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Jeep Vignettes: 169
A vignette, as used here, is a short descriptive scene, less about plot and story than focusing on an impression, a moment in time. Meaning is evoked through imagery and the interaction of characters and setting. A vignette is NOT flash fiction.
Jeep Vignettes derive from three vignettes written by ‘Susan,’ and submitted to the Nifty Archive in 2003. They chronicled ‘David’ (me) and her son, ‘Kelly,’ in surprisingly true-to-life situations. Susan’s vignettes may be found fty//gay/adult-youth/vignette/.
As Susan wrote in 2003:
“… These vignettes are but glimpses, brief sketches that capture the spirit of their love. Each vignette is a little fuzzy on the edges because that”s how I want it. And finally, they”re not presented in sequential order for the same reason.”
Jeep Vignettes record significant moments for Luke and me, his grandpa (aka G and Jeep, for GP), beginning when he starts to realize he’s not like other boys. Unfortunately, Nifty’s policy (Author’s checklist 7: Story does not involve adults with infants, toddlers, children younger than 9) prohibits the publication of Jeep Vignettes 1-thru-135. Also, the Ship’s Log entries are NOT written by Luke, because that would violate Author Checklist 6.
Jeep Vignettes are dedicated to a frustrated, yet discriminating reader of Susan’s vignettes. After reading the first three vignettes, at great personal risk and expense, he sought continued satisfaction, even hiring a private investigator. Eventually, a fourth vignette appeared in the Nifty Archive in 2014. Six years later, the still-frustrated, yet discriminating reader imbibes homemade mango liqueur to excess, often in the company of cute Cuban salsa boys, and occasionally hot-blooded Cajun boys.
Rules of Engagement (Susan’s 2003 rules of engagement):
1. No kids allowed. There”s Dr. Seuss for you.
2. It isn”t cheap porn, it”s literature. If you want the other, go somewhere else.
3. If you live in a backward, repressive state that doesn”t allow you to read the things you want, pack up and leave.
4. It”s copyrighted.
5. If we can”t agree that love occurs regardless of age and gender, put this down and get a life.
6. Support Nifty. Give generously.
Notice to readers Emails are still arriving daily, which is great. With one writer’s permission, I have included his email at the end of this vignette. Hopefully, ‘Tristan’ will benefit from his ‘counseling’ sessions.
I hate to be crass and commercial, however, the Nifty Archivist is spending a great deal of time on these emails, and more than a few do not include donations. Readers should realize that the Archivist must read EVERY story before it is made available to you. Not only is this work not paid and very time-consuming, it is extremely demanding, physically and emotionally. The least you can do is support the Archive with a small donation. A far greater issue is the long-term survival of the Archive. Fortunately, not all donations all small. I would like to thank those readers who have included Nifty in their wills—there is no better way to piss off money-grubbing friends and relatives, and ensure that Nifty remains as the world’s best library of alt-sexuality literature.
Vignette 169: Grandpa’s Summer Camp 2019, Day 6
S/V Seawalker Log Entry
June 17 **** ONE MORE DAY TO LUKE’S BIRTHDAY ****
Finally my last day as a nine-year-old. That’s what G said when he tried to wake me up. I pretended to sleep so he’d tickle my back. Instead he got out of bed and got a present from the cupboards. The card said it was from a secret admirer who wanted me to enjoy GSC. It was easy to figure out from the wrapping paper who sent it. G said not to write what was inside the box 🙂 After he got it up there I was kind of uncomfortable. The feeling went away after a while and we cuddled until we got hungry. We got up and I ate cheerios for breakfast. Sitting felt really funny. We called Mom and told her.
Then, we untied from the dock, motored over to the fuel dock and filled the tanks. Then, we motor-sailed back to Double Breasted only we went outside the inner reef for a while to look at coral. We anchored again, only not in the same spot. G snuck in behind the point. The tiny lagoon is really private. No clothes all day 🙂
“Hey Kooky Lukey, wake up. This is your last day as a nine-year-old.”
Tossing a pillow at his head probably didn’t help his mood, or yanking the sheet down to his knees for a quick butt check. Nothing had changed… maybe if my fingers had stayed in overnight?
His tousled head remained buried in his pillow, pretending to be asleep, probably so I’d tickle his back. I was sorely tempted to pick up where I’d left off, only with Hawaiian Tropic, not popcorn grease. Then, I remembered—I was supposed to give it to him two nights before the big event. Instead, we”d both fallen asleep. Luckily the box was still in the locker, exactly where I’d left it, wrapping paper undisturbed.
