His first impression of Ricky was less than promising. The kid had hair to his shoulders, dyed black with a pink streak running down to his right eye. Add to that he wore dark eye mascara and pink lipstick. The clown look Arty could handle, but the boy also wore a black t-shirt with pink lettering that said 'I'm a Fag, what's your excuse?'

Ricky looked like he bought his clothes from Junior Miss. The hip hugger jeans with a pink stripe down each leg rode so low I could see the purple thong he wore underneath. He didn't carry a purse, but he did wear pink high top loafers.

"Me? I'm straight, man, just ask my girlfriend, OK," He replied when Arty challenged him about the women's clothes.

"If that's what you want me to believe Ricky then why the costume?"

"It goes with the music I like."

"Oh, well I like music, what bands do you listen to?" Arty asked.

"Sure, like you'd listen to my music? Ever heard of the Death Cats, Scrotum or Razor Breath?"

"Uh, no, can't say I have. But they sound like metal bands. I used to like AC/DC, Metallica ... "

"Oh, please. Did they teach you that in shrink school? If you're trying to find common ground with me or bridge the generation gap; this is wasting time. We don't do music, we emote."

"Emote? This is all about expression then. You're only breaking the rules because your teachers feel the way you dress is disrupting the school. That t-shirt is over the line, the word fag is not a permitted expression of free speech, its offensive to the gay students at Penbrook High School."

"OK, I'll give you that one. All right if I just turn it inside out?"

"Yes, that will do for today, but you can't wear it here again."

Ricky took hold of the waistband of his shirt and pulled it off over his head. Oh my, the boy had a very muscular chest and a butterfly tattooed over his right nipple. He caught Arty looking at it.

"Like the tat? I just got it last month."

"The butterfly is one of the most unique insects. I collect them occasionally," Arty said. But maybe he had said too much.

"Collect? Like the guys with little nets I've seen in those nature films Mr. Henry shows in class?"

"Yes, Ricky."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Beale, but those guys all look like fags ... uh, sorry, like gay men."

"And I'm sure there are gay men who collect butterflies, but that's not why we're here." And Arty had just noticed the scars on Ricky's left shoulder. "How did you get those scars?"

"This?" Ricky said, pointing to his shoulder. "It's nothing, just a little reminder from my step-father that I need to get out of his way when he's been drinking."

Uh oh. The scars were considered evidence of child abuse, if they could prove it. Arty's position as staff psychologist required him to report evidence like this to the authorities. But Ricky had just turned seventeen and once a boy reached that age the law became a little less likely to prosecute the step-father.

"Has this been going on long?" Arty asked as Ricky put his shirt back on.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Beale, he won't be hitting me any more. A couple of my friends had a talk with him about it." The boy had a wicked smile and I imagined the step-father being threatened by thugs with baseball bats. Ricky was full of surprises.

"I'm sure he objects to the way you dress. Do you think that's part of the stress in your relationship?" Arty asked.

"We don't have a relationship, Mr. Beale. I hate the bastard, plain and simple. My mom made a big mistake marrying him and she knows it. But if he ever lays a hand on her then they'll be getting a divorce from Louisville Slugger."

The implication was clear, Arty just hoped the step-father was aware of the danger he was in. "Yes, well," He said. What a cop out Beale, time to change the subject.

"Since our tastes in music don't seem to coincide, Ricky, can you tell me what it's all about?"

"My music? OK. Lots of kids are sick of what's happening today. Drugs, thug worship, the money games, the porno industry. We hate people who do drugs, especially the dealers. Some of my friends get violent about it, I write music about it."

"Really? A noble cause I think. All those things are a scourge on society, especially among the youngest people in our country."

"Exactly, Mr. Beale. Someone has to speak out for the kids. We need to speak out to protect ourselves."

"But do you incite violence, Ricky? Is it right to encourage others in that way?"

"You mean to eliminate the drugs, thugs and pornographers? I believe someone has to change things. There is no revolution without violence. We had a Revolution in 1776 and a Civil War didn't we? Those were all about changing the way things were through violent means. We're at war with the filthy elements of our society, Mr. Beale, and we damn sure don't want to lose."

"I see. It may surprise you, Ricky, but I agree. We need a change, but I can't advocate a violent means to solve the problem."

