THE DAY OF THE PINNED KNEES



     My college years in Orlando, Florida, were extremely fruitful...frought with studies and off-campus work. But, they were also years filled with fun...the fun of each of us discovering more things to do in our spare time.

     I remember one day very well...because it so happened that this day occurred three days after an assembly at which I received three collegiate awards. I had been unanimously voted as not only being the most handsome young man on the campus at the University of Central Florida (aka UCF) but also having the most perfect body on campus as well as being the most handsome artists's nude model. That weekend, some of my fraternity brothers and I decided we would go out and celebrate.

     It was Saturday, June 22, 1991. The temperature outside was a steamy 94 degrees and, as I did when I was a boy in northern New York with my friend Pierre and his brother Jean-Paul, I decided to venture outside dressed in a brown short-sleeved shirt, knee-length denim shorts, white knee socks and sneakers. As a matter of fact, we all wore shorts (of various lengths) and white socks and sneakers...but I was the only one not displaying my thighs or calves.

     As we walked down Colonial Drive in two groups of three (I being in the front group), I had no idea that one frat brother...whom I shall refer to as "Tony"...was eying my kneebacks. And, why not? If he was dressed as resplendent as I was (and I was walking behind him), I probably would have done the same.

     When it started to rain suddenly, we all took refuge inside a huge drugstore. I started looking at some of the cameras that were being displayed in the camera department while Tony and the others grouped together elsewhere in the store to discuss something. After fifteen mintues, the rain stopped...and the sun came out. We had found, to our dismay, that it was now humid and too unbearable to be outside. So, we hailed down a bus and went back to the UCF campus. From the bus stop, it was only a five minute walk to the frat house.

     As we walked down the main hall of the frat house, again in two groups of three, the guys on either side of me grabbed my arms as Tony came up behind me and placed a handkerchief over my nose and mouth. A bitter smell rose from the handkerchief. The more I struggled, the more I breathed in what the handkerchief was doused in. Soon, my arms fell limp and, as my eyes crossed, blackness overcame me.

     When I awoke in the frat house lounge, I was face down on a table with my feet tied together and my hands tied securely behind my back. My five frat brothers stood around the table, each one holding what appeared to be ten thin five-inch pins with colored heads. I recognized these pins very well...they were mapping pins.

     Tony told me of what he and my other frat brothers intended to do. It appeared that, while I was admiring the cameras, he had purchased some chloroform and a vial of the mapping pins. He had convinced the others to join him in his scheme...to pin my kneebacks!!! When I proceeded to struggle, Tony put his handkerchief down on the table near my nose and poured some more chloroform onto it. The smell was so overpowering that I soon blacked once again.

     When I had awoken again, it was dark outside...but the overhead light in the lounge was on. My hands were loose...but my feet were still tied together. As I proceeded to push myself up to my knees, I felt such a shooting pain that I could hardly describe. It felt as if I was being stung by a hundred bees. I fell back down onto my stomach, propped myself up on my elbows and turned to see what was causing the pain.

     There, stuck to the heads in each of my kneebacks, were the mapping pins. So, that was what Tony bought the pins for. Well, I couldn't blame him...or my other frat brothers, for that matter. After all, my legs were well-proportioned and deeply tanned during a lifetime of basking in the sun.

     I heard the lounge clock toll the hour...one a.m.

     I looked around the lounge. I was all alone. My frat brothers, apparently, had left and returned to their respective apartments. It had fallen on me to remove the pins from my own kneebacks. Propped on my left elbow, I reached back and slowly pulled each pin out of my right kneeback. Then, I proceeded to do the same with my left kneeback, propping myself up on my right elbow. When I had finished, I slowly pushed myself up to my knees, reached for my ankles and proceeded to untie my feet.

     After I had finished, I fell back onto my stomach, utterly exhausted. I wondered if my frat brothers had been satisfied by what they did. I thought...it must have been my fault because I did have the most beautiful legs on campus (or so all the girls told me). I had to have been a fool even to wear shorts and knee socks when we went walking down the city's main drag. It was what tempted Tony and the others to do this to me.

     As the lounge clocked tolled the hour of two a.m., I slid myself off the table and proceeded to leave the lounge, turning off the light as I left. I figured...the next time Tony and I go walking down Colonial Drive, he's going to be walking beside me instead of behind me, ogling at my kneebacks!

     And I definitely won't be wearing shorts and knee socks while doing it!!!

THE "STINKING"



     Once, several years after I had heard about the "alleged" suicide of my beloved gym teacher, Mr. Michaels, I had been searching through some journals he had left me in a "will" of sorts. In these journals, he chronicled about certain things that he had done to his own legs since he was a boy about the same age as I was when I had my first encounter with sexual gratification. I had taken these journals home with me one afternoon and, whenever my mother and grandparents were not at home, studied them intently.

     There was one passage in the journal that I had been wondering about. It was called "stinking". I looked in the index to see whereabout in the journal this passage was located. Whatever Mr. Michaels meant by "stinking", I definitely wanted to know more about...a whole lot more.

     When I had found the location of the passage, I turned to the page where the heading was. I read through the entire seven-page article with interest. It appeared that, when Mr. Michaels was ten, he and four other boys got together in the basement of his house, dressed in shorts and knee socks. The five boys drew straws to see who would be the lucky one to get "stunk". I was not at all surprised to find that Mr. Michaels was the one who was chosen for this particular article.

     Mr. Michaels was forced down onto his stomach, his feet tied together and his hands tied behind his back. Then, all of the other boys lowered their shorts and underwear and, situating their rear ends over Mr. Michaels's bare thighs and kneebacks, defecated on his legs. Thus satisfied, they raised their underwear and shorts, stood up and left Mr. Michaels laying there, the raw feces melting over the back of his beautiful pre-teen legs. They went outside to play ball while their feces "seasoned" Mr. Michaels's thighs and kneebacks with a pungent odor that one had to smell to describe.

     When they had finished playing (two hours later), they returned to where their friend had been laying prone in the basement. Putting on a pair of Playtex gloves, the eldest of the boys joyously smeared the feces over the visible parts of Mr. Michaels's legs...not overlooking the front of his thighs and knees before laying him back down on his stomach. Wherever there was a small mound of feces on his thighs and kneebacks, the eldest placed paper matches and lit them. As the flame got close to the bottom of the matches, the feces began to blaze.

     That's funny, I thought. If this happened when Mr. Michaels was ten, why weren't his thighs and kneebacks scarred when he dressed in his gym uniform in the school?

     Well, it appeared that the reason the other boys went out to play for a couple of hours was to allow the gaseous part of the feces to rise above the non-gaseous part, thereby protecting his bare thighs and kneebacks from being burned.

     Damn! I would have loved to have seen the results of the burning, I said to myself.

     According to the journal, after the flames died out, the boys pulled Mr. Michaels up the steps and outside, spraying him down with the full jet stream of water from the hose. The feces quickly dissolved and melted away into the grass.

     Boy, I just couldn't wait to do this same thing. Luckily for me, Mr. Michaels left a detailed account of the instructions on just how the "stinking" was to be done.

     I got many of my friends together to meet me after school when my mother was visiting New York City for a week with her parents. We went down into the basement...each of us dresssed in our mid-thigh shorts and knee socks. Since it was my house, I chose to become the one whose bare thighs and kneebacks would be defecated on. I pitched myself onto my stomach and, gingerly, put my hands behind my back to be tied. Then, snapping my legs together, my friends tied my feet at the ankles. Then, just as it was described in Mr. Michaels's journal, the boys turned away from my prone body, lowered their shorts and underwear, squatted and let loose.

