years and we’ve never had trouble talking to each other. We always talk.”“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “We do.”I reached out and took his hand again. “Where’s Tybalt?” I asked. “I think he wanted to go for a walk.”“He’s out in the yard,” Mr. Mendes answered. “He’s happy right now—I’ll clean up after him later. Want to finish watching the game?”I nodded. “Ok.”He grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. Then he swung his legs up on the couch and settled himself in my arms. His head was leaning against my chest.I was surprised—it felt weird to be holding him the way I always pictured him holding me. But it was weird in a good way. We both shifted a little so that I could lie down too. And then I started stroking his hair as we watched the game.I was a little sorry that Monica wasn’t still here. She should have seen us like this—totally comfortable with each other. Then maybe she would have thought that I was ok for her brother, even if I wasn’t as smart.At some point I started wondering about my reward—you know, about him spanking my ass. I wasn’t sure if he thought I had earned it or not. I was pretty good, all things considered. I did lose my temper a little, but I didn’t yell at Monica and I didn’t break anything.But I decided not to ask him about the reward. Either he’d give it to me later or he wouldn’t. Right now I was too relaxed and comfortable to care

Turning Eighteen, Part Twelve

2008-06-24T21:16:00.001-07:00

It was fucking awful. Monica’s visit, I mean.It started with the clothes I was wearing. Remember how I kept going through Mr. Mendes’s shirts? I was trying to find one that would make me look not only hot, but smart. I was still standing at his closet when he went downstairs to let his sister in—but he should have stayed up with me and double-checked my choice. So this was all his fault.I chose this checkered button down and then a sweater to go on top of it. The sweater was this mossy-green color—it was perfect. It made me look intellectual.I walked down the stairs just as Monica was coming inside. Mr. Mendes smiled up at me as he shut the door behind his sister.“Monica, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend,” he said. “This is Jason.”I liked hearing him call me that. ‘Boyfriend,’ I mean. But I don’t think Monica liked it. She raised her eyebrows at me as I reached the landing.I held my hand out to her. She shook it, but she gave me this weird look at the same time. “Nice sweater,” she said.“Thanks,” I answered, smiling a little.“I gave it to my brother last year,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him. “He probably doesn’t even remember.”I started panicking at that, but Mr. Mendes just grinned. “Jason lives here,” he explained. “We’ve ended up sharing clothes.”Her mouth almost fell open. “He lives here? How long have you two known each other?”“Oh, for about four years now,” Mr. Mendes answered, still smiling. “Jason is an ex-student of mine.”Fuck. I wish he hadn’t told her that—now she’d know that I was some kind of a retart. But I guess she would have found out sooner or later.“Oh,” she said, turning back to me.Christ, it’s amazing how much someone can put into that one word. She didn’t like me.Well, fuck her then. I didn’t like her either. I didn’t even like the way she looked. I guess she was ok, if you’re into women. She was too heavy—but she had big breasts. Some guys are really into breasts. And she had good hair too, just like Mr. Mendes. It was black and curly. But unlike Mr. Mendes, she looked snobbish and stuck up.Jesus, how does someone manage to look stuck up wearing a pair of old jeans and a Giants’ sweatshirt? I guess she was talented.“When did you graduate?” Monica asked me.I felt my face heat up. “I didn’t. I’m working on getting my high school equivalency diploma.”“Oh,” she said again. She made that word sound just as nasty this time as she did last time. I felt myself start to tense up.“So what do you do?” she continued.“I work as a cook at the diner,” I answered. “And I’m thinking of going to art school or culinary school.” Actually, that was more Mr. Mendes’s idea than mine, but all of the sudden I wanted to claim it.“If you can get your high school equivalency diploma,” she said.“Yeah,” I agreed.“He won’t have any trouble with that,” Mr. Mendes broke in. “I’m going to order a pizza—what would everyone like on top?”He was trying to get us to relax. I thought that was a good idea, so I answered right away. “Pepperoni,” I said.Monica rolled her eyes. “My brother’s going to order from a kosher place,” she said. “You can’t have pepperoni on a kosher pizza.”Jesus, I knew that. “Sorry,” I managed. I'll bet my face was bright red. “Mr. Mendes--I mean Aaron--explained all the kosher rules. I just wasn’t thinking about them.”Goddamnit! I had slipped. I didn't mean to call him 'Mr. Mendes' in front of her.Mr. Mendes was rolling his eyes now too—but at his sister, not at me. “Monica, I only explained them yesterday. And most people don’t think ‘kosher’ when they hear ‘pizza.’ Cut him some slack.”She shrugged again. “Sorry,” she told me. “And for the record, I’m with you. I’d love pepperoni. I don’t know why Aaron insists on the whole kosher thing.”Mr. Mendes sighed and suggested a bunch of vegetarian toppings. We all finally agreed on garlic and onions.Things calmed down a little after that. The game started—and Mr. Mendes had a cool flat-screen, high-def TV to watch it on. I sat next to him on the couch and Monica took an easy chair.For a while Monica actually seemed cool. She knew her stuff when it came to sports—she was full of opinions about what the Giants were doing wrong and how they needed to straighten up in order to make the playoffs. Mostly I agreed with her.She was fun to watch with. She’s the kind of person who throws herself into the game, living and dying with each play. My Dad was like that.I went into the kitchen at half-time. We’d already devoured the pizza, and there were chips and salsa on the coffee table in front of the TV, but I figured we could still use something else. I started poking around in the fridge to see what kind of dairy kosher snack I could make.I ended up making a salad out of tomatoes, mozzarella and basil. I put some onions and olives on the side and a little bit of oil and vinegar on top. Then I walked back toward the living room.I heard Monica’s voice before I got there. She was talking in a loud whisper. I froze in the hallway and listened.“He’s eighteen, Aaron! And he’s a high school drop-out. What are you thinking?”I felt my face turn white. Suddenly my hands were clenching the dish now. Bitch, I thought.“Quit judging, Monica," Mr. Mendes said. "You don’t know him yet. And you don’t know why he chose to drop out.”“Aaron, come on,” she said. “He’s sexy as hell—I’ll give you that—but you can’t be serious about him. How are you going to explain him to Mom and Dad?”I won't lose my temper, I told myself. I won't lose my temper. Mr. Mendes was counting on me.“What's to explain?” he asked. “I have a new boyfriend—that’s not going to shock them. He is a little younger than me, but so what? Mom’s twelve years younger than Dad.”“That’s different,” she said. “Not only are you robbing the cradle—you’re taking advantage of a kid you used to teach. A kid who’s slow.”I didn’t wait to hear anything more. I walked in on them instead. I wanted Monica to know that I had heard every word.“I made this for a snack,” I said, trying to control my voice as I set the dish on the coffee table. “I hope you like it.”Monica’s face was bright red. I noticed that because I stopped for a second to look her in the eye.“And for the record,” I told her, “he’s not taking advantage of me. I was the one who came onto him.”I turned around and walked out after that. I heard Mr. Mendes get up to come after me, but I headed straight to the bathroom and slammed the door when I got there. I had to get away from both of them.