"So you want us to lock up a drug dealer or pornographer for ten years, and then what? They get out and it starts over again. They're in it for the money. It's always about the money. Too expensive to keep someone locked up, we let them out. Lawyers make money keeping them out of jail and all that money is dirty. Addicts pay a lot for their drugs and I'll bet half of it goes for protection, bribes and lawyer's fees. The only way to stop the cycle is to break it, smash it to pieces."

"You don't see a way to stop it legally?" Arty asked.

"Hey, Mr. Beale, drugs are already illegal, doesn't stop anything. My music isn't only about violence. It's also about how helpless we feel to change things and how depressing that is."

The forty-five minutes with Ricky were up. Arty didn't want to stop here, he wanted to know more. It was often hard to get these kids to talk about their true feelings and it felt like there was some progress happening here. Arty wanted to see the boy again tomorrow but it would have to be next week. The schedule was just so busy, so many kids with problems.

"Thank you, Ricky. I feel enlightened by what we've talked about and I want to keep the dialogue going, say next week?

"Sure, Mr. Beale, if we're both here by then I'll stop by."

"Ricky? Have you recorded any of your music?

"Sure, want to hear some of it?"

Ricky pulled a CD case out of his notebook pocket. "I laid down these tracks last week. I can make another copy so you can keep that one."

"I promise I'll listen to it and attempt to understand your point of view."

"Do that, Mr. Beale. It'll give us something to talk about next week. I better hurry if I'm going to catch the late bus. Thanks."

Ricky got up to go and stopped at the door. "What we say in here is private, huh?"

"Privileged information, only you and I know what happens in here."

"So ... uh, sorry about the shirt. But ... I've been a fag before, and who knows, maybe I will be again."

With that he stepped through the door and closed it quietly behind him. Arty had an hour left to make notes of the day's sessions. He would leave that last remark out of the transcript. It was times like these that made him wish he were back in high school. Ricky was such a beautiful boy, but so full of misplaced aggression. Given the chance Arty would have loved to be his boyfriend.

Give it up, Arthur Beale; you're a thirty-one year old closet case. One more word out of place and Ricky will figure that out if he's half as smart as I think. I should run some tests on him. Oh God, I almost drooled when he took off his shirt. A boy's body is a holy temple. And it isn't like I haven't trod on sacred ground before, is it?

It had been thirteen years since he last saw Brian. A young Arty Beale, freshman idiot, runs down the hall ... lost and late for gym class. He rounds the corner and runs right into another boy coming the other way. They collide, books and gym bags scatter, the boys fall to the floor entangled. Fortunately the hall is empty; no one sees their embarrassing collision.

Arty feels a sharp pain on his lip. He's bit himself and bleeding. The other boy is also a freshman, just as lost on this first day of school. They stare at each other and begin laughing.

"You're bleeding," the boy tells Arty.

"Are you hurt, I'm so sorry?"

"Brian, Brian Sloane. I can't seem to find the gym on this map." The boy clutches a ratty piece of mimeographed paper.

"And I'm Art Beale. It's in the green hall, that's all I remember. Is this the green hall?" Arty asked.

"Can't be the right hall. See the red line above the lockers. Shit, we're both lost."

"Oh well, I suppose they have to forgive the new guys at least once. Nice running into you, Brian."

They both laugh at the joke as they pick up the assorted debris. Arty notices Brian has a book on butterflies.

"Do you collect?" He says pointing at the book.

"Oh yes, I have almost two hundred specimens, my grandfather gave me his collection."

"You're lucky. I suppose we better go find the gym."

"Yeah. If you want I can show you my collection sometime," Brian says.

"That would be sweet, thanks."

Arty and Brian spend the next ten minutes getting to the locker room and changing into their gym clothes. The friendship blossoms from mere coincidence. Arty goes over to Brian's house the following weekend and spends an hour looking at butterflies. Then after a brief discussion they spend two hours in the loft over the garage rolling around naked. Arty and Brian finally discover they have a lot more in common than small winged insects.

