BOYS WILL BE BOYS: Two Novellas
Coral Island Boys: A novella by Chris Kent
(a parody)
GLB PUBLISHERS San Francisco
Second Edition Copyright © 1999, 2003 by GLB Publishers All rights reserved.
Printed in the U.S.A.
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Published in the United States by GLB Publishers P.O. Box 78212, San Francisco,
CA 94107 USA
Cover by GLB Publishers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental
Library of Congress Control Number: 2003100063
ISBN: 1-879194-40-6
First Published in July, 2003
For C. K. Wherever he is
Novella by Chris Kent
Foreword
As a boy, I fell in love with The Coral Island, R. M.
Ballantyne's famous tale of courage and loyalty in the South Seas. At night
I would lie in bed enthralled by the adventures of Ralph, Peterkin and Jack,
shipwrecked on a coral reef with only a telescope and a broken penknife between
them. At first, the island seemed a paradise, with its plentiful foods and
wealth of natural wonders. But then a party of cannibals arrives, and after
that a pirate ship.
In adolescence, I graduated to William Golding's Lord
of the Flies, but could not make up my mind if I was Jack, Ralph or Simon;
egotistically I excluded Piggy — until I saw Peter Brook's film and
immediately fell in love with the handsome if rather passive Ralph.
I began to be troubled. In both novels, a bunch of drop-dead
gorgeous boys are marooned without an adult inside on a desert island, and
not once does the possibility of sex rear its seductive head. R.M. Ballantyne
I could forgive, but it seemed to me that William Golding was copping out;
after all, he'd spent several years in a boarding school where he must have
witnessed on more than on occasion a simple fact of nature: boys have sex
with other boys.
"Coral Island Boys" is a fantasy, but I venture to suggest
it is a more realistic fantasy than either of the two novels which inspired
it. I claim no authorship. It will soon become apparent how much I owe to
Ballantyne; and if he is tossing and turning in his grave, I hope he is having
more fun with the former than the latter. That's what his boys would be
doing.
Have fun! That's what it's all about.
Chris Kent, London, Summer 1998
Chapter 1 Coral Island Boys
I was born on the foaming bosom of the broad Atlantic Ocean, on a wild black
night of howling storm. To my embarrassment, I was born in a bunk with a
lady. My father was a sea-captain; my grandfather a sea-captain; my
great-grandfather a marine. Nobody could tell positively what occupation
his father had followed; but my dear mother, who had occupied the afore-mentioned
bunk, used to assert that he had been a midshipman, whose grandfather, on
the mother's side, had been an Admiral in the Royal Navy. At any rate we
knew that, as far back as our family could be traced, it had been intimately
connected with the great watery waste.
Embarrassed, I say, because women were so rarely admitted
upon my father's ship, and, delayed by a stormy crossing as we were, I had
arrived prematurely somewhere south of Greenland. The captain of the vessel
made light of the matter, pausing only to remark good-humouredly to my mother:
"Well done, lass. First time I saw you, I knew you had it in you."
Thus it was, I suppose, that born with breaking waters
in my nostrils, I came to inherit a roving disposition. Soon after I was
unloaded, my father, being elderly, retired from seafaring life, purchased
a small cottage in a fishing village on the west coast of England, and settled
down to spend the evening of his life by the shores of the sea which had
for so many years been his home. It was but a few years after this that I
began to show the roving spirit that dwelt within me.
For some time past my toddling legs had been gaining
strength. One day I took advantage of my mother's absence to go a-roving.
I wandered into the garden which had been swept for several days by lashing
rain. I succeeded in reaching the green gate when I tumbled into a pool of
muddy water. Being of a cheerful disposition, I lay there laughing until
Cory, the houseboy, found me. Ah, how vividly I remember the horror of the
poor lad when he found me wallowing in the mud amongst a group of cackling
ducks.
With what tenderness he stripped off my dripping knickers
and stood me in a hot tub of water in the kitchen where a crackling fire
set my strong little body and his sweet face aglow. Ah, how vividly I remember
his hands, not much bigger than my own, running across my shoulders, my chest,
my tummy, my hips, my legs, my ankles and my feet. The smell of strong soap
filled the air as Cory's hands ran the full length of my hot little body
again and again. His face, too, was hot, rendered the more so by the reddish
brown hair that curled from under his cap to plaster itself along his forehead.
His sighs were as deep as my own.
I stood there, my bottom aglow from the heat of the fire
and the hands that squeezed my flesh so tenderly. I felt a stirring between
my legs. I looked down. My little prick stiffened and rose till it was pointing
at the freckled face of the boy kneeling before me. I felt no shame. How
could I? I had not willed this liveliness of my own flesh. I did not understand
its meaning, though I could feel the pleasure it brought, a pleasure that
spread in waves throughout my lap, or what would have been my lap, had I
been sitting.
