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A Thugboy’s Rescue by Will
In his downtown Los Angeles Human Services office, Jarrod Anders sat stoically talking on the phone with his wife. It was late Monday afternoon and he was apologizing for the inevitability of being late for dinner. At the last minute, the agency director had saddled him with another of those difficult, angry black teenager cases.
“Honey, the kid’s apparently not responding to any of the other staff. That’s why Dr. Paterson has dumped him in my lap. He started a fire and did some looting last night. He’s very confrontational and disruptive….!” Jarrod’s voice trailed off as he listened to his wife angrily express her disappointment.
Annoyedly, Jarrod Anders hung up the phone and began to solemnly reflect on his ten-year marriage. It was becoming a real bore; with much to be desired. He felt stifled and trapped in a marriage that was from the very beginning ‘a farce’. He had denied himself his true self all his adult life. And other than his work, he felt empty and unfulfilled. Nonetheless, he consummately played the role of a contentedly married middleclass man.
His rambling thoughts were interrupted by the intercom.
“Dawaan Hemingway is here, Mr. Anders”, announced the receptionist.
“Send him in”, replied the tall mental health counselor, getting up from his desk. He crossed the room toward the door. ‘Here we go’ thought Jarrod Anders. ‘Another angry, black, teenage thug boy with more ego than intellect, blaming the entire “White System” for his lack of motivation and personal fulfillment.’
During the past eight years Jarrod Anders had seen more than his fair share of young, angry, black males who had allowed their blind rage to transfigure them into emotionally unstable individuals. Such personality types possess a basic fear of everything in organized society. Fear results in hatred. And that hatred inspires violence.
Jarrod Anders knows so well this vicious cycle endemic in economically disadvantaged communities; and oftimes has felt incredibly powerless to help. The recidivism among this group is astounding.
Jarrod opened the door as Dawaan Hemingway was about to knock. The tall thin teenager gave a start when their eyes met. Jarrod was also caught off guard. There was several seconds of awkwardness between them before the man extended his hand, saying, “Hello. I’m Jarrod. Come on in”
Dawaan Hemingway wore a baggy over-sized white tee shirt, baggy jeans, and large black sneakers. His hair was cut-close, his skin coloring was golden dark brown, and his face was frighteningly identical to that of the mask of Tutankhamen. He appeared to be much closer to thirteen years old, than the eighteen years that he was. His behavior was shyly aggressive. Jarrod Anders’ six-foot-two frame moved behind the desk, telling the kid to sit on the chair in front.
Carefully he explained to the teenager the variety of dynamics that has brought him to the mental health agency. Then he set about detailing to Dawaan Hemingway what he and the agency expected of the black teenager, and just what Dawaan should expect from him and the agency if he wanted any kind of improvement in his life.
Jarrod began the session by inquiring about the fire Dereon had started on Lincoln Park Avenue. Dawaan mumbled he hadn’t started a fire on Lincoln Park or any place else in California. He went on to say that it was all about his mother “the bitch”. He told Jarrod that he’d turned eighteen years old over a week ago. And because of that his mother no longer got a welfare check for him; so she wanted him out of the house. He’d told her he wasn’t leaving. But she insisted he was getting his “grown black ass” out of her house one way or the other. So she’d phoned the police telling them he was the one who started the fires on down on Lincoln Park Avenue. “And that’s when the police came and hauled my ass outta there” concluded Dawaan.
Jarrod challenged the boy’s alibi. But Dawaan remained steadfast; saying that earlier in the evening he had been with the two guys who’d done it. But he had left for home with a stereo he had stolen for his mother before the guys had set the fire.
Getting information from him was similar to extracting wisdom teeth, thought Jarrod. Dawaan was a very withdrawn young man, putting up a brave front. He suffered miserably from low self-esteem and struggling with the burgeoning of a persecution complex. He had the defenseless persona of a little boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
So tragic, but fairly commonplace, thought Jarrod, that this young man has already been so horribly scarred by life. And in this case, even more tragically so, because the boy was so breathtakingly beautiful. And if he remained on this “I don’t give a fuck” journey, he would be eventually handed over to a coven of hungry wolves in some high-recidivism correctional facility and be shuffled about like a tray of expensive hors d’oeuvre at posh Beverly Hills’ cocktail bash.
The fifty-five minutes had come to an end. Jarrod told the boy it was time to close the session.
“Time’s up already, doc? Fuck I was just getting started!”
“I’m not a doctor – and yes, your time is up”
The boy’s mocking amusement seemed to quickly fade from his expression. He coolly regarded Jarrod for a few silent seconds and then blurted out, “Man…this ain't gonna work! I ain’t comin’ back here no more! I’m wastin’ your time. And damn if you ain’t wastin’ my time!”
Pulling himself up from his slumped position on the chair, his cool, cruel glance challenged that of Jarrod Anders.
“You will be seeing me three days a week for the next three months. Then we’ll figure out where we’ll go from there”, announced a reserved, professional Jarrod Anders.
Dawaan Hemingway’ beautiful eyes looked as though he had been offered a life-giving reprise of sorts from the mental health counselor. His challenging, confrontive glances had softened. He and the counselor exchanged a look that was charged with visible electricity. It seemed they would be forever enslaved within that engaging gaze. They both spoke volumes of dialogue to the other within that hypnotic exchange.