The love affair, for that is what it becomes, lasts until their junior year. They are careful and only a few close friends are told. The butterfly collection grows and becomes their consuming passion. And as luck would have it Brian gets to go butterfly hunting with his grandfather in the jungles of southern Mexico. Once there he catches typhoid fever, and despite the vaccination he had, is dead within three weeks.

Arty attends the funeral, and then after a clumsy suicide attempt he ends up in therapy where he discovers a passion for psychology. The wheel of life and death turns. Brian is lost, but Arty gains a direction, and time marches on.

Arty looks up at the clock on the wall, four-fifty-nine. He packs up his papers and the CD Ricky gave him. A few good-byes at the front office and he's in his car for the twenty minute ride home.

Funny, he hasn't thought about Brian in months. Ricky triggered the memory.

'I've been a fag before, and who knows, maybe I will be again.' Now why did Ricky tell him that? On some level he imagined Ricky really wants to talk about his feelings. It implies trust, the objective of every therapist. Arty wonders if Ricky will tell him about any experiences during the course of treatment.

Once home, Arty starts his dinner and remembers the CD. He puts it in the player and waits for the first song to begin. A clash of guitars, some drum beats and then a slow steady rhythm. "Stick of death, smoke it up. Enrich the dealer with your dying breath." The song returns to heavy clashes and Arty turns it down a little.

Ricky delivering on what he preaches, not bad. Arty doesn't like the music but the lyrics are right on. He wonders how much control Ricky has over the band. The end of the song degenerates into "Smoke that shit and die" repeated over and over, the music suddenly ends and he hears Ricky say, "Die you drug dealing mother fuckers."

The other three songs are much the same. One focuses on a girl lost in a world of drugs, selling her body to pornographers, buying her fix and dying from an overdose. Ricky conjuring up powerful images to make his point and leaving the listener in despair, how depressing.

He wonders if Ricky has contemplated suicide. Arty didn't see any physical signs on the boy's body, no scars on the wrist. But he knew that was rare, most suicides amongst kids were from overdoses of pills readily available in their parent's medicine cabinet. Too many adults on legal drugs, no wonder the kids look down on them.

The scars on Ricky's shoulder still bothered him but the boy had brushed that aside. Have to revisit that situation at some point. Lord, what a beautiful body. 'I've been a fag' came back to mind. Was he trying to defend wearing the shirt or was the shirt a reprimand for the way the boy felt about himself?

Stop it, Arty, you don't have enough information. The office is closed, let it go. Maybe he ought to go to a movie tonight? The new Jim Carry flick was out, and since it was a Wednesday the theatre shouldn't be too crowded. Arty didn't like going to films alone, it was almost a public statement of his solitude. There was always at least one couple making out for everyone to see. Arty wondered what it would be like to kiss Ricky with all that pink lipstick. Stop it right there.

The movie theatres behind the mall were only five blocks away and so Arty decided to walk. A cool night, but clear overhead, his favorite kind of weather. Might get an early snow this year and that would be too bad. He locked the front door and started off at a brisk pace towards the theatre.

He noted that the parking lot wasn't even half full. A good sign that he would get to choose his seat and not be wedged between others. He saw some Penbrook High parking permits on the back windows of several cars. Shouldn't these kids be doing homework? Arty couldn't be judgmental, he'd left paperwork sitting on his desk at home.

He chose a seat in an empty row close to the back. Good call, Arty, there were only about twenty people in the whole theatre. The lights dimmed and they started showing the previews. He was just beginning to enjoy his popcorn when someone came down the aisle and plopped into the seat next to him. It was Ricky.

Arty sighed. "Want some popcorn?" He offered. What the hell was the kid doing here?

"Thanks," Ricky said as he took a generous handful. "You like Jim Carry?"

"I hear this is one of his best," Arty replied. Ricky smelled like perfume. Was that Chanel?

"You're not mad at me for sitting here, are you?"

"No, Ricky. I don't mind the company."

The film credits were just rolling when Ricky said, "I had a fight with my step-father. I had to leave before it got too intense."

"Sounds like a good move. Are we going to watch the film or do you want to talk?" Arty asked.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure, we can always see this another time," Arty said. Bye, bye, Mr. Carry.

