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Fernald Smithers, still wearing his white shirt and dark slacks, but with his tie off and collar undone, sat at the dining room table, having a late evening dinner with his family. Crisp corn on the cob, apples, squash and salad. Although they could have meat, and indeed Fernald liked a good hamburger now and then, the Smithers family was largely vegetarian at the insistence of Fernald's mother. Besides himself, Fernald's family consisted of his father, Melvin, his mother, Anne Marie, and his older brother, Chet.

Dinner proceeded in silence. At first, though, there had been some small talk. Melvin Smithers talked about his day at work and a big project he was working on at the office. He was tall and broadly built for a squirrel, was nearsighted and wore horn-rimmed glasses and currently was dressed in his work clothes; tie, shirt, and dress slacks.

Anne Marie Smithers discussed with her husband her plans for a vegetarian barbecue over the Fourth of July weekend. She was a housewife who had quit her job as a tutor to raise her two sons and home school them after deciding she didn't like what they taught in public schools. Mr. Smithers then felt the need to remind his wife that not everyone in their neighborhood liked the idea of grilled vegetables. She was a few years older than Mr. Smithers, and still very attractive despite having given birth to two healthy sons, wearing a plain dress and blouse and some inexpensive jewelry.

Chet Smithers, who shared his younger brother's preference for meat on occasion, chuckled and made a show of sticking a finger down his throat, earning a giggle from his sibling despite Fernald's cloudy mood. Chet was grown but still lived at home. He had their father's athletic build and had been a minor sensation on the church's football team. At his open dislike of his mother's barbecue idea, the twentysomething earned a scowl from the man of the house. There was some conflict between Chet and their parents; Mr. and Mrs. Smithers had wanted Chet to become a minister, but Chet was currently putting himself through law school. As far as they were concerned, he was skating on thin ice already. Chet realized this and shut up.

Then the topic Fernald had dreaded since arriving home came up. His father asked him about his day.

"So how did the route Pastor Dick gave you go, Fernald?" Melvin Smithers inquired of his son casually.

Mrs. Smithers bristled at the mention of that name. Her husband shot her a look. Fernald stopped in the middle of spooning some lettuce into his mouth, displeased this question had been asked, but not surprised. The Smithers family always talked about their days.

"Oh, uh, I didn't have much luck. Only a couple of people seemed interested in what I had to say."

"With the state of the world right now, I'm not surprised it's becoming harder and harder," Anne Marie Smithers said somewhat primly, turning her nose up a bit.

Anne Marie Smithers hated godless people more than she hated Pastor Dick, whom she considered a louse and a liar. But at least he wasn't an Atheist, she'd say. Melvin Smithers disapproved of her open dislike of the man. He didn't consider it Christian to openly express feelings if discontent towards others.

"Tell us about them," prodded Chet.

"About who?" asked Fernald. He ate the bite of salad he'd stopped putting into his mouth a minute ago, chewing quietly.

"The two who actually spoke with you."

"Well, more than two actually spoke to me," Fernald said, talking with his mouth full. At a glare from his mother, he chewed quickly and swallowed before resuming speaking. "But only two actually listened to me. One an old goat, Mr. Clemmens, who said he was a lapsed Christian who'd lost his faith. I helped him regain it."

"And the other one?" inquired Chet.

The incident with George was still heavy on Fernald's mind. As was the meeting he'd had with Pastor Dick and the other door to door evangelists at church before coming home. He shifted a bit in his seat, unsure of how to go about telling his family, especially his parents, about his talk with the gay man who was still a Christian, and how it had made him begun thinking. He thought his mother might understand to an extent. Anything that upset Pastor Dick was fine with her. He wasn't so sure about his father, though. Ultimately he decided to lie by omission.

"The other one was an alligator, a coach at the high school," he said, using his fork to push his food around. "He was also already a Christian. Hadn't lost his faith, but he listened to me all the same and said he was interested in swinging by the church."

"God help him," said Mrs. Smithers.

"Anne!" snapped Mr. Smithers. "We don't take the Lord's name in vain!" He calmed a little. "And please don't speak ill of Pastor Nyder while we're all just trying to relax and enjoy dinner."

"What makes you think I meant him?" asked his wife.

Mr. Smithers just sighed and resumed eating. This spat over Pastor Dick had been going on for a while now. Ever since he'd become senior pastor had the church, Mrs. Smithers had taken an extreme disliking to the oily, mealy-mouthed rat. She never said anything to his face, of course, but was fond of telling her husband what she really thought of him.

