Freeze frame
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Lashes free porn video
Lashes
By
Arecee
Chapter 0ne
As far back as I could remember, my Mom and I had a ritual when she made
up her face. She would apply mascara to my lashes. I would giggle and
laugh and she would join me in the merriment. There was nothing sexual
about it, nor did she treat me like a girl, it was just our little
thing.
"Mark, honey, you have such beautiful lashes," she would gush.
I would bat my lashes at her and say, "Really Mommy?"
"Honey you make your mother jealous. You have the longest lashes,
they're just beautiful, my pretty, pretty boy."
I'd blush and run to my father and his reaction was to laugh.
"I swear, I think your mother wants a girl," he'd say.
"Daddy, mom's just goofing, that's all."
"I know Mark, come on, let's go play ball."
That's what we did, played ball. I would try to throw, but at three it
didn't go far.
My father and I would play together everyday, teaching me how to kick a
soccer ball properly, throw a baseball with accuracy, pass a football in
a perfect spiral and how to be a real boy. Obviously these lessons went
on for years so my game with Mom really didn't affect me one way or the
other. It was just a game she played with her little boy with long
lashes.
We started camping when I was five. Dad was in his element and couldn't
wait to teach me how to fish. He taught me how to read a stream and
where the fish lived, how to catch the fish and how to clean them. Mom
taught both Dad and me the best way to cook the trout we caught. These
were some of the best years of my life.
As the years passed the frequency of my mother's ritual decreased. When
I was three we would do it almost everyday. By the time I was seven it
was maybe twice a week and at ten twice a month. Being perfectly honest
with myself, I did miss the frequency, but then again I was a boy and I
didn't want to seem too girly.
When I was three there wasn't girly or masculine, it was just mascara
being applied to my lashes, nothing more, but as I grew older I knew
mascara was for girls and not for boys. Funny thing though, my parents
never made the distinction about gender and mascara to me, it was what
it was, a black cream that went on lashes.
I think my knowledge of male and female came from my peers. I was never
a big boy, but as the saying goes, I was tough as nails. Other boys
would tease me for being too skinny and being in the shorter half of my
class, assumed I would be a pushover for bullying.
Bullying was something that took place everyday in every grade in
school. The bullies were always kids from families that didn't pay
enough attention to their children. Some were rich and some were poor,
but they always had a common stream, they starved for attention.
By the time I was in second grade our class bully had done little things
to me almost everyday to instill a wall of fear. The thing is, I didn't
fear, Frank, the bully, but thought he was a jerk. I think the reason
was that I was very confident of myself. My father taught me how to box
when I was four years old and we had sparred for three years. I love my
dad and he loved me, which was why he was raising me as a man.
"It will never hurt you to know how to box, son, and maybe it will come
in handy some day," he said, as we weaved and jabbed.
Dad was always careful not to hurt me, but let me know each punch could
hurt if not blocked properly.
Getting back to Frank, he decided to step up his torment on the smaller
kids in the class, me included. Frank was tall for his age and was
almost a head taller than me. The class had been dismissed for lunch and
most of the kids still brought their lunches and ate outside in the
schoolyard. Frank and his gang of three left after everyone else and
started to run down the line slapping lunches from the students hands,
both boys and girls. My lunch was knocked to the ground and the paper
bag split open, spilling the contents in all directions.
"Hey, why'd you do that?" I yelled.
Frank stopped on a dime and turned to face me.
"What did you say?" he asked, with a growl.
"You knocked my lunch out of my hands and want to know why you did it?"
"Because I can, twerp," he responded, shoving me backwards.
"Don't do that."
"Yeah, you going to make me stop?"
"If I have to."
That was the wrong thing to say. Frank pulled his arm back and let fly
with a punch in my direction. Funny thing about boxing, if you do enough
of it, you can pretty much tell when and where a punch is coming from,
and Frank had a telegraph attached to his right hand. Stepping back from
the punch was easy as was his second try to connect. As his hand sailed
by the second time, I slammed my fist into his stomach and quickly
connected with a left hand to his mouth.
It seemed as though Frank became a statue as the shock and pain became
known to his brain. Tears welled in his eyes before he ran off sobbing.
So much for the big bad bully I sniggered to myself. Frank left me alone
after that, deciding to pick on someone who wouldn't fight back, mainly
girls.
I would watch him bothering some of the other students and glare at him,
which made him pack up his group and move on to the first grade
students. I soon became one of the popular kids in class with both the
boys and girls.
Depending on my mood, I would eat with the boys one day and the girls
the next. When I was with the boys we'd do the usual boy things,
grunting and making fart noises and just be little boys. When I ate with
the girls I would giggle with the best of them. I found I rather like
the feminine part of my personality. I might have been tough as nails,
but I did have a softer side too, one I very much enjoyed.
As the school year progressed my circle of close friends grew to about
four or five of boys and girls. My best boy friends were Jack, Billy,
Stanley, Warren and Theo. The girls were Rebecca, Marcy, Lori, Rachel,
and Cindy.