The teenager was the one who broke the ocular embrace. Hunching his shoulders, said, “Well, I don’t think I can make it. And anyway, I want a Black counselor. I don’t want no White man trying to get inside my head, man! Especially a White man who looks like he belongs to Hitler’s Aryan nation”.
“The choice is yours, Mr. Hemingway”, replied a detached Jarrod, walking with the boy to the door.
Stepping into the corridor, the angry black teenager quickly spun around and looked into the eyes of the man. His expression revealed that he was trying to say something snide and ridiculing. But instead he appeared to blush.
“Fuck you, asshole!”, finally retorted Dawaan as he rapidly turned and hastened down the hallway, and disappeared on the stairs.
Jarrod Anders stood inside his office leaning up against the closed door. He struggled to figure out what had just happened for the past hour. The man found it slightly difficult to breathe; his heart raged wildly within his ribcage. Slowly, he began the journey across the room. Stopping, he found himself touching and caressing the chair where the tall lanky handsome black teenager had slouched.
He walked around and slumped himself in the chair behind his desk. His hand strangely trembled as he reached for the phone.
“Hello, Dr. Paterson…I will be taking the Hemingway case”, said a very flustered Jarrod, tugging at his constricting briefs beneath his Calvin Klein trousers. “Yes, Dr. Paterson…”, continued Jarrod Anders, “..I recall my original response to your request for this case. But I’ve changed my mind. I want to work with his kid. He’s not as dysfunctional as I imagined. I think I can be of some help”
Jarrod calmly hung up the phone. A gentle smile teased about the corners of his handsome mouth. He was experiencing an elation not enjoyed for a very long time.
At Ten-Fifteen on Wednesday morning, Jarrod Anders sat behind his desk and calmly fidgeted with a ballpoint pen. Dawaan was due at Ten o’clock. And thus far he was a “no show”. Getting a bit edgy, he picked up the phone and dialed the receptionist at the front desk. She told him that Dawaan Hemingway had yet to arrive – and did he want her to send in his Eleven o’clock appointment. She was already there.
“If Dawaan hasn’t arrived by Ten Twenty, send her in”, answered the annoyed social worker, slamming down the phone.
‘What is happening to me’, thought the man. ‘Why am I so irritable and on- edge?’
Jarrod Anders knew why, but he dare not confess it to himself – at least, not yet. Nervously. He scanned the boy’s chart again:
DAWAAN ANDERSON HEMINGWAY – Born August 14, 1993. 5’ 10”; 140 lbs. Excellent Health. No record or indication of substance abuse or drug addiction. IQ: 145 HISTORY: Began exhibiting anti-social behavior at sixteen years of age. – starting fights in school; disrespectful and verbally confrontive with female educators. Attacked one of mother’s boyfriends with a butcher’s knife. Nine months ago became withdrawn, spending time alone; occasionally seen with known gang members. Two months ago threatened mother’s life twice. Last week was picked up on arson charges and theft. He is now on probation. Mother will not allow him to return home. He resides at Rescue Mission and also spends day hours with a geriatric aunt. There is no knowledge of a father.
Jarrod’s concentration was suddenly drawn away to an unfamiliar ruckus out in the corridor.
“Mr. Hemingway! Mr. Hemingway! I have to announce you!” shouted the receptionist out in the hall.
Jarrod sprang from his desk and rapidly moved toward the door. Looking into the corridor he saw a nervous Agnes Crews, his Eleven o’clock appointment. He saw his receptionist, and also a coolly bemused Dawaan Hemingway.
“What is it?” asked Jarrod, trying to avoid eye contact with the challenging black teenager.
“I was sending Ms Crews into to see you..”, began the flustered receptionist, glancing annoyedly at Dawaan, “…when Mr. Hemingway came charging past us towards your office”
Jarrod looked at the seeming triumphant Dawaan, then immediately looked away.
“He’s late..” continued the receptionist, “.and you did say to send Ms Crews in at Ten-twenty…”
Jarrod calmly looked at the very nervous Agnes Crews and said, “I’ll see you at eleven, okay Agnes”. Looking at the receptionist, said “Thank you, Mary”, as he, without looking at him, directed Dawaan into his office.
The handsome, cocky teenager comically danced into the office, over to the chair in front of the desk. He amusedly plopped himself on the chair like a giant rag doll, as Jarrod closed the door.
Crossing the room, the social worker moved behind his desk and sat staring at the boy. He locked challenging glance with those intoxicating hazel eyes of Dawaan Anderson Hemingway’s.
“Mr. Hemingway….please bear in mind that I run this show”, said Jarrod, struggling to retain his professionalism. “When you are late for an appointment, you do not come waltzing in here like a tardy dinner guest. You will respond to the orders of the receptionist! Is that understood?”
Dawaan continued to return a challenging, albeit, pleading stare. Shifting on his chair, he slid down into a slumped position. Glancing down, he suddenly pretended to pick something off his bib-dungarees.
“Am I understood, Mr. Hemingway?!” firmly repeated Jarrod.
“Yeah! Yeah! I got ya, man!”, retorted the kid, indifferently. Slowly and shyly stealing glances over at the perturbed mental health counselor.