They got up and on the way out Ricky went over and spoke to the ticket taker. The guy shook his head but Ricky continued to talk right in the guy's face. The man produced two slips of paper and handed them over. Ricky smiled and walked back to join him. Arty noticed that the boy didn't have the makeup on tonight, and he was wearing straight up black jeans. No sequins, no frills, just the perfume. They continued out into the parking lot.

"What was that all about?" Arty asked.

"I told him you weren't feeling well and asked for a refund. The guy said no and then I said maybe it was their rancid popcorn that made you sick. He forked over two rain checks so we get to see the film again when we want. Cool, huh?"

"Well, thanks for the thought, but did you have to intimidate the poor man?" Arty asked.

"Come on, Mr. Beale, they do have lousy popcorn."

"I concur. Look, this is not the office. You may call me Art if you want."

"Really, that's very generous Mr ... Art."

"I don't have a car here, I walked."

"OK, are we going back to your house?"

"I suppose," Arty said. Was this a good idea?

"Then let me get my bike," Ricky said.

The kid went into the bushes beside the theatre and pulled out a brand new ten-speed. Arty dumped the remains of the popcorn in a trash barrel. Ricky was right, it was bad. He walked away from the theatre with Ricky in tow pushing the bike beside him.

This wasn't good, Arty thought. He was allowing the client relationship to be supplanted with familiarity, it was against everything he had been taught. But he knew Ricky's background with the step-father. At least the boy had walked away from the confrontation and was seeking counsel. He'd learned long ago that a cry for help could come at the most inconvenient times. He just couldn't ignore the boy's needs.

Ah, but was he rationalizing their relationship? Didn't Ricky present an overt sexual image? Ricky had a problem, but didn't he have a bigger one when it came to his feelings about the boy? The stoplight at the corner turned yellow. Yes, caution was the watchword for tonight. No matter what Ricky said or did, Arty had to be in control of himself.

The walk took only ten minutes and Arty told Ricky he could bring the bike inside and leave it in the front hallway. Ricky started looking around the minute he walked in the living room.

"You by yourself, Art?"

"Yes, the bachelor life suits me just fine." The kid was fishing. "Want a coffee or some soda?"

"Coffee would be fine. I drink it black," Ricky replied.

Arty went in the kitchen and put on a pot. He decided the kitchen was a safe place for the impending conversation. He would not sit on the couch with Ricky, it was too suggestive. He walked back in the living room to find the boy studying the butterflies framed on his wall.

"You do have butterflies. So many beautiful colors. Do you feel guilty killing them?"

"I'm not an eco-terrorist, if that's what you think. The insect has a very short life span; they live only long enough to reproduce. I only collect at certain times of the year, generally right before they expire. The butterfly fulfills its function and I get to enjoy them in perpetuity."

"Perpetuity, that means forever ... right?" Ricky asked.

"Very good, a difficult word. Come on, I think the coffee is ready," Arty said.

They sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table. The separation made Arty more comfortable and he relaxed.

"You go to the movies often?" He asked.

Ricky shook his head. "Not really, I usually stay in my room and write music. Hey, did you listen to my CD?"

"I did. Your lyrics are terrific. 'Stick of death, smoke it up.' Hard driving stuff. I confess the level of sound is a little overwhelming to my ears, but I caught the message."

"You did listen, I'm flattered," Ricky said, his cheeks flushed with color.

Arty just sat there and stared at the boy, hoping the kid would initiate the conversation. He didn't want to interrogate Ricky. That would be the wrong approach.

"I suppose you want me to tell you what happened tonight?" Ricky said.

"Tell me whatever you want. I'm not taking notes, this is just two friends talking," Arty said.

"My step-father came home from work. He'd stopped off with his buddies for a few drinks and started in on me. He knows how to push my buttons, Art. I've put up with his bullshit for three years already and don't think I can handle much more."

"He's critical about your lifestyle?"

"In spades," Ricky said. "I got money when my real father died, insurance money. I won't let him touch it and that pisses him off. I buy groceries and give my mom money to help out with the bills. She doesn't want to take it but I insist on paying my own way. Bill, that's my step-father, doesn't think I do enough. I want to save some of it for a car and maybe put out a CD of my music. Bill thinks I'm a fucking weirdo, he says I'm on drugs. We fight about it."

"All kids are on drugs, is that what he thinks?" Arty said.

