THE TONGUES OF THE BLACK TEEN MALE LEGION

Just the thought of some of these guys tasting my legs makes my mouth water!



     One night, I had a dream so strange that, when I awoke the following morning, I just couldn't help but call my father in South Florida and relate it to him...as well as some of my friends from college and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.

     In the dream, one of the young black men (which was a young man I knew from college) had initiated a large group of black teenage boys between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, telling them of a night of "honky leg licking". Little did I realize that the "honky" whose legs he was inviting them to lick was me!

     It occurred one late spring morning during spring break when I was attending the University of Central Florida. The young black man I knew from college...whose name was Cliff...saw me one time when I was walking with some of my friends down Colonial Drive in Orlando. I was dressed in my trademarked brown short-sleeved shirt, mid-thigh denim shorts and, not white knee socks, but white below-the-calf socks. Immediately, Cliff's eyes went to the back of my legs, my kneebacks in particular. I couldn't see it...but something in my mind told me that Cliff was eying my legs and licking his lips. He went back to the campus and contacted all of his friends of color, telling them to get male teenage family members together for some "lip-smackin', honky leg-lickin' fun".

     One day, when I was walking down Colonial Drive by myself...I had the day free and Jen (who was my roommate at the time) was out of town for the weekend...Cliff saw me wearing my trademarked outfit. He began following me and, as soon as we turned down the alleyway which was a shortcut to the apartment building where I lived, Cliff hit me on the back of my head with what I assumed was a lead blackjack. I fell face down on the ground, unconscious...or barely, because in the darkness I was able to hear a multitude of voices. From the way they said their "I"s, I was able to tell that these voices belonged to other young black men.

     When I regained consciousness, I found myself sitting on a stool. My hands were securely tied behind my back. A noose was placed snugly about my neck. At the other end of the rope was Cliff. I looked all around him to see at least fifteen black teenage boys, staring at me with wide eyes and licking their thick lips. With every muscle in his brawny arms tensing, Cliff pulled the rope, lifting me roughly three feet off the ground. Immediately, I began to choke, my windpipe being squeezed and the precious air unable to enter my lungs. As he anchored the rope down and I began to choke on bitter bile, Cliff eyed the other boys wildly.

     "Go get him, homies!" he yelled, pointing at me.

     Immediately, the boys ran towards my hanging, choking form, their mouths agape and their tongues licking wildly against both the front and back of my legs. As I began to lose all consciousness of everything about me (including the boys tasting my meat), Cliff unfastened the rope and lowered me to the ground, allowing me to suck in the sweet, delicious air.

     "What's the matter, bro?" Cliff asked me as I dropped to my knees. "Don't you know that a hanging body tastes sweeter when it struggles? I invited my little friends here to get a taste of some sweet honky-meat. Now...some of them made faces. I think it was because you weren't kicking them nice-looking legs of yours. So, when I pull you up again, I want to hear some gagging and see some honest-to-goodness twitchin' and kickin' of them meats...or else I'm a-gonna leave you here to die and then bite me a big, juicy chunk of ham. You dig me, bro?"

     Now, right away I knew from reading a book on human anatomy that another word for the thigh and kneeback was "ham". So, I figured that if I didn't want to die this day, I'd better start twitching and kicking my meats while his friends were getting their licks in.

     "Yeah...I dig, bro", I muttered as my lungs filled with air.

     He kicked the stool away as he helped me to my feet. Then, as I stood there, a wee bit wobbly, Cliff took out a meat brush and a bottle of barbecue sauce. He opened the bottle and began to brush the tangy sauce all over my naked legs.

     Lifting the rope, Cliff pulled me up off the ground once more. Immediately, the noose tightened about my neck and, once again, the precious air supply to my lungs was being cut off. As I hanged there, I began to gag as I gasped for air (or at least tried to keep the rope from closing up my epiglottis), my body began to jerk vigorously and my legs began to twitch spasmodically as the little niggers began to lick the tangy barbecue sauce...and the meat that it coated.

