Journey to Mirage

"I'm off to the grocery store, Ricky. Anything special you want?"

"Hey, give me a couple of minutes to get out of this file and I'll go with you, Mom."

"No, that's OK. You need to finish your homework. I'm gonna stop and get my hair cut too, and there'd be nothing for you to do but kick around the mall. And you know they're cracking down on teenage loiters over there. I don't want you to get into any more trouble—and I want you to stay away from that Rumblers gang, you hear?"

"Yes, Mom, I haven't been near any of those guys since that night. And I'm not a teenager anymore—or at least won't be in another year."

"You don't look nineteen, so you'll still be hassled. And you know what the judge said," Maxine said, moving to the open doorway to Rick's bedroom so that she could see him and he could see her. Her voice had taken on a sudden note of caution and concern. "He said he was reluctant to let you take auto mechanics at the trade school—that running with those guys from the Rumblers came out of your interest in auto mechanics."

"Geez, Mom. I didn't know they were running a chop shop. They knew their way around cars. I was learning a lot."

"Not all something you needed to learn. Anyway, it's not going to be just the auto mechanics. The judge made that clear. It's good to include the landscaping class—you can help Pete in his business then. That's what the judge thought would be the best for you to do—and Pete is happy with the idea and needs the help—and I think it's quite generous he's willing to pay you as you learn. Don't you think that's good of Pete?"

Rick mumbled something, looking hard into his computer screen while he did so.

"I said, isn't that quite generous of Pete?" Maxine repeated, this time a little louder, and with a touch of irritation in her voice.

"Yeah, Mom, that's great. Pete's a real brick." He made sure it didn't come out "prick," although that's what he'd liked to have said.

"I don't know why you act that way about Pete," Maxine shot back, her voice almost a whisper now. "He's been nothing but good to us. And he's gone out of his way to be nice and friendly to you."

"Yeah, Mom, right." Friendly certainly hit the nail on the head.

"You don't know how it is, Ricky. And you aren't the only one around here, young man, with needs and wanting to have a life. I work hard—and so does Pete—you're just lucky the judge let you off from doing any time as long as you had a home to go to. And Pete's offered to let you work with him on the landscaping . . . you know as long as you're on probation, it would be difficult for you to—"

"I said yes, Mom. That it's good of Pete—good of both of you to let me stay here rather than the center. And for Pete to let me work with him."

"So, you'll work to do well in the landscaping class? You won't give all your attention and energy to the auto mechanics? If you'd graduated from high school with your class we wouldn't even be going through this now."

"Yes, Mom."

"And the photography class. That's a possible good hobby for you?"

"Yeah, it's OK, Mom. The instructor's a bit creepy. But the class is OK."

"So, is there anything you need at the grocery store then?"

"Yeah, but it has to be a particular brand. It would be better if I went with you."

"I told you it would take you away from your studies too long, Ricky—and I don't want you wandering around in the mall."

"But—"

"You heard your mother, Rick," a gruff voice piped up as a large-framed, big-muscled black guy in tight, weathered jeans and an athletic T loomed into view next to Maxine in the door. Pete instinctively encircled Maxine with an arm and palmed a hand possessively on her belly, and Maxine equally instinctively moved into the contours of his body and laid a hand on top of his. Although Pete's voice was gruff, he was smiling—and Maxine smiled too, her free hand going to wisps of bottle blonde hair around her ears, primping for him as if by habit.

Rick looked at the two of them but then had to look away, burying his eyes once more in the computer screen. Pete was half way between Rick's and Maxine's ages, and Rick could barely stomach how she had worked to make herself seem younger, prettier, sexier even, since Pete had come into her life. Before that she'd been Mom and had acted like one. Now, she was trying so hard to be a sexy lover that in made Rick sick. He wanted a mother, not some slut lusting after a black hunk a good ten years younger than her. Rick knew she'd had it rough since his dad died, but this was pretty ridiculous.

And couldn't she see that was where it had started with him—when his grades had started going downhill so he almost didn't graduate high school and what started him staying out late at night and hooking up with the Rumblers? How could he have stayed at home at night? Her bed—their bed—was just on the other side of the thin wall from his. The sounds, the thumping of the headboard against his wall, knowing what Pete was doing to her, and listening to the sounds she made as he did it.

