Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 02

Uncle Ron regarded me for several moments, looking hard at me. What I mean is, he didn't finish up by smiling, or gesturing, or otherwise terminating his words with some little mitigating adjustment that people use to soften or uplift their statement. His face remained shrewd, even, serious. I felt myself kind of wither, shrink a little. He was just so substantial, so paternally assertive, and I felt his authority taking control. While he looked at me, I felt my face grow warm again; those self-conscious feelings, the way he saw right inside me, I felt exposed and embarrassed. I looked down, and I knew he would keep going, and I would keep answering him. And to him.

And his eyes. The way they looked at me.

Uncle Ron eyes were telling me he knew other things about me, secret things, things I wasn't sure about, things I might not even know about yet myself. And I was thinking he was right, but I couldn't say it. I looked down, bashful, ashamed, and pressed my lips together to cope with the feelings.

"I thought so," he said softly. And now he smiled. But it was a flat smile. A smile that said, when you look down, when you lower your eyes, honey, I know you're getting the message.

After another swallow of his beer, he changed the subject.

"Let's talk about something else," he said. And he leaned back in his seat, sprawling a little, displaying his comfort and leisure, a masculine and demonstrative posture. I was still looking down at my plate, glancing up a little now and then without moving my head much.

"Sit up straight, son. I want to be sure you're listening. Listen good, hear me good, son. This part, I'm especially interested in hearing."

I sat up. I pushed my plate away and took a nervous sip of my soft drink. Now what?    He waited a few moments, while I jittered a little, nervous to talk about something Uncle Ron, quirky    Uncle Ron, might be especially interested in.

He smiled again, relaxing further, as I got a little more antsy, waiting. He was drawing this out a little too much.

"Hmm. Calm down, son. But listen well. And know this, I'll be listening well to you."    He sipped his beer, put the mug back on the table, and looked evenly at me. I nodded and waited.

"When I went out, and you were alone, in my home," he said. "I was out for nearly an hour, son. What did you do while I was out?"

Why wasn't I expecting this? His question caught me by surprise. And I think he intended that. I stared at my plate. I felt his eyes. But I didn't look up. I couldn't. But his eyes. It felt like they were heating my face, like a heat lamp. I knew my face was getting red, I was ashamed.

He grunted. Or it might have been a dry, mirthless chuckle. I pressed my lips together, to try to keep them from moving, from betraying the nervousness and shame that my blushing face was already giving away.

"I see," Uncle Ron said. His voice was flat again, but contained a slight rumble of judgement, of sternness.

"Son?" he said. He waited. He was expecting an answer. An inside turmoil froze me. I took a deep breath, whether to reply, or just to oxygenate my frazzled nervous system, I wasn't really sure. I still didn't look up.

"Son!"    Louder now, but insisting. I glanced up at his piercing gaze and felt my shoulders tremble. "Son, do you want me to raise my voice, here?" he said, in a medium voice, but rising at the end. He gestured with his shoulders, at the room, the voices, the people surrounding us. "Do you want me to embarrass you, son?"   

I looked around. The other parties were mostly involved in their own table talk, eating, drinking. A couple tables away though, I saw a woman I had noticed earlier, who had made brief, ordinary eye contact, and now she seemed to be watching us, nonchalantly glancing at us now and then, and somehow I just knew she had more sensitive antennae than any of the others around us. She would notice if Uncle Ron raised his voice.

"No, sir," I said, but weakly. "Please..."

"Then look at me, son," Uncle Ron said, keeping his voice moderate, but with that low male rumble that said he meant business.

I drew in a breath, and lifted my face, and tried to look at him. My eyes wouldn't quite steady, but I think it was just adequate to satisfy him.

"That's better, son," Uncle Ron said. He sat up, leaning over the table, over his plate. He shoved it out of his way and put his elbows on the table, and gestured with two fingers of his right hand, a quick and casual beckoning, to me. Signaling me to listen well. I swallowed, but my mouth and my throat were dry. I leaned forward, just slightly. I grasped my drink glass but didn't sip it. It was something to hold on to.

He spoke very low, now. It wasn't a whisper, but his voice grew quiet, and serious. "When we get back home," he said, "you are going to tell me."