The meat that the little niggers licked and dug their teeth into!

     One of the little niggers got a bit too excited by all the action...and bit my right kneeback. When I tried to cry out in pain, my epiglottis collapsed...and the rope tightened about my neck even more. This time, there was no chance of either sucking in air or keeping my throat from closing up.

     I felt the blood in my head pounding in my ears, a sure sign that I was definitely dying.

     My eyes began to bulge as I looked down at Cliff, who held up a mirror to allow me the privilege of seeing my own face turning blue. As I opened my mouth, I saw in the reflection that my tongue had swollen and completely filled my mouth. I saw the whites of my eyes beginning to turn red as miniscule blood vessels burst. Then, my eyes began to cross as I became aware of my heart beating faster and faster...and then stop completely.

     I was still aware of my surroundings as the little nigger who bit into my kneeback climbed up to the limb of the tree where the rope was hanging over, scurried down the rope and, placing one foot on either side of my head, pounced up and down upon my shoulders...until my neck snapped. As I hanged there, dying, the last thing I felt was the rope biting deeper and deeper into my neck...and my head plopped grotesquely down until my chin touched my clavicle. Unaware that I was dead, the little motherfucker continued to jump up and down on my shoulders...until Cliff called him down.

     "He's dead, homey", Cliff replied, a little saddened to the fact. "The fun is over".

     The little nigger jumped down from my shoulders as the others glanced up at my dead body, hanging lifeless at the end of the rope. Then...Cliff smiled.

     "Now, let's eat!" he cried out, as the rest of his black legion lit a fire in the barbecue pit.

     I was taken down and, with the rope still about my neck and dressed in my clothes, placed face down upon the racks of the barbecue pit. The flames roared all about my dead, prone body. I remained upon the rack until my muscles had reached a temperature of 175 degrees...a sign that my body had been cooked to perfection.

     By the end of the night, all of Cliff's little nigger friends had filled their bellies and either fell asleep on blankets which they brought with them...or left to go home to sleep off their meal, leaving Cliff to dispose of the bones which were all that remained of my once vibrant and handsomely perfect body.

Ah, me! This 'twas but a dream...not reality!

THE TASTE OF INNOCENCE



     Now that I am the father of six children...three of them boys...I intend to teach them the full pleasures of showing off their legs and having other boys do to them what Mr. Michaels taught me and the other boys in my gym class at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. Why, already Ilya, Peter and Kaya know the pleasure of how it feels to lie on their stomachs. But, to tell you the truth, my wife tells me that they only do it to counteract the gas in their stomachs. That means it'll be up to me to show them how to properly wear shorts and knee socks as they get older in order to attract the attention of other boys to look at their kneebacks...and smack their lips in anticipation.

     Ilya, at almost nine, already knows the pleasure of biting another male's kneebacks...mine!

     How did this happen? It occurred when I was alone with Ilya in our house in Malibu. I was laying upon my stomach, propped up on my elbows, dressed in a tee shirt, mid-thigh tennis shorts and white knee socks, reading a copy of the next play I was going to appear in..."Dracula". Ilya came into the library, searching for me. When he saw me on the floor, he came running towards me at full speed (for a three-year-old). When he was a couple of feet from me, he tripped on the carpet. He had opened his mouth to let out a scream when, suddenly, his face came down upon my left kneeback. His baby teeth sank a little into my meat.

     I closed my eyes and looked up at the ceiling, silently sighing in absolute ecstasy. Not only had Ilya's teeth touched my kneeback...but saliva was dripping from his mouth as well. I suddenly reverted back to upstate New York when Jean-Paul Deschanel did the same to my right kneeback when we were playing dead.

     My heart started racing because it was my own son who was now tasting my kneeback. But, was he yet too young to fully understand the true pleasure of biting and licking another boy's kneeback? Would teaching him now be rushing him into a world which he may not be completely ready for?

     Hell, no!!!!!