Luke peeked over his arm when I brought it to the bed—instantly awake and sitting up as soon as he spotted it behind my back. Grabbing it out my hands, ripping off his mom’s rainbow wrapping paper without even looking at the card. Box opened, he yanked out tissue paper and gave me a classic ten-year-old ‘what?’ look.
He held up a blue silicone butt plug in a sealed plastic bag, not amused, in fact, vexed.
“It’s kinda thin, Jeep.”
It was labeled ‘SMALL’, perfect for little gay boys to practice with; however, I didn’t say that.
“What else is in there?”
Luke scavenged through tissue paper. He dangled another bag, a coiled length of black rubbery tube with shiny metal connectors at either end. He scavenged again, discovering a third plastic bag with a black rubber squeeze ball, slightly smaller than the one I used to prime the fuel line for the outboard motor.
He regarded me with something akin to consternation—you’d know the look if you’ve spend time around ten-year-old boys. Not girls, they have a fraction of the curiosity. That said, he quietly watched me open the bag with the tube, not particularly interested until I opened the bag with the ball and attached the tube. Suddenly, he grabbed the other bag, nipped the plastic bag with his teeth, and ripped a hole big enough to pull out the plug.
He held it out, all but sticking the plug in my mouth before I managed to attach the rubber tube. It clicked and locked, some kind of snazzy Shrader valve. A couple of squeezes on the bulb, and the business end became firmer, slightly thicker, too.
“It’s inflatable, huh Jeep?”
He took over the bulb, his little hand squeezing with all his strength.
“Stiffens kinda like you do,” he snickered, again testing the plug on the other end. “It got bigger, see?”
I picked up the discarded bag and instructions, safety and product liability concerns. He yanked back the plug, and squeezed the tapered shaft between his thumb and index finger, peeking shyly up at me. His first ‘professional’ plug; it was a big step at ten years old, a milestone for a gay boy.
“It’s from you, right?” He sounded appreciative, even hopeful, not as in ‘can we exchange it?’
My head-shake sent him searching through paper scraps to find a small computer-printed card with a vibrant ‘Happy 10th Birthday’ on the front. He held it up.
“More rainbow colors, Jeep.” He read what was typed inside. “I want you to enjoy this GSC. A secret admirer.’
“You don’t niğde escort have to use it, Babe.” I waited, letting him come to terms with the implication.
This was the most difficult part of all. What came next was both inevitable and critical, which meant taking one cautious step at a time.
“Doesn’t look anything like a dick… Whoever sent it knows I like blue… I thought… you know, they were black because… you know…”
“African men have bigger penises?”
He nodded, avoiding my eyes from embarrassment. He wouldn’t dare say it in school—even thinking it was probably racist. Blinking, he risked another glance. I knew that look from experience; he was afraid to ask in case I said ‘no.’
“You want to try it?”
He nodded vigorously, then grinning, not maniacally like he usually did when GSC started a new activity. Of course, more excitement would come with greater experience. He settled down, reading the labels on the three plastic bags.
He smirked. “It says ‘XS for Junior 8 thru 12.’ They make them for boys, huh?”
“Might mean size. Eight centimeters is about three and a half inches.”
“Twelve centimeters is nearly five inches, Jeep. Kinda boy-size.” Luke picked up the plug, inspecting. “Made in China, Jeep; like everything else.”
I disconnected the tube and depressed the valve to release the built-up pressure.
“You want me to get the Tropic?” Excited, finally.
He was already off the bed before the words left his mouth, butt-naked and beautiful, headed to the drawers on my side of the bed.
“You need real lube for this, Lukey.”
“How, exactly, do you know about KY?”
“From Nifty, and I can read labels, Jeep.”
He opened the bottom drawer, grabbed the unopened tube from the far recesses, and was back in bed before I had the rubber tube reattached to the plug. I handed him plug inflation instructions and safety information. I didn’t intend for him to read it aloud.
“’How to prepare Junior for pleasure in posterior. Our Little Butt inflatable plug develop elasticity and strength. Begin with easily insertion of three-inch circumference. Goes up to formidable of five inches; less than adult finger wide to two-finger extra wide. This is good preparation for 60th percentile adult erection.’”
“Want to bet a buck it was translated by Google?” I joked.
He stopped, making a circle within his thumb and forefinger, considering.
“You’re way bigger, Jeep.”
Trying not to smirk, I removed the cap, squeezed a long bead, and smeared it over the plug.