I looked at his face. That smile. His fingers emphasizing. My eyes darted down, and for some reason, lifted and looked around quickly. That woman was watching us. I knew she probably couldn't hear our conversation, but it felt like she was watching, and somehow understanding, our little drama. I felt my face redden again, very hot and ashamed this time, because she seemed very engaged, in her casual way, reading our body language. She knew I was getting lectured to, and it amused her.

"When we get home, we'll have a little review, and find out what you did while I was out, okay son?"

I knew I was nodding and I thought I had answered with a quiet yes but I must have been distracted by the feelings, the fear, the twisting of the truth inside me, the butterflies there when thinking of what Uncle Ron was saying, what he meant. And what he was going to do when we got home. And lingering in my mind, like a faintly glowing reminder, the little knowing smile (probably just my paranoia) of the mom-aged woman two tables over, her smile and gleaming dark eyes teasing me just like Tessa's had.

But then I realized that I hadn't answered him, because Uncle Ron had suddenly leaned in, and grasped my wrist.

"Answer me, son," he said, a little louder, gripping my wrist firmly. It didn't hurt, but it made me gasp just the same.

"Yes sir, yes."    Caught by surprise like that, my voice had a touch of high squeal in it. It embarrassed me. I didn't look up at Uncle Ron, I couldn't, but something made me finally look around. I finally snuck a little glance over at that other table, expecting to feel her laughing eyes on me, but the woman was busy in her own conversation.

Ron chuckled drily. He released my wrist and pushed his chair back a few inches. He finished the last of his beer.

"Let's get going," he said. "We can talk about it in the car."

Again, as we left the restaurant, and crossed the parking lot to his car, I could feel his eyes on me. He had maneuvered a little, hesitating to pick up a couple of after dinner mints as we departed, so could watch me, following me to the car. Again, it was clear he liked the advantage of watching me, studying my body language, keeping me a few feet in front of him, seeing me move and noticing my self-consciousness. And the more he watched, the more I felt it, and I felt anything but graceful as I felt his eyes on me from behind.

But as we got into the car, him behind the wheel and me on the passenger side, getting comfortable, checking his mirrors and me buckling in and whatnot, he didn't start the car right away. After putting the key in the ignition, he paused, and he seemed to be looking me over, watching me getting settled. Uncle Ron was relaxing with himself, in his accustomed manner, after a satisfying meal. He lounged back a little in the driver's seat, settling his hips and sprawling his legs out a little. And I couldn't help noticing as he adjusted himself a little bit, sprawling and shifting his hips, that his hand touched his crotch, but lightly. He lifted his hips again to adjust, cupping himself over his pants, arranging his manhood for the drive.

I found myself turning my head slowly so that I didn't seem to be watching him. I was trying to stay so neutral, keep my face blank, like I hadn't noticed him touching his crotch. But without wanting to I did quickly glance over. I don't know though, it was a confused thing, twisting in my mind, I didn't want him to think I would be looking at a man that way, but I felt selfconscious about it, like if I didn't look at all, that would be weird, too. As it ended up, competing confusions resulted in my watching my uncle adjust himself in his pants. And when I glanced up, caught his eye, I saw that he had seen me.

He looked back at me with his eyes steady, his mouth even and nonexpressive. He didn't shift his eyes when mine caught his. I tried for a fraction of a second to hold on his eyes, but I caught a feeling, as he gazed into me, that he just knew everything. That even though this was impossible, somehow in the way he looked at me, and the way his smile curled up slightly, and his casual masculine sprawl, that these were all signals of his intimate knowledge about me. And somehow, even the way the fingers of his right hand rested on his right thigh, curling in toward his manhood, as if showing me where to look.

My eyes dropped from his, and yes, I found that I was looking at his hand, his curled fingers, and the slight bulging fly those casual fingers seemed to be pointing to. I felt my face growing warm. I pulled my gaze back, taking a long breath, and I looked forward, out the windshield, and fidgeted in the seat. I felt awkward, and embarrassed.

Uncle Ron nodded. He let the moment pass. I kept staring forward, but with the corner of my eye I did notice as Uncle Ron shifted his hips again, and briefly touched himself again, adjusting his khakis, his male comfort.

"Have you masturbated lately, son?" Uncle Ron asked abruptly.

"What? Um, no, I..." my voice trailed off.

"You haven't?" he persisted.