     After all, my mother got me started wearing shorts and knee socks (and forcing me to display my kneebacks for all the other boys to see) at a young age...when I started going to school. I was five years old then. Ilya is only three. Why shouldn't he get a head start on biting and licking another male's kneebacks...even if those kneebacks are mine?

     I took Ilya aside after rising to my feet. I asked him how my kneeback felt in his mouth...and how he felt biting and drooling on it. At first, Ilya appeared ashamed and afraid to answer.

     "Don't be afraid", I told him. "Now you know what Daddy does with his friends. So...how did it feel? What did you think of my kneeback in your mouth?"

     "It tasted good, Daddy!" he exclaimed.

     I closed my eyes, looked up at the ceiling...and smiled once more.

     My son...my eldest son...actually said that my kneeback tasted good!

     Well, what else could he say? He's only three years old! The word "delicious" still isn't in his vocabulary! But, give him time. When he learns that the word "delicious" means to taste good, he'll probably say that my kneebacks taste delicious.

     I hope so...because I intend to teach his little friends the true pleasure of tasting my meat when I start throwing Ilya birthday parties every year and have them lick ice cream off my thighs, calves and kneebacks.

     Suddenly, an idea came to me. I rolled my knee socks down, exposing my well-built calves, and then threw myself back down onto my stomach on the carpet. Then, I turned and looked at Ilya.

     "You want to do some more?" I asked him.

     He nodded and quickly fell down and began to lick the back of my legs. As his tongue sloshed back and forth upon my tender, muscular meat, I looked up at the ceiling, closed my eyes again...and sighed deeply.

      MY SON WAS ACTUALLY ENJOYING THE TASTE OF MY LEGS!!!

     Ah...how his tongue felt upon my thighs...my calves...my kneebacks!

     It was almost too indescribable for words! But, at least Ilya was starting to learn the fine art of tasting a male leg...even if it was mine.

     When he had finished, I made Ilya promise that what we did in the library...and what we shall do in the future...will be our little secret. Jen must never find out. If she ever did, she'd break my neck.

     And if she did...I hope she'll have the decency to break my neck when I'm laying face down in shorts and knee socks!

MY STORY



     First of all, I think it's wise for me to introduce myself.

     My name, at present, is Sasha Kasdan...but I was born with the name Blaze Sasha Moscowitz. I know what some of you readers are going to say...

     How on God's green earth did I ever get a name like that? Right?

     Well, here's the whole story...my whole story.

     I was born in New York City on Saturday, May 8, 1971. I wasn't born in any hospital, although I left one with my mother after a stay of several days so my mother and I could be put through a battery of tests to make certain that both of us were in perfect health. You see, I was actually born in the back seat of a taxicab. How I got to be born in the back seat of a taxicab is a tale within itself. Earlier that evening, shortly after 6 p.m., my mother was bringing dinner to the table for herself...since her parents were out of town for the weekend, visiting friends in Dutchess County on the east side of the Hudson River. Where in Dutchess County I haven't the foggiest idea. All I was told by one of my mother's friends was that just as she was preparing to eat her dinner, her water broke.

     Now, what was my mother supposed to do? None of her friends owned a car...and her car was being used by her parents upstate. So, my mother had no other recourse than to call for a taxi. She walked down the front steps very slowly until she got to the door of the taxi, which was being held open by a beautiful young woman named Blaze McCarthy, who knew at once what my mother was going through. When my mother entered the back seat of the taxi, she saw several pictures of Ms McCarthy with her own children. So, as soon as she made certain that my mother was comfortably belted in, she got behind the wheel...and peeled out as if the devil himself was on her very heels!!!

     Halfway to the hospital, Ms. McCarthy attracted the attention of a motorcycle officer by the name of Romanow...Sasha Romanow. When Ms. McCarthy explained that she had a woman in the back seat who was in an advanced state of labor, Officer Romanow took a look and immediately ascertained that I was going to be born long before my mother even arrived at the hospital. So, Officer Romanow took off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, washed his hands as best as he could with some alcohol that a nearby druggist brought out and began to instruct my mother on what to do to bring me into this world...with Ms. McCarthy helping my mother from inside. In other words...Officer Romanow was on the receiving end!