“If you’re good, Santa might bring you might get the next size up.”
Grinning, he resumed reading. “‘Adding girth gradual allow muscle to stretch. Then, 20-minute increase and decrease in pressure. With more size, rectum and sphincter become very more elastic. When Junior ready for best time, maximum pressure will cause plug to balloon to six inches around. Regular use ensure easy entry.’”
Luke blushed and read silently. Finally, he glanced up. “I’m pretty sure it says to position the built-in suction cup on a chair.”
“You won’t be sitting on it while I’m around. Right now, you need to be in the doggy position.”
He giggled, getting onto all fours, then lowering his head and shoulders onto his pillow. “I relax like I do for your fingers, right?”
I patted his buttocks, baby-soft, boy-firm. “If you want to really become a little gay boy, open wide.”
No matter how often I gazed at Luke’s delicate pucker, it affected me differently. Both exit and entrance; the latter made it remarkable, magnificent. Every time I was awed; familiar, yet foreign, impossible to commit to memory. Nothing defiled perfection, not even an errant freckle. Contemplating what I was about to do was so exciting that I held my breath as I transferred KY residue from my finger to his now-glistening dimple. After a few cautious prods, it seemed loose enough that I could start to insert the plug. I placed the tip on the indentation, snug ripples enclosing blue silicone
He was so relaxed that simply twisting my wrist and applying a slight inward pressure was sufficient to penetrate. Even though Luke was used to the sensation of things going in, he tensed, not resisting, instinctively protecting.
“It’s smaller than one finger,” I reminded him.
“It gets bigger than two.” He had it figured out.
“You like two fingers up there, don’t you?”
He nodded slightly—he was getting better at admitting his feelings, yet he still had a long way to go
“Relax the same way.”
Stretching, accepting, absorbing; all of it would be captivating; all of it hinged on relaxing at the start.
“You’re supposed to wait for me to say okay,” he murmured when my cautious prod was too much.
Barely embedded, yet I rubbed his bare back with my other hand, massaging little vertebrae while he took slow deep breaths. Coaxing with tender caresses, whispering ‘relax’, wondering if every boy tightened when a plug first went in; how long it would take to insert the rest of it at this rate.
“Not a race,” I agreed. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
Deflated, the plug’s inner core maintained sufficient stiffness to enable penetration. I maintained constant pressure, an occasional slight twist to redistribute lubricant. He gasped abruptly and held his breath until the plug reached his sphincter.
“Don’t push, okay.”
Not pleading, not panicking, not even resisting, just taking it slowly, deliberately, consciously. I held position—it had to happen eventually. Being penetrated was inevitable for a young gay boy; the inescapable, necessary, defining act of his sexuality. No sign of him letting up, little fingers still clawing at his cheeks. He stopping, not; he needed this.
“More.” It was barely a whisper. No question he wanted it.
A slight increase in pressure produced a whimper, not enough to back off as the tapered plug slowly slid in, pushing glistening KY along blue silicone.
“Your finger has bumps,” he muttered.
Each knuckle of my finger always made him tense, relaxing a moment later. The plug simply grew thicker as it slid in. He quivered as the thickest part approached his anus. He hadn’t complained, yet I eased back slightly, a momentary reprieve.
He was quiet, disconnected, still pulling his little buttocks wide apart. I could tell when he was concentrating, probably trying to make sense of foreign feelings—my fingers and tongue were very different compared to a sleek silicone plug. At least, I hoped so.
“This makes me gay, huh Jeep?”
Maybe it was the first thing that popped into his head; whatever it was, his calm acceptance of artificial stimulation sent a thrill through me like never before, scary in its intensity. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel guilty about using sex toys, or self pity, or regret.
“You were gay the first time you sucked my cock, Lukey.” Cheerful, encouraging, reminding him of another momentous step.
“I wanted to so bad… from the first time I saw it… it was all I thought about.”
No surprise there. He was hesitant, though; likely still coming to grips with the final inevitable act—we’d talked about it often enough.
“It’s okay to like putting things in your ass, Lukey.” I was sure he’d heard it from his mom as well—better to make certain.
It was only a few moments before he murmured, “I know.”
He still sounded unconvinced.
“Really no different than my finger,” I added, wondering what else his mother had nişantaşı escort said to prepare him.
I could tell his body was already adapting, just a slight quiver as I resumed pressing, gently twisted the flexing flared suction-cup on the base; almost up there. He inhaled sharply, holding his breath. There was no getting past what being impaled meant, especially to a gay boy.
