The boy poured honey down his back and shook his buttocks right to left; the naked, crazy boy. He passed the beehives, jogging not running. Taking his sweet, innocent time through the grass, toward the white perfumy clover field. Little Johnny boy slipped a finger between his perspiring crack, taking away honey as if from the stale edges of a white bread sandwich. Johnny loved the bees, almost as much as that sticky-sweet clinging of honey that formed and hung like stalactites from his perineum, dripped dripping drops.
The bees closed in. Thousands of bees; their murmuring buzzing chorus titillating little Johnny boy, stingers angry and shining in the sun, quivering mad. Johnny jogged toward the clover field, licking his finger of the sweet sweaty honey. "Honeybuns," Johnny thought, and laughed until he fell rolling over the start of clover. "Insurance." thought Johnny, and he laughed, giggled, a smile playing over his bare freckled puss. "Bees!" Johnny exclaimed, as a fuzzy buzzing cloud converged on little Johnny's honey-sticky ass.
The sun rolled in golden fury, and hours later, when it had turned a dark red, and sunset swollen, little Johnny boy lay stiff and puffy, pink and happy, dead stinking sweet.
The Bee Story
7:36 p.m.//09.16.04
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