"You're awful quiet, son," said Mr. Smithers, changing the subject. He frowned as he watched his son not eating, noting the overally droopy posture of the boy. Ordinarily he would've told Fernald to sit up straighter at the table, but he could tell Fernald was upset about something. "Did anything else happen?"

Fernald chewed his lower lip. "Mm, naw," he said. Then he remembered. "Oh! The car broke down."

"It what?" asked Mr. Smithers, horrified at the prospect of an expensive auto repair.

"Then how did you get home?" asked Chet, raising a brow.

"Coach Prather opened the hood and fixed it for me after our, uh, talk," replied Fernald. "He says it could use a tuneup, though."

This did little to alleviate his father's concerns. Ultimately, it was decided Fernald would take the Wagoneer to a garage and have it looked at. The remainder of dinner proceeded in silence, apart from the sounds of the squirrels eating. Fernald grimaced and pushed his plate away. As much as he loved his family, listening to other people eat made him lose his appetite.

"May I be excused?" Fernald asked politely.

"You haven't finished," observed Melvin Smithers.

There was some concern in his voice. Anne Marie Smithers, noticing the tone of his voice, looked at her husband, but said nothing. Chet for his part just kept eating. Fernald decided to use the tried and true excuse for leaving the table early that never failed him in the past.

"I'm just not hungry," he said. Deciding to embellish, he added, "Walking around in all that heat has made me a bit woozy and my stomach is upset." It wasn't too far from the truth. He was feeling a bit on the ooey side from having been essentially baked alive walking around outside earlier, and he also wasn't very hungry.

"Well, okay, if you want. But be in bed by nine." Mr. Smithers frowned deeply. Then turned and smirked at his older son. "That means it's your turn to help your mother with the dishes, eating machine."

"Aw, man!" grumbled Chet.

Fernald got up from the table and went upstairs to his room. His briefcase was on his desk and his trusty, worn Bible at his bedside. Posters of Christian rock bands adorned the walls. A framed portrait of Jesus Christ hung above Fernald's bed. His desk had a fishbowl on it, inside of which swam Beastly, Fernald's goldfish. There was no particular reason for the name.

On another desk there was a medium sized aquarium filled with water, but it had no fish in it; this was for Fernald's particular hobby, baking soda submarines. He liked filling the toy subs with baking soda and watching them dive and surface over and over again in the tank. Subs of different shapes and colors sat neatly displayed on a shelf above the tank. On this same shelf were framed photographs of himself and his family at barbecues, amusement parks and various other places, as well as a few dogearred science fiction paperbacks and a model of a Saber jet Fernald had put together and painted himself in the fourth grade.

He went to his window and leaned on the sill and looked out at the nighttime sky. Here, there was a telescope. It had been a Christmas present some years prior, when he was very young, and he'd needed his father to put it together for him. Back then, he'd been naive enough about the way the natural world functioned that he thought the telescope would allow him to see Jesus in heaven along with God and all the angels. He remembered being disappointed but still amazed by the different stars and planets, which had been the beginnings of his interest in nature and natural sciences. Such interests had since been sidelined since he'd been called to serve God, however.

Now he just occasionally used the thing to watch birds. Otherwise it just sat there. He kept telling himself he'd take it out into the forest someday on a bright, clear night and use it to see the stars better, but he'd never gotten around to it. With a sigh, he closed his curtains and turned from the window. He was tired. First, though, he had to feed Beastly. After kicking off his shoes, he went over to the fishbowl.

"Hungry?" he asked, staring down into the water. He enjoyed talking to Beastly, even though he was fairly certain the fish didn't know English from moon talk. "Here, got some num-nums for you."

He sprinkled a teeny bit of fish food in, and watched with a tired smile as Beastly started plucking the floating flakes from the surface. Fernald then shut his door and undid his belt, allowing his slacks to slide down his legs to the floor. He stepped out of them, and began unbuttoning his shirt, when, suddenly, his cell phone rang. He jolted, surprised. In just his shirt, briefs and socks he dove for the phone which sat on the bed where he'd put it after returning home, he checked the number; he didn't recognize it. Frowning, he clicked the "talk" button and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hi," said a deep, friendly voice, a familiar one. "This is George. George Prather, remember me?"

Fernald swallowed. He'd forgotten he'd given George his card that had his phone number on it. He thought about hanging up, but reminded himself of his earlier decision that George was a good person, and worth getting to know. The things he'd said had resonated with Fernald, especially after the meeting he had with Pastor Dick earlier.

"Oh, uh, hi," said Fernald, swallowing, "what can I do for you...?"

"Oh, nothing, just wanted to call and see how you were doing, is all. You seemed pretty flustered."

"It's okay," Fernald said. "Thanks for your concern, though. But, uh, yeah, I still am a bit flustered..."