Turning Eighteen, Part Eleven

2008-06-24T21:15:00.001-07:00

Her name was Monica. Mr. Mendes’s sister, I mean. Monica Mendes.She came over in the late afternoon, in time to catch the Giants game. They were playing Dallas at 4:15. I changed my clothes three times before she got here.No—I changed Mr. Mendes’s clothes. I mean, I was wearing his stuff. He has a better wardrobe than me. He just doesn’t know how to put it all together. I have to work on that with him.Mr. Mendes must have guessed how nervous I was. He followed me up to our bedroom when I went up to change my shirt for the third time.“Jason, you look fine,” he said from the doorway.But the shirt was already off. I had just tossed it on the floor. Now I was looking through his closet for another one.“You don’t get it, do you?” I asked without bothering to turn around. “I have to look good—but I have to look smart too. I don’t want her to think that I’m just a piece of arm candy.”I heard him step up behind me. Then I felt him pull me back against him. I smiled as I leaned into him, but I started breathing heavy when he began massaging my stomach and working his way up to my nipples.Soon he was brushing my nipples with the tips of his fingers. And then he was teasing them by pulling at them and pinching them. I caught my breath as my dick got hard.He kissed my neck as he kept teasing me—but I grabbed one of his hands and brought it down toward my pants. I wanted him to feel my hard-on and I wanted him to do something about it.He chuckled at that. “Not yet,” he said. “But here’s a taste of what you’ll get tonight—as long as you keep your temper with my sister.”He pushed me up suddenly and then unbuckled my jeans. I bit my lip as he tugged them down along with my boxers. Then he shoved me toward the bed, ignoring the fact that my pants were down around my ankles. Next thing I knew he was urging me to kneel down and bend over the mattress.I grinned. There was no way I was going to fight him. This was exactly what I wanted.I closed my eyes as I heard him opening a drawer. Ok, that had me curious. I opened my eyes again. He was taking out the wooden spoon that he had used on me yesterday.Fuck! This was going to hurt. I shut my eyes and waited.It took forever, but finally he came over. I felt his hand pat my ass again—gently, like he was just admiring me. But then I felt him press down on the small of my back with one hand—and then I felt the spoon come down hard on my ass. That goddamned thing stung like hell.It came down again and again—but only five times total.“Keep going,” I begged. Yeah, I was begging. My eyes were smarting and my ass had these wicked lines of heat burning it up, but I loved it.He chuckled again. “Behave yourself this afternoon and you’ll have all you can stand tonight,” he promised. Then he pulled me up and helped me get my boxers and jeans back on.He kissed the back of my neck once I was all buttoned and zipped up and then he turned me around to face him. There was this weird, intense look in his eyes as he put his hands on my shoulders.“Jason, you don’t have anything to prove,” he told me. “Don’t worry about seeming smart to my sister. You’re bright and creative and I’m one hell of a lucky guy to have you.”I felt my face get red. Oh my God, I was blushing. I felt my hard-on start to wilt as I thought about meeting this chick.“She’s going to think I’m stupid,” I said, looking down. “I don’t know the kind of stuff you know—I can’t even read the right way. And she probably went to college and everything.”Ok, I was fishing for compliments. No, not compliments. Reassurance, I guess. I looked back up at him. I’ll bet there was a stupid, hopeful look on my face.Mr. Mendes smiled at me and then kissed me gently on the lips. And then he pulled me into his arms. He held me tight as we just stood there. I rested my head on his shoulder while he started massaging my back with one hand and stroking my hair with the other. He didn’t say anything more—he didn’t have to.God, I could have stayed there forever. I shut my eyes, hoping that this moment would go on and on. Maybe I wasn’t the smarted guy in the world, but I’d been smart enough to get a boyfriend like Mr. Mendes. Like Aaron, I mean.We didn’t break apart until the doorbell rang and the dog started barking. I swore under my breath, but then I managed to smile.“I guess that’s her,” I said.“Yeah,” he answered. Then he grinned suddenly. “You’d better find yourself a shirt—or she will think you’re just arm candy.I laughed and smacked his arm. But then I walked back over to his closet while he went downstairs to answer the door.I sighed. It was show time.

Turning Eighteen, Part Ten

2008-06-24T21:14:00.001-07:00

I got up in the morning before Mr. Mendes—no, before Aaron—so I decided to make breakfast for him. I kissed him on the lips, just lightly so that I wouldn’t wake him up. Then I got dressed and went downstairs.Tybalt followed me out. He’d been sleeping on his dog-bed in a corner of the room. I fed him and then took him out for a brief walk. Walking him first thing in the morning was one of my chores—Mr. Mendes and I had talked about that over dinner.The walk only took about fifteen minutes. When I got back, the dog settled down on the rug in the living room. I went back into the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients for omelets. I made sure that I had the right dishes for parve and dairy stuff, and then got to work.By the time Mr. Mendes was coming down the stairs, I had finished cooking the omelets, set the table and poured the juice and coffee. The only thing I didn’t do was fix his coffee for him. I didn’t know how he liked it yet.He stopped and stared when he reached the kitchen. “I’m usually a grouch in the morning,” he said, “but I’ll think I’ll make today an exception. This looks great!”I grinned at him. “I’m good at this stuff. How do you take your coffee?”“I don’t actually like coffee,” he said. “Not unless you put so much sugar, cream and Irish whiskey in it that it can’t really be called coffee any more. And it’s too early for that kind of drink.”I rolled my eyes at that. “How do you get your caffeine in the morning?”“Straight from Coca-Cola,” he said, smiling as he walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle.I smiled back as we both sat down. Then I watched him reach for the ketchup—but I grabbed his hand before he could make another move.“You’re not going to ruin my omelets with ketchup,” I said. “Especially since you haven’t even tasted them yet.”He gave me a look that said he couldn’t tell if I was serious. I gave him a look back that said I was. He put the ketchup down and studied me. It’s kind of hard to describe his expression. I think he was a little amused, but he was keeping his face straight for my sake.He was being condescending—that’s the right word.Up till that moment, we’d both been all smiles. But I don’t know what happened to me. I had this knot of anger in me that exploded. I smashed my hand into my coffee cup, knocking the cup over and sending the coffee flying. Then I stormed out of the kitchen.I stopped when I reached the foyer. What the fuck was I doing? And what the fuck was I angry about?I remembered a time in his class, back when I was a freshman, when I got angry at something—something I don’t even remember now. I knocked my desk over and stormed out of the classroom. It was either that or punch another student out.I remember walking down the hall and stopping to turn toward the wall and bang my fists against it. God, I was frustrated.Before I knew it, Mr. Mendes was standing behind me. I stared at the wall as I waited for him to send me to the principal’s office. I was going to get suspended again. Not that I cared.But he didn’t send me there. He leaned sideways against the wall instead, facing me, and gave me a half smile. “Did you get that out of your system?” he asked.I shrugged. “I guess so.”“Do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?” he continued.I turned my head to look at him. “Yeah,” I said.He nodded. “Ok. Come on; let’s go back.”That’s the thing about Mr. Mendes. No matter how angry I got, he never lost his temper with me. Yeah, there were times when I could tell that I had aggravated him—but he always kept his cool.I kept thinking about that time as I stood there in the foyer. Then I turned around and walked back into the kitchen.Mr. Mendes was cleaning up the coffee. I walked over to help him.“Did—did the coffee hit you?” I asked.“No,” he answered, shaking his head.I gave him a half smile—the same one he had given me back when I was a freshman who had just knocked over a desk and stormed out of the room. “Can we pretend this didn’t happen?”He grinned. I think he must have remembered that time too. “Yeah,” he said.I nodded and went back to cleaning up. Then we sat down to eat breakfast. He smiled at me as he cut into his omelet and tasted it.“This is excellent,” he said. “Even without the ketchup.”This time I laughed. “Put as much ketchup on it as you fucking want,” I said. “I just wanted you to taste it first.”He laughed too. It was a good moment. And after that breakfast went pretty well. But I had ruined something for myself—I had destroyed all the good I’d done by fixing breakfast and walking the dog.I had really wanted Mr. Mendes to spank me again this morning. I kept imagining myself back over his knee while he lectured me and brought his hand down. And then I pictured us running into the city to try out paddles at one of those kinky shops in the Village. But I didn’t think that was going to happen now.But what the hell—it was worth a shot. “I don’t suppose you’re going to spank me for being all mature when I came back in here?”He looked up at me and shook his head. “’Fraid not,” he said. “But tell you what—if you can keep your temper under control while my sister is here, I’ll make it worth your while.”“I can do that,” I promised.“Don’t be too sure—she can be provoking,” he told me. “Remember, she says exactly what’s in her head. This’ll be a challenge.”That sucked. I wasn’t worried that I’d hit her or anything—I’d never hit a girl—but I might take my anger out on dishes or furniture.But I shrugged that off and went back to my food. I stopped chewing, though, as I thought of something else.“Do you want me to go back into therapy?” I asked.I used to have to go to therapy—the school made me. And they paid for it. But I hadn’t been since I dropped out. It just occurred to me that Mr. Mendes might think it was a good idea for me to go back. He’s the optimistic type. He thinks therapy really works.No, that wasn’t fair. He’d told me before that he thought it worked sometimes. It depended on the particular person and the particular therapist.He smiled again. “Jason, you’re a grown man. You have to decide for yourself if you want therapy. If you do want it, and there’s a question of money, I’ll help you out. But the choice is yours.”“I know it’s my choice,” I said, annoyed. Ok, I didn’t really think of it as my choice—I mean, I was living under his roof now. But I could pretend that I thought it was up to me. “I just want to know what you think.”He shook his head. “I’m not going to express an opinion.”I rolled my eyes at him. “The thing is—I don’t want them prescribing drugs. I don’t trust drugs. And I don’t want to talk about the fact that I like getting spanked.”“I’m sure you can make it clear that you won’t take drugs,” he said. “And it’s up to you whether you bring up spanking or not.”I thought about that. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s true. I guess they don’t need to know what turns me on. But what if I don’t like the person?”He shrugged. “Then you try someone else. The school isn’t sending you to a particular psychologist anymore, Jason. You get to decide for yourself now.”I hadn’t thought about it that way. “I guess that’s true,” I said. “You don’t need to help me pay for it—I have enough money. But how do I find someone?”He reached across the table and took hold of my hand. “Give it some more thought and make sure it’s what you want to do,” he advised. “If it is, then we’ll ask around for recommendations, ok?”I nodded. He was serious about this being up to me. Suddenly I felt more mature. “Ok,” I said.I squeezed his hand and then went back to my breakfast. Everything would go ok now—as long as I could survive his sister.

