I Never Said I Loved You

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 3

The journey home is a very different animal from a morning one; crowded and hot in the summer, but it is still possible to find a way for Anders and I to be 'us' whilst standing together in a corner by the door, all seats taken, our bodies rocking together with the noisy clattering and sudden jolts of the train bound for the far west of Cornwall, and the roaring Atlantic Ocean. Lean into me Anders…..lean into me. And when I say 'us', I mean it's all about the touching. Anders loves the touching. He's a boy who, when he hears kind words from me, needs them backed up by a touch. A hand on his shoulder, just lightly, will trigger a fold into me, with my arm locked around his back.

I'm sure that some boys, just like Anders, thrive on the physical. It's like lighting a flame within him. He comes alive; his face radiates like a beacon, and so very beautiful with his creamy pale colouring and tap-water silky blond hair. And that's by no means all. I always know when he has had a cricket practice, that strange game English schoolboys play at least one afternoon a week. On our crowded train home, wedged into a corner by an over-filled train, a hand on Ander's back might be moved [by him] a little lower until he gets it where he really likes it. My personal view is not positive about bottoms that are too full, or indeed the opposite. Anders has it just right, a tightish fit inside those dinky shorts that I'm not sure even I approve of, and he's very aware of the fact that he's showing off. I don't know who's told him, apart from me that is, but those are his golden moments, a hand active on those golden globes of his, so far in his young life; at least I'm assuming so. From what he says, he's never been remotely romantically involved with a friend, let alone intimate. But at his age, he's fast approaching that awareness which inevitably comes and takes him by the hand along the road of lovely surprises. Everything bigger, longer, every feeling stronger, every disappointment harder to bear, every joy more joyful, every love deeper than the last.

'Two pairs today Anders?' I whisper in his ear, just audible to him over the clatter of the rails beneath us.

'Cricket on Wednesdays.' He replies with a smile. 'You remember. I need two pairs for cricket…..to put my protector box in so it won't fall out?'

Box? Yes, a small plastic container for the essential protection of boys' bits from a hard leather ball chucked at them at some speed. It's the most important piece of any cricketer's kit. And yes, that's why he needs two pairs on Wednesdays, box neatly held in place between the two, and not just the usual one. I can feel them now, those contour lines travelling around the top of his thighs, and then diving into the groin; and up again to where eagles nest, or a fledgling, curled up in soft cotton warmth, all to Anders considerable squeeking delight. It's just silly playfulness really, but the implications go much deeper for me. To Anders it just feels……how can I put this…..it just feels interesting . As I do this delightful little tease to Andersson's compressed twin globes, for my own pleasure and his, I know that his little fledgling is stretching his wings, energy building, soon to fly. I feel for it, and yes, there it is, compact and swelling now, encased in silk, with a mind of it's own. We are just two silly boys, playing, and playing; just playing together.

It was over breakfast on Saturday morning. My mother leans towards me, lowering the newspaper enough to look me in the eye and says……

'Andersson's people are going away for a week. A business conference I think. Berlin. Andersson can't really go with them. His sister Francis is going to friends. Would you mind if we look after him for that week Roo? He'll have to sleep in your room of course. You wouldn't mind would you?'

That feeling again. I was about to point out that there's only one bed in my room when my mother added…..

'I know it's just your bed in there, but you should be able to accommodate another small body in there. It's a four foot six as I remember. We got it after you made such a fuss about an ordinary single bed being too narrow and cold. There you are Roo, hoisted by your own petard. Sorry darling but you've no excuse. He'll be desperately disappointed if he can't come. Anyway I've already said it's fine for him to come here. I know you'll be good about it. You're a good boy and his mother says he likes you. You like him don't you darling? You could always sleep on the floor?'

I'm speechless; and my face feels like it's turned the colour of beetroot. That feeling again, but even worse this time. She must have noticed.

That night I had trouble getting to sleep. In six days I'll have Anders…..Kip……all to myself. I keep getting that feeling. Oh gosh! I'll have to make some room in my cupboard for his things. He won't need much, just the usual summer stuff I suppose. Anyway I've got spares of most things.

I told my Exeter friend John about Anders. He gave me one of his rueful smiles. I know what he's thinking. Lucky bastard. He's right, I am. I can't tell you just how excited I am. I can barely sleep at all. I can see the man on the train now. He walking away into the mist, along the station platform into oblivion. I know I shall not see him again, ever.

