Innocence Lost Paradise Found Ch. 01 by Brunosden
Explore passion and desire in 'Innocence Lost, Paradise Found Ch. 01,' a captivating gay erotic sex story that delves into forbidden love and unforgettable encounters. Join the journey of self-discovery and sensual awakening in this enticing tale. Read now!<br/>
Andre and Finn meet at the water hole
This story is set in rural Massachusetts at the very end of the Age of American Innocence. The Great Depression was theoretically winding down–although most had yet to feel the difference. Roosevelt was President. The New Deal was in full throttle. US participation in “Europe’s War” was still in the distance. All of that would change the US tremendously in the next five years. But, Americans were still enjoying their innocence–although they didn’t realize it. All characters engaging in sexual activity are over 18. This chapter is a slow burn. The story is based on real life–the story of a great uncle who disclosed the outline much later in life when he came out. Unfortunately, for him, I’ve changed the ending. I’ve also tried to capture the literary style of the period. BD
The summer of 1940 was blistering hot in the US. Everywhere. Even in New England where primitive air-conditioning was mostly confined to the larger cities and the wealthier suburbs. There were only a few cool spots in the small western Mass town of Noubois: the doctor’s and dentist’s offices, the “new” grocery store, the pharmacy (which had one of the old-fashioned soda bars) and the water in the swimming hole (named French’s Pond), fed by cool underground springs and a waterfall which carried water run-off from nearby Mt. Ste. Marie and the summer rains. The rest of the small wooden homes in town and the nearby larger farm houses were not, and thus they were very warm, often very warm.
It was mid-August and throughout the day and night, the low hum-buzz of fans could be heard for miles. All the awnings were down; all the curtains were pulled; all the windows were religiously opened to the cool side and shut to the sun. Those who were not required in the fields or the kitchens could be seen rocking on the wide L-shaped porches that adorned most of the Victorian-style homes. Sipping lemonade. (Not beer or anything alcoholic: Noubois was dry.) Everyone prayed for the late afternoon thunderstorms which brought some relief.
The town was nevertheless busier than normal. There were signs the Great Depression was ending, thanks in part to mobilization for war, but the ranks of the “regular” population were still swollen by refugees from the cities with the promise of farm work and food. Almost every family had taken in “cousins” or was rooming farm-laborer-renters.
Noubois, re-founded seventy years earlier by French-speaking settlers from Canada, was, perhaps for the first time in its history, “booming”–although that word seemed inappropriate, given the national context and the European war clouds on the horizon. At least the folks of Noubois could eat–and this had brought more than a hundred newcomers. Time would tell whether the national economy would improve and whether they would leave. But, for now, although miserably hot, the merchants of Noubois were pleased.
As in most New England towns, there were two churches in Noubois: Catholic St. Anne’s and First Congregational. The former was stone, newer, larger, and at the edge of town; the latter was wood, steepled, very old and on the main town square. With the influx, St. Anne’s was filled every Sunday while FC was sparsely attended, but well-endowed. Neither was a “fire and brimstone” church, but the times called for sexual moral absolutism: strict marital fidelity, no pre-marital experimentation and of course, sexual “deviancy” was foundational belief. It didn’t matter which church you went to. Neither the priest nor the minister had to preach about it–it was part of the town’s ethic. (Even the French Catholic tradition of overlooking mistresses had been abandoned at the border.) Quite unexpectedly, and at Yvonne’s insistence, the DuBois family attended FC, not that “rowdy, low class” place outside of town.
Sox-footed Andre DuBois had just entered the kitchen of his family’s large farmhouse at the edge of town. Acres of vegetable fields surrounded the old Victorian–although Andre’s mother insisted on maintaining the “allee des arbres” on either side of the entrance drive and small flower beds in front of the surrounding porches. Yvonne was French, the wife of the oldest grandson of one of the first settlers. It was his farm, but she owned him. She had pronounced immediately after their marriage that she would not live on a farm; she wanted a “manoir.” The fields remained, but she got her “manoir” gated and tree-lined entrance (the “allee”) and a remodeled interior. And later she got a kitchen helper, but Raymond had absolutely refused live-in servants. In return, or perhaps in revenge, she got them to join FC. (The rest of his family promptly disowned him for leaving the “one true” Church.)
Andre was the only boy and the youngest and very fortunate–at least by the standards of his peers. Noubois’ school system was rudimentary and had only a few rooms. He had been yanked from St. Anne’s when he was 12 and sent to a boarding school in Springfield for high school. It was not one of the prestigious “prep” schools for the wealthy, but it had an excellent academic reputation. So he had traded the Catholic routine of daily mass,, morning prayers in the classroom, religion as the fist subject of the day, prayers before and after lunch, a short recess overlooked by beady-eyed boy-hating nuns to an day-ending contrition for all the assumed sins he had committed during the school day–for an equally regimented but secular rich boys’ routine.
He had been accepted at Harvard College–where he was soon going to be a junior. He had played football at Harvard, but he was not a star and did not make varsity–so this year was his first without a demanding sport schedule. He was studying classics “plus”–like almost half his class at the time–with no specific ideas about his future. (But, he fervently hoped that he wouldn’t need to return to the farm.) Ten or so weeks each summer of hard labor was tolerable, but not a permanent feature of his future plans. He was a hard and diligent worker, but he was not cut out for farming. Raymond was probably the last DuBois farmer.
Andre had been in the fields all day, picking vegetables, weeding and managing the manually-operated sluice gates of the irrigation system. He worked alone and often day-dreamed as a consequence. He was an intelligent and sensitive boy, but naïve and immature despite his two years of college experience. His youth had been rigidly regimented. But despite this, he was a genuinely nice kid. In that sense, he was like most of the other “boys” of his generation. He was technically a man, but socially he was still a child.
He was hot, sweaty and dirty. He grabbed several pieces of fruit from the bowl on the kitchen table, called out to his Mama that he was heading for French’s Pond, but would be home for the family dinner. She didn’t acknowledge, but grunted approval to herself; at least he wouldn’t be destroying her clean bath or using up the hot water that her husband would demand.