"Yeah, like the way I dress means I smoke pot or something."

"Have you considered getting tested and showing him the results? The school can help you there."

"Hell, he wouldn't believe it. He calls me queer all the time and tells his drinking buddies I'm a homo."

"But you have a girlfriend," Arty said.

"No I don't, that's a lie," Ricky said.

"Was the lie important to you? Why change your story now?"

"Just because I want to be honest with you. I've slept with a few girls, OK? I've slept with a few guys too. I don't know that sex matters much to me anymore. It's depressing just thinking about it."

Dr. Freud would have been proud of the way Arty maneuvered around the introduction of sex to their conversation. "How does your mother feel about your conflict with Bill? Is she forced to take sides?"

"Bill tries to boss her around, but he won't touch her. He's afraid of my friends. They can be pretty intimidating when they're all worked up. My mom is on my side in most of this. Marrying him was a mistake; I think she understands that now. Have you ever been married, Art?"

"No ... no I haven't." Uh oh, cornered.

Ricky smiled. A devastating smile from Arty's point of view. The boy was pushing him. "So, are you gay, Art?"

"It's important to you that I am, right?"

"Right, so are you?"

"Yes, Ricky, you have figured me out."

"No, I haven't. Being gay is cool with me, I won't tell anyone. Come on, Art, I don't want to make any waves between us. I think of myself as bi-sexual anyway, but this isn't about us sleeping together. Are you worried that I'm coming on to you?"

"The thought did cross my mind," Arty said.

"Aw, Art. I told you I don't have sexual feelings about anyone right now. I'm a normal kid, I jerk off twice a day to relieve the tension. Oops, sorry, you didn't want to know that either, did you."

His innocence was astounding and Arty had to laugh, Ricky laughed too.

"It's all right, Ricky, I understand," Arty said. "But why the ban on sex in your life? Is this a manifestation of the depression you feel?"

"Ooh, heavy thoughts. But I suppose you're right. Casual sex is like casual drug use. Fuck and suck for the quick high and then you have nothing to show for it. Doing drugs produces the same results, you end up coming down."

"So you don't see yourself getting close enough to someone to, say, fall in love and start a committed relationship?" Arty asked.

"I tried that once, it hurt," Ricky said. "Now I suppose you want to hear about that too?"

"Only if you want to tell me. Everything you say gives me a greater understanding and allows us the chance to take it apart and work with the pieces of the puzzle."

"So I'm a puzzle to you? Yeah, I suppose you're right. I puzzle myself sometimes. OK, here goes. I got into my first relationship when I was twelve. Ready for this? He was eighteen. I wasn't molested, if that's what you're thinking. In fact I probably raped him. Does that shock you?"

"No, is it supposed to?"

"He scores, a point for my good friend Art. The guy was a lifeguard at the community pool where we lived. I hung out there a lot the summer after my father died. Everyone knew about the tragedy in my family and they were all being very nice to me. This guy Chris was especially kind and considerate. He played with me in the pool and even tried to get me to join the swim team, but I wasn't that good.

"I got to like him a whole lot. He became like the big brother I never had. But he had a girlfriend and I didn't like her. Maybe I was jealous of his time and attention, does that sound right?"

"Don't judge yourself. Just tell the story, OK?" Arty said.

"Sure. Anyway they finally broke up about halfway through the summer. They were going to separate colleges anyway so Chris said that maybe it was for the best. He hung out with me a lot more after that and I think I started to fall in love with him. I didn't understand the feelings at that age. But I had already reached puberty and was thinking about Chris as I was masturbating.

"The pool threw a summer party and the adults were drinking. I suppose Chris had too much of the punch because he walked up into a corner of the grounds and fell asleep in a lounge chair. Somehow he wasn't missed, but I knew where he was. And when it came time for the pool to close I hid out behind the snack bar until they locked up.

"It was just me and him in the dark grounds of the pool area. I remember standing over him as he lay there asleep. He had a really attractive face and a body covered with muscles. The swim suit he had on was like shorts but very loose. I untied the strings and stretched out the waistband until I thought they were loose enough to remove.

"It was crazy but I wanted to see him naked. In my masturbation fantasy he was always naked. I managed to pull his suit down without awakening him and that just excited me to go further. I blew on his cock until the feeling cause him to get aroused. He had such a fine huge cock that I couldn't resist going further.