Turning Eighteen, Part Nine

2008-06-24T21:13:00.002-07:00

I was all nerves when I hung up with my cousin. Not about Kyle--I put him right out of my head. I'd deal with him and his request later. But now I was thinking about Mr. Mendes.I’d have to ask him where I was sleeping. No…I wouldn’t ask. I’d just put my backpack in his bedroom as if it were a given I was staying in there. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, right?I grabbed my backpack out of the hallway and brought it up to his room. Then I sat on his bed and took off my shoes, my socks and the shirt I had borrowed from him. Then I put my hands behind my head and stretched out on his bed.It took a few minutes before he came up to find me. And when he finally got here he just folded his arms across his chest and leaned sideways against the door frame, staring at me.“Comfortable?” he asked. I think he was amused.“Yeah,” I answered. “You ready to come to bed?”He grinned at that and made his way toward me, taking a seat next to me. I got rock hard as soon as he came that close. My nipples were hard too—they felt like they could cut glass.I sat up and for a few seconds we just stared at each other. Then suddenly we were both grabbing for each other. I felt him put one hand behind my head and the other around my back as he pulled me to him. My hard-on got painful as we opened our mouths to each other. Oh God, I was ready.I started fumbling with the buttons of his pants, but he pushed my hand away.“Patience,” he whispered.I was annoyed at that, but I like the way he sounded short of breath. And I had felt his erection—yeah, he was hot for me too.Next thing I knew he was pushing me back down against the bed. And then he was hovering over me on all fours—like a cougar or something—and his teeth were suddenly biting one of my nipples.I gasped as his tongue continued to tease me there. He stopped for a moment to stare into my eyes and I'd swear that he wanted to devour me. Then his weight was on top of me and his hands were undoing my jeans. Jesus Christ! It wasn’t fair that he was allowed to undo mine but I wasn’t allowed to undo his—but I decided not to complain.He rolled off of me and then together we got my jeans and boxers off. He sat up and started massaging my balls, which just about made me explode. Next thing I knew, though, he was pulling me over his lap.I didn’t fight him. Lying over his knee naked was one of my best fantasies.He didn't say a word, but his hand came down hard on my ass. He got me right where the spoon had licked me earlier. And the bastard made sure to catch my balls too. God, that was an incredible feeling. My dick was pressed against his lap, my balls were stinging and my ass was on fire.He kept spanking me until I’ll bet my ass was scarlet. But then I rolled off his lap, turned around and grabbed his shirt. He didn’t stop me as I undid the buttons—and I didn’t care if I tore them off.Once his shirt was undone I attacked his nipples with my teeth, pulling at them and then licking them. He caught his breath and pulled me right up against him. I undid the buttons of his trousers and this time he didn’t push me away.I had guessed how it would go this first time. Yeah, I wanted to take his dick in my mouth and then I wanted him to turn me around and fuck me, smacking my ass as he pumped inside me. But he would have forced us to have a discussion about condoms and safety before we got started—and neither of us could stand that right now. So we were going to settle for mutual masturbation.I caught my breath as his hand went around my dick and started pumping me with a slow, steady rhythm. I tried to copy the same thing for him—but I’d only done this a couple of times before. I was pretty much a virgin.He was rock hard and dripping. He wasn’t as long as me—but God, he was thick. That mattered more.He seemed to know how to keep me just at the edge of climaxing. I knew I wasn’t giving as good as I was getting but I was too into the moment to care. I moaned as he finally let me explode into his hand.I kept squeezing and pumping his dick. He put his hand around mine, showing me how to stay in rhythm and how much pressure to use. He came a moment later and then we just collapsed against each other.He pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. I smiled at that and snuggled against him. This was heaven.We stayed like that for a long time, just savoring how near we were to each other. Our legs were all tangled up and I was using his shoulder for a pillow. God, I could get used to this.He was still partly dressed, but I didn’t mind. That made the whole thing hotter somehow. I shut my eyes and relaxed as he used one hand to massage my ass.After a while, he kissed my forehead again and then spoke up. “Tomorrow you should choose a room for yourself,” he said.I stiffened at that. “You don’t want me sleeping in here?”“I do,” he answered, still massaging me. “But you should take one of the spare rooms for your own—not to sleep in, but to put your stuff in and to use as a studio.”I thought about that. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could have a room just for my artwork. That’d be pretty cool.“Ok,” I said. “I’d like that.”“Good,” he said. His voice was becoming heavy, like he was falling to sleep. But he wasn’t done talking yet.“Are you working tomorrow?” he asked, massaging my shoulders now.I shook my head. “No. I took a week off.”He nodded. “Ah. Well, you’ll have a chance to meet my sister. She’s coming in the afternoon.”Fuck. I’d forgotten that Mr. Mendes would have a family to deal with too. And they might not be thrilled that he was living with an eighteen year old ex-student who wasn’t as smart as he was. Especially since it happened out of nowhere.“Will—will she be ok with me?” I asked.“To be honest, I don’t know how she’ll react,” he answered. “But we’ll find out. She’s, uh, rather blunt. Whatever’s in her head comes right out of her mouth.”“What if she can’t figure out what you see in me?”Mr. Mendes laughed. “Oh, she’ll guess what I see in you! But she might not realize that it’s more than your looks. But don’t worry—she’ll come around eventually. She’ll just put me through hell before that.”“Fuck,” I said.“Shh,” he said, kissing me again. “It’ll all work out.”