Jarrod began the session with questions about the boy’s mother. Protesting at first that he didn’t want to talk about “that bitch” But following several skillfully posed investigative inquiries by the social worker, Dawaan hesitantly began to provide information about his mother; sometimes offering up such appellations as “the Ho”, “the Slut” and “the Bitch” when referring to her.
The boy’s anger flared when he discussed how she had only needed him around for “that fucking welfare check” that the City provided every month.
“Look at me, man, look at me..!” exhorted the frustrated kid, slapping his large hands to his chest, “..to my mom I ain't been nothin’ more than a fuckin’ meal ticket!”
The very agitated young man went on to reveal how she had used all men for sex and money. “She don’t feel nothin’ for nobody!” he grumbled when he reflected how at six and seven years old he would lie awake and listen to her moan, groan and scream in ecstasy as two, sometimes three, men would be fuckin’ her “stank” coochie at one time. Then he recalled that there would always be fights about money. The men would always sneer and say she wasn’t worth the money she was asking.
“She’s been shot once, and stabbed twice behind all that whoring shit”, sadly confessed the tormented teenager, “.but she just keeps right on with her stroll”.
For whatever reason, Dawaan was aroused. Jarrod could smell the boy’s sweet delicious aroma of youthful arousal. It arose out of nowhere and in an instant it slapped his nostrils like a sharp left jab from Mike Tyson’s meaty fist. The kid sat there in front of him, his legs wide. He nervously squirmed and twisted on the chair, trying frantically to lesson the tension in his underwear. The overmastering odor of damp, aromatic arousal inspired the man’s mind to blissfully drift off for a second or two. He wondered if Dawaan had lusted for his mother’s loins. Or if indeed, he had had sexual relations with his amoral mother.
Leaning forward on his chair, the boy locked glance with Jarrod and firmly stared.
“You’d probably liked to bang that bitch, too, wouldn’t ya..?” growled the boy through a sinister grin. “..yeah, yeah, you would, wouldn’t ya!? You….you, “mister my-shit-don’t-stink”, Aryan Nation lookin’ mutha fucker!”
When he spat out his last words, Dawaan Hemingway leaned back on the chair and continued to glare over at the counselor.
Jarrod calmly regarded the boy’s angry confrontive demeanor. Soon his detached, non-reactive response to the outburst had served somewhat to defuse the boy’s tirade.
“Dawaan, your anger’s not about me. It’s about your mother.”, Jarrod said softly. “Are you angry because she left you out of her life when all the men were there?”
“Shit!...Those mutha fuckers were always fuckin’ there! I was never anywhere. Nobody even knew that I fuckin’ existed!”, loudly purged the angry teen.
“Okay..”, began Jarrod looking at his watch. “…we’re going to have to discuss that at our next session, ok? Time’s up”
“Is my time up, again, Doc? Shit! My time’s always up!” responded the frustrated boy. In an intimidating stance, he agitatedly stood up, tears welling in his eyes, and then frantically moved toward the door.
“Dawaan!” said Jarrod, firmly but, softly. The boy halted. His broad shoulders slumped forward as he slightly shook. He wanted to turn around. But he wouldn’t allow himself to do so. “What!?”, he growled.
“Will I see you Friday?”
Slowly the boy eased around to face Jarrod Anders. His beautiful young hazel eyes glistened with tears. When their eyes met, the intense scattering of electrical energy between them became more overpowering than before. But, rapidly the boy turned away and grabbed the doorknob. “I don’t know!’ he muttered. Opening the door, he stumbled into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.
The heart and mind altering aroma of the aroused teenage mercilessly invaded Jarrod nostrils with a vengeance, as he unconsciously clutched at his agitated penis. The ring of the telephone slightly startled him. It was his wife. It seemed friends from Connecticut were in town, and she had made plans for them to go to dinner, and then on to catch a performance of Fiddler on the Roof in Santa Barbara.
“That’ll be great, honey”, said the man hanging up the phone. But inwardly he thought, ‘Shit! It’s going to be a great night, with those two zombies from Stanford, watching the thousandth reprisal of Fiddler! Shit!’ Doggedly picking up the phone, he instructed the receptionist to send in Agnes Crews.
Jarrod Anders found himself completely exhausted on Friday afternoon. He had experienced a grueling two o’clock session with a very angry and delusional recovering alcoholic. He was drained. He questioned his professional ability to deal with the adolescent antics of Dawaan Hemingway during his three o’clock session. The past week had been a horrendous, if not enervating, one for Jarrod. Dynamically so as result of his all-consuming emotional preoccupation with the handsome black teenager. The mesmerizing control of the boy’s presence had utterly wiped him out emotionally each time he had seen him. The sight of the kid always seemed to bring his senses completely to life - sometimes, to such a degree that it had frightened him.
His heart appeared to pump more blood – his mind seemed to blaze more brightly with a weird hopefulness. No, this was not good. He had to get a firm grip on the situation. As he had lain awake the night before, he had formed thoughts of re-assigning the boy to another counselor. But then pondered if that would that be fair to the already severely emotionally crippled teenager. The kid already envisioned himself as useless and worthless. He couldn’t be sure what effect such a dismissal would have on the kid. He also went to further question just how fair it would be to himself. For without doubt, the beautiful, long, lean, dysfunctional black teenager with the hypnotic hazel eyes, in a very bizarre way, brought with him some strange promise of hope; a promise that happiness might yet be attainable in his bland robotic life; a promise that there was something still loveable in life. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a teenager himself. He dared think that he was in love.
