My Baboobaba

My Baboobaba
by Platypus
[email protected]

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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This is a story that needs to be told. For too long, it's been denied or misbegotten. Besides, the man living in the furnished rooms in our basement, in his own little apartment, came to play a major role in the lives of my brother Stefan and me, especially during our early teen years. Neither of us will ever forget him.

It has become very unusual for an extended family member to live with a family. Gone are the days when an uncle or cousin, an aunt or a grandfather, will live with you when you are a child growing up. The older man with long unkempt gray hair and wild eyes who lived in the furnished portion of our basement wasn't our grandpa, or even an uncle.

Stefan was a year younger than me, and he too wondered about the man who lived in our basement. I was eight when I first asked about him. "Who is that man?" My mother was a sturdy woman with piercing eyes and a bowl haircut. "Ask your father, Timothy."

Our father was a gruff man, a human in Billy goat form. "Who is that man who lives in our basement?" I said. "Timothy, he is who he is," Daddy said rather cryptically, then cuffed me on the back of the head. I dared not ask that question very soon again.

Stefan became the guinea pig a few months later. I put him up to it. Although he was only seven, my cute little brother added a twist. "Who is that man who lives in our
basement?" went the question posed to our taciturn father. Before he could answer, Stefan added his own twist. He was a clever child. "Is he a lodger?"

Our father glared twice at my inquisitive brother, but didn't cuff him. "No, he isn't renting the furnished apartment, if that's what you're asking," our father said to my brother, as if to discourage further inquiries.

When I was ten, still wondering why the man lived there and why he possessed his own key to his apartment and to its private entrance, and wasn't a lodger or a boarder, I asked our mother if the man was our grandfather or uncle or in some way related to us. While I scrutinized her bowl haircut, and stared perhaps a bit too long at her, she snapped, "No, he's not related to us! He doesn't pay rent. Ask your father who he is!" she screamed. I was getting bigger now, more aggressive. "I will," I said, determined anew to ask my father. I was also a little bit frightened. There was something about this man that might be sinister. I'd heard of the bogeyman. This man lived in our basement entirely separate from our family. He studiously avoided us, my parents and brother and me. He never appeared at family gatherings. On Christmas and Easter and All Hallows Eve, he kept to himself. It was quiet in his little apartment. Stefan and I often listened with our ear to the keyhole of the door that opened into our basement for any sign or telltale clues of what was going on inside. But the man didn't even have a television or radio or record player, or if he did, we never heard it. The man seemed almost mysterious. We went on with our lives, trying to forget about the curiosity that yet consumed us. My brother and I were normal boys with bowl haircuts like our mother, attending school and playing baseball and football and basketball and avoiding the basement. It was a mystery to our friends as well; both Stefan and I were popular with other kids, since we were blonde and blue-eyed and pleasant to touch and attractive and friendly. We often had friends over for sleepovers – Billy and Bobby and Jason and Justin and Nancy; all of the kids who came to see us asked about the man who lived in our basement, of which we were able to tell them nothing new. Nancy was the reason everything changed one day.

My parents took me and my brother Stefan aside on my 12th birthday, on the morning after a particularly rambunctious sleepover. We were properly contrite, as all of us boys, including our friends, had taken turns with Nancy, who was a little slut, but that didn't matter, as Stefan and I knew that we had been too rambunctious for our own good, and especially poor Nancy's, good. We were learning about sex, but already Nancy's mother complained that her daughter had been raped, and we might be heading for a bad boy's home, a reformatory.

Our mother with her bowl haircut peered down toward our gaze, told us that the police might be called in, but that we had a choice.

Our father uncharacteristically regarded us with a more sympathetic gaze, possibly considering the misbehaviors of his own misbegotten childhood, but those particulars we were never told explicitly.

"Your mother and I think it's time for both of you to start spending time in the basement with our resident in his apartment. It's time you both discovered his role in our family."

"Who the heck is he anyway?" Stefan blurted. At age eleven, he hadn't learned to be cautious. I cringed.

This time, our more patient father answered the question we both had been curious about and suppressed our desire to know about. It was amazing that he answered the freaking all-consuming question. I was a little angered at and jealous of Stefan at that moment, but let my feelings subside like pee down a drain.