"I began to lick him until it stood straight up. I'd never sucked anyone before but I knew what blow job meant. He almost woke up as I began to suck on him but he must have been dreaming. He called me Linda a few times, she was the old girlfriend. I don't know if what I was doing was right but it produced results. Chris woke up just about the time he came and once he realized it was me he didn't seem very happy."

Ricky got up and helped himself to another cup of coffee. Arty had read about family trauma manifesting itself through fantasy, although few of them got this sexually explicit.

"Anyway," Ricky said as he sat back down, "He yelled at me and called me a little queer. But I noticed his cock was still erect. Chris pulled my bathing suit off and grabbed me by the cock. He held me down on the lounge and shoved himself up my ass hole. The whole time he kept saying that I was queer and that if this is what the little queer was after then he was going to get it. I have never experienced worse pain than Chris fucking me that night. It seemed to go on forever until he finally came. Then he walked down to the pool and threw himself in the water.

"I cried for a while, looking up at him swimming around and realizing I had totally made a fool of myself. My ass was sore and wet, and I knew he would never talk to me again for what I did. But I was wrong, dead wrong. And I was scared when Chris got out of the pool and came walking back up to me.

"Instead of anger I got kisses and hugs. He took me in the office and put cool water on my ass. He apologized a dozen times and French kissed me. He even sucked on my cock for a while but I was in too much pain to appreciate it. We had sex for the rest of the summer and I mean great sex. I got to explore all my fantasies about him before he went off to college. We haven't spoken since. I'll bet he's married by now. Do you think he was really straight after all?"

Whew, what a story, but the question. "I'm sure there's no way I can tell without talking to him," Arty said. "His acceptance of you and the sex you experienced may have been partially due to guilt. Otherwise I assume he may have been indulging in fantasy just like you. Not that what he did was healthy behavior, it seems like he was just sexually frustrated and you made him realize it. But you take the blame for him raping you, any reason why?"

"I turned him on, I pissed him off. I thought he was punishing me," Ricky said.

"I think you wanted to be punished. If he hadn't raped you then you might have found another way to punish yourself. Stripping him and initiating sex was your way of testing Chris. You knew he had to wake up at some point. Guys usually do before they ejaculate. And he would see it was you performing the sexual act. He punished you, and then joined right into your fantasy relationship. You got what you wanted Ricky."

"Amazing, the puzzle pieces fit don't they. OK, then how about this one."

"Another story? You are full of surprises," Arty said.

"This one isn't so funny, Art. May I show you something?"

"Yes, you may."

"This isn't a come on, honest." Ricky had unbuckled his pants and dropped his jeans. He turned around and pushed down his boxers. Long red welts, this time on the cheeks of his ass. Oh, and what a nice one you have dear boy. Ricky's ass hole was winking at him, what a tease. But the welts were all in a line angling up across his buns towards his waist.

"Can you see them? They might have faded a little, but I can still see them," he said turning around as he pulled his pants up. Damn, Arty thought, the kid is flashing me. Oh, what a cock. Ricky's tool was long and fat but showed no signs of arousal. The bush at the base was light brown, so that's his true coloring. And balls, the kid's ball sac looked like it weighed twenty pounds it drooped so low. Definitely marks from a beating, but from who?

"Enough show and tell, Ricky. I appreciate your candor and yes, you do have nice equipment. You ought to model for magazines when you can."

"I don't think they'd like the damage," He laughed as he pulled his zipper up.

"I believe they airbrush blemishes away these days. A shame, nothing is real anymore. But thanks for wearing the boxers too."

"I wore the thong just to get a response from you, but I suppose you have that figured out by now."

"Ricky, why are you trying so hard to get my attention? I'm beginning to understand what you did to Chris. Am I next on your hit list?"

Ricky looked down at his hands, fingers entwined. "I don't know, but I want you as a friend."

"You have my friendship, anything else is just plain dangerous."

"I suppose you think I have a thing for older men," Ricky said.

"Only you have that information, Ricky. But indications are pointing in that direction."

"Am I too young for you, Art?"