As time passed Cindy became my best friend, boy or girl and we would
tell everything to each other, even the most intimate of secrets.
During boy time, I was able to spend time with my boy friends and do all
the things boys do, play king of the mountain, tag and war. I would get
dirty with the best of them. When I spent time with the girls, my
activities were different. We would play Jacks, hop scotch, and jump
rope. No I didn't play with dolls, Barbie or other wise. I didn't think
I was a girl nor did I want to be one, or so I thought.
Before I go much farther I should say where I live. My home is in a town
called Colfax, California. Colfax is in the Sierra foothills east of
Sacramento. It's known for being the place where the first stage robbery
took place during the gold rush. To me it's a wonderful place to live as
it's almost like living in the wilderness. The thing that shatters that
thought is that Interstate 80 runs right through the middle of town.
My family lives at the edge of town and my friend Cindy lives three
houses away from me. Jack and Billy live close by but for some reason I
feel closer to Cindy and not because she lives close to me. As I said we
share our closest thoughts and there is many a day we wander the forest
near our homes.
Cindy is my closest friend. I know I already said that, but I want to
make sure you know how close we have become. Cindy is the prettiest girl
I know. She's four inches taller than me, has long blonde hair and the
bluest eyes I've ever seen. I wouldn't say Cindy is a girly girl, but
she's close. She plays sports and is on several teams, soccer and
basketball. She's not an all-star and she plays to please her parents.
Being a small town there isn't much to do, for kids or parents and the
interaction between parents with children in sports drew her parents
like moths to a flame.
Parents watch their children play, but it's more about socializing
rather than watching their kids play a game. Cindy's parents were that
way. I'm not saying they didn't like watching her play, but the parties
with other parents were much easier to attend than watching a bunch of
kids trying to have fun while a parent screams to pass the ball to their
kid.
"I can't wait until I'm too old to play these games," Cindy lamented.
"Aren't you having fun?" I asked.
"Not really. My mom and dad sign me up every year without even asking if
I want to play anymore. I know I'm not a very good player but they say
it's good for me to compete. I'd rather read a book or walk in the
forest. I hate playing soccer."
"You're not that bad."
"Yes I am, and how would you know? Have you ever seen me play?"
"Once."
"When?"
"I think you were seven."
"God Mark, that was three years ago."
"You weren't that bad."
Cindy chuckled at that thought. "God we all were. I could barely kick
the ball. Don't you remember, you were just as bad as me?"
"I guess, but we've both improved. I'm an all-star now, so I'm sure
you're really not all that bad?"
"I am, and I'm not like you. You practice all the time, juggling or what
ever you call it. I have no desire for that and I have other things on
my mind."
"What other things?"
"You know my mom was a model before she married my father. Well, she
wants me to try to be one too, and I really want to try."
"But why?"
"Because it will be something a girl does. I want to feel special at
something, just not sports."
"You'll be very good at it," I responded. "You're the prettiest girl I
know."
"Thank you. You won't be angry if I'm not playing soccer anymore like my
best friend?"
"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't want what you wanted? I love
you Cindy."
We hugged for the third time that day. It wasn't a boy hugging a girl,
but two best friends showing their support for each other.
"Come on," she said, "I want to show you something."
She grabbed my hand and led me through a thicket of small trees and
brush until we reached a small clearing with a stunted oak tree in the
center.
"What?" I asked.
"Just watch," she whispered.
Cindy and I sat in the dry grass at the edge of the clearing. The quiet
stillness drew our attention to the tree in the center of the clearing.
Every sense I had, became more aware of the part of nature we were
witnessing. Subtle aromas of dry leaves and grass permeated the air we
breathed so quietly. Every movement of every leaf drew our watchful
gaze. Finally the moment Cindy had brought me to witness, our reason for
being here, a bird flew into the clearing and landed in the tree, a
piece of dry grass hanging from its beak.
The bird hopped up onto a junction of three branches and deposited the
straw onto a small pile of other debris, fluffed it around and flew off
for another find for her nest.
"She's making a nest," Cindy whispered.
"It's beautiful," I replied, and it was.
We sat mesmerized for the next hour as the tiny bird came and went,
followed by its mate. There was something wonderful and private watching
this ritual with my best friend, not a boy or girl, but two people
loving nature together.
We left the clearing and walked back toward our homes, Cindy and me,
best friends for life. We hadn't said a word for several minutes until
Cindy spoke.
"Do you think Barry Randle is cute?"
"Why?"
"He keeps looking at me and, well, I think he is."
I should mention Cindy had started down her long road of puberty. She
had been growing as of late and her features had softened noticeably,
but I wondered why she would ask me my opinion of another boy. I guess
being a best friend makes one forget about ones sex, but only wants the
opinion her closest friend.
"Yes, I think he is," I opined.
"Oh, good. I was so afraid you might not like him."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, maybe you think someone is cuter or something."
"Cindy, I'm your best friend and all I want is for you to be happy, I
love you."
That gained our fourth hug of the day.
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