Kip arrived at the door, mum in tow with a 'holdall', at four in the afternoon. We were expecting him. I'd gone up to my room around two to think about things. I had everything ready for Anders, not that there was anything much to do; make a space in my bathroom for his washing things, and a space on one of the shelves in my bedroom cupboard next to my piles of clothes. School uniform goes on another shelf. I heard the bell and ran downstairs. I've only ever seen him in his school uniform, not that that's dull; it's not! The weather forecast is good for the coming week, so he's probably dressed accordingly……hopefully just in those bare essentials I want to see him in. My wanting is almost painful.

I'm not disappointed. Oh goodness, he looks wonderful as my swift glances move from him to his smiling mother. He's dressed for the weather. Bare arms, bare legs, smiling face. Excited face.

'This bag has his school stuff in it. He needs that one for Sunday.' She announces.

'What time does he have to be there?'

'Nine fifteen please. That is so good of you to take him. And then again at two thirty? He should be finished by a quarter past four. You can collect him just outside the North door. All the other parents will be there too. He'll explain to you.'

Bloody hell, they don't want much those people. Talk about boy slaves. Anyway my mother will drive us. I'll hang around the city and wait for him.

Anders is carrying a rucksack over one shoulder. Mrs Van Herrin says that all Andersson's 'other' clothes are in that, excluding his 'proper' nightwear because in the summer he doesn't need much. Oh my! That topsy-turvy nervy sinking feeling again. She means at night he's just in his pants and tee shirt presumably. My mother says that's unhealthy and better to sleep naked. I agree; and I do. But I don't want to upset the boy. Maybe I'll have to compromise and wear something. Maybe not.

'Show Andersson where everything is please Rufus.' It is always Rufus when she wants to sound efficient and official; or I've done something she doesn't like.

Anders bounded up the stairs ahead of me carrying his kitbag. At the top now, on the landing in our reasonably spacious Victorian house, he looks round at me from the top of the stairs. I'm just behind him with a view of that makes me catch my breath. I have no idea how I'm going to cope with this situation for the next eight days. He's wearing open leather sandals and his bare ankles show pale skin where short socks went, which ends in a clearly defined line where a lightly tanned calf begins, which goes all the way up. Well, nearly all the way up. His emerald green cotton summer shorts, tight around his waist, are full and open around his upper thighs, allowing me to catch sight of further delights up the paler silky-smooth road to happiness.

'Second on the left Anders.' I say, as the boy looks sideways at the first door along the landing. Anders moves forward and darts into the gap left by my open bedroom door. He slips the rucksack off his shoulder which lands with a bump on the floor. He stands looking at my disorganized duvet I left in a heap. He throws himself in the middle of it, his legs flying upwards as he lands in the middle, knees wide apart. What I missed on the stairs is now clearly visible, and what's more, it's quite deliberate. This boy knows exactly what the game is.

Of course I've noticed others, other boys that is, in changing room situations, showers after winter games and all that, but my only close encounter was with my friend John. One afternoon in his bedroom Paul told me [in the strictest confidence] that he preferred boys to girls. When I told him that I felt the same, he hugged me very hard. There were tears in his eyes as I hugged him back. I think it was the relief to him that he'd had the courage to tell me, the only person he had ever told. I had never been so intimate with another boy in my life until that moment. He asked me if I was willing to show myself to him. Of course I was. I stood in front of him and undid my trousers for him as he watched. Then he did the same. It was a revelation for both of us, what we looked like, how it all felt when it wasn't yours, and what he could do and then, when he'd done it and I'd witnessed, what I could do. I had found a like-minded friend to compare notes with, have a good laugh and cry with, lie down with, all as part of our mutual exploration. We talked about sex all the time, and how we liked to masturbate, when we first started of course, and our favourite fantasies. Always boys at school. We laughed when we realized that we liked the same boy. Good taste eh? Older boys we liked and admired, and some younger pretty individuals we imagined had crushes on us. I don't think any did in reality. Paul was convinced that a teacher desired him sexually, and that if he ever asked him back to his flat, he would go and make passionate love with him. He might even run away from home with him.

'What sort of sex would it be Paul?'

'You know, complete sex.'

'What's that?'

He explained in some detail. My friendship with Paul has never been dull!