"That's not the issue. My position is vulnerable. You know I'm gay and seem to have spent a lot of time trying to discover that fact. My job forbids such a relationship. I know you're seventeen and the law might see it as something other than child molestation, but sex while you're at my school is still illegal and I would pay the consequences."

"It doesn't answer the question, Art."

"OK, do I find you attractive? Yes, I think you're a beautiful boy, and if I was still in high school I would be after you every minute I could spare. But then I wouldn't be older, and that seems to be one of your qualifications.

"Ricky, I'm flattered by your attentions, I really am. I'm thirty-one and haven't been in a relationship for three years. I miss sleeping next to a warm body and having someone to care about. It seems we're both in the same boat, but the boat isn't sinking, it's very much afloat. Either one of us could sink that boat. The consequences are just too great. Shall we move on?"

"Sounds like a grim prognosis, Doctor. I can't wait until I graduate; I'll be a basket case long before then."

"And that's why you're in counseling with me at school, or have you forgotten what brought you there?"

"Duh, no. At least I have my music," Ricky said, with a genuinely fake smile.

"And the welts you just showed me, those are real, or did you fake them just to show me that magnificent cock," Arty said.

"Magnificent, huh? I really like you, Art. You're one of the few people I've met that doesn't bullshit me."

"And what would I gain? The welts again ... ?"

"Last month I started off in the wrong direction. I was soaking up the music scene like a junkie on smack. The gay thing was part of it too, no lie. But the people I met weren't really interested in my music. That was just the come on.

"I met a guy named Snookie. Hell, that name should have given it away, don't you think? But he was a rave DJ, playing all the best parties, or so he said. I went to this rave I heard about with a couple of my friends. Old warehouse, middle of the night, the usual setup that works until the cops show up.

"Snookie was DJ for most of the night and he played some incredible music. I spent a lot of time watching him and wondering if he would ever play my stuff. He caught my eye and motioned me up in the booth. I thought that was so cool. He offered me a beer and I took it. The damn thing was laced with Ecstasy only I didn't know it. The drug was just starting to take effect when Snookie handed over the DJ job and pulled me into another part of the warehouse.

Snookie is a crude motherfucker, and before I knew it he had me naked and ... well, he fucked me in both ends and then turned me over to some of his buddies. I don't remember much about the sex except I could hardly walk for two days. The welts were from some kind of harness they had me in. I just hope they go away sometime soon.

"Oh yeah, I went to the free clinic as soon as I could walk, in fact I've been three times since then. I told them I was raped and they loaded me up with antibiotics just in case. Lucky me, no HIV, no venereal disease."

Arty was shocked. The poor kid had almost ruined himself. The exposure to fatal disease aside, these clowns might have killed him.

"You were very lucky, Ricky. That only supports your stand against illegal drug use."

"I was used. I had sex and wasn't even aware of it. Now how much fun do you think that can be? It turned me violent towards the whole scene. I riled up some of my friends and we batted some heads a few weeks later. Course I didn't tell them what had happened to me, only that some asshole gave me drugs. I had the pleasure of bashing Snookie's head in myself. He was DOA."

"You killed someone?" Arty gasped. Oh please say it ain't so.

"Hell no. I mean Drugged Off his Ass when we dropped him on the doorstep of the police station with six grams of smack in his pocket. He's facing ten years in state prison for dealing."

"And you feel revenge is sweet."

"You got that right."

"What you did to him isn't right, but I suppose you know that. And then again it fits the criteria you have for getting drugs off the streets. I don't approve of what you did, but it was creative," Arty said. He glanced at the clock above the stove. "It's eleven o'clock and we both have school tomorrow."

"Well I for one am not going to be there," Ricky said.

"And for what reason?"

"I was hoping to stay here rather than go home and face Bill."

"Does your mother know where you are tonight?" Arty asked.

"Just staying with a friend, she won't worry."

"All right, you can stay here, but you sleep on the couch. Tomorrow I have to call someone and see what he advises about your situation."

"OK, let's see what you come up with," Ricky said.

"Guess we'll both be playing hooky from school tomorrow."

Arty fetched the spare pillows and a blanket. Ricky took off his shoes and socks.

"Mind if I turn on the television for a while, it helps me sleep," He said.