“At your age, boys start using toys. I had a candle when I was your age.”
I must’ve said something wrong. He was back to shy, serious boy, not resisting, struggling to come to grips.
“If it was lit, there was melted wax all over,” I said, hoping for a smile.
“You could’ve burned down the house,” he added, a glimmer in his eyes.
I eased the plug out, pausing momentarily before carefully reinserting, the same motion I used with my fingers, only deeper.
“You know, if you want, Luke, you can use it when you’re back home.”
“Rather have you.” He thought about it some more. “Mom said I should I tell her if I do stuff up there.”
“Probably best if I tell her this time. You know how she worries.”
“Um, Jeep… Can we stop talking and just do it?”
Sometimes, a few minutes makes all the difference. Although the plug tapered, maximum thickness fell short of stretching his little body to its natural limit. He exhaled, more pleasure than relief, as the widest part popped through; maybe it was starting to feel nice already. His expanded sphincter muscle clamped behind, forcing it deeper, pulling the suction cup against his wide-apart buttocks.
“Ouchie?” I murmured.
“Uh uh. I’m good.” He turned his head to look back at me. “Is it okay if I pretend it’s you up there?”
“You won’t have to pretend this time tomorrow. It’s not hurting, is it?”
Commonsense dictated caution—the plug was all the way inside him, much farther than my fingers had ventured.
He shrugged. “The pressure’s all gone now.”
“You look like you’ve got a tail, Lukey.”
He felt around, little fingers encountering the tube. He giggled strangely.
“I’m finally gay… really, really gay, Jeep.”
Ten minutes up there, with a second dose of KY to make sure he stayed slippery, Luke was ready for more. All the while while, he lay on his side; the rubber tube still dangling from the center of the suction-cup; the unused squeeze-ball a source of growing fascination.
“You think we should inflate it a bit, Jeep?”
It had to happen sooner or later; what was the point otherwise? Instructions came in English, German, Japanese, and Chinese. No diagrams. Vague safety admonitions. Suggestions about cleaning. Nothing useful.
“Three squeezes, okay; then, we get breakfast?”
“You squeeze.” Insistent; however, his putting me in control wasn’t surprising.
For an only kid with a single mom, he was self-reliant, yet passing the buck to Grandpa came easily, too easily sometimes. The first of my squeezes flattened the ball. He definitely felt a difference, caught between a sigh and groan, no clenching. I waited, suspecting he’d need a while to adjust.
“That feels a bit bigger, huh?”
“Oh yeah.” Finally a real Luke-smile, dreamy bliss, eyes nearly closed.
No secret; my little gay boy was predisposed to anal. I owed his mom $50, although we were joking at the time.
“Jeep massage, please?”
No surprise; my little gay boy was a two-way hedonist; pleasure for him, and me, too.
I guided him onto his belly, arranging his legs under mine so that I crouched over him. Stroking his back and flanks, seducing myself with satin, velvet, and silk. Texture varied, always soft and smooth, impossible to decide beyond ten-year-old boy.
Five minutes in, he took the next two squeezes with mouth agape, clearly appreciating the added pressure if not enjoying it. It was a good sign he’d be captivated by the real thing.
“No wonder you said I’ll feel full when he’s up there.” He squirmed, between frowning and grimacing.
“Relax and you’ll get used to it faster.”
Another five minutes was hardly suffering as I tickled thighs and behind, and detoured to armpits. After detaching the rubber tube, I helped him clamber off the bed, an obvious wince when he moved too quickly; then, steadying him when he finally stood. Being impaled and inflated had to feel strange, yet he seemed to like it; rocking his pelvis, blinking as the expanded plug undoubtedly pressed against his inner organs, absorbing, not complaining.
“Uncomfortable if you move?” I surmised.
“Kind of nice,” he allowed, still undecided. “Really, really gay,” he murmured after a while. “Will it feel like this when we put him up there, Jeep?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
I hugged him, kissed the top of his mussed-up head, patted his butt affectionately as I looked around for his diving-team Speedo. He found it scrunched up, still damp, stuffed under his pillow.
We breakfasted in the cockpit, already scorching in the mid-morning sun. Sitting side-by-side with my suntanned cabin boy, slathered with Hawaiian Tropic, both of us chowing down Cheerios and two-percent milk. Luke was in clowning-mode, teasing me with glimpses of his front and rear. It was harmless while sitting at anchor at a deserted cay; it was hazardous at a marina. Enjoyable as the scenery was, I worried as fleeting glimpses segued to outright ogling, boy parts no longer peeking; sticking out over the pulled-down-front of crimson-red Lycra, modesty for boys on a dive team.
