I slept well and deeply that night and woke up to hear my grandmother bustling about in the kitchen. My grandmother is a great lady, but she’s very old fashioned. There was no lack of money in the household, but she declined to hire any help and did the work herself, unless of course, she needed my help. I always called her “Granmum”.
From the smells, it was clear that the kitchen would soon produce breakfast. I swiftly dressed and went to the bathroom for the usual morning rituals. I was expected to brush my teeth, as well as wash my hands, before and after meals at my Grandparents; I was also expected to be “properly” dressed at all meals. This wasn’t Sunday, so I could get away with cut offs at the table, but shoes and a shirt were necessary too. Suitably attired, I went to the kitchen, kissed my Granmum and had a wonderful breakfast.
My grandfather was already out and about. I had changed his name, too, at a very early age, and he was now known as “Pobbin” most of the time. Pobbin, too, was very old fashioned. I know, I mentioned that we were now members of the Dutch Reformed Church; but they had both been raised as Mennonites, so it's no wonder that they were a little old fashioned. Pobbin was an investor. I was slowly learning what that entailed: I knew there was real estate, and there were stocks and bonds, and it all seemed to work reasonably well. All of us were accustomed to hard work of one kind or another; but all of my spoons were silver.
Sadly, I’d had no chance to rename my other grandfather; he had died long before I was born.
The one thing that was unusual about Pobbin was his seeming belief that it was his mission to make Protestants out of every Catholic he encountered. I never fully understood all of this as I was not in the least interested in theology. Somehow, though, Pobbin had it in his head that I’d grow up to be a preacher, or a missionary, or something holy. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he ever converted a Catholic, and after yesterday, Pobbin’s plan for me had stretched out to be extremely unlikely at best. But in any event, it wasn’t Sunday. I had no sermon of any kind to face. Yesterday with Johnny had been great. I’d soon be with him again.
I told my Granmum where I was going and, at least in part, what I would be doing. She suggested that we have Johnny over to dinner soon. I agreed and said I’d ask him. My Grandparents liked Johnny. He was of Scots descent, as was I on my Father’s side, and he regularly attended the Presbyterian Church; Pobbin had told me that Presbyterians were a kind of “lapsed Calvinist” but they were, for some reason, infinitely preferable to Catholics, no effort need be expended on their conversion, they were viewed with only casual suspicion.
I returned to the bathroom and brushed my teeth again. Went to my bedroom where I took off my t-shirt and stuffed it in my hip pocket. Then I was out the door and down the block to Johnny’s. It was another beautiful sunny day and it was already warm.
As I went up the driveway to Johnny’s I could see that the garage door was open and their car was gone. His Mom was already at work, this was her regular routine. The backdoor to the kitchen had panes of glass in the top half, and was solid wood in the bottom half. There were white curtains on the window and you could sometimes see movement through them, but you couldn’t really see anything clearly. I could see some movement and as I started to knock, the door opened a little and Johnny peeked around it. He was smiling broadly as he opened the door completely and stood there without a stitch on; he grabbed my arm and pulled me into an embrace and kissed me firmly. I embraced him and pulled him even closer. I kicked the door closed behind me, kicked my shoes off, stepped back a tiny bit and dropped my cut offs to the floor. I gloried in the feel of him.
Johnny broke our kiss, though we remained embraced, saying, “Let’s get some cokes and go upstairs.” As I followed him up the stairs I was a little, like, stunned. I’d always thought of him as ‘good looking,’ maybe even ‘handsome;’ but as I followed him up the stairs I realized that he was truly beautiful. His butt cheeks moved symmetrically. I knew he was firm and standing proudly up front and I wished that I was at the top of the stairs so I could look down on his beauty in motion. When we got to his room, he spun around and sat on his bed facing me. I quickly moved to sit close beside him and we felt of one another.
“Ya know, Davey, yesterday ya called your boner a ‘weiner’ and that’s kinda schoolyard shit, ya know?”
“Okay.”
