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The French Lesson, Part 7

by The Scholar

I had often heard dad say that it was nice just to sit and do nothing after a hard day at work, usually to the irritation of my mother who would be up to her elbows in suds doing the washing up after our evening meal. We always had an evening meal. Not for us a TV dinner - no, sir, we sat at a table. It was how they were brought up, I guess. The TV wasn't even switched on during our meal and they talked constantly about their days trying to get me involved by asking about mine.

Mine? What possible interest could my day be to them? I went to school, sat in class, listened to someone drone on about something that I had no interest in and then I jumped on my bike, went to the chippy for some lunch then back on my bike and back to school for more droning before escaping completely and heading home. Day in and day out it was all the same.

I tried to make it interesting. "We did fractions and stuff in maths," or, "Jesus fed five thousand people with a few fish and some bread, they said so in religious education." Well, maybe not quite so 'infant school' as all that.

If I were to be honest with them they'd die. I didn't want that - even if dad always said 'honesty is the best policy'. Well, maybe in most circumstances, but not all. Imagine it:

"What sort of day did you have, Paul?"


"Must have done something interesting?"

"Not really, just the usual stuff."

"So what is the 'usual stuff'?"

"Oh, you know, sit at the back of the class, look out of the window, dream about Simon."


"Sit at the back of the class, look out of the window, dream about Simon."


"Yeah, Simon. Simon Taylor, my best friend."

"What do you mean, 'dream about' him?"

"You know - dream, fantasise, imagine that he holds me close, kisses me, calls me honey, or sweetie, or darling and preferably he's naked - it's not essential, but it would be a bonus."

I figure the truth at the dinner table would help me lose my parents - death by choking on something from the dinner plate. Would I get the blame? Would my mother? They'd be dead! My mother, therefore, could take the blame - after all, she cooked the meal on which they choked to death and who would know any different?

Not a good plan, though - I'd be sent to live with some relative, or other, maybe put into care, either way, I would never see Simon again, or at least it was always a possibility that I would never see Simon again and that would be just too awful for words.

One thing, though - dad was right! It was nice just to sit and do nothing after a hard day at work, especially when the work was homework in the form of writing a diary entry about the day we had just had in yet another part of France.

I heard a snore and I opened my eyes. Simon Taylor, who had never in his life called me honey, sweetie or darling, lay on the beach next to me, snoring slightly in a contented sort of way. I was content, too. It had been a good day. I had eaten a good breakfast in the dining hall of the hostel in which we were staying, bought two bottles of lemonade that tasted out of this world, which I had drunk throughout the day. Eaten a packed lunch of sandwiches, fruit and yoghurt and had a good evening meal of roast beef, mashed potato, peas and carrots.

We had visited a monastery. They made stuff in this place - mostly yoghurts, but all different flavours. We had been given a few pots to take away with us and had spent the return journey eating them. Well, most of us had. Some had decided that the coffee-flavoured yoghurt was not really to their liking, but it was to mine, so I was showered with pots of the stuff, some of which I still had and would save for some time later, or if I might wake up hungry in the night.

Now, homework done, we had some free time and Simon and I had headed to the beach to relax after our hard day. The sun still shone, the sea was calm and the sand was warm. It was heaven.

Simon snored again and I turned to look at him. I could never get enough of looking at him. He was gorgeous. I knew it and Susie Miller knew it. Maybe others knew it, too, I don't know. Simon's beauty wasn't something that I had ever discussed with anyone and especially not my parents.

"We can get a sun tan," he had said.

"We're already getting a tan," had been my reply.

Simon knew that was true. Spending all day, every day trailing around various places on a school trip to France in the bright sunshine had seen every one of us go from a pale pink to a light brown in varying degrees. Well, maybe not every one. Alex Matthews had gone a sort of deep red colour and looked like he had a constant blush.

I gazed down at Simon. Shirtless, as he was using his shirt as a pillow and was now wearing nothing more than a pair of swimming trunks, as he lay on his back on the beach, snoring ever so slightly, just as he did in the dormitory. I smiled. I don't know why. Perhaps it was because just gazing upon him made me happy. Simon could always make me happy - awake, or asleep.

His arms lay by his sides, his chest rose and fell as he breathed and I allowed myself to scan his body with my eyes, down to his stomach and further to his legs, strong and powerful with wisps of blonde hair catching the sunlight and further still to his feet, covered in sand, but just as perfect as the rest of him.

My eyes moved back up his body taking in all his beauty once more and this time resting on the only part of him that was covered and I prayed that as he slept he would dream of something to make the bulge in his swimming trunks bigger. Perhaps not a good idea, as my own was already beginning to tent just taking in the magnificence of this sleeping boy.

A sniff, followed by a small snort and his right arm suddenly came to life and the hand attached to the end of it raised itself to brush against his nose, as if it were helping to clear something and then it fell across his chest, as the sleeping boy turned onto his side, facing away from me and giving me a fresh view of his form. His back was strong and I loved how this upper body tapered at the waist and filled out again where his swimming trunks covered his perfectly formed backside, his legs had bent slightly and his calves were strong.

He had sand on his back and before I could stop myself, I reached out to brush it off with my hand and I felt the warmth of his skin as I did so. The sand fell easily from him and he stirred slightly, but not waking and I continued to brush away the golden grains, my hand seemingly more adventurous did not stop there, as it headed south. My hand was actually brushing sand from his swimming trunks - the swimming trunks that covered his perfectly formed rear end and still the heat from his body warmed my hand through the material. I wanted my hand to rest; it had found a place to do so, but for some inexplicable reason it seemed to want to move on and so it did, continuing to brush against the sleeping boy's skin along his leg to his calf and then it withdrew.

I hadn't asked it to withdraw, my brain, I was certain, had asked it to remain where it was, but my hand must have had a brain of its own, because it withdrew of its own accord.

"Don't stop."

My brain was talking to my hand, but hand was paying no attention whatsoever.

"It's nice - don't stop."

Again, I tried to force my hand to resume brushing sand from the sleeping boy, but my hand refused to obey my brain.

"I don't want to stop," I heard my own voice speaking out loud, "but my hand won't listen."

The sleeping boy moved, turned over to rest on his other side, now he faced me and he was awake.

"What do you mean your hand won't listen? I was enjoying that."

It hadn't been my brain talking to my hand; it had been Simon talking to me. Simon telling me not to stop. Simon telling me it was nice.

"Sorry - my hand just decided it had done its job, I guess."

"Well, it missed a bit."

I followed Simon's gaze. As he lay on his side facing me, the bulge in his swimming trunks had grown and my own stirred again.

"Perhaps my hand could make you cream," I grinned.

"Yeah, that would be nice."

The boy rose from the beach and stood looking down at me - he was a god - a tanned god and he was offering me what I most desired.

"Come on, then, sleepyhead."

I looked up at Simon standing above me.


"Ice cream. You said you want to get some ice cream?"

"Ice cream?"

"Paul, are you okay, I know you've been asleep for the past half hour, but you were muttering something about ice cream, so let's go get some, though after all you've eaten today, I don't know where you're gonna put it!"

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