     I was exhilarated as I heard and felt the feces leave their rectums and drop onto my bare thighs and kneebacks. I was only sorry for one thing...that I did not have a full-length mirror available in order to see what was happening. I would have loved watching everything that was going on!!!

     But, oh, the feeling!!!

     I mean, if cum was cool when it exited the "tool" and squirted onto the skin...then feces sure felt warm as it plopped onto the back of young male legs!!! After my friends had done their work, they raised their underwear and shorts and left my basement, going outside to play and give the warm, moist feces time to melt on my thighs and kneebacks. While they were gone, I raised my head and smiled. Cum on my legs felt great...but it couldn't compare with the pleasure I got out of the warmth they were getting from unexpurgated fecal matter that was not only melting but stinking them.

     After my friends had played outside for a couple of hours, they returned to finish up their "work". The eldest of them put on Playtex gloves (as recommended by Mr. Michaels) and smeared the feces over each and every visible inch of my legs...even rolling me onto my side to cover the front of my thighs and knees...rubbing it so deeply into my skin that the feces went into each and every pore, clogging them up. Then, he turned me back onto my stomach and searched, fervently, for mounds of fecal matter that happened to appear on my bare thighs and kneebacks. When he had found the miniscule mounds of glowing, brown feces, he looked about for a book of paper matches.

     Then, as was described in Mr. Michaels's journal, the eldest placed the paper matches onto the mounds of fecal matter so that they stood straight up. Striking a match, he lit the heads of every match that stood up from the moist feces on my thighs and kneebacks. When the flames ignited the gaseous tops, my friends cheered. I raised my head up, giving my now-trademarked "Ahhhhhhhh" as I felt the heat of the spots just above my fecal-covered meat.

     After a few moments, the flames went out. Then, my friends hoisted me up, being careful enough not to touch the soft, warm fecal matter on my legs, carried me outside and hosed me down...just as Mr. Michaels described in his journal...to get every bit of feces off my young, tender meat. But, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get whatever shit filled in the pores of my skin. They untied my hands and feet, leaving to returned to their respective homes...and leaving me to deal with finding a way to unclog the pores on my legs. I knew I had to find a way...and quickly...because if my mom and grandparents came home and saw the dark spots on my legs, they would have found a way to punish me severely for it...especially if they found out what it was that was causing them.

     Then, I was hit by a wondrous thought!

     I ran into the garage and found a roll of the strongest tape that my grandfather had. I wrapped the tape about my thighs and knees, patting it down to make absolutely sure that it covered every inch. Then, waiting about twenty minutes to give the adhesive a chance to take hold of whatever was in the pores, I pulled the tape off. The adhesive drew every bit of fecal material out of the pores...but left my legs blotchy.

     Did I care about the blotches? I should say not!

     The tape may have left my legs looking as if they were the only parts of my body which had the measles...but at least every bit of shit was gone. After that day, knowing what type of gratification Mr. Michaels received...and what type I received after experiencing the same thing...I just couldn't wait for the next day when my friends and I could get together for another successful "stinking". Only next time...I won't be the one getting my legs stunk up.

MY FURTHER ADVENTURES WITH DEAR MR. MICHAELS



     One day, I went to the Bethpage Memorial Gardens, a cemetery just a "stone's throw" from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts which I had attended. I walked down the rows of mausoleums, stopping before the building which housed all the remains of people whose last names started with the letter "M". Entering the building, I looked up and down at all the names, coming to a stop before a very familiar name...Patrick Joseph Michaels.

     Yes, I was standing before the crypt of my beloved gym teacher, who had taught me how to love and respect my legs and how to get sexual, as well as sensual, gratification from them...and how my friends could, too.

     I looked at the inscription on the plaque...Patrick Joseph Michaels...Born: June 15, 1956...Died: June 15, 1985. "Lived life to the fullest".

     I gazed at the date of death. Mr. Michaels had allegedly committed suicide on his twenty-ninth birthday! I couldn't believe it! His death was timed so perfectly. But, as to his "committing suicide"? That I know for certain he did not do, because Mr. Michaels loved life. He loved life so much, ending his own would have been totally against his scruples. I know for a fact that he had to have been murdered...then hanged by the neck so as to make the police think he committed suicide. But, the slashes across his naked arms and legs...and the fact that he was found in only a tee shirt and boxer shorts...shouted out "MURDERED" to me.

     Standing there before the crypt, I began to think about all the ways Mr. Michaels taught me the true meaning of gratification.

     The True Meaning of Good Taste

     One night, Mr. Michaels and I met in the school gym, where he was "tutoring" me on several exercises using the rings. As I grabbed hold of the rings and raised myself into a "cross", Mr. Michaels approached me. Opening his mouth and extending his tongue, he began to run it up and down my bare thighs, calves and kneebacks, smacking his lips with satisfaction. Normally, any other boy in the school would have felt disgusted and mortified by what he was doing...but not me.

     I loved it!!!

     I relished the feel of his warm, wet tongue as it sloshed back and forth and up and down my naked legs. I exalted in the feel of his cool saliva as it dripped off his tongue and lips and landed on my thighs and ran down the length of my kneebacks and calves...stopping only as it reached my socks. As he did this, I was able to feel the tightness about the creases of my kneebacks, which were stiffening with delight at every wonderful lick that my gym teacher was giving them.

     It was then that I realized that it wasn't my thighs or calves that interested Mr. Michaels the most about my legs. Itwas my knees...particularly my kneebacks!

     I could understand why. I had looked at my kneebacks in a mirror as I lay face down on my bed and saw just how beautiful they truly were. I mean, even though I was still a young man of fourteen, I had very strong, well-built legs... proportioned with just the right amount of muscle in my thighs and calves to make my kneebacks the center of attention.

     As we finished for the night, Mr. Michaels asked me about my waist measurement. I could not fathom why he wanted to know this particular bit of information about my physique. It was only after he gave me his address that I realized why. Mr. Michaels told me to look inside the closet of his completely furnished guest room.

     You could imagine the surprise I received when I opened the door. Hanging from wooden hangers were pairs of shorts...about fifty of them...of all lengths!

     I was floored!!!

     Mr. Michaels went shopping at the nearest clothing store and purchased all these shorts in my size. I couldn't believe it!

     Mr. Michaels asked me to try on each one. Whichever ones I liked the most, he would keep them hanging there in his closet. What I did not like, he would return to the store to get his money back. But, Mr. Michaels was indeed a shrewd and calculating man. He knew I loved wearing shorts and showing off my legs. All the shorts he purchased were perfect. Tennis shorts...walk shorts...Levi denim shorts...even Bermuda shorts! His closet was a beautiful treasure trove...a wonderfully veritable cornucopia of leg-showing designs.

     Of course, though, it was Mr. Michaels's choice as to which socks I wore with what shorts. If I wore shorts which ended an inch or two above the knees, he demanded I wear knee socks...just to accentuate that part of my legs which he loved the most.

     I made a deal with him. I would wear whatever shorts and socks he wanted me to wear...but on one condition: he had to do the same!!! After all, it just wouldn't be fun if I were wearing knee-length shorts and knee socks...and he wasn't. He nodded...and as I dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, black knee-length shorts, black knee socks and dress shoes, so did he. Let me tell you this...he looked utterly fantastic and his kneebacks looked totally delicious!!!