     By the time the taxi, led by Officer Romanow, made it to the hospital's emergency room, my mother was holding me in her arms. The neonatal nurse, who looked like a Bride of Frankenstein with a gauze mask over her nose and mouth, quickly snatched me from my mother's arms and brought me with all haste to the maternity ward, where my mouth was washed out with a jet of lukewarm water (to get the mucus and amnionic fluid out of my mouth and nose) and then gave me my first bath, washing all the fluid off my skin as well as out of my ears and eyes. After making certain that I was in 100% perfect health, the nurse returned me to my mother, wrapped in a blue towel...and dressed in my first diaper and gown, with a blue bonnet on my head and blue booties on my tiny feet.

     "What are you going to name your new son, Ms. Moscowitz?" the nurse asked.

     My mother's eyes immediately went to the young woman and the police officer standing by the door.

     "I'm going to name him in the order that I was helped", she replied. "His name is...Blaze Sasha Moscowitz. And I would be very proud if you two would be his godparents".

     "We would be honored", Officer Romanow replied.

     When my grandparents arrived at the hospital after their uneventful weekend jaunt up in Dutchess County, they wondered if my mother was ever going to tell me who my father was when I got to be old enough.

     "Never!" my mother exclaimed. "After the way his family treated me? Why should I tell them? As far as this baby and I'm concerned...those motherfuckers don't even exist!"

* * * * * * * * * *



     Now, let's jump ahead about five years. My mother and her parents, at this time, were starting to show their true colors. And, so was I...black and blue! I mean, if I so much as peed a little bit on the floor, my mother started spanking me across my bottom. And, if that weren't enough, my grandfather started taking his belt to my backside as well. And, my grandmother? Well, you can forget about her being the saint of the household. She almost broke my arms every time she grabbed me and brought me to my mother for a spanking...and enjoyed it!

     My mother would have gotten away with how she and her parents were treating me if it hadn't been for one of our neighbors noticing the bruises on my arms...and the welts on my bottom when she pulled my pants down.

     "Who gave those to you?" she asked me.

     At first, her being a stranger to me, I was afraid to answer her. Moreover, I was afraid to tell her who the culprits were who gave me the bruises.

     "You don't have to be afraid, Blaze", she said in a voice so soothing as to sound like an angel. "Who gave you those bruises?"

     "My mommy", I said. "And poppy and nanna, too".

     The neighbor just couldn't believe it. But, seeing what kind of a person my mother was, she believed it all too well. She sent me home and made me promise not to tell my mother and grandparents that she saw the damage...that it was going to be our little secret.

     A few days later, my mother received word that she was being transferred by her newspaper...to Schenectady. You see, my mother was the tops in her field for the newspaper. She was considered to be one of the best photographers that the newspaper (and its parent-company) ever had.

     Was I scared to move? You bet your sweet patutie I was! Moving to another town or city meant not only finding new friends...but trying to get another adult interested in what my mother and grandparents were doing to me.

MY SOCCER TEAM'S KNEEBACKS PARTY



     The following tale was related to me through a videotape which was found among the belongings of my dearly departed gym teacher and soccer coach, Mr. Michaels. Since my fruitful years with Mr. Michaels were before the time of DVDs and DVD recorders, the recording was done on a VHS videotape. Of course, though, growing up in the 70s and 80s, everybody and their Aunt Tillie had at least one video recorder-player in their house. That was the way it was in my father's house. But, before leaving to attend my four years of classes at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and experiencing the groping hands and tongue of Mr. Michaels, I had gone to the neighborhood video store and, with some of my earnings as a model, purchased my own VCR, which I had lovingly packed away for the long journey from Florida to New York. I shall now relate to you what I consider to be the wonderfully delicious story behind Mr. Michaels's video.

