Chapter 19 This Little Light of Mine
Little Light of Mine
Matt (or should I call you Mustang?):
Thanks for sending me the pictures of all the people signing my card! It made my day!
You asked what movies I’ve seen lately. None. I’m on house arrest, which is my own fault, I guess. I can’t even close my bedroom door.
My life is boring. The only time I get out of the house is to go grocery shopping with mom or the 3 times a week she takes me to see the counselor. Other than that, the highlight of my day is watching “All My Children” on TV!
About your other questions, I was majoring in Art. I want to be a graphic artist. My favorite color is aubergine.
Please tell me more about soccer! What is a striker?
Thanks for writing.
Adam
Saturday, September 16, 1995
Matt watched Todd roll a black fishnet stocking over his calf, up his creamy thigh, and clip it to a garter belt. Until now “garter belt” had been a term on the periphery of Matt’s vocabulary, vaguely linked to female guile, uninteresting at best, frightening at worst.
Eyeing the contraption as it emerged from Todd’s travel bag—a limp, tentacled thing riddled with hooks and snaps, Matt wished he had never beheld it. Had he been Catholic, he would have made the sign of the cross. He could not imagine that such a contrivance—even on a guy—would arouse him.
But it did, achingly so.
He and Todd were in the Embassy Suites for Paul’s membership interview. Jake and William had arrived a few minutes later. The others should be there soon.
Matt’s ordeal began, ordinarily enough, while he and William sat in the suite’s living area, watching Jake’s and Todd’s wardrobe changes.
Correction: Matt watched Jake and Todd. William watched the muted TV (KOCO 5, the local ABC News affiliate.
Covering the weather. Weather was almost always the top story in Oklahoma.)
Jake stripped off the respectable jeans he had worn on his way to this room, shucked out of his underwear, and wriggled, commando-style, into cut-offs that rode low on his hips, high on his downy thighs.
The cut-offs were a sexy upgrade to the hemmed shorts he had worn for Matt’s interview.
The cutoff’s frayed fringes highlighted Jake’s fine blonde-and-brown hair that, unlike William’s, grew thicker and denser as it neared his sacred grotto.
That got Matt’s blood pumping, erection soon to follow.
Meanwhile, Todd stripped to his underwear, which wasn’t a showstopper on any level.
No tantalizing bulge in the front, no muscled glutes in the rear.
This was the same Todd who had worn the Mouse mask at Matt’s interview, whom Matt had thought too sweet and innocent to fuck.
On the dick meter, plain black thong on a wispy twink barely registered.
Jake donned his blue high tops, began fussing with them, lacing them loosely, teasing out the tongues. Matt had fond memories of those high tops. He’d made Jake keep them on while he fucked him face-down, legs splayed.
Matt’s dick twitched, thickened and stretched a bit—although not enough that William might notice. This was the twelfth day since Matt’s locker room rendezvous with William.
William’s hickey had mostly faded, but still required concealer.
Matt derived a certain pride from his handiwork.
Todd fished the black, lacey garter belt from his bag, wrapped it around his waist, and hooked it in place. Six elastic straps (three per leg), hung like wind chimes, their metal snaps clacking against his thighs.
Matt’s dick flat-lined. It would require defibrillation to restore it to life.
Todd slipped into a men’s white dress shirt, fastened all but the top two buttons. The shirttails concealed his ass and groin. The garter’s insectoid straps hung loosely, like parachute cords. He pulled a red necktie over his dark, curly hair, settling it around his neck like a leash.
Still no signs of life in Matt’s crotch.
Out came the fishnet stockings. Separate things, like calf-high socks, if socks could be sexy.
Starting with each foot, Todd unrolled the stocking, following the curve of the arch, the sharp angle of the heel, upward over the little speedbump of his stretched calf, petering out mid-thigh, where the stocking fastened to the garter’s hanging straps.
Todd’s legs sported the merest dusting of hair, as if his body had appropriated all follicles for the mass of dark curls on his head.
The few hairs that peeked through the stockings’ netting validated his manhood—barely.
More would have tipped the scale into farce, like Bing Crosby in drag in White Christmas.
Matt’s cock roared to life. He folded his hands in his lap to hide it. He might have succeeded in concealing his arousal had Todd not added the black stiletto-heeled Mary Jane pumps. That was just cruel.
“Matty, baby,” Jake cooed. He stared at Matt’s crotch. “What gave you that boner? Sight of my ass? Or Todd’s saloon slut getup?”
Matt felt a hot blush bloom on his cheeks.
Todd laughed, then looked over at Matt’s lap, searching for the boner.
“Never hide your candle,” Todd scolded playfully. “How’s that children’s song go? You know, the one about not hiding your candle under a bushel?”
Jake started singing, holding up a finger to signify a candle.
This little light of mine,
I’m going to let it shine.
Oh, this little light of mine,
I’m going to let it shine.
“That’s it!” Todd enthused. He held up his own finger candle, joined Jake in singing.
Hide it under a bushel? No!
I’m going to let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel? No!
I’m going to let it shine.
Jake and Todd continued singing, repeating the part about not hiding the light, pointing suggestively at Matt’s crotch.
The song reminded Matt of his childhood Sunday school classes, choruses of kids holding their finger candles aloft.
There was a certain sacrilege hearing the song sung by two guys, one in fishnet stockings, the other wearing cutoff jeans that barely covered his ass cheeks.
Never mind that Jake and Todd were conflating dicks and candles.
Matt just hoped they wouldn’t sing the line “Let it shine ‘til Jesus comes…”
William ignored the first three iterations of the song, his eyes glued to the flickering TV. Finally, he turned to Matt. “Dahling, they’re not going to stop until you follow the song’s advice.”
Matt stood shyly. He unsnapped his shorts and pushed them and his boxer briefs down to his thighs, letting his boner spring free, certain that, had he not already sealed his eternal damnation, this would guarantee it. Hopefully, this would end the singing.
Todd and Jake smiled at sight of Matt’s cock.
“One more time!” Jake said. “Everyone sing! ‘This lit—‘”
William held up a hand. “Dahlings, being Methodist, I was thankfully spared from learning this ditty. It explains so much about your denomination. If you insist on singing it, at least tweak the lyrics. They assume not only that all candles are little, but that little is a good thing. You, of all people, know better than that!”
Matt, Jake, and Todd snickered.
“Let’s review our candle sizes,” William said. “There are birthday candles, which, sadly, are little—and don’t do much to light the fire.” He held up a pinky finger by way of illustration.
“Tapers are next,” he continued. “Basically, long birthday candles. Same low-wattage light-wise. The only girth is at the base.”
“Then come pillar candles. Those have varying girths, and range in height from five to seven inches tall. This—” William pointed to Matt’s cock—“is no birthday candle or taper. This is a fine pillar of a candle, at the high end—excuse the pun—of the spectrum.”
Jake jumped in. “And it certainly lit my fire!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Todd petulantly.
Matt blushed again.
William smiled indulgently, motioned for Matt to pull his shorts back up. That part of the lesson was over.
Matt gladly complied.
“The final candle type,” William said, “is not used in your acapella, ditty-singing churches. They are used by Catholics, Presbyterians, and Methodists. Civilized Christians. They are called ‘Paschal Candles.’ They pick up where pillar candles end, and range in height from eight to eleven inches. Beautiful. Nice for the occasional ceremony. Practically speaking, regular use would burn the house down.”