Enlightened

Praise for

Little Boy Lost

by J.P. B
ARNABY

Enlightened

“
Enlightened
is an incredible story about the power of love and the damage intolerance and prejudice can do.”

—Fallen Angel Reviews

“Every now and then a book comes along that you do not want to end…”

—Reviews by Amos Lassen

“A pitch perfect coming of age story. Not to be missed!”

—Reviews by Jessewave

“If you’re in the mood for a great coming of age love story that successfully shows that an erotica novel can be based on love and intimacy, then don’t wait to read this one!”

—Smokin’ Hot Books

Abandoned

“
Abandoned
is very strongly written, the scene setting, the verbiage, the plot, all of it very well done. I could find nothing wrong within these pages of this strong YA novel.”

—Top 2 Bottom Reviews

“This is an utterly realistic, heart-wrenching story about a young boy trying to make his way in the world.”

—
Queer Magazine Online

By J.P. BARNABY

N
OVELS

Aaron

L
ITTLE
B
OY
L
OST
S
ERIES

Enlightened

Abandoned

Vanished

Discovered

Escaped

Sacrificed

N
OVELLAS

Bane of Boston

Mastering the Ride

Published by D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Enlightened

Copyright © 2013 by J.P. Barnaby

Photograph Copyright: Lori Blantin

Cover Art by Paul Richmond  

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62798-108-8

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-107-1

Printed in the United States of America

Second Edition

June 2013

First Edition published by Dreamspinner Press, March 2011

This book is dedicated to the men and women, boys and girls, who have struggled all of their lives to stay true to themselves.

 “As a #Gay person, you are an intention, not a mistake, you deserve the fullness of humanity including dignity & respect. You are Loved this day.”

—@MichaelsThought

http://michaelsgaythought.blogspot.com/

Chapter 1

M
Y
NAME
is Brian Patrick McAllister, and I am going to hell.

“In Romans one, verses twenty-four through twenty-eight, we find that God calls these people and these acts that they perform unnatural—an abomination against Him. It says, ‘Therefore God gave them over in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, so that their bodies would be dishonored among them, for they exchanged the truth of God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator who is blessed forever’. Amen,” the preacher cried, slamming his beefy hand onto the straining wood of the pulpit. In response there was a resounding chorus of “Amen!” throughout the small congregation. I looked around and found that they were all, Jamie’s mother included, enthralled by this charismatic, white-haired Baptist preacher. Even though they were fanning themselves or wiping their brows in the sweltering heat of the late southern Alabama morning, their attention never wavered.

The small tide of congregants were dressed in their Sunday finest, some of the men in short-sleeved button-downs and clip-on ties, others in long sleeves and perfectly knotted standard-issue paisley specials. The women were almost clones of each other, most wearing gaudy floral dresses with perfectly respectable neck and hemlines that preserved their modesty. Their children were perfect little carbon copies of their parents, with one glaring exception: these miniature adults in their ties and floral dresses seemed to be bored almost senseless.

Taking a deep breath that nearly popped the straining buttons on his starched white dress shirt, the preacher continued reading from his large hardcover Bible, encouraged by his followers’ enthusiastic responses. “‘For this reason, God gave them over to degrading passions. For their women exchanged the natural function for that which is unnatural and in the same way also the men abandoned the natural function of the woman and burned’—notice, folks, that it says burned—‘in their desire toward one another, men with men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own persons the dire penalty of their error. And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God any longer, God gave them over to a depraved mind to do those things which are not proper!’”

The thunderous sound of him slamming his Bible closed against the wood jarred me, and I jerked in my seat. Jamie looked at me, concerned, but after meeting his eye for the briefest second, I looked away. He seemed so angelic in his light-blue button-down and dress pants, his blond hair falling into his eyes. Due to the heat, Mrs. Mayfield had let him skip the tie, and I could see the smooth, soft skin of this throat behind his open collar. My stomach lurched, and my mind and my heart were both racing. The way that I felt about Jamie, I was everything that the preacher was ranting about: depraved, indecent, and immoral. Jamie Mayfield was my best friend in the world, and I wanted him more than anything else in it.