"No sir, uh..." I stammered. I squirmed, feeling his eyes on me. I didn't know where he was going with this. And wherever that was, I felt so invaded, like this was too personal, and rather raw in my own emotions, to be thinking about it, or discussing this...private thing with him.

He touched himself again, but reflexively, not self-consciously, as if touching his own genitals casually through his clothing was simply a gesture relevant to this subject matter.

"You didn't play with yourself when I was out, son?" he asked, making his voice lower and quieter, as if this somehow made the subject more discreet.

I looked out the window of the car. The window of the SUV parked in the next spot was half opened, and I could see an air freshener, in the shape of a ripe orange, dangling from the rearview mirror. It twisted slowly, touched by a light breeze. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry again, so I concentrated on my breathing. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I shook my head without speaking, because I didn't want to have this conversation. I was getting more nervous again, but I could also tell that Uncle Ron was unwavering. His body language was hovering, stifling, dominant and masculine, and I found myself shrinking from it. I felt the armrest of the passenger door against my ribcage.

"Mnn hmm," Uncle Ron said. It was kind of a double grunt, with a bit of assertive amusement, kind of a chuckle built into it. "I think, son, we'll be a little more...talkative about some of these...items, when we get home. A man needs to know what is going on in his home. It's a man's responsibility. And while you're living in my home, you're my responsibility as well."

I looked at him. He gazed at me, still not moving, still not moderating his expression or the intensity of his eyes.

I looked down at my knees, my shorts, my self. My hands gripped above both my knees, tensely. I inhaled another emotional breath and let it back out.

"Understood?"    Uncle Ron said.

"Understood," I mumbled.

He grunted, which seemed to indicate some...dissatisfaction with my answer. But he started the car.

After we cleared the parking lot, and got onto the main highway, Uncle Ron resumed his seeming randomness, starting a new subject, of course.

"So, Jamey, what about the woman back there?"

I was trying to have a few calming moments. Watching the little strip malls pass by, manicurists and carpet showrooms, and a little pizza shop in nearly every little cluster. I tried to let the hypnosis of everyday commerce work its dulling magic on my heightened nerves.

And yet, I knew what he meant. The woman back at the restaurant. I had looked at her, and she had looked at me. At us. There had been some curiosity there, perhaps on both sides. Though not young, her looks and style indicated a brunette attractiveness and sophisticated intelligence, as well as confidence. Simple, but pretty, hair. Feminine but not trashy clothes and accessories.

Apparently, Ron had noticed her too. Or, noticed me noticing her, or her noticing us. Maybe not so much me.

But wherever Ron was going with this, I wasn't having it. I didn't want to talk about women, or sex, anymore. I was worn out.

Uncle Ron wasn't done digging. Worrying at me like an alpha dog on a scraped-clean bone.

"What woman?" I said.

"I saw you look at her. She smiled at you, didn't she?"   

I felt the embarrassment rise again, from a whole new direction. Ron too saw it.

"Yes. I thought so. You had a little eye-contact thing going there, didn't you son?"

"People look at each other in restaurants."

"Oh yes, sure they do."   

As Ron drove, he would watch the road, but glance over at me, for my reaction, from time to time. He was still so casual, comfortable, in his manly way, steering with his left hand. His right hand was perched on his right thigh. I glanced at him too sometimes but mostly when his attention was more on driving.

He looked over at me and readjusted a little in his seat. The corner of my eye noticed. It also noticed his right hand sliding a little, his fingertips moving an inch further in over the top of his thigh. "She's a little old for you, son," he said, his tone full-on that of an advising uncle. I felt my knees press together, trying to keep my body still as he continued to say things. Things I had feelings about. Things designed to make me feel...something.

Uncle Ron didn't comment on my reaction, if he noticed it. He attended to the road for a sharp turn, and then we were on a road sparsely occupied, and he relaxed again. His hand slid further toward his crotch. And though I wasn't looking, I couldn't help seeing it in the corner of my eye. I tried to keep my breathing slow.

"Close to your mom's age, don't you think?" Uncle Ron commented.

Now I felt myself blushing, fully. Why?

"Yes, that's right! I thought so! I saw the way you looked at her, when you got nervous. And her mothering look. I saw that, too, son."