“If you’re out of your Speedo, you’re supposed to keep out of sight.” My third reminder in two days. “That’s below the cockpit side, not sitting on it.”
He took it in stride. “I’m lookout for people on the dock. You’re doing boats.”
‘Doing boats’ meant constantly watching out for fishing boats departing the marina. They gurgled past every few minutes, belching diesel fumes, outriggers and rods sprouting like insect antennae, paying passengers already guzzling Kalik, the only beer of the Bahamas that tourists knew. We were lucky no one had ventured into the towering fly-bridges—each sport fishing boat had one, with an unimpeded view into our cockpit; Luke spraying Tropic, and rubbing it in; mostly rubbing up and down, and pretend-sighing. Hardcore boy.
He hoisted his butt off the seat, jerking down his miniature Speedo. It went from mid-thigh to ankle so he could spread his knees, obscene fiddling for fun.
“Li’l Luke’s finally getting brown again, see Jeep?”
Definitely a darker dick, doing its hide-and-seek thing. Not a shower, or a grower; small like his sperm donor. Erect, it stood up, that’s all. Like the blue suction cup jammed against his crack, it was better to ignore, unless he brought it up.
“We probably ought to call your mom and tell her while we still have phone service.” I was joking, sort of.
He yanked up his Speedo and darted down the companionway. He returned with my cellphone, not his; handed it to me, and sat down on the opposite seat, thighs apart. He grinned and poked his thumb under the front of his still-untied Speedo, pushing the waist down, way down. Indecent, daring and delightful, no wonder I was staring when I should’ve been ‘doing boats.’
“Send her a photo.” He posed suggestively, leaning back, arms behind to flatten his front, emphasis on ribs and muscle, tiny nipples barely visible.
A boat horn tooted a few moments after I pressed the camera icon. I panicked before I spotted the source. Not even close; a pretentious crew on a mega-motor-yacht, ankara olgun escort preparing to pull out of a slip. Relieved, I checked the photo—overt yet unassuming; however, an erect penis meant private consumption only.
‘L’il gay boys are nothin’ but show offs.” He flaunted miniscule by dragging excess skin into a tenuous tube, no more than four very-skinny inches.
Clowning or what, I wasted no opportunity, and pressed ‘shutter’ again. Before he could see himself, I tapped the green phone icon, not bluffing either.
“You going to tell her, Jeep?”
“I’m not telling her anything. You are, Lukey.” Smirking as she picked up, I held my phone so he could listen in. “Good morning, Grandpa’s Summer Camp here.”
He grinned, unaware I was sending both photos.
“Emphasis on camp, I hope?” she snickered.
She didn’t mean camp as a matter of style. Flight-steward domestic aesthetics tended to plain, low cost, no maintenance.
“Luke’s in your lap, isn’t he?” Then, a giveaway giggle on her part; even more open-minded than she’d been the previous year. “I bet he’s naked.”
“Not quite. Say hi, Lukey Cutey.”
“Hi Mom!” A few decibels from shrieking. “Where are you?”
“Hi Sweetums. We just landed in Detroit. Where are you?”
“Some marina at Little Grand Cay. It’s cool.” He glanced around. “I’m sitting across from Grandpa… so he can show you. Li’l Luke’s got a tan already, Mom.”
Time to interject before she got on my case about sunburn. “He’s been using lotion every day.”
“Oh my God! He’s absolutely gorgeous. And so brown!” She didn’t say a word for a while.
I segued on, certain she’d stare at the photos throughout the call.
“So far, we’re doing the same as last year. He’s reviewing what he learned, plus…”
“Is he… he’s getting a workout, isn’t he? Like we talked about.”
He practically grabbed the phone from my hand. “Hey Mom, thank you. Your thing is awesome. It goes up there really easily…”
I grabbed his wrist and shoved his hand down, grinning and making him clutch boy parts before flipping him over, butt up.
“Let me send you a photo,” I teased, trying to position my cellphone.
He spluttered giggles, squirming across the cockpit seat, all but divesting his Speedo, little Tropic-greased butt sliding over oiled teak. I grabbed a flailing leg and yanked him closer, flipped him butt-up, exposing blueness. At least, he didn’t complain about it hurting.
“I hope you like it, Sweetie. Hank suggested it; fun and useful,” she added quickly.