     One thing about this guest room..there were two full-length mirrors hanging on opposite walls. If I was facing one and Mr. Michaels was facing the other...we were able to see each other's back. As Mr. Michaels gazed at the reflection of my bare kneebacks, I was doing exactly the same. Even though he was twelve years older than me, the fact that he had almost no hair on his legs made them look as if they belonged to a teenager!

     Before I left for the night, Mr. Michaels sneaked a paperback book into my pocket, telling me not to look at it until I got back to my dormitory. When I got into bed that night, I took out the book. It was a copy of "Typee" by Herman Melville, an author who journeyed throughout the South Seas as a sailor. It told of two shipwrecked sailors who were befriended by an island tribe. When one man "supposedly" died of a brain fever, his body (which mysteriously disappeared) ended up on the natives's menu. Mr. Michaels highlighted several passages throughout the book...but one caught my eye in particular:

     "That which the chief had given me for dinner looked and smelled every bit like the meat of a wild animal...yet it was like no meat I had ever tasted. It was sweet, yet stringy and tough on the teeth...almost like leather. It was much later, to my despair and utter disgrace, that I had discovered that my fellow seaman had not died and been buried...but was murdered and cooked by these savages. I was actually eating a piece of he who I had traversed the seas with!"

     When I had questioned Mr. Michaels as to why he highlighted this one passage in particular, he told me that, in the nineteenth-century, several native tribes in the South Pacific studied ritualistic cannibalism...eating the flesh not only of their enemies but their weak as well. He also said that, although people who still live on these islands no longer practice cannibalism, they eat a meat called "hufu"...which he said was an alternative to human flesh, yet with every bit the same consistency and taste when properly cooked.

     Mr. Michaels further went on to tell me that, as a teenager, he went to one of these islands and tried hufu. One native told him that different kinds of hufu taste like different parts of the human body. Ti-hufu tasted like a steak...which is what the natives made from the thigh. Cu-hufu tasted like a filet mignon, which came from the calf muscle. He also said that nu-hufu came from a part that was not as widely devoured but no less admired...the knee. It was this kind of hufu which Mr. Michaels said he liked the most. It was this kind of hufu which got him interested in the male knee...and my knees in particular, especially my kneebacks!

     Was Mr. Michaels thinking of actually killing me to eat my legs?

     No, he said, with a laugh...although the very idea is tempting.

     He went on to tell me that he was going to ask the headmaster if he could take me...and several other boys...on a field trip to the South Seas. I'm sorry to say, though, he never got the chance. However, he did tell me that the natives taught him the true meaning of...ahem..."good taste".

     The Day I Learned of Meat Cuts

     One day, shortly before Mr. Michaels died, he invited me to spend the weekend on his fishing boat. I dressed suitably for the occasion...a white short-sleeved sport shirt, blue mid-thigh denim shorts, white knee socks and sneakers. For cool nights, I brought along a navy blue windbreaker.

     The first day, we had nothing but bad luck. Neither of us caught one single fish! Yet, foreseeing this possibility, Mr. Michaels fully stocked the pantry with drinks, meats and vegetables.

     Mr. Michaels was a real wizard at the grill while he cooked two steaks to absolute perfection. But, he added some special kind of "seasoning"...especially to mine. I didn't question him as to what kind of seasoning he used. The steak was well-cooked and tasted absolutely delicious!

     After dinner, I found myself to be more tired than normal...especially since it was only seven-thirty in the evening. I went into my cabin...but before I was able to get undressed and hop into bed, I passed out.

     When I had come to an hour later, I found myself tied up face down upon my bed, stripped down to my boxer-briefs. I was anchored down to the four corners of the bed and, as I looked at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling, I saw that I was "marked up". Dotted lines were all over my body, sort of "divvying" me up. A tape recording looped over and over as to what I was looking at.

     "Above the ankle is the calf, from which we get the prime cut of filet mignon," said the voice on the tape, which I knew for a fact was not Mr. Michaels. "Beyond the knee lies the thigh, the home of the choicest steak cuts".

     It sounded as though I was being described in such a way as to become somebody's dinner. I managed to loosen my bonds and shut off the recording. But, on the other side of my cabin wall I heard the same recording...in Mr. Michaels's room!!!

     I darted out from my cabin and tried to gain access to Mr. Michaels's cabin...only to find the door locked. But, on the other side of the door, I was able to ascertain the distinct sounds of somebody smacking their lips. As I unlocked the door, I found Mr. Michaels face down on his bed, tied up in a similar way...but no one else.

     Were the smacking sounds I heard just a figment of my imagination? Apparently not...because there, all over Mr. Michaels's calves and thighs, were definitely teeth marks. Then, I became aware of a shooting pain in my legs. I looked down...and noticed that I also had the same marks on my calves. They were also most certainly on my thighs as well. It appeared that somebody else had hidden away on Mr. Michaels's boat...and had bitten our legs!

     When Mr. Michaels regained consciousness, we both scrubbed the ink off our legs, dressed and scoured every inch of the boat, trying to find the phantom leg-biter. But, all our searching was in vain...because, although we searched from stem to stern, we could find no hide nor hair of that sick person who had tasted our legs, listening to a sales pitch to market places.

     One thing I learned for sure about this weekend. I learned the true value of meat cuts...even though the meat was human!

DISCOVERY IN A SCHOOL BASEMENT



     Not long after my gratifying night with Mr. Michaels, the gym teacher at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts which I attended, I soon found out that there was a lower level throughout the entire school...catacombs that I'm not sure even the headmaster knew about. Mr. Michaels took the entire gym class down to this level.

     "There are many doors that lead down here", he told us. "But, only I have the key. Now, whichever of you boys gratifies me the most, I will give a copy of that key".

     He unlocked one of the side doors (which had the same lock as the doors to the hallways), pushed it open, reached out to the wall and turned on the lights, illuminating the room. To our amazement, there, in the middle of the room, was a large mat, measuring ten feet square...just like the mats which we have in the gymnasium.

     "Okay, boys", replied Mr. Michaels. "I want you all to lie face down with your feet together, your hands at your sides and the front of your knees off the mat".

     He looked at me and smiled.

     "Not you, Blaze", he said. "You already have a copy of the key". Turning to the other boys, who immediately fell flat on their stomachs, he continued, "I'm going to crawl around among you and lick the back of your legs. The first boy who can make me cum inside my boxers will be the one who will earn the right to join Blaze and carry a copy of the key to these catacombs".

     "Why doesn't Blaze have to have his legs licked?" asked one of my classmates...a skinny melink named Philip Larskin, whom I despised just about as much as he did me.

     "It just happens, Philip, that Blaze had already made me cum in my boxers...many weeks ago". This said, he barked out his orders. "Feet together! Knees off the mat! Hands at the sides!"

     The sound of palms slapping naked thighs was like music to Mr. Michaels's ears. The cracking of knees flying off the mat was just as sweet. Then. he turned to look at me.

     "Give your order", he said.

     Strutting back and forth among the multitude of my classmates, I looked at the back of naked legs facing the ceiling of the room.

     "Whichever of you is licked by Mr. Michaels and has his legs slapped will stretch out his head so that his chin is on the mat", I said. "Then, I shall walk among you one last time and pick the boy who I believe should benefit from carrying the copy of the key with me".