"Why is that?" asked George. "Is it because--"

"No," Fernald cut him off, "not over that, believe me, I'm over that. Over and done with. No it's, well, it's my pastor. I... I look at him differently now. After I left your house and drove back to the church, we had a meeting where we went over what we did, and, well, he got a little angry with me because he didn't think I'd done a good enough job saving people."

He blinked. Why was he telling George this? He didn't know. Maybe because George was the reason he had started seeing Pastor Dick differently, maybe because George was an easygoing guy he felt comfortable talking to. Finishing undoing his shirt and slipping it off, Fernald hung it on his doorknob and sat down, in just briefs and socks. A moment later, it was just his briefs as he pulled off his socks and tossed them and his pants into a laundry basket, then sat on the bed again.

"I see," George replied after a moment. "Well... anyway, the real reason I called, Fernald, is just to tell you that if you ever need someone to talk to... y'know, a sympathetic ear, I'm always ready to listen."

Quite unlike Pastor Dick, Fernald mused. His efforts to broach the subject about why someone couldn't be both gay and Christian had proven mostly futile, and, ultimately, the squirrel had proven too timid to fully pursue it with him. As for George, again Fernald was impressed by the alligator's willingness to be warm and sympathetic with a complete and total stranger, even if, as far as Fernald was concerned, he was wrong about his sexuality.

"That's..." Fernald began, trailing off. "Thank you," he said finally. "I really appreciate the offer."

"You should stop by again sometime," said George. "You know, just for a chat. I'd like to get to know you better."

"Get to know me better?" Fernald fidgeted a bit. He remembered the way the alligator had stroked his leg. He had a dawning fear that perhaps George wished to seduce him. "Oh, uh, sure," he said after a moment, "I'd... love to get to know you better."

Did he really? He felt that he did, but was not exactly sure of his reasons why. Pastor Dick, upon hearing what little of the story Fernald had managed to get out at the meeting, did encourage Fernald to return to George Prather's house and try harder to steer him towards the light of the Lord and away from his sinful homosexual ways. Of course, Pastor Dick hadn't said homosexual. He hadn't even said gay. He'd said some more... colorful things Fernald didn't care repeating. However, after what George had told Fernald, the squirrel was uncertain if this was his reason for wanting to visit the alligator anymore.

To his immense alarm, he was beginning to experience certain... feelings, and, glancing down, had to stifle a cry of surprise as he saw the front of his underwear was tented. So, he thought, feelings like that. Was that his reason? Despite the unwanted grope on the thigh he'd gotten from the alligator, Fernald admittedly found George to be attractive. Maybe he really was gay. Or at least bisexual. The idea distressed him, despite George's adamant insistence that he could still be a Christian even if he was. He'd just met him. And Pastor Dick, who he'd known for a few years, insisted the exact opposite. Fernald wasn't sure who to believe.

"Listen, I need to go. It's about bedtime for me and I need to pray," he told George.

"Sure thing," said the alligator. "Just think about what I said, okay?"

"I will," said Fernald. "Goodbye and God bless."

"God bless," replied George, and, amusingly, Fernald thought he could almost feel the alligator smiling.

He hung up, setting the cell phone aside next to his Bible. Leaning back on his hands, the teenager looked down at the unyielding boner which seemed desperate to break free of the confines of its cotton prison. He sweated a little. Should he? His mother had said it was a sin. Chet, however, did it all the time, or, at least, Fernald assumed he did. He knew he'd done it at least once because Fernald had accidentally walked into his room to get a book Chet had borrowed, and witnessed his older brother pleasuring himself. Chet's response had been to hurl a pillow at his sibling, making Fernald turn and run out. He'd had an aversion to masturbation since then. This had been some time before the incident with Castor.

With a trembling hand, Fernald touched the bulge, and gasped slightly. It was sensitive. He'd touched himself before in curiosity, so he already knew this, but he'd never actually masturbated. He wondered if tonight he should. Suddenly there was a knock on his door. With a yelp, he hurriedly got under his covers to hide his shameful erection.

"Come in," he said, after clearing his throat.

The door opened a crack and Melvin Smithers poked his head in. "Hi, son," he said. "Are you feeling any better?"

"A little," was Fernald's reply. He smiled a little.

Mr. Smithers nodded. "That's good. I see you've gotten ready for bed. Have you said your prayers?"

"Uh, not yet, but I will." He hoped his father wouldn't ask why he was already under his covers if he hadn't prayed yet.

This seemed to satisfy the older squirrel, though. He nodded and came in, kissing his son on the forehead gently. "Right then, goodnight, son."

"Goodnight, dad."