     During my four years at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, I excelled in several sports. My favorite was the one that Mr. Michaels was the coach in...soccer. In soccer, a winning game was shared by every member. But a loss was the sole responsibility of the goalie...me. I, alone, knew of the disgrace which was felt by a goalie who dared to let an opposing team's winning kick get through. Many times, this disgrace meant that the goalie was to be ostracized severely...and in the Academy of Dramatic Arts, being ostracized was like suffering a living death. That is, until the next game and you managed to keep the opposing team from ever making a goal.

     During one season, we played Carle Place Boys' School...our rival for the state's top honors in varsity soccer...not once, not twice, not even three times. We played Carle Place a grand total of five times in one school year. Let me tell you this...Carle Place was one of the best teams ever to play soccer! To lose to them even once was pure hell! And, whoever was our goalie in a losing game really knew what it was like to have not only your teammates but the other students in the school talk behind your back. And the stares...they were like knives actually stabbing you in your back!

     Now, this one year we had the dubious honor (or should I say dishonor) of losing to Carle Place three times in a row...and the actual dishonor fell upon me because I was the goalie for all three games. When it came time for us to go up against Carle Place a fourth time, Mr. Michaels took me aside in the locker room after I laced up my shoes.

     "Blaze (that was my real name until I changed it legally), don't let us down today", he said, in a hushed voice. "I don't want to have to inflict bodily punishment upon you".

     Then, he was gone...and the other boys followed him out of the locker room and gymnasium and onto the soccer field.

     What did he mean by that? I wondered.

     Now, Mr. Michaels introduced me to many bodily actions from the time I first met him to the day of his untimely demise at the end of a rope with his meaty legs slashed and ripped and bloodied. Did he have a special type of punishment waiting for me alone should I lose the game a fourth time for my team? I shuddered just at the mere thought of it. Then, I followed the rest of me team out of the school and onto the playing field.

     The day was a little cool and I ran to my post as the breeze tasted my face and knees (the only exposed parts of my body). At the end of the first half, after forty-five vigorous minutes of play, our team was leading Carle Place by a score of 3-0.

     What was wrong with Carle Place? I thought to myself.

     Usually they played better than this...keeping us from trying to even score one goal. Were they toying with us...or what? After a fifteen minute rest, during which Mr. Michaels related his strategy for the second half of the game, we ran back onto the field. This time, I was stationed at the opposite net...the usual practice for the second half.

     As the game progressed, my team scored two more goals. We were now leading the best team on Long Island by a score of 5-0. After Carle Place's coach called for a time-out, we resumed the game.

     And, boy...did we learn a severe case of humility!!!

     Carle Place's coach called in a substitute player for one of their kickers...and this boy really played the game as if he were the devil himself. Every time the ball was kicked to him, he sized me up as he approached the net...and kicked the ball with such ferocity that it was difficult to so much as try to keep it from scoring. By halfway through the second half...twenty-three minutes...Carle Place scored five goals!

     The game was now tied 5-5!

     That meant that, for the remainder of the game, I had to keep Carle Place from even making one goal as my teammates tried their best to get a sixth goal and, thereby, winning the game. But, every time one of my teammates even got the ball to a spot from which they could easily score a goal, Carle Place's goalie blocked it. For the next twenty minutes, with two minutes remaining in the game, the ball went back and forth. Carle Place would try to make a goal and I caught the ball, denying them the honor. So did they do as my teammates tried to score a winning goal. These last two minutes now meant the difference between life and death...and whether I was to be punished or glorified.

     The cheers from the fans of both teams lowered to absolute muteness as my heart pounded in my ears. My blood throbbed inside my head as I watched Carle Place's devil-player run closer and closer to my position. He sized me up, looking me over from head to toe...then, with all his strength summoned into his very foot, kicked the ball. But, try as hard as I could, the ball sailed within an inch past my fingertips and into the net behind me as I flew to stop it, landing on my belly, my face smothered in the grass and my kneebacks facing the cloudless blue sky, the fans of the opposing team screaming out their cheers of victory as the whistle blew, signalling the end of the game.

     Carle Place won their fourth game in a row against us with a score of 6-5!

