All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at: pjalexander1753@gmail.com
A Very Ordinary Boy (Part 2)
From Chapter 4:
Hey, you don't have to go home yet, do you? Can't you stay a bit longer? I was hoping that ... well ... that ... if you wanted to ... we could ... you know ... try the ... the kissing thing again. But only if you want to of course. You do? That's ... that's awesome. Why don't you come and sit over here on the bed with me? Oh, and you'd better close the door. You never know when one of the guards will decide to come and check up on me.
Chapter 5:
When you've got nothing to do and nowhere to go, weekends are looong. So looong. And what's weird is that I never noticed before. Before I was pretty chilled about my life -- going to school, doing my art, riding my bike, hanging out with Dyl and Si -- life was straight-forward and ordinary and predictable and I, sort of, didn't need anything else. Yeah, I know, right back at the beginning I was moaning `cause life was so boring, even saying that if I died it would be the most interesting thing I'd ever done. (Fuck, don't tell Doctor Gutless that I even thought that. He'd have me back in the hospital, like, yesterday.) But now, looking back, I realise that I had my space, here at the top of the house, I had my mum and dad and I had Granny Smith and Rosa, I had Chalky White and the art room at school. What else did I need? Of course, that was before FfT and before Noah and before the Dyl and Si thing and before the camping trip and everything that's happened since.
And before you. You. The person who was `interested in me', even though I didn't know it. The person who, these days, I cannot get out of my head. The person who can make me hard when I think about making out with him (which I do -- a lot!). The person who almost made my heart stop beating when he put his tongue in my mouth and his hands up inside my T-shirt and let his fingers explore my chest and my not-much-to-write-home-about abs.
You remember that I told you, after that first kiss, that you'd made me have my first wet dream in, like, years? Well, making out was worse. And way better. Doing what we did had me harder than I'd ever been, especially when our bodies came so close together that I could feel your boner through four layers of clothes. (That's if you weren't going commando! No? But you do sometimes? Oh, way TMI.) So, there we were and my breathing had nearly stopped and my blood was rushing south making my cock throb like a marching band. My balls felt like they were gonna burst, so they did the obvious thing and let go of about a gallon of cum, pumping it into my underwear and making me feel wet and sticky and more alive than I had done for weeks and weeks -- at least, since the camping trip. Talk about a hair-trigger. I was so embarrassed and couldn't believe you didn't realise what had happened. It must have been down to the loose sweats and tight briefs!
After we made out and you'd gone home, I decided that I wasn't gonna let that happen again, oh no, too messy and embarrassing and something that shouldn't happen to an almost adult. So I decided that the best way of avoiding that scenario, after the making out and the touching, was to keep emptying my balls so there'd be no jizz that could make an unwelcome guest appearance whenever I saw you or in the middle of the night, in bed. So I've been wanking, like a lot, like five or six times a day. And I haven't done that since back in the day when I first discovered just what a blast hand-on-cock action could be. And what I want to know is, where did that fourteen-year old me get the energy to jerk-off that often? Shit, these days, two or three times in twenty-four hours and I'm beat. (And I don't mean beat-off!) Totally shattered. It's pathetic. Shouldn't I be like, at peak sexual performance? I mean, like, totally ready to go again half an hour after the last time? That's what sites like Nifty are always telling you. What's that? I shouldn't believe that the stuff in those stories is real? And you've got an idea about the cumming and you'll tell me about it before you go? A sort of experiment? But not one that any of the science teachers at Greenside would ever set for homework. Hmm, sounds in-ter-es-ting.
So, what else about today? Well, Dyl came round. Yeah, it surprised me too. I mean, yeah, I remembered granny saying that his mum had rung mine cause he'd tried phoning and texting me and was getting nowhere, and that made him get really worried and stressed-out cause he hadn't heard from me for ages (whose fault was that?) but then he found out about me being in hospital. So, yeah, I knew all that. And then Doctor Charmless gave the go-ahead to him coming round -- I wonder who ran the idea past him in the first place - just him, meaning not Si (not that she'd have wanted to, probably), and not for very long. Well, today was the day. Not that anyone bothered telling me he was coming. Or even asked me if I wanted to see him. No, he just turned up. First thing. Rosa brought him up. She said he was on his way to school and his mum was waiting for him outside but there was no rush cause he'd got permission from Ms. Ohura to be late. Just this once, as she thought it was, "In a good cause". So now I'm a good cause', like a charity case or, worse, a certified nut-job who people can be officially and acceptably late for school so they can visit.
Not a great start, then, being a good cause', and Dyl didn't make things any better. No, "Hey bro, how ya doing?" or "Great to see you, J", or "You're looking well." And definitely no, "I'm really sorry, man. We both are." No, nothing like that. True, he did look a bit on edge and uncomfortable but, as soon as he walked in here, he looked straight at my arms, made no secret of it. So it was obvious that he knew what had happened. And so I'm asking myself, If he knows what I did, why's it taken him so long to visit?' I mean, I bet if you knew your best friend in the world had tried to kill himself, you'd be round there to check up on him and be there for him. I know you would `cause that's the kind of person you are. And d'ya know, until he knew that I knew about him and Si, that's how he would've been with me. Fuck not being able to get through on the phone or send a text. No, even if he'd known I only had a head cold, Dyl would have made sure he was here to cheer me up or look after me or even just sit there, on the chair you're sitting on now, and watch me sleep. That's how close we were; how special our friendship was. And even though we've always been really different from each other -- him the super-brainy, games-ace klutz and me the average but arty nobody -- we've never had any trouble talking to each other. There wasn't anything we couldn't talk about. What? Okay, yeah, him being with Si and me being gay, maybe you've got a point, but normal stuff like school and parents and music and TV shows and favourite pizzas, you know, standard teenage boy stuff, we'd go on about that sort of thing all the time.