“So there’s lotsa other names that you gotta know. Like ‘cock’ and ‘dick’ and ‘prick’. Then there’s like, ‘woodie’ an ‘stiffie’.” He paused for a long moment while we continued to fondle each other. “I’ll bet there’s even more words that we can look for. But anyhow, let’s not do it now.” He stood up all naked and inspired.
“Okay. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s play Indians,” Johnny said without a second's hesitation.
“Indians! Indians? What’s that?” Usually, you know, if you play Indians, you’ve got cowboys around somewhere. At least that had always been our past practice though we’d not indulged in those games for several years, now. But anyway, here we were all naked and having a great time. And come on, whoever heard of a naked cowboy?
“You know. Like in Tom Sawyer.” He paused to consider the game. “We’re gonna both be Indians, but different tribes. I think they sometimes fought each other. But we need costumes.” Uh-oh, I thought, here come the clothes. But Johnny was way ahead of me and before I could go all whiney about getting dressed, he said. “Remember how they alway wear those flappy things in front and behind. That’s what we’ll wear. Come on, let's get some rags.”
Woodies waving, we left his room and went down the hall and down the stairs. Once again I was behind him and I again enjoyed the play of his muscles and the rhythm of his butt. But I wanted a front view too. We went to the kitchen and he plunged into a storage closet and began rummaging in a box of rags. Discarding left and right until he came up with a big piece of what had once been a sheet.
“Here,” he waved it triumphantly. “Now we need some scissors;” grabbing the necessary tool, we started back to his room and I once again enjoyed a rear view as he stormed up the stairs.
Johnny quickly began cutting the rag into strips of cloth of different sizes. He motioned me to his side and tied two of the strips together into one piece that was maybe three feet long. He then wrapped this around my waist just below my tan line and carefully adjusted the knot over my right hip so the ends of the cloth fell down my leg with a suitably dramatic effect. Next he cut a piece of cloth that was about four inches wide and maybe twenty inches long. This he carefully adjusted under my sash so that it fell down over my sex. It didn't cover much because I was still about as hard as I could be and my dick was standing well out in front, with the result that the flap laid over to one side leaving my condition completely exposed. Plus, Johnny had brushed me with his cheek several times as he attended to my costume. Johnny turned me around and considered my butt. I wiggled it for him. He put both hands on my cheeks and massaged me. I pushed back into his hands, more than willing to abandon the game. But no. Johnny was on a roll. “We don’t need flaps in back,” he decided.
I watched as he tied his new belt on. He adjusted his flap so that it would have covered him if he hadn’t had a thundering hard on. I pretended to assist with his flap, but actually I just stroked him a couple of times.
“Headbands,” Johnny declaimed and began fashioning one for each of us. I was just about to go down on him, to hell with the costumes, when he started on my headband and couldn’t. Oh well.
“War Paint!” He proclaimed and dashed down the hall and down the stairs. This time, I only followed him to the head of the stairs and watched as he came dashing back. Costume awry and sex flying. Awesome. He had a jar of some kind of cold cream from his Mom’s bathroom and he commenced to apply my war paint. He daubed a circle around each of my nipples and my belly button; then he carefully applied a single stripe on my forehead. He considered me creatively and then wiped the excess cold cream off on my dick. Which tantalized and made the whole thing worthwhile.
Johnny went to the mirror and began to apply his war paint. I came up behind him and nuzzled. Johnny continued to apply his war paint. He had proclaimed his status as a mighty warrior by daubing an arrow on his chest with the pleasantly fragrant cream. The arrowhead pointed to his throat from just above his nipples, while the feathers were divided just above his belly button. I reached around to fondle him. “Don’t mess up your war paint!”
We were now outfitted for the game of ‘Indians’ and, I must admit our costumes were really sexy. I mean, basically, we were naked. I’m not so sure this was at all authentic; but like I said, it was really hot.
I looked at Johnny expectantly. How, after all, do we play this game? What are the rules? How do we keep score?