     As I rose to my feet and wiped grass and dirt from my knees, the opposing team lifted their champion upon their shoulders while my teammates glared at me, walking past me towards the gymnasium doors and the locker room within. Mr. Michaels approached me and, warmly, placed his arm around my neck, his free hand grasping my right wrist rather painfully as we walked together through the gymnasium doors and into the locker room. Mr. Michaels then shoved me over to the captain of the team.

     "Tie him face down on the bench and prop his knees", he replied, as he entered his office.

     The captain of the team signalled to his second to bind my hands together while he knelt and bound my ankles. When they were finished, the entire team carried me to the nearby bench where they placed me face down. The captain of the team and his second pulled and stretched my arms and legs, knotting the cords underneath the bench and taking the remaining strands and running them up and over my waist, knotting them once again.

     "Bring something to place under his knees!" the team's captain snapped as he finished busying himself with knotting the cords.

     One of the other boys came over to the bench with a stack of at least five bath towels which he had folded twice and forced under my knees, stretching my kneebacks until the very meat was tight. Then, when they had completed their work, the boys stood back, looking down at my naked kneebacks and admiring their work.

     "Losing one or two games for the team can be overlooked", Mr. Michaels replied, emerging from his office with a filled hypodermic needle in his hand. With the point facing skyward, he tapped the syringe, forcing bubbles towards the needle. He then ejaculated the bubbles out by pushing the plunger and squirting some of the fluid out.

     "Even three can be pardoned", he continued. "But, losing four games to our adversary is something that cannot be tolerated!"

     He bent over near my head and, quickly and deftly, plunged the needle into the nerve center in the back of my neck just below the base of my skull. Soon, blackness enveloped me as I lost consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.

     From here on, I can only relate what Mr. Michaels captured on his camcorder...

     The video started with a close-up of my unconscious face with a serene, almost pleasant, look on it. Looking closely, I could see that I was definitely smiling. Why? Because laying on my belly with my kneebacks facing towards the ceiling, dressed in my soccer shorts and knee socks, was a position that, after meeting Mr. Michaels, I totally relished.

     Then, Mr. Michaels slowly moved the camcorder down the length of my back, stopping when only my kneebacks filled the screen. Suddenly, something else came into the shot. As Mr. Michaels pulled the camera back, I could see that it was the team captain's tongue lovingly licking the smooth skin of my kneebacks.

     One by one, each of my teammates extended their tongues, licking and slobbering upon my tender kneebacks, each smiling as they did so. I must say, they certainly appeared to be enjoying the taste of my meat! And, who could blame them? My kneebacks, as well as my thighs and calves, have developed as I got older. And each time I laid face down upon my bed, glancing at the reflection of my kneebacks in a mirror, I could see that my kneebacks obtained their full, meaty adulthood early.

     As I watched the video, contentedly smiling, the camera appeared to have been jostled...yet still remained focused on my kneebacks. Soon, I found out why. Mr. Michaels handed the camera over to one of my teammates in order to partake in the pleasure of extoling his own brand of "punishment" upon my kneebacks. Looking at the camera and opening his mouth wide, Mr. Michaels placed his upper teeth upon the soft, tender meat of my kneebacks. Then, forcing his mouth down, he ran his teeth along my kneebacks, leaving red welts on the sweet meat. To finish his punishment, Mr. Michaels puckered his lips on the direct center of each kneeback and, as he inhaled deeply, produced two dark red hickies which, because of their proximity to certain blood vessels just below the skin, would remain visible on my kneebacks for days.

     As I continued to watch, I smacked my lips. Then suddenly, a smooth, white liquid pulsated onto my very kneebacks.

As the camcorder was pulled back, I could see that it was sweet cum that Mr. Michaels was vigorously ejaculating from his manly penis. He moved his penis back and forth, drenching my meat with his smooth, white cream. As the last of his cum petered out from his penis onto my kneebacks, Mr. Michaels exalted in the fine itch, giving a loud "Ahhhh" and smiling as he turned away from the camcorder, replaced his penis back inside his briefs and zipped up his coach shorts, stiffening his kneebacks.