     Soon, Mr. Michaels got down on his hands and knees, crawling among the prostrate boys, going down on his stomach as he approached each one, stuck out his tongue and licked each thigh, calf and kneeback...smacking his lips as he finished and slapping the legs of the ones who, in his opinion, tasted the best. But, needless to say, cum did not flow in his boxers.

     Now...the job of choosing the one who would join us has fallen to me. I now had to tell the boys to do what I knew they would not like.

     "You boys who weren't chosen", I said. "It shall now fall to you to lick the legs of the ones who were. Whichever one of you cums in his briefs shall raise his hand and slap the kneebacks of the one that you were tasting when your cum started to flow".

     Those who not chosen rose to their knees, going down to their stomachs and lapping the legs of those who were. When Philip suddenly raised his hand and smartly smacked the kneebacks of Peter Piersall, a handsome lad with nicely formed legs (like me), I knew our choice was found. And I couldn't agree with Philip more. Peter's thighs, calves and kneebacks were well-formed and totally unblemished...a delicious sight which would have any young woman drooling when they saw them.

     And Mr. Michaels couldn't argue about the choice, either. He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear.

     "A marvelous choice", he said. "I smacked the loudest when I tasted his legs. They were delicious!!!"

     "Rise!" I shouted out.

     When all the boys rose to their feet and snapped to attention, I took the other copy of the key from Mr. Michaels and walked over to Peter, who bowed his head. I lowered the key and the chain from which it dangled over his head, placing it around his neck.

     "Peter Piersall, you now have the honor only I have...to carry the key to the doors which lead to these catacombs", I said. "Whoever should be picked by Mr. Michaels to face punishment shall be brought here to receive it. Raise your hand and repeat after me".

     Peter raised his right hand.

     "I, Peter Piersall,..." I said.

     "I, Peter Piersall,..." he repeated.

     "...having been formally chosen by Mr. Michaels and my fellow classmates to carry the key,..."

     "...having been formally chosen by Mr. Michaels and my fellow classmates to carry the key,..."

     "...shall obey the orders of the clique and never shirk from my responsibilities,..."

     "...shall obey the orders of the clique and never shirk from my responsibilities,..."

     "...doing whatever I am ordered to do".

     "...doing whatever I am ordered to do".

     "To shirk will mean to be punished".

     "To shirk will mean to be punished".

     "So help me God".

     "So help me God".

     Mr. Michaels and I shook the hand of our new novitiate, after which we led the class back upstairs to the gym, where we changed into our street clothes to attend the rest of our classes. But, know this...Peter did have the best-looking legs (besides my own) when he was a boy at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. From what I heard, he still does...and, like me, he is married and a father of two sons (both who have beautifully well-formed legs). As a matter of fact...as I am recalling this incident and typing away on my laptop, my son Ilya is licking my kneebacks, smacking his lips in the fashion of Mr. Michaels. I really must prepare him so that when he goes to high school (and, eventually, college), he, too, shall know the satisfaction of licking the legs of other boys.

JUST FUCKIN' AROUND

THE FOREST OF HANGING YOUTHS



     One fantasy that I have always been having since I received my first taste of sexual gratification was wishing that I could come upon a forest full of teenagers and young men dressed in black...long-sleeved shirts with connecting gloved, zipped at the wrists; loose shorts, ending at the top of the thighs; black below-the-calf socks and sneakers. Their hands would be tied behind their backs, their feet at the ankles. Each of them would be hanging by the neck, their feet dangling at different heights above the ground, some of them with their kneebacks at the level of my eyes. I would reach up to touch those that were closest to me, relishing in the icy coolness of their dead skin.

     I would happily sit among them, gazing up at the corpses that were in different stages of either decomposition or in the process of being devoured by carrion eaters. I would have to wear a mask which would supply me with fresh air, because the smell of the carcasses would be overpowering enough to choke me to death.

     Then, as if I was not even present, about a hundred new youths, ranging in ages from thirteen to twenty-three, would be marched into the forest, dressed for their deaths. They would be led by a "keeper", who led them by nooses tied about their necks. When they stopped near trees that have open spaces on the branches, the leaders fling the loose ends up to their partners who are meandering on the limbs. They, in turn, jump off the limbs, their weight countering for that of the youths at the other ends.

     As they slowly get closer to the ground, the nooses tighten about the young necks and...UP THEY GO...twisting and jerking about in a floorless death dance. They dangle there...some with the hangman's knots at the top of their necks, jamming their chins into the top of their breastbones...others with the knots under the chin, tilting their heads backward into the most grotesque and uncomfortable position...the rest with the knots in the traditional position, on either side of the head, jerking the head either to the left or right.

     But, no matter where the knot is placed, the result is the same...a slow and apparently torturously painful death!!! The gagging...the gasping for sweet air...IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL!!! Just the thought of watching them hanging there, their legs kicking out wildly, the leg muscles rippling in death throes and hearing them gagging and gasping their last is enough to send goose bumps up and down my spine.

     As I continue to watch, one by one, the death throes slow and finally cease as the executioners exit the forest, never turning back to gaze at their handiwork. I watch them leave...then I turn back to look at the beautiful artistry that they left behind. I gaze at the dead intently...their young faces turning a deathly shade of white, their eyes bulging and bursting blood vessels, their tongues turning purple and swelling up inside their mouths, their lips slightly parted.

     If this is how it looks to meet death at the end of a rope...then it looks like pure heaven!!!

     I wonder.... If I should ever want to kill myself...would hanging be the answer? I mean, it may be excruciatingly painful and take a while if one is doing it all by himself...but it is totally clean. Now, if one has somebody to help him (you know, to give him a push from the top of a ladder or something), then it wouldn't be so bad...because the neck would snap and the person being hanged would die instantly, with very little pain.

     Yes...hanging would be the best way.

     But, I must find out what I would have to do if I want to join this forest of hanging youths...and become a part of man's artistic brutality towards his brother.

A FANTASY TO END ALL FANTASIES

     One of the strangest fantasies I have ever had came into my head after watching a two-part miniseries based on the ancient Roman gladiator, Spartacus. At the very end, when all of the slaves refused to surrender the rebel leader rather than save their own lives, the Roman leader decided that, for twenty miles, each rebel would be crucified and left to die. I figured...how would it look if I managed to get about one or two hundred young men in shorts and crucify them along a roadside?

     Of course, though...where would I find one or two hundred young men who loved to wear shorts as I did? So, I decided that the wisest thing for me to do was to place an ad in every major newspaper in the country.

     Boy, did I get results! More than two hundred young men, ranging in age from 13 (when a Jewish boy is considered to be a man) to 26, wanted to display their naked legs while being tied to a cross. They all came in person to my house, wearing anything from mid-thigh to knee-length shorts, long-sleeved to short-sleeved shirts, below-the-calf to knee socks...all of them displaying the most beautiful legs that any young man could have!!!

     All of the young men walked into my back yard, where I had assembled and placed the smooth oaken and cherry crosses. When one of them, a handsome lad of 16, laid down on his back on one of the crosses, I told them that they would all be attached facing the crosses, with the back of their legs facing the populace that would come to see them. Also...they were each to be hooded, leaving it up to whoever wanted to touch the youthful legs to wonder what the owners looked like.

     When I had finished tying their hands and feet to the wood, I then used a crane to lift up each cross and plant them in holes which were dug ten feet deep, leaving it so that the back of each pair of knees were roughly at eye level. At the end of the day, when each youth believed they were going to be released...they got the surprise of their lives!!! They were not going to be set free...not ever! Each and every one of them were going to remain crucified to the cross, the back of their legs facing the road, until the day they died!!!