And knowing what else there was. The hell of that. That was the worst of all. No, the worst was that now Rick wanted it—hated himself for wanting it, but wanted it anyway.

"You heard her," Pete repeated. "It isn't convenient for you to go with her. She's going to be gone for a long time—and you have other things to do. We've got a lawn to do tomorrow. I'll drive you by the grocery store then and you can get what you want."

Rick didn't say anything; he just kept on staring into his computer.

"There, isn't that nice of Pete, Ricky? He'll take the time and effort to stop by the grocery store for you tomorrow."

"When you get back, I could—"

"You've got class tonight, and it'll be close to dark and supper time when I get back. And you know the judge said you couldn't drive after dark—without one of us going with you."

Rick said nothing.

"Ricky. I said that's really nice of Pete to offer to do. Tell him thank you, please."

"Thank you, Pete," Rick said, but the voice was low, begrudging, and he didn't look up.

He could hear them kiss. It was quite noisy and sloppy—and, to him, stomach churning.

He didn't look up until he heard the motor start up on his mother's Camaro. And then when he did look up, he was sorry he had. Pete was still in the doorway, filling up the frame with his muscleman body. And he was smiling. And he was unbuckling his belt and pulling down the zipper of his jeans.

* * * *

"Last time we concentrated on landscapes, with black and white photography—mainly Ansel Adams. Tonight, still with black and white, we work on shadows and curves, using the human form," Douglas Groton told the students as they stood around him in the photography studio of the local vocational school in Baltimore's Coppin Heights working-class district. He'd turned off the overhead fluorescents and had spotlights located about the room, all trained on a black-cloth-draped dais, with a bench painted in a black matt finish atop that.

Rick had found Groton to be almost fanatical about his art—or what he called his art. He was teaching this session of the school's photography class because the regular teacher was out on maternity leave, and, although he was full of good and helpful ideas, he acted as if the subject was below him. He minced no words in saying why. This was a class on still photography and he fancied himself a cinematographer. He kept telling the students that this was just a temporary class for him, that he was on his way to a national-level arts film festival and was concentrating his creative efforts on preparing a film entry for that.

Rick thought the guy was a little fanatical in being dismissive of the black and white photography. The Ansel Adams stuff had been really neat. Still, the guy knew a heck of a lot about still photography and had a lot to say about it—and some fantastical ideas about subject matter and the use of light and angles. Rick thought that if he was saying he was much more into another aspect of the subject than this, he must be a real whirlwind at that.

Rick decided it was the man's eyes. He must have been in his forties and, although not fat, he was definitely on the meaty side. And a hippy type. He dressed minimally, in a T and short shorts and loafers with no socks. And he was dark and hirsute and had a ponytail. Completely out of Rick's concept of a middle-aged white guy. But his eyes. They were a milky blue and, when they turned on a person, they commanded attention. They telegraphed that he was serious and knew what he was doing—and would get his way in doing it.

"And tonight we need a model. I called for some, but it was such short notice. And the human form is what I want to do tonight. So, I guess it will have to be one of us."

Groton's eyes swept the motley group of students hovering around him—but not hovering quite so closely now that he had declared what was needed next. And a motley group it was—mainly middle-aged men and women—clerks and small business accountants and housewives—the type of people taking a kicky hobby night class to forget what they had to face during the workday—and a few late high school-years guys and girls, already bored to tears with life in middle-class Baltimore. None of them looking all that modelish, though.

Except for Rick. He was definitely modelish. His mother wasn't a prize now, but she had been once, and his Hispanic dad had been a real looker. He'd come up from Cuba to play for the Baltimore Orioles and lasted for just a few seasons on the playing field. But his looks and charm—and connection with professional baseball, albeit tertiary and transitory—had landed him various jobs in small-potato bars and clubs a couple of blocks off the Inner Harbor. This had worked OK for him and his wife and boy until he'd gotten gunned down in a bar robbery.

But he'd been quite a looker—and Rick had taken after him. Not so dusky, thanks to his mother's Scandinavian genes, but permanently tanned and sultry. And he had the natural good physique bestowed honestly by his father's gene pool.