Anders hasn't moved from his position he found himself in following his aerial adventure, now lying on his back smiling back at me as I stand over the edge of my bed looking down at him, revealed. It's known as egging-on I believe. I thought of that moment on the train, feet up on the seat knowing I would have to look at the little parcel of jewels on show. I thought of those moments when he leant into me, enjoying my warmth and my arm around his back. I sat on the edge of the bed, and looked. No parcel of jewels this time, just a shadowy trio of young boyhood. What a funny little object it is, creamy skinned and veined. Anders puts his hands out, clearly wanting mine. As I take his, I'm pulled down beside him. We turn to face each other, hands in hands. His smile is gone now as his mouth opens. His eyes are focussed on mine as I run my tongue along my lips to moisten them.

John and I had kissed that first afternoon, and learned from each other about what we enjoyed and wanted most, and knew that we could have it as and when we wanted. Opportunities were plentiful enough with the house empty much of the day.

As Anders turns his head, he presents me with his cheek. I lean forward and touch it with my mouth. He giggles as I tickle him. He looks back at me, unsmiling again, perhaps wondering if this has already gone too far; or perhaps just the beginning. I move slightly away from him, fearful too of his possible reaction. He lies on his back, legs straightened now. Then he looks back at me as I look at the length of his body and how it looks now. There has been a change. A change in both of us. He sees me looking, and smiles. I turn onto my back and he looks now. A question in both our minds has been answered.

He had come with a barely adequate supply of spare clothing, apart from the uniform he needs for his Exeter commitment tomorrow, Sunday. I arrange the different items in the space on the shelf next to mine. He had brought, in addition to the sandals, a pair of worn trainers suitable for, as his mother put it, sand and mud and whatever life can throw at him. Then there were a boy's essentials, which I folded in the same way that I do, and carefully laid them next to mine. That tummy churning, nervy feeling came back again as I did so, desperate for night to come, and our bedtime. I imagine that we will undress together for the first time, see each other naked, and lie together. Perhaps he'll be excited like me; skin against skin, breath into breath, our moving hands in intimate places, mouths against warm flesh, fingers in hair, sweet breath in our ears. Maybe, just maybe, some words of love.

Eight o'clock.

'Rufus, would you get Andersson's bath ready please. He must be very tired. Aren't you darling?'

Anders nods his head, and glances at me. I feel my face warm, hoping my mother doesn't notice. This is what both and Anders and I have been waiting for. Intimate moments, or longer moments together. This is the first time that he and I will see each other for what we are. For what we want.

Rituals. Paul and I often talked about this subject, and about the ritualistic thrill of undressing another boy.

I asked Anders if I might undress him. Anders thought it a fun idea, and kindly consents in the family bathroom, a large room that was originally a small bedroom, even with an upholstered armchair provided for extra comfort. He has a long lean body, quite narrow hips, nothing by way of developed muscle structure on or around his chest, likewise his arms and legs, and characteristically large feet for his age. Large hands too. That stage that has caught up with me this last year is, but I suspect, a year or so away for him. He's lovely, as he stands before me, around a foot shorter than myself, as naked as he could be, hands to his sides as if awaiting inspection, hoping to be found entirely satisfactory. Not much doubt about that Anders. He looks down at his boyish and neat genitalia, and then back at me, and mine as I stand naked before him, ready for the shower cubicle as he is for the bath tub. There is a difference between us, not just in our stages of development. He was left untouched in infancy whereas I was not. He looks at me, obviously intrigued by the comparison.

'Haven't you seen one like that before?'

'No.'

'I'm sorry. Does that……?'

'No.' He says in anticipation. 'Can I touch it?'

He's standing there with his supporting fingers spread underneath and a thumb deftly placed on top, gently stroking the firm circular ridge . My mother, [ not my father who had nothing to do with bath time and boys] who is a a biologist, only once referred to it in answer to my questions when I realised that boys can be different.

'Have I got that?' Anders asks quietly.

'Yes, but it underneath this lot.' I say as I gently hold take him between my fingers and thumb. Anders has this cute habit of pretending he doesn't understand something when he actually does.

'Can you show me?'

'No. You're the only person who should do that, and only if it's feels comfortable. Has anyone else tried to do that for you?'

'No.' He says, looking up at me.

I love those eyes. Such a strange colour but totally absorbing. It's a joy just to look into his face. That feeling again. The boy climbs into the bath as I watch him kneel, and turn himself over onto his back, knees raised.