A light rap on his slightly ajar door startled the man. Looking up from his desk, Jarrod Anders’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes feasted upon the radiantly golden features of Dawaan Hemingway. The boy stuck his head in the door and playfully asked: “Is anybody home?” The remembered sweet musky fragrance of his damp aroused body attacked the man’s sensibilities ferociously. He experienced a pained discomfort in his crotch as his penis violently stretched into full erection. He quietly groaned, as he sprang to his feet.
“Mr. Hemingway, didn’t I tell you to have yourself announced!” sharply admonished the excited man.
“Hey, man, chill. There wasn’t anybody out there. So I thought I’d just walk on back”, began the mischievous, wide-eyed boy, “..you told me to be on time. And it is three o’clock sharp, right?”.
With a self-serving smile, Dawaan crossed the room toward the chair. His youthful, dancing eyes locking glance with the stoic counselor, the boy mocked, “What!? What!? Whatcha gonna do, have me arrested.
Jarrod watched as the beautiful bundle of Afrikan American perfection plopped his little butt on the chair, slumping down, spreading his long legs wide, and draping his left arm over the back.
Jarrod, now, no longer needed to search his memory for the splendid aroma of Dawaan Hemingway’s arousal. It was now more broadcastive than the other day, as he sat there on the chair with one hand down inside his baggy jeans. Jarrod Anders shamefully fought down a lustful fantasie of pulling that large hand from within those pants and licking the scented fingers.
“So, what’s up, doc?” asked Dawaan as he squirmed on the chair, in effort to find a comfortable position.
The social worker sensed he was decidedly losing control of the situation. He had to regain professional authority immediately if were going to help this boy.
“Okay, Mr. Hemingway..”, began a very authoritative Jarrod, “…your report states that you are known to hang out with known gang leaders and drug traffickers. Are you involved with drugs?”
The question threw the cocksure teenager off-center. He was non-plussed. It was now his turn to re-group his agenda. Stiffly pulling himself up on the chair, he prepared to confront the question.
“No, man…no!”, he finally said, “..I don’t do drugs, man. I may be a piece of shit, but I’m clean!”
“What about sex?”, asked Jarrod, “Do you have a girlfriend, or are you involved in casual sex?”
He knew such questions weren’t necessarily germane to the kid’s therapy at this point. But they were questions that he himself wanted answers to.
“SEX?!!?”, exclaimed the boy, “A girlfriend!? Shit, man. Get real!!” continued Dawaan with a face that was a mask of disgust, “There ain't nothin’ but Ho’s and Coochie Momma’s out there, man! And no “fly” girl would want some skinny kid like me, the fuckin sluts! And besides, man, ain't you heard about mother monster AIDS out there? Shit, when I die it’s gonna be ‘cause I blew my own fuckin’ brains out – not ‘cause I got a lethal does of polluted pussy!”
“Are you saying you’ve never had sex?” asked Jarrod
“NO! Yeah!”, began the embarrassed boy, “..well, at least, I never fucked nobody. When I was eleven I used to let a little girl upstairs jerk me off. But at twelve I went to live with my grandmoms for a year and a half. She taught me all about AIDS, man. Jeez…that’s some scary shit, man. She took me over to see my cousin who was dying from the disease. My cousin told me to keep my dick in my pocket till I was married. But he said even then I couldn’t be sure”
The boy’s mind had drifted off to a more peaceful time in his life, even though the telling of the tale was obviously painful for him.
“I saw my cousin Jay for the first when I was seven..” continued Dawaan, “..he was about twenty-three then, and man, he looked like a movie star. I mean he made Denzel Washington look like Pee Wee Herman. Man, he had all the babes! But, then, when I saw him just a few years later with my grandmoms…Damn! FUCK! I cried, man! I‘ll never forget that sight!”
Water welled in the eyes of the teenager. Then one wanderlust tear slowly made a moist journey across his satiny brown cheek. “Naw, man, I’m never having sex until I’m married”
The sudden realization that he had teared-up in front of a man gave him swift pause. To be observed in such a vulnerable state should be cause for alarm, were his initial thoughts, as an effort to immediately camouflage the situation with machismo surfaced. But just as swiftly across his young mind came calm, unfamiliar feelings of safety. And those feelings of safety quickly abolished all that fear and feelings of needless vulnerability. And with fear being abolished, and with trust being bridged, through the eyes of love, Dawaan Anderson Hemingway suddenly felt the gist of Jarrod Anders.
Offering an embracing look of profound understanding, Dawaan said, “Nope…I’m not having sex ‘til I get married!” The deep compassionate look of adoration flowed abundantly from the boys glowing, hazel-hued eyes, “.Nope….not til I get married!” he repeated.
Jarrod Anders felt his face burning with embarrassment. He felt propositioned. He felt hit-on by a teenage boy. He kinda felt silly.
“What about a profession?”, asked Jarrod, “What do you see yourself doing in regards to a career? I understand that your grades were excellent up until a year and a half ago”
“I want to be a social worker”, said the boy, leaning forward on his chair. “I want to help people. There’s one person in particular I’d really like to help”
The boy’s eyes sparkled and twinkled with a sensuous mischievousness that wholly titillated the man. The kid’s glance was become so commanding that Jarrod had to look away. Again the room had become uncomfortably warm for the man. He eagerly inhaled the intoxicating scent of the boy’s arousal – and also his own. He was growing dizzy with anticipation. This is wrong, he thought, this is so wrong. This is reprehensibly unprofessional. He had to think quickly.