There was this one time when we got really into something Mr. Miles talked to us about in English. He said that language, you know, the way we speak, the words we use, that language is always changing, with words not getting used any more, new words coming in, even words completely changing their meaning. Well, that got sort of stuck in my head and for days Dyl and me, we started making lists of all the words we knew that had changed. You know, like wicked' and bad' and sick' all meaning something different from before. And then he said, "Yeah, like gay, that means something else now." I remember him saying it, we were getting ready for gym, and I thought that this was the perfect time to, you know, to tell him about me. But I couldn't, not there in the locker room with all the other guys. And besides, I still wasn't one hundred percent, that I was gay, I mean. No, that's a lie. I knew, of course I did, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone and definitely not Dyl. I wouldn't have been able to hack it, not if he turned round and said he didn't want to have anything to do with some disgusting fag. And he wouldn't have, deep down I knew that, but I just couldn't take the risk and the moment passed and we carried on talking but I don't remember what about and everything stayed the same and I never did tell him. Big mistake, cause I think, looking back now, if I'd had the balls to tell him then, or even some time later, if there had been just one person I'd told, then things would have been different. I wouldn't have been so scared of being outed. I wouldn't have been obsessed with Noah. I wouldn't have gone away with Noah. I wouldn't have been raped by Noah. I wouldn't have tried to kill myself because of Noah. If I'd manned up enough to tell my best friend that I was gay, then things would have been so, so different.
But anyway, there wasn't any of the old chat, not this morning. This morning it was almost as if we hardly knew each other. Yeah, I know it must have been awkward trying to think of what to say to some crazy nut-job who was so pissed off with life that he's tried to end it. But I'm not a crazy nut-job, not to Dyl. At least, I shouldn't be. To him I should be his best, his closest bud. He should have come in here and made some stupid joke about me needing to take lessons so I can make a better job of slashing my wrists next time! Or asking what music I want at my funeral. That's what he should have done. Instead he just stood by the door, obviously feeling uncomfortable, suddenly finding that his shoes were the most interesting things in the world, mumbling something that sounded like, "Long time, no see," as if I was some distant cousin who he'd met up with at a family wedding and couldn't think of anything to talk about.
And to be fair, I didn't help. Although I could see that he was embarrassed and didn't know what to do or say, and even though, deep down, I still care for him like a brother, I didn't do anything to make him feel more comfortable or say something to get us talking. No, I didn't do anything like that. It was almost as if I wanted him to suffer; as if I was still somehow blaming him (and Si) for what I did because they'd shut me out and left me with no-one to talk to. And how fucked-up is that? I've been complaining about him being a shit best friend but, when it mattered, when he'd bothered to come to see me, when he'd found the balls to visit the nut-job who'd tried to kill himself, what did I do? I let him stand there and suffer, that's what. How's that for hypocrisy? Bad-mouthing him for being a rubbish best friend and yet I leave him hanging. It was like he was drowning and I deliberately didn't throw him a life belt. And when he did, finally, look up, I swear there were tears in his eyes. But I didn't have a chance to be sure `cause he said something like, "See ya, man," turned round and walked out. He couldn't get out of here fast enough. And who could blame him for that? Not me, that's for sure. And neither would I blame him if he never spoke to me again. Why would he? Not after the way I treated him today. Not after months and months of choosing not to be honest with him about something as important in my life as being gay.
Shit! I wish I could turn back the clock, or dial up a time machine to take me back to before I ever walked into FfT or got friendly with Noah or found out about Dyl and Si. Back to when life was ordinary and predictable and ... safe. Yeah, that's it, when life was safe and I knew, more or less, what each day would be like and there were no surprises. But then, if I went back in time, there'd be no you' in my life and that definitely would not be good. You're my life belt. Yes, you are. And I don't just mean for the making-out. It's cause you turn up here almost every day and you sit there and you listen to me and, even though it's not exactly stand-up comedy, you never complain and you never tell me not to be stupid or tell me to stop moaning and complaining all the time. And yeah, the making-out helps. So, you see, if I was a nut-job before doing what I did, it's you, not Doctor Mirthless, that's helping me get back on the right side of sanity.
Hey it's nearly time for you to go and I can't help thinking about the special homework idea you mentioned earlier. It was when I was talking about being at my sexual peak but not being able to wank as much as I did when I was fourteen, so I'm wondering what sort of experiment you've come up with that's gonna help. Not something the teachers at school would ever set, you said. Okaaay, so I need to be in bed by nine and have my phone switched on. And a supply of paper tissues would be a good idea. And I can look forward to a good night's sleep with a guarantee of no unexpected and unwanted nocturnal emissions. Sounds cool. I can't wait.
As an author, it's REALLY encouraging to know that there are people out there who are taking the time to read what I've written, and then bothering to send a response. So please, do feel free to write to me at the email address given at the top of the chapter. I welcome all comments and guarantee to write back. PJ
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