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"I wonder how it feels...to be concieved?" mused a 12 year old boy to me one billow-clouded, blue-skied April afternoon. "I wonder too," I thought out loud while taking in the newly efflorescing trees surrounding the tarmacked playground. Jonathan is a little/big young/old atypical five foot three boy with tousled hair lately the consistency of wire wool and a hue of burnished bronze. With eyes of deep, soft violet and a hint of oriental epicanthicism, his cheeks, often in my presense suffused with blood red,...blush, openly intrusive as he poises his first equipoisal question. "Where were you yesterday afternoon then?" "I went to see my girlfriend," I answer. "Did you shag her?"enquires young Jon unwaveringly with an impish, yet sheepish twist to his lip and a glint in his smiling eyes. "Yes I did actually," says I. "Was it nice then?" Jon begins to swing higher, higher and more aggressively in the childrens' playground, the focus of our friendship. "Yes thanks very much," I politely and bashfully reply. "What did it feel like then?" smiles squinting Jon, swinging madly. The whole informality of the situation begs a suitably naive answer as I sit on the grey/green bench marvelling at how a five foot three 12 year old can demonstrate such perfect swing control while asking about sex. "I have not the words to describe it," is my best attempt at hiding my appreciation of his juvenile, yet understandable, voyeurism. Jon giggles out loud and I continue, "But.................."!! |