“Ah..oh, your mother? You mean help your mother, right?” interjected Jarrod, “As a social worker, I’m sure you would want to help her in some way. That is who you mean. Am I correct?”
Again, the teenager’s shameless attempt at blatant seduction was completely thwarted. He visibly winced.
“Why’d ya have to bring that bitch up again for? Shit!”, blasted Dawaan, his eyes glazing with tears. Furiously he stood up and kicked the chair over. “Why do you have to fuck everything up, man?! Damn it! Damn it!” screamed the boy as he wildly punched the wall, tears profusely gushing from his eyes.
“Sit down, Dawaan! Sit Down!” loudly commanded Jarrod from behind his desk.
The boy angrily swung his head in the man’s direction. With tear-reddened eyes he fiercely glared at him…challenging him.
“Please…”, calmly asked the social worker
The firm, though polite, invitation inspired the boy to take several deep inhales of air. Then, ever so slowly, his fierce façade began to dissolve and he began to bawl. Leaning his forehead up against the wall he openly sobbed like a small child.
Getting up, Jarrod crossed the distance between them. Standing behind him, he placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders. With this touch, the boy quickly swung around and buried his face in the man’s chest, continuing to sob – his arms coming up around the man’s waist.
For several minutes Jarrod allowed the boy to purge himself of some of his pain. Then he guided him back to the chair. Once seated, he squatted in front of the kid. Offering him a bunch of tissues, he asked the sniffling boy if he was alright.
“NO! I’m not alright!” retorted the boy, sniffling. Taking the offered tissues, he finally mumbled, “Yeah……yeah…..I’m alright”
Touching the boy lightly on the shoulder, Jarrod stood up and moved back behind his desk.
“Dawaan..you are not your mother. You do not have to sexually seduce someone to be loved, or gain control of them…”, began the social worker.
“WHAT! What?…man, you're crazy…”, began the embarrassed boy, sliding down on the chair and tossing the tissues across the room into a wastebasket, “..Who’s tryin' to seduce anybody, man” continued the excited teenager, staring down the man behind the desk.
Jarrod Anders returned a firm, detached glance. “You're a bright, talented, handsome young man. The whole world can be yours, once you get a grip on it.”
The severity of the teenager’s face softened. Vulnerability washed over his expression. A look similar to that of a six-year-old boy having been told by his father that he was “daddy’s handsome little boy”. Devoid all guile, Dawaan Hemingway searched Jarrod’s face to see if the man joked. “Do..do you think so?” shyly implored the boy
With a bright warmth caressing his handsome blonde, 30-something features, Jarrod slightly smile, saying: “I know so”.
But just as quickly as they were dropped, immediately the boy’s defenses shot back up again. “Yeah, I guess you’d have to say that, wouldn’t you? The sooner you make me think that I’m alright, the sooner you can kick my black ass outta here, right?!”
Jarrod Anders hid his disappointment well. He found it difficult to swallow that such a magnificent specimen of Afrikan American youth was so completely lacking in any kind of self worth.
He just had to get through to the kid. He had to instill in this emotionally fragile piece of perfection that he was whole and safe. No, he was not going to allow this beautiful boy to fall through the cracks. Somehow he had teach the self-value. The kid just had to come to some kind of a valid realization that all White people weren’t out to harm him; weren't trying to fuck-over the “mother” of his unconscious reality.
Jarrod Anders knew that what he was about to say was thoroughly unprofessional – knew that it might cause him a great deal trouble – but he had to say it.
“What are you doing for dinner tonight, Dawaan?”
The kid’s face lit up like a neon sign, “Dinner! You mean chow-time!? Shit, at the Mission on Friday nights we get burnt fish sticks, baked beans, mashed potatoes and leftover bread donated from Acme market’s 2-day-old bin. Why?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me an my wife?”
Dawaan’s hazel eyes shone even brighter, “Come on, man, you wouldn’t tease a guy would ya?” asked the jubilant teenager.
“I’m serious! I’ll have one of the van drivers at the Mission drive you over to my house around seven-thirty, okay”.
“Too much, man…too much!” exclaimed the boy, “So, you're married, huh? Too much, man!!”
Jarrod stole a glance at his watch.
“Yeah, I know, my time’s up, huh?” asked Dawaan. “Fuck, I got a feeling my time is just beginning!” said the boy, rising from the chair and moving toward the door. “So long, doc!” sang out his youthful masculine voice as he seemed to glide out of the office.
‘What the hell have I done’ ruminated the man. Picking up the phone, he set about explaining the situation to Dr. Paterson for the next ten minutes. Eventually the director acquiesced. He then rang up his wife, who applauded him for his wonderfully humane act.
On his way home in freeway traffic, he laboured to put into perspective his decision to invite the boy to dinner. It was true, there was mutual attraction. But it need not go any further than that. And once the kid had seen him and his wife together, he might lessen the sexual intensity with him, and they could get on with the therapy.
Jarrod continued to severely delude himself thusly all the way home.