I met Hank every Christmas. He was Oscar-Wilde-camp, sexual-deviant flight-steward. Born-bottom with few scruples, and those went the other way, all the way; extravagance, sensibility, playful, exaggerated; the same mannerisms she observed in her son.
“Luke, you’re not, um… working out right now, are you?”
Impossible to miss the tremulous voice of excitement; quavering, unsteady, anxious to know how far her son had progressed in five days.
I dispatched the next photo, a few moments with Luke beside himself—it had happened so quickly.
“Does it hurt?” she said, as anxious as I had been inserting it.
“He’s not complaining.”
“It’s cool, Mom.”
I took over for him. “Like he said, it’s goes up there easily.”
“The instructions are awful, aren’t they?…” Her pause was presumptuous, unnecessarily nosy. “I watched the video.”
Luke rolled his eyes the same as I did. Seconds flew past, easy to guess what his mother was looking at.
“Oh my! It really is… right up there.”
I showed him the same photo she was seeing on her screen. Little-boy dick, balls, perineum, the part of his crack not obscured by a blue silicone suction cup.
“The video said two squeezes for each increment, five minutes apart.” Inhaling before she resumed. “After four increments; let out the pressure and he starts over.”
We exchanged knowing looks; Mom was running true to form, involving herself in every intimate detail. Remaining patient was difficult, especially with the photo still on my cellphone screen.
“It doesn’t say how many times to do it. Any ideas?”I teased.
“Whatever it takes, I suppose. Hank says you’ll know if he’s ready when he feels loose… Is it inflated right now?”
“Luke’s comfortable with three squeezes.”
“I’m sure. Luke, it’s not just for summer camp. Hang on…”
She delayed and delayed—she was ordering coffee at Starbucks on the concourse. Her usual double latte.
“Hank said once you start…” She lowered her voice, people all around her. “… it’s best to stay in tip-top condition.”
“Mom, Jeep and me can figure it out, okay,” Whiny voice got her attention.
“I’m not prying, Baby. I just want you to be happy.”
Fan Email From: withheld at reader‘s request 06/26/2020 (3 hours ago) ail
A matter of professional concern serves as the reason for this contact. I have been asked by a father to see his disturbed son, concerning his emergent sexual identity. I understand the lad is known to you as ‘Tristan.’
By way of introduction, I am a professor at the University of Tunnbindare, Sweden, and a consulting clinical psychologist. My particular expertise is the existential nature of sexuality. If you will allow me to cite from a recent article in the Journal of Adolescent Homosexuality, reviewing my contributions over many years:
“Professor Dogar’s explorations in the nature of homosexual existence are profound and far-reaching. By emphasizing the total sexual experience of the teenage male—not merely the intellect, but the acting, feeling, living adolescent, we gain true holistic understanding. Through such an expansive view, he characterizes the young homosexual”s starting point, rife with ‘existential angst’ (or, ‘variably, dread, or a sense of disorientation, confusion, or anxiety in the face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world.’)”
In this conflicted modality, a boy such as “Tristan,” typically discovers his sexual identity, ultimately leading to the defining homosexual act, the ‘inevitable’, to use your own words.
Before I accept ‘Tristan’ as a patient, I will address the relationship alleged by the boy”s father, specifically: That you have shamelessly encouraged the under-aged, aforesaid ‘Tristan’ to correspond with you for information on how to know if a man really likes him in ‘that way.’
On a strict need-to-know basis, I ask whether this is true; or whether ‘Tristan’ himself initiated the contact. Boys his age sometimes prevaricate when faced by stern parental concern. Please realize that my initial concern is to confirm ‘Tristan’s’ particular sexual preference; thence, to determine and explore with him, his existential sexual identity by empirical means.
Not yet have I been informed of the mother”s involvement, although it has been hinted at rather darkly. If she in any way facilitated the relationship you seem to have with ‘Tristan,’ it would matter that I learn from your side in order to weigh my options, and direct a research agenda.
Finally, while I respect the privileged nature of the doctor-patient relationship, my specific involvement in Tristan must necessarily involve his most intimate dealings with others. To wit, I seek your assistance; for example, his discussions with you concerning his innermost feelings, emotional responses you’ve observed, even specific requests he has made.
I probe, sir, in the name of mental health. However, I also ask in the name of science, as I wish to conduct his examination for suitability as a subject for ongoing investigations.
Dr. Grigorios Dogar, Ph.D. Adolescent Psychiatry
Member, Worldwide Psychiatric Association
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