     I left them momentarily, returning with a box of disposable razors with which I was going to shave their legs free of whatever hair they had...then leave them to the mercy of the elements.

     Over a period of one and a half weeks, one by one each of the young men succumbed on the crosses. As each one died, I took out a set of spikes and a hammer and nailed each dead body to the crosses, cutting the ropes away and leaving them as crucified as Jesus...only with more clothing. I stood back and admired my work...each body nailed to a cross, with one spike in the back of each hand and through the soles of their sneakers. Unlike the Christ, though, there was no blood...because when I had nailed each one to their crosses, their hearts had already stopped and their blood wsas no longer flowing through their veins.

     Soon, people walked along the road, eying the dead, crucified bodies...or should I say, the back of their legs. Atop each cross, painted on a plain piece of wood, was the name of each dead youth. Of course, though, nobody would have a claim on any of them. You see, one stipulation to the crucifixions was that each youth had to be orphaned and/or unmarried, without any female attachment.

     Now, this fantasy, like all true fantasies, had to come to an end...and, of course, each young man is still alive somewhere...wearing their shorts and displaying their legs for all the world to see.

THE EXPLORER "LUNCHEON"

In the summer of 1989, I had celebrated my tenth anniversary as a scout. But, now, at the age of eighteen, I had now earned the rank of Explorer. And as an Explorer, I would get many more opportunities to explore my young manhood...and the manhood of other Explorer Scouts. I was excited when we held our first jamboree...my first one as an Explorer. The uniform of an Explorer is the same as a Cub Scout, except instead of a cap the Explorer wears the same type of cap as a Boy Scout...but in navy blue!

I was so thrilled to see that all of my friends from the Boy Scout jamborees had also become their countries' equivalent of the Explorers. We had all grown into such handsome young men...and we were all pleased to see that as we grew, so had that which we loved so much. Again, we had decided that we were going to go to our secluded spot (since the Explorer jamborees were being held in the same exact location). Only this time we were going to bring another member of our respective countries with us to have one wham-bam free-for-all!

After the first morning's roll call, Francois brought a fellow Frenchman to our place in the wood...a handsome, blue-eyed blond from Versailles named Guy de Moret; Abdullah brought an equally-handsome young man from Giza named Saeed Sheikh; Quo brought a slightly muscular and handsome guy from Shanghai named Zhang Li; Nikolai brought an extremely handsome young Russian from Irkutsk by the name of Yuri Chekhov; Christian, an attractive hazel-eyed blond from Oslo named Lars Smestad; Cao Li brought a handsome youth from the mountain region of Vietnam named Ho Linh Si; Stefan attached himself to a fellow from his hometown of Uppsala named Bjorn Lindfors; Brian came with a youth from Nottingham by the name of William Gordon; Pieter, a young man from Delft named Jan Van Dien; Akira, a youth from Hiroshima called Masayuki Tagawa; Aldo, a handsome, green-eyed young man from Sicily named Vittorio Palmieri; Paul brought a nineteen-year-old from Adelaide named Matthew Conners. I came with a young gymnast friend from the University of Central Florida (where I was now going to school), a handsome, well-built, green-eyed brown-haired youth named Ted Rosburgh. And, as we had done during our Boy Scout jamborees, we came to the spot dressed in mid-thigh shorts and below-the-calf socks and blue windbreakers.

Once again, we stood facing each other, looking each other up and down, gazing at what the other young man was offering for our palates. The newer members of the clique made a circle within our circle. We walked in opposite directions, stopping in such a way that no one Explorer would have the back of his fellow countryman's legs beneath their mouths. It was just my luck that Nikolai's friend Yuri would be the one who would be lucky enough to feel my lips and tongue. As we had done before, we knelt in the grass, tying the feet of the youth before us...and, as they fell face down, so did we with our mouths on their proffered legs. We revered and savored the feel and taste of foreign thighs, knees and calves in our hands and on our tongues and lips.

But, suddenly...my reverie was broken as I felt teeth biting deep into the back of my left knee. I turned and looked to see that it was Stefan's countryman, Bjorn, who had been the first to overstep the bounds of decency of our "fun and games". With Bjorn's teeth still clamped on my knee, I kicked him away and, painfully, rose to my knees. I reached for my ankles, loosened the binder that tied my feet together and rose to my feet. As I walked away from the others, Francois muttered in French. He loosened his binder, rose to his feet and ran over to me, removing his handkerchief and placing it against the back of my knee. I looked down and noticed that Bjorn had bitten deep...very deep.

That Swedish sonofabitch had actually drawn blood!!!

Blood ran down my left calf from a small puncture that Bjorn's eyetooth caused on the back of my knee. Normally, I wouldn't have minded this...but it was only the beginning of summer! I loved wearing my shorts to scout meetings. Now, because of one foreigner getting a little too anxious, I will have to wear slacks until the knee heals. God only knows how long that's going to take!

I got together with the founding members of our clique and within ten minutes we had reached a decision. Bjorn Lindfors had to be punished! And what better punishment could be imposed upon a shorts-loving scout than to be ousted from our clique? But first...the crucial "insult to injury". After pounding three stakes, triangularly, into the ground, Bjorn was then laid face down and tied to them...one hand to one each and his bound feet to the third. Then, standing over him, we exposed our tools and, gingerly, urinated on the back of his legs, partially saturating his shorts and socks. This was to be only the first part of his punishment.

After leaving him alone so that his legs could dry in the sun, we returned and, kneeling all around his prone figure, raised our hands and slapped the back of his exposed legs sharply with our palms till the skin turned red. This was the second part.

The third part of his punishment would, to me, be the best! Standing above him and, once again, exposing our tools, we rubbed them vigorously until the cum started to flow. Waterfalls of smooth, white "cream" gushed out, drenching his thighs, knees and calves, running in rivulets down the sides and onto the ground below. Then, kneeling beside his head, we forced Bjorn to lick the remaining cum from each tool before replacing them within our shorts.

But, the final part of the punishment would fall upon Stefan to impose...since Bjorn was his fellow countryman. As we all stood and backed away, Stefan removed his thick leather belt, raised it high above his head and cracked it down hard upon Bjorn's naked legs...one crack for each member, old and new. Soon, Bjorn's legs were thoroughly welted, looking like raw meat...and my bruised ego (and bloodied knee) had been satisfied.

Bjorn was untied and ordered not to return to the camp until the end of the day, after which he was to return to the city and use his plane ticket early to go home. But, I have it on good authority (actually, Stefan's) that Bjorn will not be coming back to attend any more jamborees. He quit the Explorers upon his return to Sweden. I guess he was either too ashamed to stay in the Explorers...or didn't like the sort of punishment he received from Stefan. Either way, Stefan never saw Bjorn again.

One thing I must be thankful about...the wound inflicted upon my knee left no permanent damage either to the skin or to the melanin within. After the scab came off, there was no scar to prove my knee had ever been bitten and the tan went back to normal.

THE BOY SCOUT JAMBOREE

In 1985, shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I graduated in the scouting ranks...from the lowly Cub to the more mature Boy Scout. Gone were the blue shirts, the blue slacks, the blue shorts, the blue socks and the blue cap. Here to stay (for a while, anyway) were the olive greens...the long-sleeved and short-sleeved shirts, the slacks, shorts, below-the-calf and knee socks and the much more handsome, military-style cut cap. Here to stay, too, were all the medals that I had earned during my time as a Cub Scout. During the next five years, I intended to earn much more.