“Honey, I’m home!” humorously announced the man as he stepped into the hall of the house.
“I’m up here, Jarrod!” called his wife from upstairs, “Listen, I have to run out for a couple of hours. I’ll try to make it back before your friend leaves!”
“What? What’s going on?” shouted Jarrod up the stairs. Jacqueline moved into view at the top of the stairs, brushing her hair.
His wife explained that her Aunt Deirdre had had another bad attack and had to get over there until cousin Flo got back from her vacation later that evening. She told him dinner had been prepared and all he had to do was warm it up in the microwave. She then disappeared back into the bedroom for a minute.
Jarrod stood there at the foot of the stairs. Many comforting, as well as many conflicting, thoughts began to control his consciousness. Rushing down the stairs, Jacqueline Anders pecked her husband’s cheek and in a flurry of motion was just about out the door.
“But..but.., “ , stammered Jarrod.
“Oh, yes..” said his wife, “convey my apologies to your little friend, okay? Tell him perhaps some other time!’
“Yes, dear! And thanks, dear!”, dryly returned the man as he removed his jacket and headed toward the kitchen.
At exactly seven-thirty the door bell rang. Opening the door, Jarrod’s eyes drank in the handsome teenager. He wore an oversized wool, black turtle neck sweater with a huge gold thunderbird emblazoned on the front. His trim hips were encased in black denim jeans. His feet were donned in tan Timberland boots.
In all his regal radiance, he appeared to be a tall twelve-year-old trying very hard to impersonate an eighteen-year-old young man.
Jarrod Anders’s blood pressure rose about eighty degrees as his heart began to rage wildly within his ribcage. Never before, had he seen anything, nor anyone, as beautiful as that which now stood before him.
The boy sensed he was being adored and he shoved his hands deeply into his pockets and began to fiddle with something.
Shyly he inquired, “Am I late?”
“No…er..no! Forgive me for staring. Come on in!”
Leading the boy into the living room, Jarrod explained the situation about this wife. But said that it was possible that she would be back before he left. Dawaan immediately gravitated toward the computer in the alcove. Jarrod promptly chimed in with all the necessary information that a young man should know about a PC. The kid seemed to be acquainted with a basic knowledge of the machine from classes in school – but was completely exhilarated with the total limitlessness of information on the Internet. Anything he wanted to know, all he had to do was either “Ask Jeeves” or “Google” it.
Forty minutes later as they navigated a web study about the grasslands of Kenya, the phone rang. It was Jacqueline. She was going to a have to spend the night with Aunt Deidre, because cousin Flo wouldn’t be back until morning.
When she had finished explaining things to her husband, she asked to speak with Dawaan. When he took the phone, Jacqueline Anders told the exuberant teenager that she looked forward to meeting him; and hoped that he would visit again, soon.
“I hope to visit again too, Mrs. Anders”, said Dawaan, staring brazenly into Jarrod’s eyes, “I hope it’ll be real soon, too!”.
Saying “Goodbye, Mrs. Anders,” Dawaan Hemingway placed the receiver in the cradle. His sparkling eyes still boldly locked in embrace with Jarrod’s.
“You’re wife says to tell you that she’ll see you tomorrow!” softly whispered the teenager.
The thrill of that thought instantly scattered fiery imaginings throughout the minds of both the boy and the man. One could almost see the room blaze a million kilowatts brighter.
“Great”, said Jarrod as he awkwardly moved back to the computer and seated himself. Dawaan followed and stood behind him. Overwhelming heated waves of aromatic sexual energy generously fanned out from the boy’s body. The man’s eyes blurred and his mind dizzied with uncontrollable surfacing lust.
“Is it about time we ATE?!”, asked the boy, placing his large hot hands on the man’s shoulders. Jarrod’s entire body visibly quaked. Slowly and methodically the boy’s hand’s slid caressingly down onto the man’s chest.
“Ah, yeah! I think it’s time for dinner!” rasped Jarrod’s dry throat as he clumsily rose from the chair, trying to untangle himself. But Dawaan did not move his hands from the man's shoulders. Almost timidly Jarrod eased around to face the kid. His heart skipped when he looked into those beautiful, bewitching eyes. And those full, soft, moist lips that quietly begged to be kissed.
“Dawaan! Ah..Dawaan…I really don’t think we should. I’m your counselor and it would be unprofessional of me to take advantage of you!” stammered the befuddled, arid-throated, intensely aroused man.
“Oh, come on, man, you can’t take advantage of anybody who’s giving themselves to you, can ya? Don’t you want me Mr. Anders?” pleaded the comely, wide-eyed teenager.
The blazing, innocently-seductive eyes, the youthful, tantalizingly aroma, and the enticingly demanding feel of the boy became too much for the man to deny. In some delicious, mystical mental fog, Jarrod’s arms slid up around the warmth of the lean, hard body of Dawaan. Clutching his little dungaree clad ass, he crushed his mouth to the boy’s soft, luscious lips. Instinctively, Dawaan ground his heated muscular physique into Jarrod’s trembling body. His large, exploring hands traveled up under the boys black turtleneck sweater. He shook with a long forgotten thirst as those hands caressed, smoothed, and massaged the brown satiny skin of Dawaan Hemingway. As his tongue wildly explored the boy’s oral paradise, Jarrod’s hands, slowly traveled down into the baggy jeans. The kid wore no underwear. The realization of this caused the man to groan loudly and to almost dive his tongue deeply into the boy’s tonsils as they savagely locked lips. The hot, firm, velvety ass cheeks were a long ago dream finally come true. The moist heat between those two chocolate mounds of hot flesh was becoming to the man’s fingers. Slowly, ever so slowly, Jarrod’s eager right hand ventured toward that heat.