With that, Mr. Smithers departed, shutting the door behind him. Fernald sighed in relief and flopped back against his his pillow. He didn't know what he would've done if his father had seen him in such a state! Tentatively, he lifted the blanket. Yep, still there. He had a decision to make. He needed to say his prayers, but he wasn't keen on doing it with a raging erection. It didn't look like it was going away anytime soon, though. Should he make it go away, and then add a plea for forgiveness in his prayers afterward? Or should he pray as he was, and then sleep and hope he didn't wake up with morning wood?

For most teenage boys it was an easy choice. But Fernald Smithers wasn't most teenage boys. As the minutes went slowly by, the squirrel agonized over what to do before finally he threw aside the cover and fished his rock-hard, uncircumsized penis out from inside of his briefs through the fly on the front. He marvelled at it as it stood stiff and purple, a little bead of precum oozing from the tip of it. He bit at his lower lip with his buck teeth and with a little whimper, seized hold of the fleshy shaft with his right hand and started moving it up and down. It felt strange, but good.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember how he'd seen Chet doing it, taking care not to picture his older brother specifically, as that would be kind of gross, but rather just how Chet had been doing it. Remembering somewhat, Fernald tightened his thumb and forefinger around the cock and quickened his pace, squeezing himself, moving the fingers down to about the middle of the throbbing shaft, stopping, and then bringing them back up to just underneath where the foreskin-clad head began. He repeated this motion several times and was rewarded with little squirts of pre that landed on his belly. He hissed between clenched teeth. It felt so good!

As he jerked off, he tried to picture Dalila, the girl he considered his girlfriend. Sure, picturing her naked was more than a little wrong but it was at least less wrong than thinking about another dude. Even now he was still uncertain if George was right about him, still uncertain his encounter with Castor when they were younger meant he was gay, or even bi.

But try as he might, the image of Dalila wouldn't stay in his head. His thoughts turned instead to that particular incident with Castor the very moment he had recalled it, and as he pleasured himself, all he could think about was Castor lying there in nothing but his underwear, sweaty, and inviting Fernald to grope him. He saw in his mind his trembling hand reaching for the other teen's package, and, as his fingertips touched it and started to slide around it, Fernald gasped out, a high-pitched little whine, and hit his peak. He squeezed his cock harder than ever as ropes of sticky fluid - cum - shot forth to paint over his stomach. The boy was left panting and sweating, breathing and exhaling deeply through his slack-jawed mouth. He felt at once relaxed and exhausted and thoroughly pleasant.

Only as his sexual high went away did he begin to feel immense guilt, both for what he'd done, and for what he'd thought about while doing it. He glanced at his door. He was overcome with terror that he'd been too loud and his parents might come to check on him. He looked around for something to use to wipe up the mess, and settled on a discarded T-shirt. With a little sob of despair, he wiped up as much of his spent fluids as he could, then threw the now soiled shirt aside like it was infected with bubonic plague and made a face. Well, he thought, that hadn't been as bad as he'd anticipated, but he still felt like he'd committed a grievous sin. Gently, he tucked his still sensitive dick back into his underwear. He slid out of bed, lowering himself onto his knees. He bowed his head and clasped his hands.

"Lord, forgive me for what I've just done," he prayed softly, whispering. Even though his parents told him God could hear his thoughts, he felt more reassured that his voice was heard when he said his prayer aloud. "I'm weak and I just can't help myself. I've had these sinful thoughts for a while, and I've met a nice man who is a Christian like me, and says I can... be like him, and still be a Christian. I sort of intend to follow this path and see where it leads me, as long as I stay Christian." He sighed. It hurt admitting these things to his Lord, even though he was fairly certain God knew already. With that out of the way, his prayer turned more conventional. "Anyway... bless my family and watch over them. My father and my mother and Chet, and Beastly. And Pastor Dick and all my friends at church. And..." and trailed off, adding, softly, "...and George Prather. In Jesus' name, I pray. Amen."

He felt better. He always felt better after he prayed. He lay his head against the side of his mattress, still on his knees, and sighed. He felt suddenly very, very tired, and, had he not willed himself to stand, he felt he would fall asleep right there. Getting back into bed he turned off his bedside lamp and pulled his covers over himself and settled in, snuggling against his pillow. He looked over at Beastly swimming obliviously in his bowl over on his desk, and smiled a little. Oh, for the simple life of a fish.

"Goodnight, Beastly," he said, and shut his eyes.

He was asleep in minutes. Tomorrow would be a new day. He'd tried something new and even though it frightened him and conflicted with his beliefs, it hadn't been entirely unpleasant. Perhaps tomorrow he'd try something else new.

The End