"He is," our curt and usually stern father announced dramatically, "your Baboobaba."

"Our what?" I managed with a measure of impertinence commonly exhibited by all twelve-year-olds when faced with such a bizarre terminology, and so our father repeated the odd phrase with an even greater emphasis.

"Your Baboobaba." He said again.
*

My brother and I knocked on the basement dweller's apartment door that same evening, right after supper. I knocked first, three loud knocks hard enough to hurt my knuckles. Stefan's knocks followed almost immediately, but were more timid, as I later teased him; they were "baby" knocks. He tended to use the heel of his palm when he knocked, so as to avoid using his knuckles. We waited, unsure of what to do. We were just about to go back upstairs for some dessert, when HE opened the door. His unkempt shock of grayish hair and equally wild eyes gave me the chills. Stefan seemed terrified, but somehow remained anchored in place. "Come in," the strange man said in a quiet voice that seemed almost sad. "I'd been expecting you," he added.

Dressed in our striped polo shirts, mine red-and-white, his blue-and-white, Bermuda shorts and sneakers with white athletic socks, we were similarly attired. We let ourselves in, or our curiosity propelled our feet forward, or a mixture of the two. Our eyes filled with wonderment as we took in the scene, and described what we saw to our juvenile minds, musing and peering all the while.

His apartment consisted of three rooms, if you counted the bathroom. We'd opened into the parlor-kitchen combination, and our "baboobaba's" bedroom was plainly visible off to the left. The parlor's furniture included a beige-patterned couch and a glass-topped coffee table upon which were placed a number of peculiar if intriguing photo books. All of them featured a common theme: boys. Titles immediately catching our gazes were colorful. The Boy: A Photographic Essay had a boy of about our age on the cover who was naked standing on some rocks by the ocean; another called Boys Will Be Boys featured more naked boys.

"Those are from the Sixties," our host said, matter-of-factly, as if the books were more decent somehow, like a Hardy Boys mystery or maybe Booth Tarrington's classic Penrod and Sam, which was my favorite. There was something vaguely lewd about a boy showing off his body to an adult man, even if we hoped and expected girls to strip for us like Nancy had. But those boys on the cover of those books, and others beside them atop the coffee table's immaculate glass, smelling of ammonia as if it had just been sprayed with Windex, were in fact nudes. Stefan and I suddenly felt embarrassed, and shy about our bodies.

This intimate stranger living in our basement, our Baboobaba if you will, wasn't helping matters. He seemed to be leering at us, both my brother and me, as if he wanted us to strip off our clothes and become nude like those boys in the picture books.

"Were you sent to see me?" he asked sweetly.

"Yes," Stefan said.

"So, let me see you, both of you."

I was naïve. "How can you not see us? You're right here with us."

"Of course, but I need to see all of you. You must take off your clothes."

"Will you examine us like a doctor?" I was still naïve.

I was dallying and getting a little sweaty, especially when I noticed a picture of two boys licking each other, on the apartment's wall, in plain sight. They were also about our age, and naked. But mostly where they were licking caused me to stare a little too long. They were licking each others privates!

"Not exactly like a doctor," our resident living in our basement said. "Hurry up," he repeated his earlier instruction. "Strip."

Stefan was the obedient type, especially if an adult was ordering him to do something. I nearly jumped out of my pants when I saw my eleven-year-old brother start stripping. First, he removed his shoes, then his socks, then his shirt, pants, and tighty whities. We all wore tighty whities in those days. Stefan was naked as a jaybird.

"Go into the bedroom and hop onto my bed, lying on your back, boy, so your Baboobaba can inspect your body for the very first time. Make your penis hard with your hand if you know how so that you'll be presentable to me.

Now this last instruction embarrassed Stefan although I was beginning to think he was beyond humiliation. "I d-don't know how," he admitted.

Our Baboobaba looked at Stefan sternly for a second, but then softened. "Okay, I will show you how boy, this one time. Go and lie on my bed with your penis soft."

"Yes sir," Stefan said.

