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By Tess Zaire (tesszaire@yahoo.com)

Rolling stones gather no moss.a bird in the hand.good fences make good neighbors. That's the one that's a lie. Good fences. I toss and I turn all night and all I can hear is good fences.
It was a long time before I thought of putting up a fence. When my daughter was young and all the kids in the neighborhood were young, fences did not exist. Out the kitchen window, in the waning hours of twilight, you could hear the whoops and yells of children as they ran from one yard to the next. They were followed by leaping dogs and the cries of "wait up" from the slower runners. Smells from backyard barbeques crept from one yard to the next. The backyards seemed to stretch endlessly from summer to summer and there were no fences and the shadow fell unbroken from house to house. Then Barry and Lynda moved next door.
They were a normal looking middle-aged couple. Lynda was pretty, not beautiful and Barry was a little loud. At block parties Lynda would quietly chat with the wives and ooh and ahh at the pictures passed around of children. Barry would stand with the men and argue. Sports. Politics. Religion. It didn't matter to Barry. He simply loved to argue and he was very good at it. On the few times that he was challenged he would grow darkly intense and his voice would lower and resonate with dark authority. His opponent would almost always concede or else would clumsily find an excuse to leave. Barry's face would find a shadow and a tight firm smile would cross his mouth.
I don't remember where I was standing when I first saw the fence. I may have been leaning against the kitchen counter, absent-mindedly sipping my first cup of coffee. I may have been awakened by the pounding of a hammer and peered out the blinds on the bedroom window. It's not important. What was important was that it was the weekend and Barry was putting up a fence. I went out into the backyard. My stomach was knotted and I could see Barry's head bobbing up and down behind a panel of wood as another section of the fence raised up from the ground.
"What are you doing?" I cried out.
"What??" Barry snapped back. He looked irritated at the interruption.
"What are you doing?" I repeated. I was dumbfounded. Barry stopped, leaned against the partially erected fence, and eyed me curiously. He spoke to me slowly, as if I were a confused senior citizen.
"Well Dave." he drawled out, "what would your guess be?"
"But.but.but it's a fence!" I began.
"Damn you're bright Dave," Barry answered, smirking at my confusion.
We began to argue. I told Barry about the children. About the playing and running. About the open space. Barry listened for a minute and then began to look angry. He stepped closer to me. I raised my finger to make a point and when I did, Barry grabbed it and surrounded it with his fist and slowly began to twist it. I dropped my coffee cup first. Then my knees began to buckle as a searing pain rose like daylight in my finger and spread to my arm. Slower than the coffee cup, I collapsed to the ground. Barry's face leaned into my space. "Don't you ever argue with me, you little whimp," he hissed at me.
"Barry! That hurts." I began. His free hand came up out of nowhere and slapped the side of my face.
"Jesus!" I cried out. Barry slapped me again.
"Shut up!" he demanded. I did. "Now Davey." he began, "I'm going to let go of your finger and when I do, I want you to crawl across my yard and go to the patio door. Do you understand?"
My heart was pounding and my finger was nothing but white-hot pain. I nodded my head. Barry let go of my finger. I hesitated, trying to catch my breath. Barry yanked the hair on the back of my head. "I told you to crawl Davey!" he barked. I began to crawl.
How to we choose who to obey and who to stand up to? Is it their size? The tone of their voice? The look on their face? My face still stung from where Barry had slapped it and I think I was scared. I crawled to his patio without caring who saw me or what anyone might think. When I got to the door I stopped. Barry stepped to the side of me and slid the glass door open. "Get in there" he snapped and he emphasized it with a kick to my ass. Lynda was sitting in her robe at the breakfast nook reading the paper and drinking coffee. She looked at us and her eyes grew cartoon wide.
"Barry?" she floated the question out before us. He gave her one quick look and raised his arm; in almost slow motion and held one finger pressed against his lips.
"Shhhhhhhh," he told her, "not one word from you." Lynda pressed her lips tightly together and our frightened eyes met and locked for an instant and then Barry kicked me again. "Get over in front of that couch," he snarled to me.
I crawled over and stopped in front of the couch. Barry plopped down on the couch facing me. "You comfortable there neighbor?" he asked me, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wimps usually are comfortable on their hands and knees. Mouthy wimps like you tend to forget this from time to time.its up to your betters to remind you. Wouldn't you say it was neighborly of me to remind you Davey?" I was having a hard time breathing. "I asked you a question Davey!" Barry snapped.
"Yssssss." I heard myself squeak.
"Yes what?" Dave demanded.
"Yes it is neighborly of you," I told him. I prayed that this would be the end of it. That Barry would accept his victory and send me home.
"I don't think I believe you Davey," Barry said, standing up off the couch. "I don't think you understand the whole concept here neighbor."
Barry unbuttoned his shorts and slid them and his boxers down his legs. I heard Lynda gasp from the doorway where she stood watching. My mind raced in fifteen different directions. None of them were good. Oh God Oh God Oh God. It was clanging in my brain. I could feel myself starting to sweat. Barry turned around slowly and knelt on the couch. Lynda made some low noise in her throat. Oh God Oh God.
"Dave," he said in a quiet voice. I kept trying to breathe. "Dave," he repeated. "I want you to look at my ass Dave."
I couldn't. I didn't want to. I wanted to be back in my kitchen. I wanted to live somewhere else. I wanted fences everywhere.
"Look at it now Dave," he sternly directed me, with a hint of violence peeking from behind his sentence. I lifted my head and looked at Barry's ass. I felt tears began to gather in the corner of my eyes.
"How are you going to prove to me that you understand me Davey?" Barry asked slowly.
"I don't know." I choked out.
"Yes you Dave," Barry answered. "How will you show your respect to my ass?"
It seemed quiet forever. My knees ached. My mind was tired from thinking. There was only the sound of the house and Lynda's slow heavy breathing to break the quiet. Finally I heard myself speak. It wasn't me. It was me.
"Kiss it?" I asked.
"That's right Davey," was all Barry answered. I gulped. I wiped away one fat errant tear that had crossed half my face. I leaned forward and I did what Barry told me. I pressed my lips against his ass and I kissed it. I kissed it again. I was shaking now but in the oddest of ways, I felt a sense of relief. Barry reached back with his hands and pulled apart his cheeks.
I didn't even hesitate. I pressed my lips firmly against his asshole and kissed it. Again and again and again. I had to please Barry. I had to show him that I understood. I made my tongue as hard as I could and I shoved it deep inside Barry's asshole. I worked it in and out, stopping only to plant loud kisses on it. I understand. I understand.
Finally Barry pulled away and turned around to face me. In the corner of my eye I could see Lynda. She was leaning against the wall and one hand had stole inside her robe and moved up and down over her mound. Barry's cock was erect. It looked big and thick and purplish. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue neighbor," he told me. I did.
And he slowly jacked himself off, his big hand moving up and down the shaft of his cock. He stiffened and then the hole opened and the first hot stream of his sperm shot directly onto my tongue. The second hit my forehead. The third and fourth clung to my hair. I tasted the saltiness of it and everything made perfect sense.