Turning Eighteen, Part Eight

2008-06-24T21:13:00.001-07:00

My cousin picked up on the other end. Fuck. This was the same cousin I kept getting into fist fights with.He had made my life hell in high school. In fact, he was one of the reasons I left before graduating. He guessed that I was gay and spent all his time torturing me because of it. I have no idea how he guessed—why would a clueless jock like him have a gaydar?Worse, he had plenty of jock friends to back him up. I could hold my own against him alone—but not against him and three of his wrestling buddies.“Hey Kyle,” I managed. “Can I talk to your Mom?”“Jason?” he said.“Yeah.”“My Mom’s not home. What do you want?”“I want to give her my new address.”“You moved out?” he demanded.“Yeah.”“Fuck,” he said. “You must make good money at that diner. You got your own place?”“Not exactly,” I said.“You got a roommate?”“Yeah.”He laughed. “What’d you do—go find some Chelsea boy?”I rolled my eyes. “I moved in with Mr. Mendes,” I said. “There, are you happy?”The phone was silent for almost a minute. “Mr. Mendes from high school?” he said at last. “The Mr. Mendes who taught you retarded kids?”I gritted my teeth. “Yeah.”“Fuck,” he said. “You really are gay!”“Yeah,” I answered.There was another long silence. “Sorry Jason,” he said. “I had no idea.”I was gripping the phone now. I wanted to strangle Kyle through the phone wires. My face was burning up—I was ready to explode.I took a deep breath. I knew what I was like when I lost my temper. And I couldn’t afford to do that here. Not with Mr. Mendes in the next room.“You knew,” I told him. “You and your friends used me for a punching bag, remember?”“You beat the crap out of me once,” he reminded me. "That’s why I always had other guys around. When you lose your temper, Jesus—you don’t care if you break bones. And I didn’t know. I just said you were gay so that Angela Baristo would give up on you.”I closed my eyes for a minute. “Kyle, just let me give you the address. You can give it to your Mom.”“Are you sleeping with Mr. Mendes?” he asked.I didn’t know how to answer that. I wasn’t yet—but I was hoping I would be by tonight. But that was none of his business. “We’re dating,” I said. “Ok?”He let out a low whistle. “Your Dad would have a fit if he were alive,” he said.“Yeah, well, he’s not,” I said. “You want to take this address?”“Hang on,” he answered. “Let me get some paper. And if you really are gay, I need a favor.”I was so surprised that I loosened my grip on the phone. “What kind of favor?”“I need you to come out with me next week. A bunch of us are going to Medieval Times.”“So you and your wrestling buddies can jump me in the parking lot? No thanks.”He talked back as if he were rolling his eyes. “This isn’t high school, Jason. Look, there’s this girl I want to impress. If she knows that I hang out with my gay cousin, she’ll think I’m sensitive and shit.”I didn’t know what to say to that. “I’ll think about it.”He decided not to push me. “Ok,” he said, “What’s the address?”

Turning Eighteen, Part Seven

2008-06-24T21:12:00.001-07:00

I was glad to get out of the restaurant. The food was decent, but I could’ve made it better. Besides, I was hungry for something else.I got a taste of that when we got home. We’d barely taken our coats off before Mr. Mendes grabbed me by the collar and pulled me up against him. I laughed as I put my arms around him and opened up my mouth to him. We both tasted like peanut curry, but neither of us cared.I felt his hand massage my ass as I began to kiss his neck. “I was real good at the restaurant,” I whispered in between sharp little bites to his skin.“Yeah, you were,” he agreed, giving my ass a pinch. “I’d say you’ve earned a treat for your birthday.”He broke apart from me then and grabbed my arm. Next thing I knew he was pulling me into the kitchen toward a straight backed chair.My stomach started doing somersaults. This was it. He wasn’t just going to bend me over a counter this time. This time he was going to put me over his knee.I didn’t resist when he sat down and jerked me over his lap. And I caught my breath when he pressed down on the small of my back to hold me in place. But that’s when I realized that something was wrong. In my fantasies, my jeans and boxers were always down around my ankles. I opened my mouth to tell him to wait, but his hand came down for the first smack.I gasped. Not because of any pain—I felt the blow, but it didn’t hurt through my jeans. But it’s hard to describe. Having my jeans on made me feel more like a little kid somehow. It was like I was a five year old who had gotten on his Mom’s last nerve. I could even remember my Mom smacking my butt in the supermarket when I was throwing a temper tantrum. I don't know if that memory was real or not, though.“That’s one,” Mr. Mendes said.I grinned despite myself. Ok, I could deal with the ‘little kid’ feeling.His hand came down again, harder this time. “That’s two,” he said.I could feel each smack more and more as he kept going. It was like my jeans were somehow getting thinner and thinner. It was a weird effect, because I could still feel where he had spanked me with the spoon earlier. Pretty soon my ass felt hot and sore, but it didn’t hurt—not exactly. It’s hard to describe.“That’s eighteen,” Mr. Mendes said at last. “And there’s one for good luck,” he said with another blow, “and one to grow on,” he finished, bringing his hand down more gently that last time.I was grinning from ear to ear by now. I tried to get up, but he kept one hand pressed on my back.“What do you say?” he asked.I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Mendes.”He laughed and let me up. “Mr. Mendes?” he repeated as he stood up himself and put the chair back in place. “I think it’s time you called me ‘Aaron,’ don’t you?”My face turned bright red. I could’ve kicked myself right then. All this time, I’d been reminding myself to think of him as ‘Aaron.’ And I’d gotten through this much of the day without calling him by name. But when the moment came I fucked it up. He didn’t look offended though—I think he thought it was cute. God, that was annoying.“Aaron,” I said, tasting the name.He smiled at me—a damn sexy smile. There are times when he almost looks hot. He can’t compete with me, but still…“I like the sound of that on your lips,” he said softly, bringing his hand up to my cheek.We stood there for a long moment, just staring at each other.“Why don’t you go call your aunt?” he asked.I snapped back to the present. Oh yeah—I’d promised to call my aunt so that someone in my family knew how to reach me.I managed a nod and went to his phone. I stared at it for a while, though. I’d have to explain stuff to her. I could lie and tell her that I was just crashing with Mr. Mendes for a while—but I didn’t want to do that. I was eighteen now. I didn’t want to live in the closet anymore.I sighed and picked up the phone.