The two of them twisted, groaned, and sexually postured in the light of the pink soft glow of the living room. The subdued lusty grunts and moans and labored breathing echoed in the small room were interrupted by a loud scream offered up from Dawaan. Exuberantly he slammed his thin body against the man, arching his back.
Seeing the intense pleasure on the boy’s face, Jarrod continued to move his forefinger deeper into the boy’s virgin anus. “Oh Jeez!” he groaned as his sweet lips went back to attack those of the man who now finger-fucked him.
Dawaan gyrated his little bum on the man’s finger as he hungrily kissed, sucked, licked and nibbled the man’s lips, chin and cheeks – both their tongues copiously tangled with spit. He slid the exploring finger way up inside the velvety anus; then slipping it out a bit, he slid it way back in again with more intensity.
Finally, pulling the finger out, he brought it up to his nose and deeply inhaled the inebriating aroma; then moving the finger to his lips, he sucked salaciously. Pure heaven, he mused
The ringing of the phone catapulted the two back out of their engulfing sexual paradise. It startled them; especially Jarrod.
“Don’t answer it!” grunted Dawaan, continuing to lick at the man’s lips, hugging him close. Through sex-glazed perception, Jarrod thought for a moment. But he quickly snapped back. “Don’t be silly”, said the man, disengaging himself from the boy’s embrace and moved toward the phone.
It was Jacqueline again. She quickly explained that Cousin Flo had flight problems and wouldn’t be able to get in before tomorrow evening; and that she would have to spend the day with ailing Aunt Deidre. She was calling to also request that Jarrod travel up to Irvine and they could spend the weekend with recuperating Aunt Deidre.
In his intensely aroused state, the man was only able to respond with curt replies. “Ah, yeah, hon”, “Ah, sounds great, hon”
The man had to sit up and notice when Jacqueline finally asked, “Are you alright, honey, you sound flustered?”
A severe self-consciousness gripped the man.
“Fine, honey! Just fine!” he rapidly shot off. “Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow, ok? Give my love to Aunt Deidre, okay, honey?!”
Finally, the very guilt-stricken Jarrod Anders hung up the phone. Dawaan sat on the chair by the computer, his hands shoved deeply inside his baggy jeans, massaging himself. In effort to avoid eye contact, the man cleared his throat.
“Okay, Dawaan, that’s it! I’m going to give you dinner and then drive you home, okay?!”
“WHAT!?” exclaimed the boy, jumping to his feet.
“I can't do it! I can't do this! It’s not fair to you, or to…..anyone else. Okay?!” implored the very frustrated man.
“Stop dick-teasing me, man! You’ve been doing it all week. I think you're the one who needs psychiatric help. You know I want you! And I know you want me! So what’s the fucking problem, man? I’m not doing this just for the sex. I want to belong to you. Only you! I ain't never caught feelings from anyone like I’ve been catching them from you.. You make me feel like I’m ‘okay’!” blurted out Dawaan.
“Oh, come on, Dawaan!”, began Jarrod, “..I’m your mental health counselor. Most people get emotionally attached to their counselor. So let’s just……!”
The man’s voice was silenced when Dawaan rapidly moved up and kissed on the lips – the boy’s eyes were slightly glazed with moisture. Gripping the man by the shoulders, the boy very seriously searched the man’s handsome gray-blue eyes.
“No, man, it’s not like that. And you know it! My whole life is changed! I feel good about myself…about being me. Yeah, stupid old me!. And it ain’t 'cause your such a great almighty counselor either, man! It’s ‘cause of all these love vibes you been giving me. You make me feel that I’m really worth something. That I’m clean and good! That I’m okay!”
Jarrod tries to give a deaf ear to the boy’s pleas and makes an effort to move away. The gesture seems to wound the boy. Clutching the man harder, with eyes brimming with tears, he shouts out, “..and…and don’t you dare deny that you don’t feel anything for me, man!!”
“Dawaan…”, began the man, watching a tear in the left eyes spill onto that velvet cheek and slowly travel down to the chin, “…I don’t know what I feel. I only think that if this is real, it is better we wait. As I said, clients can often think they are in love with their counselors. Conversely, sometimes a counselor can become emotionally and/or physically attracted to a client. But in time they get over it. I think it’s just best we wait!”
“I’ve been waiting for you ever since Monday, man. Come on…help me before I burst!” responded the very aroused boy as he moved toward Jarrod, taking the man’s hand into his.
“Dawaan..! Stop! Just stop it!” grumbled Jarrod, shaking his hand loose and stepping back. Summoning great reserves of inner resolve not to give in to his immense lust for the boy, he tried to soften the rejection: “I’ve got to….we’ve got to think this through. Don't you think that would be better? We’re not animals running loose in some primitive jungle community. We’ve both very civilized individuals, very much in control of our instincts and desires.