I looked up again at the giant of a man in his threadbare sky-blue Sunday suit. He was using a white narrow-brimmed hat to fan his sweaty, flushed face. The excitement blazed in his eyes, and it was obvious that he was passionate about his sermon, and he truly believed in everything that he preached. Had his words really come from God? The preacher loosened his dark blue patterned tie, just enough to reveal the top of his neatly buttoned shirt to the captivated audience. No clip-on tie for this man; he was the real deal, the embodiment of Southern grace.

The pulpit where he tended and shepherded his flock was old but lovingly maintained. While the worn wood no longer gleamed in the morning sun, it was spotless, without even a wayward scratch. The large, perfectly crisp engraved cross on the front nearly glowed from its recent waxing and polishing. If everything in the world had its place, this was certainly the preacher’s place. He was perfectly at home, frightening as he was, and comfortable in his element, addressing the Sunday crowd from his old wooden pedestal.

As his sermon came to a close, I thought about what he’d said. For a few years now, I had tried not to like looking at other boys, instead forcing myself to think about girls when I lay in bed at night jacking off. I thought about the half-naked, faceless girls that I’d seen on television. I thought about their bare silicone-infused breasts, naked hips and thighs, and tight asses in their jeans. Sometimes, I even used hand lotion from my foster mother’s bathroom to make it feel all slick and wet, as I imagined a girl would feel. I was fairly certain that Carolyn would have been horrified at the uses to which I put her emollient.

But when it came down to it, when I was so fucking horny that my mind disengaged from my conscious fantasies, when those random images shot through my head, there was only one thing that I would see. My imagination focused completely on the shaggy mop of blond hair, mischievous blue eyes, and skinny body of a seventeen-year-old boy. I imagined my best friend in the world as his lips closed around me. I could almost feel his soft blond hair brushing against my stomach, his faintly trembling hand on my thigh as he took me into his mouth. In that moment, all that I had worked so hard for, trying to be normal by imagining the faceless girls, shattered into a mind-blowing orgasm that left me shaken and riddled with guilt.

“Brian, darlin’, are you all right?” Jamie’s mother, Patsy Mayfield, asked quietly, breaking into my thoughts as the collection plate was passed down our row. Tossing in the few dollars that Carolyn had given to me, I wiped my hand across my forehead, brushing my damp brown curls out of my eyes. I was sweating, and my skin was clammy. On the other hand, she looked perfectly at ease, even in the light sweater covering her blinding yellow sundress. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a single braid down her back. It was obvious where Jamie had gotten his beautiful hair and soft, delicate features. Her hazel eyes were the only difference, because his were like sapphires. But her eyes were also kind as she watched me with concern.

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t feel well,” I told her, looking up slowly, my hopeful brown eyes meeting hers. It was true; I didn’t feel well, not at all. The guilt brought on by the sermon was causing my stomach to lurch precariously, having just found out that I was going to burn in hell for something I absolutely could not control. I’d tried to control it; I’d wanted to like girls, but I was just wired wrong. I wanted to have sex with boys, and I was surely going to spend eternity in the lake of fire because of it. That was certain to cause some measure of nausea.

“Well, the service is just about over. Why don’t you leave a little early and head home? I’m glad you could stay over and go to church with us this morning. I’d love to see you attend more regularly,” she whispered as the murmuring started to die down. Her voice was soft and kind, like you would expect any mother’s voice to be. Then, with a reassuring smile, she added, “I told you maybe cold pizza for breakfast wasn’t a good idea,” and patted my hand.

I tried to smile back, but it just came off feeling more like a grimace. Before Jamie or anyone else could call me back, I walked swiftly for the double doors. The disapproving faces flashed past me, row after row, making me feel like a criminal escaping from prison. At any moment one of them could try and stop me, could call me back to finish my Sunday morning sentence. Once I pushed through the left-hand side door at the back of the small church, I broke into a sprint, and I did not stop until I had reached my own back porch.