So, Rick looked around in embarrassment with everyone else, but even he noticed that, one after the other, the eyes of each of the other students were coming to rest on him.

"Perhaps you'd do the honors, Mr. Hernandez?"

"Me? Umm, I'm not a model."

"Nor do we have one of those. But what we do have is limited time to get in tonight's class. There's a fee, of course. A model's fee?"

"And what would I have to do?"

"Strip, pose interestingly on the bench on the dais there, and hold the pose regardless of the camera clicks and flashes."

"Strip? I don't—"

"Oh, you can cover any dangly parts with your hands, as you like—as long as it doesn't ruin the pose," Groton said in a throw-away voice that indicated that nothing at all peculiar was being discussed. "And it would be $20 for a half hour's work. Here, if you'll undress I'll help you take a good pose and it will be over almost before it begins. And," the clincher, "since you couldn't be taking photographs at the same time and so couldn't do this assignment, it would be a guaranteed A for this exercise."

Rick needed the A—if only to keep his mother and the judge off his back.

And he had a contrary streak in him. To show that he was no nervous Nelly, he didn't cover his "dangly bits" with his hands but, rather, posed so that his generous endowment was fully evident.

No one objected.

Rick dressed as the other students were leaving and Groton was dismantling the set and turning off the spots.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, no. I guess not. You said there'd be $20?"

"Do you have a way home? Did I hear you tell someone you couldn't drive after dark?"

"Yeah. But I can walk. It's just over on Key."

"That's not all that near. And this isn't the best of neighborhoods. You were a good sport about modeling. I drive by there. I can let you off near your house."

Groton pulled his old Saab over to the side of the street on Scott where Scott crossed Key a block from where Rick said he lived. There was no street light fronting the lot he parked next too. Well, there were street lights, but one was out. The other, struggling to manage by itself, was throwing deep shadows and one beam of fairly strong light that entered the car interior bounced off Rick's lap in the passenger seat and reflected strongly into Groton's eyes from the rearview mirror.

The interesting angle of the light—bringing to Rick's mind several things Groton had told the students earlier about working with light in the photography—caused Rick to look into the rearview mirror—and immediately become entrapped by the look in Groton's eyes as the instructor looked back into Rick's eyes.

"Umm. Thanks for the ride, Mr. Groton. I'll walk from here. It's just over there."

Groton said nothing, made no move that encouraged Rick to make a move either—and held Rick's eyes in thrall with his in the rearview mirror.

"Uh. You said there would be a $20 modeling fee?" Rick asked. He had his hand on the door handle. But he really could use that money—and he couldn't take his eyes off the reflection of Groton's eyes.

"You know, we're given a bit of information on our students, Rick—just to help us know what to expect."

"Uh, do you? That's interesting. If I could just have—"

"I know about your case, Rick. If a student is on probation for something, the instructors are told. So I know about your case. And I know what was reported on how you got involved with that gang leader."

Rick froze in place. He didn't know what to say. The car quite suddenly seemed to be closing in on him. And there were those eyes reflected in the mirror. Knowing eyes. Controlling eyes.

"No problem with the $20, Rick. But another $20 can be had if you let me hold you."

Rick didn't say anything. Not being fully sure what Groton was saying—asking, offering. At least hoping he didn't understand. But with the next thing Groton said, Rick fully understood.

"And another $10 if you come for me while I'm holding it. You didn't seem to have any trouble showing it to us earlier this evening."

Rick said nothing. He began to tremble, and he managed to wrest his gaze away from the rearview mirror. But that was mostly at the sound of his zipper being lowered.

But not saying anything also meant he didn't object or say "no" or do anything really other than feel powerless and hopeless and having no control over his limbs—especially not the one being drawn out of his jeans now and being squeezed and slowly pumped, the one coming to life under the touch of Groton's long, sensitive, artistic hand.

"You just said hold it," he squeaked.

"Do you really want me to stop?"

Silence.

Rick's gaze latched onto his lap, where the beam of light from the overhead streetlamp focused his attention on his engorging cock and Groton's moving fist.