Dawaan Hemingway listened to the man’s speech with a look of total disbelief. His hands jammed deeply into the pockets of his black dungarees, his beautiful eyes glistened with lust and frustration. The frustration segued into anger. He felt dismissed – put off – cast aside.
“Okay, fuck it, man, just fuck it!” said Dawaan, his eyes narrowing at the man, “Let’s just eat so I can get the fuck outta here! Where’s the fucking bathroom, Man!”
Professionally digesting the boy’s anger, Jarrod pointed to the stairs behind him, “Upstairs - second door on the right”
As Dawaan spun around and strode across the living room, Jarrod moved towards the kitchen. Resounding in his ears was the loud stomping of the boy’s large Timberland-clad feet as he traveled up the stairs, two at a time.
Twenty minutes had passed since Jarrod had set the dinner table and now awaited Dawaan’s return from to upstairs.
“How long does it take that kid to whack off?” murmured Jarrod, walking to the foot of the stairs.
“Come on, Dawaan.. dinner time!”
“Mr. Anders..come quick! Please help me! You gotta help me!’ shouted the boy from somewhere upstairs.
“What the hell….?!’ said Jarrod, racing up the steps. Reaching the bathroom, he discovered it empty. “Where are you, Dawaan?”
“In here” said a faint voice from the master bedroom. Jarrod strode toward him and his wife’s bedroom. It was dark. Stepping inside the room, the light switched on. And there on the pearl white satin spread of the bed, sprawled the Black Egyptian boy king, naked as nature intended him.
“Jesus fucking Christ!’ shouted the man, completely surprised and totally aroused when he took glimpse of that ethereal, phenomenally sensual tableau. The astute muscular definition of that almost hairless, glowing, pudding-brown body, and the exquisitely shaped head with the quintessential face, truly almost unhinged them man’s mind. He had never before seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful.
Jarrod Anders’ body so violently trembled and quaked with such erotic passion that he looked as though he might be going into an epileptic seizure. To drive his mental and emotional faculties even further beyond control, the boy began to lasciviously squirm and writhe his glowing naked boy on the bed as enticing sensuous sounds traveled up from somewhere deep inside that magnificent apparition.
Then, almost dreamlike, Dawaan gradually lifted himself up from his satin backdrop and outstretched his long brown arms toward the man. Through sultry, half-closed eyes and sweet full lips in a pout, he seductively pleaded.
“Please, please? Huh? Huh? Com on!” he moaned and begged, as his quivering shiny, rock hard penis wildly strained and wriggled between those lusty young thighs.
Jarrod Anders’ emotions had escalated to such a degree that for a second or two he could only inhale. The sight was too overpowering to digest – to rationally metabolize -- for a man who had spent much of his life denying such emotions. He wanted to run away. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, and he wanted to die as he felt himself moving toward the bed as he insanely tore his shirt from his body.
Reaching the foot of the bed, he hungrily sprang atop the incandescent boy. The electrifying sensation of the teen’s warm, satiny naked skin pressed beneath his bare chest shocked the man into uninhibitedly screaming out, “Oh My God!!”
Rising up on his elbows, Jarrod gazed down into that beatific face that ruled Egypt more than three thousand years ago. The large sloe eyes were languid, hypnotic, penetrating, as Jarrod felt those long, sculpted legs soon to wrap tightly about his waist. Cautiously the man brought his lips down to taste the nectar of those honey-laden lips and seemingly lost himself for a million happy hours in that touch. The squeezing pressure of the boy’s legs about his waist inspired Jarrod to send his shaking hands in the direction of his pants zipper.
“I never even dreamed it would ever be this good”, mewed Dawaan, his eyes hooded with sleep and lust, his bee-stung lips slightly parted in- wait for another wet and hungry onslaught of Jarrod’s manly tongue and mouth.
The morning sun generously showered radiant shafts of light through the chintz curtains of the bedroom windows. Jarrod Anders looked down at the sleeping Black boy in his arms. The eternal leaves of Promise, fashioned into laurels, seemed to crown gently about that angelic head. For the first time, in a very long time, Jarrod had awakened with a hope for a very fulfilling day. It would be his day – not a day plotted out by his wife – nor her family nor her friends. It would be his Day! A day selfishly committed to making the most beautiful Black boy on the planet feel as though he belonged. A day dedicated to creating an energy that would make Dawaan Anderson Hemingway feel as though he were part of the Whole!
For the first time in a very long time, Jarrod Anders felt compete – felt fulfilled – felt alive! And he was in no haste to foolishly abandon such a rare and rewarding feeling. There existed that soul-enriching emotion of completeness. A Completeness born as result of his surrendering to the sexual attentions of a dysfunctional teenager
Feeling yet again the familiarity of Dawaan’s penis flowing into a brick hard erection on his leg, Jarrod pulled the kid even tighter and kissed him atop the laurelled head. The teenager gently moaned and opened those beautiful eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Anders”, drowsily offered the boy as his right hand slid up on the man’s chest.
“Yes! Yes, it is a good morning, and its going to be a good day, Mr. Hemingway….”, returned Jarrod, moving his left hand across the boy’s hairless, satiny stomach. The hand continued to travel down until it reached that damp, scented kinky bush of hair that anchored that huge, quivering, prancing dick.
“….and the day is getting better by the minute, eh, Dawaan?”
A Thugboy’s Rescue
August 26, 2011