The disheveled man peered at me again. He squinted a little in the room's light, a bit too harsh. "Will I have to tell you again, or do you wish to be expelled from your Baboobaba's presence? Hurry up, get those clothes off!"

I was only twelve, but I didn't want to be left out. Uncertain what to do that first time, I was close to tears. But I started to undress. I removed each sneaker, each cotton athletic sock, and then my shirt, pants, and Fruit of the Looms. I was now naked too.

"There, was that so difficult? Go and lie down on your back on my bed. And make yourself hard. Do you know how to make your penis hard?"

I did. I'd already begun practicing from when I'd fucked Nancy. That was the reason we were both HERE to see HIM. "Yes," I said.

I scampered over onto the bed to join my naked brother. I bounced onto the bed, suddenly for no reason I could immediately fathom, and became more enthusiastic. In about thirty seconds I lay on the bed on my back with a very impressive hard-on. Meanwhile, our Baboobaba was occupying himself in the kitchen with a cup of tea which had steeped on the gas stove. He must have poured it and drank it, wetting his whistle, as my parents liked to say when anybody quenched their thirst, taking any kind of beverage.

Stefan and I waited patiently as we'd been instructed, on the bed. We gave each other wary looks.

A moment later, our Baboobaba entered his bedroom. He first looked us each over from head to toes. "You are both nice boys," he said, "I'm proud to be your Baboobaba." He took a deep breath, and then waited to exhale. "Let's begin," he said.

*
That first night was just an inspection. He inspected everywhere, including between each of our twenty toes, and when we obediently turned over, he checked inside our butt-holes and probed us in our "prostates" and inside our anal cavities, with one, two, and finally three fingers which hurt a little. "You have nice cavities," our Baboobaba remarked.

"The dentist said I didn't have any cavities," Stefan objected.

"I wasn't talking about your teeth," the intimate stranger who resided in our basement said.

That first time with our Baboobaba, both of us were naïve and had no idea what he meant. We were to learn what our anal cavities were in subsequent sessions, and especially about the many pleasurable and sometimes painful uses that those once secret places could be put to.

Soon enough, the initial session was near its end.

"Alright, both of you come and see your Baboobaba in three days," he said.

For the rest of that year, and for the next, and the next, I went to visit my Baboobaba at least every three days, and sometimes more frequently if I was feeling like a "little horny dog" as my father called me in those days. Stefan's time with the man we both came to treasure and love lasted an additional year.

The sex was exciting with our Baboobaba; he gave the best blowjobs! Never has anyone tongued my asshole as delicately or pleasantly at anytime since. Stefan was always a little embarrassed to discuss what happened between himself and the disheveled resident of our basement. "It's private," he would insist, but I was more open about the relationship. On more than one occasion, boys at my middle school would quietly approach me and we'd compare notes, as they had their own personal Baboobabas too!

My parents were pleased that my grades were suddenly excellent, and that I never brought further shame or disgrace to our household, as Stefan and I had with the Nancy episode.

My Baboobaba was more an integral part of our family now. He would joke with my parents about our sexual proclivities and particular talents, and both of them would laugh, totally accepting of the sacred tradition that had gone back in our family for more than seven centuries. Stefan eventually developed a longer penis but mine was always larger in girth, and still is to this day. Penis sizes were biological and hereditary though, and had absolutely nothing to do with our Baboobaba's gentle administrations.

When Stefan and I were at the dinner table in our mid-teens after we'd both outgrown our Baboobaba and were starting to date girls, in my case, and boys, in Stefan's case, as he turned out to be primarily homosexual, we would both exchange meaningful looks with our "Boo" which became our pet name for him, and increasingly intelligent conversation as our reading proclivities began competing with and eventually surpassing our sexual ones.

I'm married now to my Becky, and we have three boys. Rick, Tom, and Quinn are 10, 11, and 12 already. But we have an empty room in our finished basement. It's not being put to use. Tomorrow I will tell Becky about why I am so well adjusted and as she constantly is bragging to her friends at work and where else she might meet other couples like us. We have had a nearly perfect marriage. We never fight or argue. She doesn't know why and naively is content to count her blessings. Tomorrow she will find out my secret. Tomorrow.

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