"See how exciting the play of light can be?" Groton whispered, shaping and sharpening and giving focus to the thoughts that were also playing around in the back of Rick's mind—below the surface of his urge to resist and his frustration at the weakness not to be able to. And at the disgust at himself for responding to this, wanting it. He was turning the hardening cock this and that way so that they bought could see the play of shadows the shaft made in Rick's thighs.

"I parked here on purpose, Rick," Groton said. "You were such a good model tonight that I wanted you to understand what we were studying at an even greater depth—in a way you'd never forget."

Groton made it sound almost reasonable—academic—detached from what was actually happening in the car. And natural and OK. Almost.

Rick tore his gaze away from his lap, but he made the mistake of looking into the rearview mirror again—where Groton's eyes captured his again and held them.

Rick whimpered and felt his hips involuntarily moving—rising to meet the downward slow pump of Groton's fist. He felt he was close to coming. Groton's heavy breathing wasn't helping. Rick knew Groton wanted him. Rick wanted to be wanted. If Groton asked him now to fondle him, or jack him off, or suck him, or even to open his legs for him now, right here in this car, Rick would have done so. Just like he'd done for Tony and, after Tony had sprung for his bail, for any other Rumblers Tony had designated.

Just like he did for Pete.

But Groton didn't do any of those things. He laughed and took his hand away from Rick's cock. He opened the glove compartment of the car and pulled two twenties out, folded, and extended them across the seat to Rick.

Rick had seen that there were only the two twenties in the glove compartment. And it dawned on him that Groton was teasing him. All part of a game of control.

"Maybe next time," Groton said. And then he laughed again, as Rick fumbled with getting his cock back in his jeans and zipping them up with one hand and getting the car door open with the other so that he could stumble out onto the crumbling concrete sidewalk under the beam of the one streetlight.

Groton was still laughing when he pulled away from the curb.

The streetlights were all working on Key, and Rick, his senses sparking with electricity, saw, with new eyes, the play of the shadows on the slight concave curve of the townhouse fronts—a long row of two-story brick fronts with identical highly scrubbed and white-washed stoops with two steps to the street from the identically cut front doors.

He was trying to concentrate on how Groton had opened his eyes to an image like this—determined now to catch it on film himself—perhaps unconsciously trying to obliterate or soften the humiliation he had just experienced, when his attention was arrested by the flashing of red lights. On the street, right across the sidewalk from where his own front door would be.

As he came closer to his house, his mother's Camaro turned out of the parking space and chugged into the street. What Rick immediately felt was relief. His mother and Pete must be going out clubbing. They wouldn't be back until well after midnight, then. A night of peace and quiet for him.

But when he opened the door, there was Pete, across the room, coming out of the kitchen, a football game showing on the television in the living room and a beer can in his hand. He was wearing sleeping shorts—and nothing else. And he was a pile of perfectly formed ebony muscle.

"Oh," Rick said. "The Camaro. I thought—"

"The hospital called. Two aides called in sick. They offered Maxine double time to work the night shift."

"Oh."

"So, we're home alone."

Rick knew what that meant. "Well, you've got a game. And I've got some schoolwork to—"

"You look like you want it. You look like you want it bad."

Rick had no idea how Pete could tell. But he couldn't say Pete was wrong.

"Come upstairs. My room."

"Not in mother's bed. No, I couldn't—"

"Oh, I think you can," Pete said. Then he laughed as he put a big mitt on Rick's shoulder and guided him toward the stairs.

Rick groaned and arched his back, his fists grabbing at the slats of the headboard of his mother's bed. Pete was kneeling, facing him, between his legs, his knees and thighs forced under and lifting Rick's buttocks, giving Pete a clear channel for his favorite entrance—and for his straight, smooth, but forced, if necessary, nine-inch, rock-hard slide. It drove Maxine crazy. It didn't do much less for her son.

"Tell me you want it," Pete muttered, the bulb of his cock caressing the rim of Rick's channel, ready to strike.

Rick might have been satisfied. He had come quickly when Pete opened his mouth over his cock and pulled it inside his throat. But he wasn't satisfied. That was what Tony had done to him. Made him want it. But Tony wasn't hung like Pete was.

"Yes." It was a mere whisper.