Turning Eighteen, Part Six

2008-06-24T21:11:00.002-07:00

I borrowed a button down from Mr. Mendes so that I could dress up a bit for the Thai restaurant. My jeans were ok, but it wasn’t really a t-shirt place. And since this would be our first ‘date,’ I was determined to look good.I found this burnt orange shirt in his closet that was perfect. It’s a hard color to pull off, though—it looked hot on me, but it wouldn’t work for Mr. Mendes. Jesus, I’d have to do something about his wardrobe. For a gay guy, he didn’t have much fashion sense.I liked the look of the restaurant when we stepped inside. It had Asian-style murals on the walls, but it wasn’t overdone. And it was busy, but not overcrowded. I could see myself working in a place like this.“Is this place kosher?” I asked as we took a table.Mr. Mendes shook his head. “I doubt it. The best kosher places are in the city. There’s a great French kosher restaurant on 46th. We’ll go there next time.”He didn’t have to get more specific—‘the city’ always means Manhattan. But I bit my lip as I thought about what he just said. I’d just gone through a lot of trouble to learn the kosher rules. Why was he brushing them off?“But if it’s not kosher, why are you eating here?” I asked.He shrugged. “I stick with vegetarian food in non-kosher restaurants. There’s not too much that can go wrong once you take meat out of the picture.”“Yeah, but the plates won’t be separated into meat and dairy.”“I know,” he said as he opened up his menu. “I don’t worry about plates outside my house.”That annoyed me. “Then why do you worry about them inside your house?”He put his menu down and grinned at me. “Jason, you always want people to be consistent. You’re setting yourself up for a lot of disappointment.”I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”“It’s not uncommon for Conservative Jews to keep kosher inside their house but not out of it,” he explained. “Rabbis don’t like it, but I think it’s an acceptable compromise. Does that satisfy you?”It didn’t, but I just shrugged. Mr. Mendes was right—I hate it when people aren’t consistent. And compromise isn’t my strong point. I’m the all-or-nothing type.I dropped the kosher talk as we placed our orders. Fortunately the conversation moved on—I didn’t want to risk losing my temper over something as stupid as that. What the hell did I care if he was consistent with his religious rules?We talked about the Mets and what they had to do to avoid another royal fuck-up at the end of the season next year. And then we talked about the Giant’s chances of making the NFL play-offs. We didn’t talk about the Jets, though. They were a lost cause.The conversation went all over the place after that. Mr. Mendes was always easy to talk to. He touched on subjects that I didn’t know much about, but he didn’t make me feel stupid. I was able to follow him. And then we talked about stuff that I knew more about—stuff like cooking and painting and woodwork.But pretty soon my Mom came up again. That was my fault. I knew that she would like the tom kha soup—she likes anything with coconut milk—so I said so.Mr. Mendes nodded at that and then cocked his head at me. “Have you come out to your Mom?”I shook my head. “No, but I think she guessed. She opened my underwear drawer once and gave me a weird look when she saw the silk boxers. She asked me if I was gay or something.”He rolled his eyes at that. “What was she doing in your drawer?”“Looking for drugs. I never had any—I remembered what they did to my Dad. But she never believed me.” I stopped talking long enough to give him a bitter smile. “She never believed me about anything."He risked a smile back. "Then at least she's consistent."I had to laugh at that. "Yeah," I agreed. "But now do you know why I don’t want to talk to her?”“I understand why you want to cut your ties with her,” he said softly. “And I respect your decision.”God damn him. I wish he had just picked a fight with me instead of trying to be understanding. I sighed and stared down into my food. “You’re only saying that. You don’t agree with me at all,” I said.“No, I don’t agree with you,” he owned. “But I don’t have to. She’s your mother—you have to decide how to handle her.”“You think I should call her?” I asked as I pushed my food around with my fork.He shrugged. “I think you’ll regret it if something happens and your Mom can’t reach you,” he said. “But you don’t have to talk to your mother. You could leave a message with your aunt instead.”I thought about that. “I could,” I admitted. “But she’ll try to get me to talk to my Mom again. She’s always trying to get everyone to kiss and make-up.”Mr. Mendes smiled at that. “Well, that’s not a bad thing.”I made a face. “It’s an annoying thing,” I told him.Not that he’d understand. Mr. Mendes is like my aunt—always optimistic about people. I guess he has to be, considering his job. At least half the kids he works with have fucked up family lives. If he didn’t believe the best about people, he’d have cut his wrists open by now.I stopped pushing my food around and started eating it again. It was pretty good. I was already thinking of ways to make it better, but it had a lot of potential.I glanced back up at Mr. Mendes and managed a grin. “I’ll call my aunt,” I said in between mouthfuls. “Does that make you happy?”He smiled back at me as he lifted his glass of water. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”

Turning Eighteen, Part Five

2008-06-24T21:11:00.001-07:00

I kept my eyes closed even as Mr. Mendes placed a hand on my ass, giving my boxers a pat. “Silk-knit,” he said. There was surprise and approval in his voice.I blushed. Yeah, I had spent good money on all my boxer-briefs. I didn’t like to splurge on clothes, but I always made sure my underwear was the best I could afford. I don’t know what that says about me.The boxers-briefs didn’t stay up for long. I felt Mr. Mendes tug them down. They ended up around my ankles with my jeans.I swallowed hard--this was it. This was my fantasy come to life. I was bent over a counter with my ass hanging out and Mr. Mendes looming over me, ready to spank me. Was he going to take off his belt? Or was he just going to use his hand? One part of me wanted to feel the cool leather of his belt doubled up against my skin, but the other part wanted to feel the warmth of his palm.Either way, though, I wanted him to get on with it. This waiting was killing me. Why was he taking so much time? I think he was enjoying his view of my ass--not to mention my package. Well, let him look as much as he wanted. I had nothing to be ashamed of.Suddenly I heard him open up a kitchen drawer. I opened my eyes just in time to see him pull something wooden out--fuck! It was a wooden spoon. I gasped as he brought it down hard on my butt.“Jesus!” I yelled. It stung like a bitch. I could imagine a deep red line right where my ass met my thighs.There was another chuckle in his voice as he answered my shout. “You don’t have to take your reward--I can stop if you’d like.”“Don’t you dare!” I told him, gritting my teeth. “I want more.”He went straight back to business. I can imagine him grinning as he pressed down on my back with one hand while he used the other to lick me with the spoon again and again, crisscrossing my ass with scarlet lines. Christ, how would I ever sit down again? Just the thought of trying to sit brought a smile to my lips. I even started squirming.Mr. Mendes wasn’t content with my ass--the bastard went after my thighs too. I had never imagined that in my fantasies, but I liked it. It hurt like hell but it felt good at the same time--even when he caught a piece of my balls with his stroke.It was over way too soon. He only gave me fifteen strokes in all. I could’ve handled more than that.“That’s it?” I demanded. I didn’t hide my disappointment.He leaned over me and kissed the back of my head. “If you want more, you’ll have to earn them,” he murmured. “Just keep behaving.”He pulled me up then so that I was leaning back against him. My ass was burning up, but I could still feel his hard-on through his trousers. I smiled--he wanted me just as badly as I wanted him.He held me to him for a long moment. I sighed and closed my eyes again, feeling like everything in the world was perfect. But then he pushed me back down over the counter. I started breathing faster, hoping for more strokes.That’s not what he had planned, though. He told me to stay put and then I heard him leave the kitchen. I think he was still holding the spoon. Maybe he meant to put that somewhere else. I doubt we’d ever use it for cooking again. Except to cook my ass, that is.He came back to the kitchen a couple of minutes later. Before I knew it he was massaging something cool and soothing onto my butt and thighs. It was some kind of cream. Oh God, it felt good--my ass still stung but his hand was like rough velvet. I could get used to this.When he was done he ordered me to pull up my boxers and my jeans. I frowned at that, but I obeyed him. Once I was decent I turned around to face him.“Didn’t you--didn’t you want to do anything else?” I asked. God, I hope that didn’t sound pathetic.He reached out and tousled my hair. “All in good time,” he promised. “But right now I owe Tybalt a walk. He’s been running around the yard, but he likes to go up to the reservation. Want to come along?”I stared at him stupidly for a moment and then nodded. It’s weird, but whenever I fantasized about Mr. Mendes I always pictured myself bent over his knee or bent over a table in front of him. He’d spank me and then I’d imagine our hot sex afterward. I never thought about us doing ordinary stuff like walking the dog together. But that would be kind of nice.“I’ll take you out to dinner tonight in honor of your birthday,” he was saying as his words broke into my thoughts. “We could try that new Thai place up on the Avenue.”I nodded again. “Yeah, that’d be fine,” I said. And then I gave him a hopeful smile. “There’s a tradition about birthdays, you know.”He paused to raise his eyebrows at me. “Oh yeah?”“Yeah,” I said. “Some people believe in spanking the birthday kid.”“Is that so?” he asked.“Yup. If you want to do it the right way, you’ll have to give me eighteen strokes--plus one for good luck,” I told him.“And one to grow on,” he reminded me with a wink. “Let’s see how the birthday boy behaves himself over dinner. Deal?”I grinned at that. “Deal.”