During the next five years, too, I was going to get to meet other scouts from around the world...something I was not able to do while I was a Cub Scout. Because when you're a Cub Scout, you're too busy learning things like arts and crafts and respect for your elders...such as helping old people cross the street. But, when you're a Boy Scout, you get to attend something called a "jamboree"...sort of a hootenanny or get-together for Boy Scouts. You get to learn customs from other countries...such as eating with chopsticks, learning foreign languages (of which I was already far ahead in), and other things.

You also get to perform physical abilities...such as gymnastics and other things taught in physical education classes in school. One of my favorites was what we called the "butterfly stretch". This was my particular favorite because I got to do it while wearing my shorts and knee socks. In this exercise, you got down on your stomach with your arms at your sides. Then, you arched your arms, legs and chest off the floor. While you were still in this position, you swung your arms out so that they were stretched out before you, at the same time raising your head to look at your outstretched hands. All this time, you would be resting all your weight on your penis...and, if Lady Luck was on your side, your balls would become so agitated that you would cum in your underwear.

Another thing I learned at these jamborees was that there were other Boy Scouts who loved what I did...masturbating and ejaculating while laying face down in shorts and fornicating the back of the knees of other boys. This was the chance for us to sample what I and one scout from France called "haute echantillon"...high-class tasting of foreign "foods".

So, one day, I got together with the boys from other countries...Francois Dunois from Marseilles, France...Abdullah ibn Nazrahi from Cairo, Egypt...Zheng Quo from Beijing, China...Nikolai Popov from Stalingrad, U.S.S.R....Christian Petterson from Konigsberg, Norway...Nguyen Cao Li from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam...Stefan Gustaffson from Uppsala, Sweden...Brian Winstead from Salisbury, England...Pieter Van Ruijven from Amsterdam, The Netherlands...Akira Takashima from Hokkaido, Japan...Aldo Ciccorelli from Bari, Italy...and Paul Gibson from Hobart, Tasmania. All of them handsome and physically fit, with legs every inch as muscular as mine...well, as muscular as fourteen-year-old boys' legs could be.

We made a pact that we would meet at a location unknown to the other scouts and scoutmasters...unless Mr. Michaels chose to join us...as well as wear our mid-thigh shorts and below-the-calf socks, long-sleeved shirts and respective caps. Each one of us was also required to bring something with which to bind our feet together. When we were hiking in the mountains, we found a secluded spot...so secluded, in fact, that not even the birds knew where it was. And it was at this secluded spot that we chose to...do our thing.

We stood looking each other up and down, admiring the quality of what we were showing off and offering to have, shall we say, tasted. Each one of us had scrubbed our legs clean prior to attending the jamboree...and we shall scrub them clean each time we shower to make them palatable for each consecutive meeting-in-seclusion.

Standing on the moss-covered ground, we dropped to our knees, after which we took the "binder" we brought with us to bind the feet of the boy whose thighs, knees and calves we would be "tasting". Then, like precision dancers or swimmers, we pitched forward onto our stomachs, our mouths making contact with the back of the legs of the boy who lay prone before us. My mouth hovered over Francois's legs, Francois's over Abdullah's, Abdullah's over Quo's, Quo's over Nikolai's, Nikolai's over Christian's, Christian's over Cao Li's, Cao Li's over Stefan's, Stefan's over Brian's, Brian's over Pieter's, Pieter's over Akira's, Akira's over Aldo's, Aldo's over Paul's...and Paul's over mine! We were all grateful that the jamboree lasted two weeks. That way...no two boys fornicated, licked or bit the same legs more than one day!

Variety was the spice of life!!! And it was also the key to our fun!

And the timing couldn't have been more convenient. After each roll call, we would sneak off into the forest to our secluded spot. That way, none of us would ever be missed. We would always have our fun...kissing, licking and fondling the exposed meat that lay before us...and be back before you would know it! After morning roll call, we would eat breakfast...and then it was off into the wood for an hour of kissing, licking and fingering the back of a beautiful pair of boy-legs. After afternoon roll call, we would eat lunch...and sneak off to our secluded spot, again to kiss, lick and touch skin. After evening roll call, we would eat dinner...and have our dessert in the forest. And, what a dessert it would be!!! We would not only kiss, lick and touch the exposed legs that lay before us...but bite it as well, leaving indelible teeth marks on our thighs, knees and calves that, hopefully, would disappear before dawn. Then, it would be back to our respective tents for lights out.

When it came time for all of us to return to our respective countries, we exchanged addresses and telephone numbers. But, we always vowed that we would return each consecutive summer while we were Boy Scouts to have our fun in our secluded section in the forest. And, we always did...for the next three years.

I don't know whether my friends went on to become Explorer Scouts. I know I did...and I had to find new friends. But, I would always cherish the Boy Scout jamborees...and the "tastes" of other countries.

Oh, I neglected to mention...Mr. Michaels never chose to join us. But, I have an inkling he knew what was going on...from certain gestures he gave me when school started again. But, I wish he would have come to our meetings-in-seclusion. He would have loved it. And, I know the other boys would have loved having him there.

THE CUB SCOUT INITIATION

     In the mid-summer of 1979, the same year that upstate New York was going through one of the worst heat waves in history, I decided that, after reading a friend's Cub Scout manual, I wanted very badly to join the Cub Scouts. At first, my mother was totally against the idea. But, my grandfather felt that if I joined a club after school, it would certainly keep me out of trouble. He told my mother that scouting is one of the best ways to keep a boy "on the straight and narrow" and help him grow into a respectable member of society. When my mother argued with him about the expenses for uniforms, my grandfather said the he would front all expenses. Upon hearing this, I immediately went down to have myself fitted for my uniforms...one dark blue long-sleeved shirt, one dark blue short-sleeved shirt, one pair of dark blue slacks, one pair of dark blue shorts, dark blue mid-calf socks, dark blue knee socks, black shoes and a dark blue cap.

     All was ready for my first meeting...Friday night, August 10, 1979.

     It was still blistering hot outside (even after sunset). It was the night for the initiations for all of the troop's newest members...including me. I, of course, had no idea whatsoever how the initiations would proceed, since this was my first time as a scout. All my friend told me about scouting is that you get to build things, go hiking and identify birds, trees, leaves, etc. He never mentioned anything about what goes on at initiations. He did mention that all initiates were to dress in shorts and knee socks. I thought it was only because of the weather. I was soon to discover differently.

     My grandfather drove me to the Community Center where the scout meeting was to take place, saying that he would pick me up when we were finished...three hours later. As I entered the hall, I was greeted by fourteen other young scouts...like myself. They were all there for the ceremony. I knew this, of course, because they were also dressed in their shorts and knee socks.

     Soon, fifteen boy scouts, dressed in their shorts and knee socks (but more ceremoniously), came into the room where we were gathered. They ordered us to stand at ease, with our hands clasped behind our backs. Taking handcuffs out from their pockets, they handcuffed our wrists. Then, they took out blindfolds and tied them tightly over our eyes before hoisting us up onto their shoulders and taking us into an adjoining room where the initiation was to take place.

     When we entered the room, I immediately recognized my friend's voice among the others...and one other. It was an adult's voice. I recognized the tone because I had already become accustomed to hearing it...in my gym classes. It was Mr. Michaels...whom I later discovered was also the scoutmaster.