Uncle Ron's sprawl shifted and opened a little; he could relax a bit more with less traffic. His hand casually drifted over his khaki fly, and did a quick, casual adjustment to what was there inside his pants, as he continued to talk to me. He was adjusting his penis while he talked about--thought about--an attractive woman.

"When you looked at her, it was the same sort of look you gave your mom. Were you thinking about your mom, sonny?"

When I didn't answer, he leaned over, crowding me into the passenger door. I shrunk away. I looked out the window, but Uncle Ron shifted his right hand from his thigh to my left knee. He grasped it hard. Startled, I made a little shriek.

"Don't be so damn nervous, son," Uncle Ron said. "Just answer the question."

"Yes, Uncle Ron. Oh please stop. I was thinking about my mom, she reminded me of her."

"You miss her already. I know, son. Was that who you called today, in my kitchen?    Did you call your mommy?"

He squeezed my knee again, and I took a quick look at Ron's face, expecting to see a smirk. But he was watching the road, and I squirmed a little and I think I would have moaned, but I managed to stifle most of it.

"Yes, Uncle Ron. I had to call her. I had do ask her about..."

"Yeah, I know, son. The bathing suit. Enough already." He pushed my knee, letting it go. He was tired of hearing about it.

There was a long, tense moment. When Uncle Ron spoke again, it was softly. He took the edge off his voice, and I think it was meant to relax me.

"And I'm sure she told you she packed it for you. And you told her you couldn't find it. Poor Jamey couldn't find his orange bathing suit."

"Yes, Uncle Ron. She was sure!"

"And did you tell her...about how we managed?    How we improvised?"

I twitched. I squirmed and shook my head and tried to catch my breath. "No!"

"Oh. I see. You kept that part a secret. Your cousin Sheila's tennis bloomers, they worked. They were fine, son."

I shivered, remembering, and tried not to shiver and squirm, and looked out the window. I remembered, a flash of memory, of just before we went to the pool, me standing between his knees in nothing but my t-shirt, of Uncle Ron pulling her panties up over my hips, snugging them up roughly across my balls and my penis, and feeling the snap when he let go the stretchy elastic. Feeling it and hearing it, rubbing it all in a little more.

"You kept that part to yourself? Didn't tell Mommy? Probably for the best, eh son?" He chuckled. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks again. I covered my mouth; I didn't want my emotions to squeak out. I wanted to stop hearing it, stop hearing what he said, stop thinking about what he kept focusing in on.

"You didn't tell her about your whining behavior?"

"No sir."

Uncle Ron nodded. I was feeling very anxious. I could feel the next question coming.

"Did you tell mom about getting spanked, son?" I felt myself collapsing, shrinking into my seat, embarrassed, ashamed. I felt his eyes, observing, noting, watching me, his probing mind collecting the observations, filing them away, noting my sensitivities, my weaknesses.

"Nooo," I whined.

"Why not, hon?"

"I don't want her to know."

"So, you do keep some little...secrets from mommy?"

"All boys have secrets."

I glanced up, and saw a wide smile spread across Uncle Ron's face, and his eyes locked onto mine. It felt like his eyes were looking inside me, finding my boy secrets, one by one, and turning them over, examining them, evaluating them.

"Yes," he said, continuing to regard me, and with a slow, repeated nod. "Yes they do. Yes they do. Girls too." He chuckled, and I could tell he was thinking of his daughters. For some reason that realization set up an emotional cross current, a twisty confusion that felt both disturbing and oddly enervating.

I realized that we were nearly back at Uncle Ron's home. I sat up a little, and as Ron turned the car quickly into his driveway, the sudden motion swayed me from the door, and I leaned into and against Uncle Ron. He steadied me, a hand on my shoulder, as we pulled to a stop, and parked.

It was quiet, we were closed into the car, isolating us from the sounds of the neighborhood, the pool, the other residents. The engine and tires still made little ticking and tapping sounds as the metal settled and cooled.

"Look at me, son," Uncle Ron said. I just wanted to get out of the car. My hand was on the door lever. I looked at Uncle Ron.

"I have another question to ask you, Jamey."

I looked down at my knees, and twitched a little.

"I said, look at me."    I pressed my lips together, and I looked at Uncle Ron's face. It was flat, neutral again. Eyes steady. But around his mouth, a tightness indicated intensity, and curiosity. I tried to look at his forehead, so I didn't have to see his eyes.