Turning Eighteen, Part Four

2008-06-24T21:10:00.002-07:00

Mr. Mendes stood there for a long time. He still had his hand on my shoulder, but I could tell that he had no idea what to say. Jesus, I had rattled him. That was a good thing, though--if he’d been indifferent to me, he would have told me straight out that he was flattered but not interested.“You knew I was gay, right?” I asked him, breaking the silence.“I suspected it,” he managed.I nodded and felt my face get even redder. “That’s why I made your life hell in front of the other students,” I said. “I didn’t want them to know that I was like you--or that I liked you. I’m sorry though. They might never have guessed about you if it weren’t for me.”Suddenly he was laughing. “Jason,” he said, shaking his head, “you tried your damnedest, but you never made my life hell. I could stand what you said behind my back--and whatever you said or did in class.”My whole face felt hot now. “Well, I’m still sorry about it,” I said, looking down. “And I’m sorry that I didn’t have the guts to come out in school.”But he didn’t seem to think that mattered. “High school is not the best place to come out of the closet,” he said.I looked back up at him. “You think it’s better to live a lie?”He shrugged. “I think it’s better to come out when you have friends to support you--and it’s easier to find friends like that in college.”“Is that why you want me to take my S.A.T.’s?” I asked, smiling a little.“In part,” he answered as he gave my shoulder a squeeze. “But you’re a smart kid, Jason. You deserve more education.”“But I hated school,” I pointed out.“You didn’t hate all of it,” he said. “Besides, it doesn’t have to be a regular college. You can look into a culinary school or an art school.”I took a step closer to him. We were barely an inch apart now. I could feel his breath on me--and that was making me hard enough to explode. “You never answered my question,” I said. “Why don’t you take your belt to me? God, I want you to.”He was breathing heavier as he answered. “Jason, you’re still a kid. Turning eighteen doesn’t magically make you an adult.”“It magically makes me legal,” I retorted.That made him smile. “Maybe I don’t want to rob the cradle. You ought to find a kid your own age--”I stopped him from saying anything more by kissing him. He pushed me away at first, but by now I was clinging to him. He decided not to make it a wrestling match. That would’ve been interesting though--I’d bet we were about even.He opened his mouth to me and then took control. I let him; I had a feeling he was better at this than I was. I didn’t have much experience yet.There was a strange expression on his face when we broke apart. It was as if he was trying to come to a decision. Suddenly I realized that I might not be a good bargain for him. Yeah, I was hot--but I didn’t have much else to offer.I looked down again. “I won’t be a problem here,” I promised. “I won’t lose my temper again. You won’t have to deal with my anger all the time, I swear it.”I must have been talking too fast. “Slow down,“ he said as he took my chin in his hand and forced me to look back up at him.I swallowed hard. “You already waste a lot of time helping me study and deal with my dyslexia,” I said. “Maybe you don’t want to take on my anger too.”“I volunteered to help you study,” he reminded me. “And I get as much out of it as you do. And if I didn’t want to tackle your anger issues, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you stay here.”“Then what’s the problem?” I demanded. “Is there someone else?”“No,” he answered. “It’s just that--”“Do you want somebody as smart as you are?” I asked. “Is that it?”His grip on my chin got tighter. “Jason, you're just as smart as I am.”I snorted--that was a fucking lie.“Listen to me,” he said. “We’re not smart in the same way--that’s all. I may have more book learning, but you’re a hell of a lot more creative than I am. We just have different strengths. That’s not what I’m worried about.”I managed a nod. I’m not sure I believed him, but that didn’t matter at the moment. “Then what are you worried about?”He sighed. “A few things. In some ways we’re from different worlds. And I don’t want to tie you down when you should be meeting guys your own age.”“Jesus Christ,” I said, rolling my eyes. I couldn‘t believe what he was saying. He’s so fucking smart and yet he always misses the obvious. And he always makes everything too complicated.“You’re not tying me down,” I informed him. “I can walk out if I want to. Or you can kick me out if it doesn’t work--if we turn out to be too different. We’re not talking about a fucking commitment ceremony.”A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s true,” he owned.“Besides, you’re only thirty-one,” I reminded him. “That’s not robbing the cradle. Can’t we--can’t we try this?”He responded by pulling me to him and kissing me as if he wanted to devour me. I could taste his tongue, his teeth--everything. I got so caught up in him that I didn’t react when he stopped abruptly, spun me around and bent me over the counter.I wasn’t sure if he meant to fuck me or tan my ass--but I didn’t mind either way.“What happens now?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.“Now we discuss your outburst,” he said, pressing down on me with one arm.I grinned. “Do you think I deserve a tanning?”“No,” he said as he began to stroke my hair with his free hand. “I think you handled your anger quite well. In fact, I think you deserve a reward.”Oh God, I was hard now. “What—what kind of reward?”I heard him chuckle as he answered. And I felt him reach around me to undo my jeans. “Tell you what,” he said as he tugged the jeans down. “As long as you behave yourself like a good boy, I’ll treat you like a bad one.”I closed my eyes, knowing that this was the closest I was going to get to heaven. “Yes, sir,” I said.