     All of the initiates were unceremoniously dumped face down onto a long table covered with thick mats, our heads and feet dangling over the edges. Soon, Mr. Michaels read out the proclamation of initiation:

     "Know by the laws of the scouts that these initiates are to be fondled by all cub scouts, boy scouts and explorer scouts present during tonight's ceremony. They are to be caressed by all hands. To see if they can withstand pain and torture, they shall undergo the ritual of having the back of their knees first kissed, then licked, bitten and chewed by their fellow scouts, beginning with the explorers and working their way down. Those who display tears or give any sound of crying will be labeled as unqualified and drummed out of the troop and shall never be allowed to join the scouts ever again. After the ceremony, the initiates shall remain face down upon the table until the end of the regular meeting. So it is written in the laws of Webelos".

     Soon, the initiation began. Lips puckered and kissed the back of initiate knees. I, of course, had already become used to this feeling (thanks to Mr. Michaels and our gym liaisons), so I knew immediately the size of mouths, tongues and teeth of different ages. Within a span of forty-five minutes, every tongue, pair of lips and set of teeth had kissed, licked, bitten and chewed their way into my heart.

     I don't know how the other initiates felt during this ceremony...but I loved it all! And the fact that I was going to remain face down on that table...blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back...for the remainder of the three-hour meeting made me so happy that I ejaculated with joy.

     Did I care about it at such a time as this? Absolutely not!!!

     Ever since that day recently, when I was playing "Good Guys/Bad Guys" with some friends from school and Pierre and his brother were draped across the back of my thighs and knees as I lay "dead" on my stomach, I loved the feeling of other boys (and young men) kissing, licking, biting and chewing the back of my knees. I was used to it!

     When the meeting was over (and after the other scouts left), Mr. Michaels approached our prone bodies and unlocked the handcuffs, allowing us to raise ourselves to our knees and take off the blindfolds. He remained solely to turn off the lights in the meeting hall as I and the other initiates went outside to wait for our rides home. As he locked the doors and went to his car, I looked at his departing figure, noticing that he, too, was dressed in a uniform similar to that of a boy scout...complete with knee socks!!! My eyes remained riveted on the back of his knees until he entered his car and closed the door. Smiling at me as his car's motor revved, Mr. Michaels drove off to his home.

     When my grandfather arrived to take me home, he asked me if I had fun. I nodded. But, all through the trip home, I thought about those other scouts who kissed, licked, bit and chewed my knees...and of Mr. Michaels's knees surrounded in forest green.

     I couldn't wait until the next meeting!

THE NIGHT OF THE BURNING LEGS

     The air was uncommonly cool and dry for a day in early autumn...a proper day for a fire. But, what was left to burn? All of the trees have already fallen victim to either torrential rainfall or forest fires. Houses could not be burned because, by law, all houses now had to be built sturdy enough to withstand heavy rain and snow.

     Thomas Barrow, at 102 the oldest man in the town and permanently confined to a wheelchair due to the fact that both of his legs were missing from just below the crotch, still operated the local store and told me a tale that I just couldn't believe.

     "When I was your age, Paul", he said, "there was a season just like this. At that time, we, too, had no trees because of rain and fire. Yet, we had to find a way to keep warm".

     "Didn't you have gasoline, Grandpa?" Paul asked.

     "Oh, we had plenty of gasoline...tanks and tanks of gasoline. We just didn't have anything for the gasoline to be poured on. You see, we made the one mistake that we would live to regret for as long as we lived".

     "What was that?"

     "We took lots to see whose house we would gather around and set fire to, just to keep warm".

     "Why was that a mistake?"

     "Because, once you burn one house just to keep warm...for some strange reason you are never warm enough. So, you burn another house and another and another...until there are no more houses left to burn. Then, when the winter snow comes, you have no place to go to keep yourself warm".

     "What did you do then?"

     "The men who ran this hamlet when I was 25 decided that we would use an alternative to wood with which to pour the gasoline on to keep warm. Each time it got unseasonably cool in early autumn, a lottery was held to see who would offer up their legs to be burned".

     "Their legs?"

     Paul stood there in shocked disbelief at what his grandfather had just told him. How could anybody give up their legs just to keep others in the town warm?

     "I don't believe you!" Paul scoffed.

     "Tell me, Paul, how many others have you seen in town who have their pants rolled up the way mine are?" his grandfather asked.

     "One or two".

     "You know why? Because the others either left town...or took their own lives rather than stay here and have people ogling at them...because they have no legs!"

     Paul stared at is grandfather, his mouth agape.

     "Do you mean to say that, when all other fuel resources were depleted...except for the stockpile of gasoline...the town held a lottery to decide whose legs were going to be amputated and used as kindling?" he asked.

     "I certainly do", Grandfather answered. "Now that the temperature is cool and all other fuel resources are gone...it's time once again for the 'lottery of the legs'". Grandfather pushed his wheelchair over to the window which faced the public square and looked outside. "And since you are now of age to participate in the lottery..."

     "No! That's never going to happen!"

     Grandfather turned to look at Paul.

     "And just how do you intend to stop them?"

     Paul pondered over his grandfather's question. Then, he faced the old man with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

     "I'll just leave town. That's what I'll do", Paul replied. "If I'm gone, then I can't take part in the damn lottery".

     "I'm afraid that is now impossible", the old man said. "Once the temperature goes down to where it is now and the lottery has been decided upon...all roads out of town are carefully guarded by armed men whose sole job is to prevent any eligible young men like you from leaving. If you so much as try to step foot over the border, you will be shot...and then your whole body will feed a roaring, gas-soaked fire, not just your legs".

     Paul sat down in the nearest chair and put his hands to his head. If what the old man said was indeed true, then he had no other choice but to take his chances.

     "Besides", the old man continued, with a sly smile on his wrinkled face, "I took part in my first lottery when I was your age...and kept my legs until I was 50. But, by then...I was already paralyzed from the waist down and confined to this wheelchair. So, it really didn't matter to me whether they took my legs or not...and I didn't much care. But, who knows? You might not even be chosen. Then, perhaps after the lottery and the temperature rises...you can leave town and find greener pastures elsewhere".

     Paul looked up from where he sat at the wizened old man.

     "So, what am I to do?" he asked.

     "Take your chances like any grown man", the old man said. "There are over a hundred young men with good strong legs like yours. The chances that you'll be one of the ten whose legs are chosen to burn tonight are astronomical!"

     "You're right, Grandpa", Paul said. "I'm going in to put on a pair of shorts for the lottery. And, even if I'm not chosen...I'll still give everybody a tempting view".

     "That's my boy!" the old man said, turning his wheelchair back to the window and the public square beyond as Paul ran to dress himself for the lottery.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Later that night, after the lottery had taken place, twenty well-built and bloodied legs were thrown together, drenched with gasoline and set on fire. All the townspeople gathered around the mound of burning flesh to take in their warmth. A smell akin to roasting meat and almonds lingered in the air above the conflagration. Among the populace, Paul's grandfather sat in his wheelchair, leaning forward, thrusting his open hands as close to the fire as he dared. There was a somber look on his face.

     "Well, Paul...it looks as though Lady Luck was not on your side tonight", he said as he stared deep into the roaring fire.

     There, at the very top of the pile, hams facing the sky, were his grandson's well-proportioned legs, now being blistered and blackened by the very flames that were consuming them.

     This night's lottery was over.

WITNESS TO A BURNING

A young man being joyously burned at the stake!