Cory leaned forward, his thumbs working the insides of
my upper thighs, until his closed lips brushed the tip of my cock. I am not
shy about using these words. I have never used baby talk; it irritated my
father and he would have none of it in his house. The pink head of my cock
forced its way from the tight little hood in which it usually hid. The little
heart-shaped head with its single eye felt hotter than my bum. My right hand
dropped to caress Cory's face, a childish caress, an innocent caress, to
assure him that I thoroughly approved of this addition to my normal ablutions.
The boy looked up. Huge brown eyes, like Bessie, the
milking cow my father had bought along with our cottage. He lowered his head
again to concentrate on his work. Fingers gently kneaded my tiny scrotum.
How could something so small give such great pleasure? Cory's mouth opened.
I pushed my hips forward and my little pizzle, perhaps not so little as I
was a well-built lad even then, sank into the hot wet cavern of his mouth.
His lips closed around me. He drew me in until his lips pressed against the
clean, shiny, glowing skin at the base of my tummy. The lad sucked me gently
but firmly. Who can say at what age the natural instincts develop? I pushed
my hips back and forward in time with Cory's sucking, in time with the circles
his thumbs made on my inner thighs. I was so hard it hurt, but the hurt was
a pleasure. I could feel and hear the water sloshing in the tub. I could
hear the wet sucking of flesh on flesh. Did the sounds remind me of my own
watery birth? Who can say?
The pleasure and the pressure grew. The tickling was
a pleasure. The lips pressed against my pubis were a pleasure. The hands
fondling me so intimately were a pleasure. But something was missing. I wanted
more, without knowing what that more was. I drove myself into the wet mystery
faster and harder until my bottom was rocking in his hands. Then the tickling
was no longer a pleasure. Something was missing. I wanted to explode in my
tummy, in the little pink sac between my legs, but the explosion wouldn't
come. I was holding onto Cory's shoulders, rocking back and forth, until
I could stand it no longer. I pulled my prick from out his mouth and pushed
him away. He looked up and smiled. He helped me step from the tub and towelled
me down.
As Cory rubbed me dry, he whispered in my ear. I can't
remember what he said, but I know what he meant. What had happened was a
secret. It was his secret and my secret. It was our secret. For the first
time in my life I had my very own secret. And, said Cory, if I kept our secret,
there would be more. I did not know what that more was, either, but whatever
it was I wanted it.
Alas, Cory was gone from my life before he had the chance
to teach me what that more was. On a black and stormy night, he slipped the
leash of servitude and ran away to sea; at least that was the story given
out to the curious and simple-minded folk of our village. All I knew was
that Cory had left our cottage on the arm of a sea-faring friend of my father's
whose pocket jingled just a little more merrily that night. I assumed Cory
had gone to serve his apprenticeship under the guiding hand of my father's
friend who took him so lovingly but so agonisingly from me.
From this time forth my rambles became more frequent,
and, as I grew older, more distant until at last I had wandered far and near
on the shore and in the woods around our humble dwelling. I did not rest
content until my father bound me apprentice, barely fourteen years old, to
a coasting vessel and let me go to sea.&
Now, while engaged in the coasting trade, I fell in with many seamen who
had travelled to every quarter of the globe; and I freely confess that my
heart glowed ardently within me as they recounted their wild ventures in
foreign lands — the dreadful storms they had weathered, the appalling
dangers they had escaped, the wonderful creatures they had seen on land and
sea, and the curious customs of the strange people they had encountered.
None captivated and charmed my imagination so much as their tales of the
Coral Islands of the Southern Seas — where the trees were laden with
a constant harvest of luxuriant fruit — where the climate was almost
perpetually delightful — where boys and girls, my own age and younger,
ran as naked as Nature intended amongst the swaying palms on a sun-drenched
or moon-lit beach. O how my heart — here I blush to tell — and
my cock rose in my breeches as these mariners, ancient and young, told their
tales.
These exciting accounts had so great an effect upon my
mind, that the day I reached the age of fourteen I resolved to make a voyage
to the South Sea. And I was heartily encouraged when more than one sailor,
telling his tale, pulled me to him and whispered into my ear: Aye, Jim, lad,
you're just the kind of boy we need on our long, lonely voyages.
I urged on my father that he would never have become
a great captain had he remained in the coasting trade. He saw the truth of
what I said, and gave his consent. My mother protested vigorously, affirming
the old adage that nobody can misunderstand a boy like his own mother. But,
seeing that my father had made up his mind, she finally withdrew her opposition
to my wishes. But oh, dear Jim, she said, on the day I bade her adieu, come
back to us, for we are getting old, and may not have many years to live.
I will not take up my reader's time with a minute account
of all that occurred before I took my final leave of my dear parents. Suffice
it to say that my father had placed me under the charge of an old mess-mate
of his own, a merchant captain, who was on the point of sailing to the South
Seas in the good ship, Venus. My mother gave me her blessing and a small
Bible. Her last request was that I would never forget to read a chapter every
day, and say my prayers; which I promised, with tears in my eyes, that I
would certainly do.
Soon afterwards I went on board the Venus, which was
a fine large ship, and set sail for the islands of the Pacific Ocean.
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