'Look Rufus. See what it's doing now. Will yours?'

I sat on the edge of the bath tub observing Andersson's inefficient washing methods. There is one part he's not sure about as his fingers circle around the epicentre. Does he not want me to see it? He's over his shyness in seconds, sensing my willingness to help him out, and back on his knees as he presents himself to me. He's concerned that I'll think him ugly there. I won't. There's nothing ugly about it. I'm expecting his next question and I'm ready to perform the task. I reject the bar of soap in favour of the dispenser of moisturizing lotion. I explained, just as my mother had explained to me, that it is better not to use an irritant like soap. Far nicer this way. She's was usually right. It is. It's a simple task, so easy. When Anders finally turns his body over once more, it's clear how much he enjoyed the process.

Those eyes that look into mine. I move the water over his chest, down his tummy and then beyond and around and around the moving forms. His knees rise again. Another signal, another invitation. Such a playful boy.

John has been a good friend, and my introduction to sex with another person. As he explained at the time of our progression from merely acquaintance to becoming proper buddies, he had been without suitable companionship for quite a long time, and would I be interested? At thirteen, I was. He had had a friendship with an older boy about a year before which had gone sour.

We had gone round to his house after a game of tennis in the park. He had already commented on my 'teasing', caused, he explained, by 'that nice bulge' in the front of my sporty white shorts. I admit my shorts were on the tight side. After being whisked smartly up to his bedroom, mummy and daddy out of the way, he told me he wanted to show me something I might like, so I lay down, as instructed, on his bed with my feet still on the floor and pulled down my underpants. John did the rest. I half knew what was coming, but it still left a memory so vivid I still have trouble pushing it to the back of my mind. I thought at the time that I had allowed John to do something terribly wrong and perverted, but since then I've changed my mind. About a week later I tried it out on him to great effect, for both of us. John had [unusually it seemed to me for his age] an enviable growth of hair in two distinct patches either side of his penis, and I wasn't naïve enough to think there wouldn't be consequences, and there were, and although shocking, curiously interesting in terms of its texture and taste, not to mention the large amount [it seemed to me] a young boy of thirteen could produce in one go. I happened to know that my capabilities fell a long way short of John's. I might muster a watery dribble if I was lucky. I could scarcely believe what I had done for John; an achievement in my eyes. Looking at that creamy coloured smooth object that Anders has presented me with this evening, I know I will have to hold back. He's twelve, I think, and nothing like as naïve as he makes out, but it's still a step too far for a nice boy like him…….probably. I know at some stage I will have to face his mother. Mother's have a way of knowing what their sons have been up to.

I remember how pleasurable it is to be dried after a warm bath. The very last time I had that pleasure, the task was given to my elder sister Julia, in my mother's absence. I must have been around nine at the time. As she dried my body, all parts of it, I developed an involuntary erection. I was barely aware of it because it happened all the time, but she wasn't. At my next bath time I was handed the towel and told to dry myself. Julia had told my mother of the incident and how I couldn't control myself when a girl touched me. How silly. A girl? What would they have to do with it? Getting those 'stiffies' as the boys called it, was as normal and regular as breathing for me. I think I had frightened Julia who, at fifteen, had in all likelihood never seen one 'like that' before. Before I associated my erections with naughty thoughts, I paraded my perky dick in almost any scenario, especially on the beach, so my sister told me weeks later. Any slight sensation might cause embarrassment to those around me [not to me], but in private, the feel of new and briefer [more like girls wore] underpants always set me off, and of course my awareness of the burgeoning beauty of other boys' bodies.

We were all tucked up and under the duvet by nine thirty that evening, Saturday evening. By nine thirty Anders was in my arms and insistent and persistent. I already know what he likes, and I have absolutely no problem going there. Neither he nor I have a stitch on, so where he wants my attention, I can give provide it, with his body over mine, as he writhes and wriggles and scratches in response. John told me how; and why. I had no idea until he told me. I can't imagine that in time, not for a long time possibly, that Anders will need more.

I woke before Anders, and slowly recalled the events of the previous evening. I felt my face flush as the memories took form. Well, it takes two to tango, but this boy is only twelve. But it's strange how desire re-ignites so fast. When Anders woke, a delightful awakening as he folds into me with still closed eyes once more, feels my hands on his lovely body, and grows again. The cycle will repeat itself until the last is done. And when the last is done, the last shall be first again.