“I wonder if real Indians get boners when they wear these flaps,” I asked idly. This had nothing whatsoever to do with any game rules, but seemed a point of interest given our current situation.
“I think so,” Johnny replied. “Uh course they did. How could they go around like this and not get boners?”
“Yeah. Right.” I was momentarily dazzled by visions of handsome bronzed warriors, with flowing black hair, moving through a sun dappled forest with woodies poking around their flaps. Johnny dragged me back from the forest to the bedroom announcing. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re both chiefs, see? I’m gonna do a rain dance. But my dance is to keep you guys from getting any rain. So you have to stop me from doing the dance. Kay?”
“Sure. Uh, okay, but….” Sometimes I get all kinda prim and like to know exactly what’s what. Johnny knows this, naturally, and he could see me beginning to frame questions about rain dance procedure, timing, official termination and all that stuff. Johnny doesn’t always let me get away with this.
Johnny got right to it. “I’ll be in the den. When ya hear me start chanting, you sneak down the stairs. Then ya hafta sneak up on me in the den and make me stop dancing. Kay?”
“Well. Okay, but….” But I was talking to Johnny’s undulating bottom. He was enroute down the hall to begin his rain dance. I followed him to the head of the stairs and waited for the dance to begin.
Seconds later, from the den, there came a thumping on the floor as of one bouncing up and down on a nicely carpeted suburban floor. There was a chant, too, that was almost assuredly more Hollywood than American Indian: “YAAH, ya, ya, ya, YAAH, ya, ya, ya, YAAH, ya, ya, ya.” My cue. Down the stairs I went quickly and was halfway to the den before I recalled that I was supposed to be an Indian sneaking. I ducked behind the couch in the living room and looked at the swinging, Old West Bar style doors that led to the den. The doors were closed, but I could see Johnny's legs as he Indian danced in a circle in the middle of the den. Dashing to the doorway Indian style, I crouched and looked at Johnny dancing. My stiffie, which had dwindled to almost normal size, what with all this stalking business, sprang back to attention as I watched Chief Johnny's boyhood swaying and bouncing and peeking around the flap of this costume. Getting into the spirit of the game. I remembered that the chanting and dancing had to stop or my tribe would die in a drought. For more reasons, to be sure, than just the game, I knew what I must do. But what do all but naked Indians say when they attack?” I puzzled on this for a split second and then decided: who cares? I scrambled underneath the door into the center of the den and posed ferociously while Johnny continued to sing and dance all the while giving me one of those: that-took-you-long-enough-grins. I lunged on Johnny, bringing him to the floor. He continued chanting, so in order to break the spell, I kissed him. The chanting stopped, but a primeval motion began as Johnny and I began to thrust against each other. Naked and lubricated and primed. The result was explosive, but it was not really warlike.
We lay entwined on the floor of the den for a little while drained of passion. But we were filled with affection and satisfaction. “You’re just the greatest,” I told him.
“No you,” Johnny replied. “But we should have some lunch.” I hadn’t really thought that I was hungry like that, but like all of Johnny’s ideas, it was a pretty good one.
We got up from our tribal battle field that had become a love nest and sauntered into the kitchen. I discarded the remains of my costume, and then removed what little was left of Johnny’s while he was working on sandwiches. Then, ever the prudent and careful soul, I went through the living room and den picking up the parts of our costumes that had come off and putting everything back in order. I remembered that there were two unopened cokes in the bedroom, so I ran up and retrieved those and dashed back to the kitchen. I exchanged warm cokes for cold ones as Johnny put our sandwiches, with potato chips, pickles and celery sticks on plates and, as a final act of neatness, I put all the rags Johnny had scattered around while searching for the costume material, back where they would otherwise have been in the closet.
We sat next to each other as we ate. Very close: shoulder to shoulder, butt to butt—it would have made an interesting picture.
We stacked our dishes so that it would be obvious to Johnny’s mom that we’d had lunch, leaving out the celery stalk as proof of virtue. We took off on our bikes to check on our neighborhood. A return to regular duty.