     It has always been my dream to bear witness to one of the most beautiful sights that a legs fetishist like myself could ever hope to behold...a cremation. I had always seen videos of one...but the person being cremated was always dead and the body was naked.

     Yeecchh!

     I hope that one day I would be able to witness a young man burning to death...face down in a pair of shorts! And I always pray that, if he is still screaming, that somebody could have the decency to pour a lot of inflammable liquid over him...just to hear him scream his death wails!

     When you're a witness to a hanging, death wails are throttled in the throat because of the noose...unable to let people know that the victim is actually dying. I mean, the only way you can tell that a person who is being hanged is actually dying is to look at his legs to see if they're twitching in the throes of death...especially if the legs are naked and you can actually see the death throes in the thighs and calves and the back of the knees crimping and bunching up before smoothing out as the person expires and somebody nearest the body feels an artery in the thigh or knee to authenticate that the person is dead.

     When a young man is beheaded, the sudden decapitation leaves no time at all for thrashing about and wailing. The head falls into a basket and the body either falls to one side of the chopping block...or remains face down on the bed of a guillotine. There is only a little bit of twitching as the impulses from the brain are cut off. So, that isn't much of a show! And it certainly isn't very much fun to watch with all that blood and body fluids oozing from the neck!!!

     When the person is stood up facing a wall and shot in the back, one of the firing squad's bullets will be aimed dead center for the heart and another for the back of the head...so there actually wouldn't be any time for the victim to scream out. His pain dies almost as soon as his body does...and that just isn't right, because when you're witnessing an execution, you want to actually see and hear the condemned person thrashing about and wailing.

     Of course, though, nobody is ever burned to death face down in a pair of shorts. They're always chained to a wooden pole, standing on a pile of wood and burned at the stake. I keep thinking about how lovely it would have been to live in 16th-century Europe, where men who were found guilty of witchcraft or of being the wrong religion were publicly burned to death by orders of the Pope at the time.

     But, if I had my way, some young men, dressed in black mid-thigh shorts and black below-the-calf socks, would be led onto a basketball or tennis court, laid face down with their hands tied behind their backs and their feet tied together, doused with an endless stream of gasoline and burned to death...just to see how it would look like. I just have a feeling that it would probably be fun and look great! I just know that there would be wailing and thrashing a-plenty, as well as a lot of cheering from onlookers...especially if the ones to be burned alive are criminals! I mean, there are a lot of those around...and we really don't need them to exist among decent folk.

     Now, there's something worth thinking about! Young men being tried, convicted and sent to prison for a capital offense, sitting in their cells, waiting for the day that they will be hooded, dressed in shorts and done away with by whatever means the state sees fit to use. Maybe then, I wouldn't mind seeing an execution where the condemned is hanged or electrocuted...just as long as his legs are bare for all to see!!!

     But, still...I would really and deeply want to see a young man sent to be burned to death face down in a nice pair of shorts. It would really be a highlight to my life! Why, if I was tried and sentenced to death...I would choose to be burned alive dressed in shorts. After all, it's completely clean...with little or no mess at all.

WITNESS TO A HANGING

     There have been times...many times...that I wished I may be present to view a person being hanged. Not for the pleasure of it, mind you. Just to witness it...see why many people in the Old West used to gather at the gallows with their children, order sassaparillas or bottles of beer and cheer as the condemned man, or men, did a "floorless jig".

     There were many times that I had seen an old Clint Eastwood film in which a man was lynched and left alone to strangle at the end of a rope. The biggest thrill that some friends of mine got while watching this film was observing the twitching of a man's legs as he dangled there, choking and struggling for breath. Another scene showed two boys, no older than we were at the time my friends and I were watching this film. One boy was only 15 and his brother was 18. They were going to be hanged for murder and cattle rustling. I read books about judicial hangings in the 19th century and found that it didn't matter how old you were...if you committed a capital offense, you paid for it with your life!!!

     One day, I came upon the hanged body of a friend of mine from school. Of course, he left me a note saying that he was going to hang himself...but he left it up to me to find out where he had done it. He also said that, in order not to bring dishonor to the school, I was to remove his school uniform and leave him hanging there in his underwear!!!

     Of course, though, dishonor did come to the good school...when the hanged boy's identity became known. For several weeks after his hanging, I dreamed of seeing some other boys from the school whom I despised hang at the end of a rope. Not in their school uniforms or underwear, mind you...but in their gym shorts!!! I thought of how beautiful they would look, dangling at the end of ropes, death throes rippling through their naked thighs, knees and calves. Of course, these would have been viewed for pleasure...because these boys were my enemies and it would have been glorious to see my enemies meet their deaths like this.

     But, my dreams not only included boys who were my enemies.

     In some of my dreams, I was a witness to my own hanging...while wearing my black gym uniform. In one of them, I see myself standing in a field, awaiting execution by hanging beside a helium-filled balloon. I am wearing my black gym shorts, black socks, black sneakers and a long-sleeved hooded and gloved sweat shirt. A man (whom I fancy as Mr. Michaels, my gym teacher) comes forward, pulls my hands behind my back and ties them together at my wrists. He kneels down and ties my feet together, all the time staring lovingly at the back of my legs...especially my knees...which he so loves. Then, he pulls down a noose and tightens it around my neck, placing the hangman's knot behind my back. Turning to some brawny upperclassmen who are holding the ropes to which the balloon is being held down, he gives the signal to release the balloon. The balloon rises and, as it does so, I begin to feel tension racking through my body. Then, all of a sudden, my body is being lifted off the ground and I am hanging there, twisting and turning, flopping about like a dead fish...my life being choked out of my body as urine and liquid feces pour down my naked legs to the ground as it gets farther and farther away. As the balloon flies away, I dream that my dead body will end up in some African veldt, where it would mercifully be devoured by wild animals before it rots!!!

Wow! Just look at John Schneider hanging and hawking in Eddie Macon's Run!

     There had been times that my father told me of dreams that he had in which we pool our money together to purchase a Hollywood prop...a hanging harness...like one that was used in the film Eddie Macon's Run. In this one scene, Eddie was taken into the house of some wealthy hicks, put on trial and hanged in their living room. My father said that the actor made facial contortions to make it appear that he was really being hanged. I asked my father if we could try it out and see if it works. But, who would be the one to be "hanged"?

     "Me, Dad", I yelled out. "Hang me!"

     Of course, the main reason why I wanted my father to put the harness on me and "hang" me was because of what I was wearing...the same type of clothing I wore in New York when my friends and I were playing "Good Guys/Bad Guys". At this time, I had already been taking some drama classes...so I knew how convincing I should look as I dangled at the end of a rope. My father took his SX-70 camera and took some photographs of me as I hanged from the harness, putting a look on my face that one would actually think that I was being hanged by my neck.

     I looked at the photographs that my father took later that night. I looked so convincing, I wanted to try it again. I went into the garage and put on the harness and put my head through the noose. But, stupid me! I didn't pay very close attention to how my father fastened the harness properly. When I kicked the chair out from under my feet, the noose tightened around my neck.

     I was actually being hanged to death!!!

     Luckily, my father heard the commotion. He ran into the garage to find me beginning my death throes. He rushed forward just in time to grab me about my knees and lifted the harness off the hook in the ceiling. When I had regained consciousness, my father told me that the noose around my neck was not fastened properly to the harness. The result: I would have really died by hanging!!!

     I didn't want that to happen. At least...not yet! I mean, if I do choose to commit suicide, it definitely will be by hanging...and definitely dressed in shorts and knee socks!