Turning Eighteen, Part Three

2008-06-24T21:10:00.001-07:00

Mr. Mendes wasn’t happy when he found out how I left my house. He had asked me how my Mom felt about me leaving and I had shrugged and said that I had no idea. I explained how I had just gotten up, packed and walked out the door, tossing my house keys into the mailbox as I left.By now we were standing in his kitchen. He’d been explaining kosher rules. I didn’t think he was religious enough to keep kosher, but I guess you can’t tell. I’d even eaten at his house before, but I didn’t realize that there was anything special about the food or the plates.But now I’d be cooking here too, so I had to learn the rules. They weren’t as complicated as you might think. In fact, I was looking forward to them. It’d be a challenge to come up with creative meals within the system.The truth is that I liked having rules to work with--as long as I understood them. And Mr. Mendes was good at giving me rules that made sense to me.I started thinking about the meals I would prepare. The cooking classes I took in high school were the only classes I really loved. I’ve been cooking ever since. In fact, I work as a cook in a diner now. I started as a busboy two years ago, but they’ve finally put me in the kitchen. Now that I’m eighteen they’re going to stick me with the graveyard shift--eleven at night till eight in the morning--but that’s ok.Mr. Mendes interrupted my thoughts by asking about my Mom. That’s when I told him how I’d just left without a word.He folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t think you owe your Mom some kind of explanation?” he asked. “What if there was an emergency? She won’t know how to contact you.”I glared at him, annoyed that he would criticize me for the way I left. What the fuck right did he have to get into my family business?“Look,” I said, “my Mom’s a bitch. She’s made my life hell for eighteen years. Why should I tell her I was leaving? She’ll figure it out. And if there’s an emergency, I don’t want to know about it. I don’t care what she does.”“Jason,” he began.“She’s kicked me out herself before,” I spat, cutting him off. “I spent three days sleeping in the park once.”Mr. Mendes sighed and leaned back against the wall. “I wish you would have come to me then,” he said.“Why?” I demanded. “So you could get me out of my Mom’s custody and into foster care? That was the last thing I wanted.”“There might have been other options,” he said. “Jason, why don’t you just send your Mom a note letting her know where you are? Just in case.”I slammed down the pot that was in my hand. “Fuck her,” I said. “And fuck you for getting in my business!”He took that so calmly that I wanted to explode. God, I was fuming.But he ignored my anger. “You’re right,” he said. “My apologies. How you treat your mother isn’t my business.” He paused and nodded toward the cabinets. “I think you’ve got the hang of the kosher rules now. I’m going out for a walk.”He turned to leave the kitchen but I grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare just walk out,” I said. I knew my eyes were blazing.“Take your arm off of me,” he said. He spoke softly, but I recognized the steel in his voice.I let go of his arm as my face turned bright red--not with anger now, but with humiliation. God damn it! I still couldn’t control my temper.My temper has always gotten me into trouble. I’ve lost count of the times I was suspended from school for fist fights. I lost my first job for the same reason. And I’d been brought up on assault charges during my Sophomore year for beating up one of my Mom’s boyfriends. I ended up in Juvenile Court and for a while the guy had a restraining order on me.Mr. Mendes knew about my problem. He knew about all my problems. He was a Special Ed teacher--he taught in the ‘Resource Room’ at the high school. He spent all day dealing with kids like me. I wasn’t stupid, but I had dyslexia and ‘anger management’ issues. We had another girl who was insanely smart but kept cutting herself at home. And then we had kids who were a little autistic, kids with attention deficit and other stuff like that. Mr. Mendes and the other Resource teachers had to handle all of us.“I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking away from him.“Take a deep breath and get yourself a glass of water,” he advised.I nodded and did as he said. I was facing the counter now as I drank the water down. I couldn’t bring myself to face him. But I heard him come up behind me and I felt him put a hand on my shoulder.I managed to grin as I put the glass down. “You see?“ I said, looking straight ahead so I wouldn’t have to glimpse his expression. “You should take a belt to me.”“It’s tempting,” he admitted. I could hear a slight smile in his voice.I should have cut my losses and kept my mouth shut. That would have been the smart thing to do. But I pressed my luck instead.“Why don’t you?” I asked. “I deserve it.”I heard him catch his breath at that. It took him a long time to answer me. Meanwhile I was cursing myself. How stupid am I?“Why are you here, Jason?” Mr. Mendes asked at last. “Do you want me to be a friend who gives you a place to crash? Or are you looking for a father figure?”I felt my face redden again. Neither, but how could I explain that? Jesus, could this be any more embarrassing?He must have guessed how hard it was for me to keep talking. “Just speak your mind,” he told me. “I’m not judging you and you’re not going to shock me.”“I don’t want you to think of me as a kid,” I managed. “I mean--well, now that I’m eighteen, there’s nothing to stop us from getting closer, you know? And if you want to discipline me--” I broke off and forced myself to turn and look him in the eye. “Well, that would be hot,” I finished.He had said that I wouldn’t shock him. Well, maybe that was true…but he sure seemed speechless to me.

Turning Eighteen, Part Two

2008-06-24T21:09:00.001-07:00

Mr. Mendes didn’t come back anytime soon. But that was ok; I guessed where he was. He must have gone to his synagogue. Teachers are supposed to take part in their church or synagogue or some other community thing. It helps them get their tenure—it impresses the Board of Ed, I think.There were two synagogues in town. I didn’t know which one Mr. Mendes went to, so I decided to try the closest one. I hid my backpack behind a couple of recycling barrels on the porch and then set off.I’d never set foot in the synagogue before—and now I knew why. It was like walking into a foreign country. The lady who greeted me didn’t even say ‘hi’ in English. “Shabbat shalom,” she said instead as she shook my hand and smiled at me.I had no idea what that meant so I just nodded. Then I stepped toward the pews, trying to spot Mr. Mendes. But I didn’t get far before the old lady politely tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a yarmulke.I rolled my eyes as I put the yarmulke on my head. Then I went back to scanning the pews for Mr. Mendes—no, for Aaron. I had to get used to thinking of him as Aaron. I couldn’t expect him to look at me as an adult if I kept calling him ‘Mr. Mendes.’He wasn’t in the pews. He was standing up front. A few men and women were standing up there with him, gathered around a lectern with some kind of scroll on it.Mr. Mendes looked different. It wasn’t just the yarmulke on his head. He was wearing this long, fringed shawl too—in fact, he swayed back and forth now and again to adjust it, folding it and refolding it over his shoulders.I looked around the sanctuary. All the guys had that same kind of shawl on, except that some of the shawls were shorter. A couple were so short that they looked like scarves. Some women were wearing the shawls too, but not all of them.I stared back up at Mr. Mendes. He was saying something in what I guessed was Hebrew. Jesus Christ—he couldn’t just be sitting in a pew? Now I’d have to wait to talk to him.I slipped into the last pew and waited for him to finish doing whatever it was he was doing up there. He didn’t talk the whole time—someone else read from the scroll for a while. Then Mr. Mendes spoke again and finally he came back toward the pews.He paused to shake hands with people as he made his way back to his seat. I stood up, hoping he’d notice me.He did. He stared at me for a long moment, almost as if he didn’t recognize me. I guess people look weird when they’re out of their element. It had taken me a minute to recognize him, too, with that shawl and all his Hebrew talk.His face was concerned as he hurried down to me. “Jason, what’s wrong?” he whispered, placing a hand on my shoulder.He must have thought there was some kind of emergency—I guess he couldn’t imagine me in his synagogue otherwise. I shook my head as I let him steer me out of the pew.“Nothing’s wrong,” I whispered back. “It’s just that…” I let my voice trail off as he led me out of the sanctuary by a side door and into some kind of dining room.I took a seat at one of the tables while he took off his shawl and folded it. “It’s just that what?” he asked.“It’s just that I turned eighteen,” I finished. “So I left home.”He sat down in the chair opposite of me as he took that in. “Is today your birthday?” he asked at last.I nodded.“Mazel tov,” he said, managing a smile. But I could still see the concern in his eyes. “I know how anxious you were to get out of your Mom’s house,” he continued. “But can you afford a place of your own?”“I have some money saved up,” I said. After all, I’d been working since I was sixteen.“Most landlords are going to want a month and a half in advance plus a credit check,” he warned me.“I know,” I answered as I stared down at my hands, hoping I looked embarrassed and wishful at the same time. “You see—well, I wasn’t thinking of getting an apartment. Not right away,” I added quickly. “I, uh, was hoping that I could crash with you for a while.”There, that sounded about right. I wanted to say, “Let me move in with you so that you can fuck me and spank my ass good.” But I resisted. I’d have to keep those desires to myself—at least for now.I risked looking up at him. He was raising his eyebrows at me, but I could tell that he wasn’t shocked by my request. We’d gotten pretty close since I left school. In a father-and-son way, unfortunately, but at least it was something.“I suppose you can stay with me for now,” he said. “I won’t charge you rent, but I will expect you to earn your keep. You can take on your share of household chores.”“I will,” I promised. “You can take a belt to me if I don’t,” I risked adding.He grinned. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said. “But I want you to keep working toward your high school equivalency diploma.”I nodded at that. He’d been helping me along with it this far; I saw no reason to quit now.“And I’d like you to study for your SAT’s,” he added. “And take them.”I made a face at that. “Why?” I demanded. “I’m not going to college.”He leaned toward me. “This isn’t negotiable,” he said. “If you want to stay at my place, taking your SAT’s is part of the price.”I stared at him. He wasn’t kidding. “Whatever,” I said with a shrug.He smiled. “All right then,” he said. “Come on—let’s go back to the house and get you settled.”

