Hayes, Ben, don't turn around.
I'll take your kisses a whole lot longer.
Way past one minute, so they get into your heart.
Then we can start to make friends better.
I suck at poems, and that one doesn't even rhyme. I hope you can tell which song it's supposed to go with.
Hey Ben,
I read your letter, the one you wrote to Mr. Zachyboy at that nifty story place. He didn't show your address, so I sent this message to him and asked him to send it to you.
My name is Danny O'Brien. I'm in 8th grade, but I'm not fourteen yet. When I read your message, it made me kind of glad and kind of sad too. It made me glad because you're smart enough to explain to Mr. Zachyboy why big and rough isn't what every boy wants. But it made me sad because you have to take it hard and mean to be with a boy.
Hayes, Ben, I want to be your friend. I wish we could have something like an exchange program, so kids could go to another school for a while. I wish you would come to my school.
I would take you out after school and show you how to find the old treehouse. I mean the really big one, way back in the woods, so far from the road that the older kids, once they get their driver license, never go there again.
Hayes, Ben, I like kisses. I want all your kisses. I want to keep kissing you so long our lips get all puffy and you know my braces as well as I do myself, and we're all out of breath from sucking face instead of breathing.
In case you're wondering why I keeping calling you Hayes, Ben, instead of Ben Hayes, or just Ben, it's because of my PE teacher. He likes to call us boys by our last names, but in my PE class, there are three boys with the last name "Smith" and two with the last name "Jones" and so he has to use first names besides anyway. So a lot of us boys at school kind of imitate him and call each other by last name, first name all the time. I don't think he likes it, but it's too late now.
Hayes, Ben, I like smart boys. I'm not good at school. I'm not dumb, just not good at school. Other kids help me, other boys, smart boys, boys with big lexicons (I learned that word from you). I don't hate them for being smarter than me, I need their help. If I didn't get their help, I would be the biggest kid in fifth grade.
We should catch our breath, in the treehouse, after the face sucking. We should take off our shirts. You could try to count my freckles and I could see if you are still smooth under your arms, like me. I could try to figure out if you put on deodorant after PE. I don't. I only put it on in the morning, before school, because my mom says I smell "goaty". I never smelled a real goat, but if they smell like boys, I could be a goat herder and like it.
Hayes, Ben, I'm not a big, dumb jock. I'm not the biggest boy in 8th grade. Heck, about half the boys in 7th are bigger than me, and I mean bigger in every way. I see them in the showers after PE, so I know what I'm talking about.
I'm not even a normal jock. I suck at every sport that has "ball" in its name. I do triathlons. If you looked at me without my shirt, the only thing you might notice about me is that I'm lean.
Hayes, Ben, in the treehouse, after we take off our shirts, we should take off all of our clothes. I want to see you, all of you. Different is good. Same is good. I like all the differences and all the samenesses. Boys are fun, boys are best. We can be boys together and look at and smell of and touch each other.
I want to use my hands and my feet and my mouth to be a boy with you. All the touching, and the feels in our hearts.
I have to hide my gay from my dad, it would break his heart. He needs for me to be his alter-ego, his replay, the young stud he didn't get to be because he blew out his knee sophomore year in high school. I don't have to hide my gay from you.
Hayes, Ben, we should rub our same differences together, boy vs boy, until we make a shared puddle, two boy spooges on someone's belly. I think you might want to be on the bottom, so it would be your belly, probably. It's okay, there is a mattress at the treehouse. It's kinda new, it's not too gross yet.
We could stop there. That's where I am with my Kevin friend. He is smart and curious. He's not sure if he likes girls or boys or both. He's only almost eleven so he doesn't help with the puddle.
Hayes, Ben, I think you know more than me. More than me and Kevin. You might like the butt stuff, only better if it wasn't so hard and fast and mean.
I never did the butt stuff, not with Kevin, or anyone. I lie to my dad about being gay. I lie to myself also. I tell myself this lie: If I don't do the butt stuff, I'm not gay. I'm just playing, just messing around. It's not for real.
Ben, if you want to do the butt stuff, if you really like it, I will be gay with you. I will stop lying to myself.
Hayes, Ben, I would go slow, take it easy, and be careful. We could use stuff more slippery than my spit. You would have to tell me how to do it. I would do what you said.
I would stir you. I don't even know what that means, Ben, but if you teach me, I will do it. Ben, I would push deep inside you and stir so you see colors, just tell me how.
Ben, I cannot lie. If I am in your butt, and I get too close to my own cum, I might go all rabbit-fast, boy-crazy, fuck-pumping fool on you. I'm sorry. I bet I'm pokey sharp, like Howie. I'm sorry in advance, but I know I'm a boy and when I get too close nothing else matters, I just gotta have my cum.
But Hayes, Ben, after I'm done, I won't just pull out and wipe my dick on your T-shirt and walk away like Howie Slater. I would stay in you, Ben, hold you close, smell your hair, kiss the sweaty place on the back of your neck. I would hug you and hold you and whisper the L word in your ear.
Love is too complicated for thirteen year old boys, but Ben, please let me lie next to you. Please let me whisper Love in your ear, after I've had my cum, after you've had yours. Can we pretend, please, while we work out the details?
Na,
Nah nah,
Na na na nah,
Na na na nah,
Hayes, Ben.
Love?
Danny O'Brien