"Go right ahead. You need to rest so don't stay up late. It's been a tense day for us both."

"Art, you're really good for me," Ricky said. With that he put out his arms for a hug. Arty couldn't resist, hugs were good medicine.

He heard the sound of the television as he went into brush his teeth. This was all crazy. A seventeen year old boy sleeping in his house, what would the neighbors say? He slid out of his clothes and closed the bedroom door halfway before getting in bed. Wouldn't it be nice if Ricky could wait, graduation wasn't that far off.

It was some time later when Arty awoke to find Ricky curled up next to him in bed. He wanted to be angry, but Ricky was peacefully asleep. The boy just wanted comfort and security. Oh Lord, it felt so good to have a warm body next to him.

The alarm went off at seven and Arty shut it off. Ricky didn't move when he got up to call the school. A previous appointment he said, and begged off for the day. He went back into the bedroom and Ricky was sprawled right down the middle.

For the first he noticed that the boy's jeans and shirt lay on the floor at his feet. It wouldn't hurt to wash them before he called Dr. Sloane's office and reported Bill for child abuse. He picked up the clothes and Ricky's boxers fell out of the pants. Oh damn, the kid was naked in his bed. Had he been like that all night? Arty was clad only in boxers, what if they'd touched? The thought tantalized and yet, what if ... ?

He threw the clothes in the washer and went back to the bedroom. Ricky had moved over to one side again. Maybe he could lay down for the time it took for the washer to work. Arty pulled back the covers and got in. The swish, swish of the washer lulled him back to sleep.

Arty came awake with a start. Ricky's mouth was sucking on his right nipple and the boy's hardness was pressing against his thigh.

"Good morning, Art."

"What are you doing?"

"Waking you up. And see, its working." Ricky slid his hand down into Arty's crotch and grasped the stiffening cock.

"What did I say about us having sex, Ricky? It can't happen, it will change what we have going for us as friends."

"And don't forget it's illegal, immoral and you're scared silly I'll tell someone. Right?" Now Ricky began stroking Arty's cock.

"I'm not scared ... it's just wrong," Arty said.

"You're right, I'm wasting time," Ricky said. Arty opened his mouth to protest and the fun began. For two hours Arty told himself it was wrong, it shouldn't be happening, but it was. Denying the truth was contrary to everything he stood for. Arty had discovered his own personal Catch-22, and his name was Ricky.

They lay back exhausted and Arty rolled his head to look at the clock. Nine-fifteen, he would have to get up soon. Oh Lord, Ricky was the most creative sex partner he had ever encountered. He might as well resign the job now. There was no way in good conscience that he could work there anymore. Screw the legal aspect of the case. He wouldn't be able to focus on the kids without thinking about Ricky.

This had all happened because Ricky made it happen. The kid maneuvered him into this position knowing his weaknesses and appealing to his hidden desires. Arty you are a failure as a psychologist. As a lover though, you are superb. It made him giggle and then he laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Ricky asked.

"I'm the worst psychologist to ever work in this school system. I'm a total failure. And I think you're the best lover I've ever had."

"Thanks, Arty."

"I've got bad news and good news, Ricky. I'll have to quit my job at the school, but I can find work in a drug rehab program. It'll give me a chance to further your anti-drug message. That should make us both happy."

Ricky ran his fingers through the fine hairs on Arty's chest. "So you think we can work this out? You'll stay with me?"

"If you really and truly want me, yes. Can I count on you to be discreet and tell no one? Not a soul Ricky, not even your mom."

"I promise." Ricky sighed, a great sigh of contentment.

"You have great talent, Ricky, and not just in music. It took you less than twenty-four hours to get in my head and my bed."

"Maybe you wanted me here all along?"

"When you stripped off your shirt yesterday morning I almost lost it. Like you, I've been lonely for too long."

"But never again," Ricky said, putting his head down on Arty's chest

Arty stared up at the ceiling, thoughts and words forming in his head. He smiled and with a sigh he gave voice to his inner feelings:


            Kisses will fade and passions fly,
            as our lives go on together.
            In some secret place you hold my heart,
            and will learn to love it better.
            My life with you is freely given,
            at least I know this truth.
            An old man's love will never die,
            so long as there is youth.