Turning Eighteen, Part One

2008-06-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

Summary: (Complete; R; Slash) Jason has had a crush on Mr. Mendes for years. But now that he's eighteen and out of high school, he makes up his mind to do something about it. He can get out of his Mom's house, come out of the closet and go talk to the guy. How hard can that be? But life and family have a way of making things more complicated...~I woke up on the morning of November 10, 2007 and glanced at my clock. It was just after six—there was time yet. I closed my eyes and started on my favorite fantasy. He was taking off his belt as he ordered me to bend over a table. I would have to put up with a lecture in addition to the punishment, but I knew that it’d be worth it.In the back of my mind, I was afraid that I was some sort of freak. Not because I was fantasizing about another guy—I had made my peace with that—but because I wanted that guy to discipline me. I didn’t want him to cripple me or anything, but I did want to feel his hand and his belt punish me. But maybe I wasn't so freakish. There were spankings in porn flicks all the time.Once I was spent, I sat up and stared at the Far Side calendar next to my bed. This was the day. I was eighteen.I got up, showered and dressed and then I packed my stuff—no use hanging around for goodbyes. I’d been kicked out of my home five times since I turned fifteen. Why wait for it to happen again?All the things I cared about fit into my backpack: a few change of clothes, some official stuff like my birth certificate, the iPod my Mom got me when she was on one of her guilt trips and a bunch of baseball cards. It was too bad I couldn’t take the computer—but I’d have one of my own soon enough. Maybe a Play Station and a Nintendo too, if I played my cards right.By now it was just past seven. And it was a Saturday, so I knew no one else would be up. I put on my jacket, slung the backpack over my shoulder and walked downstairs. I left by the front door, stopping long enough to throw my house keys into the mailbox. I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t coming back.I didn’t bother catching a bus; the place I was going to was less than a mile away. I just had to cross the avenue and walk down a few blocks until I got to this monstrous old house.I’m not sure why he owned such a big house—he lived there alone, except for his dog. At least I hoped he still lived there alone. For the first time I felt some nerves in my stomach. What if he’d already found himself a pretty boy?I stopped and stared into the window of the nearest parked car. Not to brag, but I was decently hot. I had my Irish Mom's dark hair and hazel eyes. My Dad was a mutt, but I had his height and sharp features. Altogether it was a good combination. So even if there was another pretty boy in the picture, I had nothing to worry about.Pretty soon the house was in sight. I sprinted up to his front door, eager to see his expression when he answered it.I rang the bell and heard the dog barking, but no one answered. I threw my backpack down on the porch. Where was he? His car was in the driveway and it was only eight in the morning—he should be home. I rang the bell again, but all I got was more barking. Fuck, I thought. I took a seat on the porch steps and folded my arms in disgust.Mr. Mendes must have gone out for a walk. No—not Mr. Mendes. He wasn’t my teacher anymore and he hadn’t been for two years. I could call him Aaron now, right?Aaron wasn’t as hot as I was. But now that I was an adult, I knew that didn’t matter. Besides, he was ok—he was tall, fit and I liked his black mussy hair. He looked a little Latino, but he was really Jewish. Actually I think he was Portuguese Jewish or Moroccan Jewish or something like that. Sephardic, they call it.I had made his life hell when I was his student. I knew he was gay and that gave me an excuse to torment him. At the time, I couldn’t have explained why I knew. He didn’t talk with that gay accent and he didn’t have the limp wrist—there was nothing about him to give him away. He should’ve been able to pass.But I knew in my gut that he’d never looked at a woman. Now I know why I knew—I never looked at one either, except to keep up appearances. Jesus, all that wasted time pretending to drool over Girls Gone Wild, just to make sure that I’d never get beat up in the locker room. High school is brutal. It’s no wonder I dropped out at sixteen.I didn’t always give Mr. Mendes hell. Sometimes I got along with him. Once, when we were going over vocabulary words, he explained what ‘provoke’ means. “Jason,” he said, “if you get into another fight with your cousin, just tell your Mom that he provoked you.”I grinned and looked him straight in the eye as I answered. “If I said that, my Mom would slap me upside the head and tell me to stop using that fucking fancy language.”He laughed along with the rest of the class. “All right,” he admitted. “You might have to tailor your language at home. But you can use ‘provoke’ the next time you’re in the principal’s office.”And then one day when I was on his last nerve, I heard him mutter under his breath. I’m not sure what he said, but it was something like, “God, if he were my son…”That’s all I heard. But I was familiar with that phrase. I usually heard it from my Mom’s boyfriends: “If you were my son, I’d tan your ass!”I should have been furious, but I wasn’t. I stared at Mr. Mendes, wondering what it’d be like if he tanned me. This may sound crazy, but that’s when I realized that I was into him. Ok, I know that high school kids get crushes on their teachers all the time. But this wasn’t a crush. This was the real thing.I didn’t pursue anything though. Even I knew that he wasn’t going to start something with a student and a minor. So I’d have to wait.I still made his life hell—except when there were no other students around to impress. Whenever I saw him during help period or detention or in-school suspension, I was golden. I’d do any work he gave me and then we’d talk about stuff like baseball, current events, movies or the history stories that we’d read in class.I missed that after I dropped out. He must have missed it too, because he tried to convince me to come back to school. And when I refused, he offered to help me get my high school equivalency diploma. We started meeting at the library a few times a week. Every once and a while we’d meet at his house instead. Things didn’t change between us, though—he still treated me like a student. But I could understand that. I was still a minor.But now I was eighteen. He didn’t have to treat me like a student or a kid any more.Those nerves started up in my stomach again. Something was warning me that he’d never look at me as anything other than a student. But I squelched that thought. Last year, when a girl in town graduated and turned eighteen, she married one of her high school teachers. And nobody thought anything of it. So as long as I was out of school and over eighteen, there was no reason for Mr. Mendes—for Aaron—to have a problem.I’d just have to find some way to convince him that I wasn’t a kid anymore; that was all. And I’d have to convince him to let me stay at his place for a while. I didn’t think he’d turn me down—but I was afraid that he’d agree and then treat me like a son instead of a lover. God, please don’t let him do that. I knew for a fact that he was only thirteen years older than me. He wasn’t old enough to be my father.Inside the house, the dog was still barking. That was Tybalt—he sounded fierce, but as long as he knew you he was ok with you. I wasn’t afraid of him. It was just too bad that he couldn’t let me in. But that was impossible, so I made myself comfortable on the porch and practiced what I was going to say to Mr. Mendes.

2008-06-24T20:53:00.000-07:00

Sexy Babe

2008-06-17T20:55:00.001-07:00

Hot beauty

2008-06-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

2008-06-05T20:23:00.000-07:00