     Then, the camcorder was jostled once again as it was moved in a tight close-up of my kneebacks. As I watched, Mr. Michaels's ejected cum glistened upon my meat, rolling down the sides and drenching the towels upon which my beautiful knees were placed. Then, the camcorder was pulled back to show the entire team standing behind the bench, smiling...and occasionally glancing down to gaze at my cum-soaked kneebacks. Then, the focus of the camcorder turned to show a close-up of Mr. Michaels announcing "The End" to the video.

     As I turned off my VCR, I chanced to glance at the time on the face of the machine. The tape lasted the full two hours in Standard Mode. I held the tape and looked at the face. There, in the dead Mr. Michaels's own handwriting was written the tape's title upon the label: BLAZE'S KNEEBACK PARTY.

     As I replaced the tape within the box, I smiled.

THE SOCCER PLEDGE



     David was everything that any young woman would have died for.

     He was seventeen, handsome and well-built, with the body of a Greek god. He was also extremely athletic, participating in sports of all kinds. However, the sports that were his favorites were the ones that had the young ladies who visited his private boys' school drooling. You see, David excelled mostly in sports that involved bare legs...tennis, swimming, diving and, most of all, soccer.

     After dressing for a game in his long-sleeved team jersey, dark blue knee-length shorts, dark blue knee socks and shoes, David would stand before the full-length mirror in the locker room, admiring his reflection.

     "Come on, Dave!" yelled Jim, his best friend and fellow teammate. "The game's getting ready to start!"

     "Coming!" David replied, grabbing the team ball as well as a last look at his reflection. Then, he turned to look at Jim and the team captain. Suddenly, a somber look came over his face. "Guys, I know we never lost a game before".

     "You're right about that!" said Mike, the team captain...a tall, handsome young man. "We're the best soccer team in the whole damn state...and we're going for the championship. You're going to take us there!"

     "But, there's always a first time. Anyway...let's make a pledge. If anything happens and we should lose...and, since I'm the goalie and I should be the one responsible for us not getting to the championship...I demand you and the team punish me for it, Mike".

     "What are you talking about?" asked Jim.

     "Look...we're all gay here. There's no doubt about that. We all know how we feel about each other...how we look at each other. Especially when we're in our team uniforms".

     "Get to your demand", Mike said, impatiently, a slight smile on his face.

     "If we should lose the game because of me and get kicked out of the chance to play in the state championship...I want you to punish me in whatever form and by whatever means you choose. Promise me".

     "Our team's never lost a game", Jim said. "What makes you think we will this time?"

     "Promise me!"

     Jim and Mike looked at one another...then at the other team members, who nodded...then turned back to David.

     "We promise", Mike replied.

* * * * * * * * * *

     That night, after the game was over, the team, now dressed in their school uniforms, met under a barely-used section of the bleachers that surrounded the field. Jim looked up at the bottom of the bleachers, in deep thought. Then, a hand touched his shoulder.

     It was Mike. He had a dour look on his face. Jim turned to look at him.

     "Jim, he made us promise", Mike said, glancing upward. "He lost the game for us...so, as the goalie, he had to be punished".

     "Punished, yes!" Jim said. "But, like this?"

     Mike turned back to look at Jim.

     "It was his own words, Jim...in whatever form and by whatever means we choose. The majority ruled for this form and means of punishment. Now, come on...or we'll be late for curfew".

     Jim nodded as Mike led him towards the back of the bleachers and the dormitory. But, before they left the field for the last time until the next school term, all of the team members turned and looked back from where they had just come.

     There was David...seventeen, handsome and well-built, with the body of a Greek god...and still dressed in his soccer uniform. Only now, he was hanging by his neck from one of the tiers of the bleachers...his hands tied behind his back...his head tilted to one side...his swollen, purple tongue visible in his slightly opened mouth...his blue eyes, the whites reddened by burst blood vessels, crossed and glazed over...his body stiff...cold...dead.

     The soccer pledge had been fulfilled.