Chapter 11: Discovery
I was sitting in my usual seat in the stands, the next day, taking notes as I always did, in my little green notebook. Corey was doing a floor routine, trying to master a full twisting double lay-out somersault. I had never realized how boring practice was, but it made perfect sense. The same skill over and over again. Discussion, modeling, the skill, the skill, the skill. Practicing the piano must look boring, though when I did it, time flew. Certainly research was boring. I remembered having to get through the rat lab when I was an undergraduate -- the hours of sitting there, writing behaviors. Preen, preen, run, preen, sniff string, preen, scratch glass, lick testicles, preen, preen, push bar. The research in which I was currently engaged was little removed from the rats. Just as much preening, not as much licking of the testicles -- if you didn't record my behaviors, of course. And I didn't. Was that unprofessional? Probably. But I would not be taken seriously if it got out that I was the fuck-toy of the pack which I was studying and chronicling. No, that would not do.
So I sat and wrote Adam's behaviors in a shorthand script or my own creation. Even translated into long hand, it wasn't glamorous. Hip thrust left side, jock adjust, walk, plant in stance 5, arm swing stretch, arm swing stretch, stretch pose 8, abdominal stroke, etc. Welcome to the wonderful world of graduate psych research.
"'Sup?" Matt was taking a break, and had saddled up next to me. He unconsciously pointed and flexed his feet as he leaned back on his elbows on the bleachers.
"Not much," I replied, still recording. "You?"
"Just taking a break."
"Cool." I couldn't give him my whole brain. I was working.
"What's with the notebook? You're always writing."
"I'm a poet?"
"That doesn't look like poetry to me, amigo. Doesn't even look English."
"Shorthand."
"Well, you know what they say. Short hands..."
I stopped writing and turned to face him. He dead-panned. I laughed. Heartily, and with feeling, as I hadn't done since I first arrived.
"Man, that must be the oldest, stupidest joke I've ever heard." Matt shrugged, and began massaging one of his feet.
"Cramp," I asked?
"Just tired."
"Here," I offered, "give it over."
He swung around and put his foot in my lap, laying back on the stair of the bleacher. I began to rub the foot.
"Any place in particular?"
"Achilles tendon. I had a surgery a couple of years ago. Acts up every once in a while."
"Tell me if it's too hard."
"It's never too hard, amigo."
Was that a hairpin? This required some research of its own. Taking the bottom of his calf muscle between my thumb and forefinger, I began squeezing. I moved the pincer action up and down slowly along the top of the tendon.
"Where did you learn massage," he asked? "You're good."
"Spent a year working the crew on an Air Craft Carrier."
"Oh," he laughed? "They didn't ask, you didn't tell?"
"My lips are sealed. Unless you're a SEAL."
I moved down to his heel, and began working the back of his foot between my hands.
"At least there didn't seem to be any calcaneus detachment. The tear must have been higher."
"That's right," he said, "almost to the calf. They did an arthroscopic. It fucked me up for almost half a year. How the hell do you know about that?"
John had been premed. I had helped him study for the MCATs.
"Spent a year doing the senior medical faculty at Johns Hopkins."
Matt guffawed.
"Poet, sailor, medical whore -- when did you ever find the time to learn to use a washing machine?"
"Fucker," I laughed.
"Sometimes," he said, and grinned.
Definitely a hairpin.
Matt returned to the apparati, and, after a few stretches, resumed his workout. I returned to my notebook.
Adam was still on the rings. He was doing a handstand, the rings dead still under him. His wrists began to separate, and his arms, straight almost to the point of distension, strained as he lowered himself into an inverted cross. He held, casually chewing his gum. I was captivated. He hung in one of the most magnificent of the strength moves in all of men's gymnastics, his muscles fighting against the gravity caused by his own denseness. And as he defied physics, defied the limits his body should have been placing on him, defied the order of the universe, he noticed me staring at him. Though suspended upside down, he grinned, and brought his thin lips together and blew me a mock kiss, defying me.
We shall see, Mr. Man. We shall see.
After the afternoon workouts, Matt lingered in the shower, and was slow to dress. I was finishing tidying up when he, last of the boys in the area, prepared to leave.
Halfway out the door, he turned back to me and said, "Hey, you wanna catch dinner together, mi amigo?"
"Sure." I finished my chores, and joined him. Outside the gym, Matt veered away from the dining hall.
"Where are you going?"
"Dinner."
"And where's that?"
"I don't know," he said, "you're the one taking me out." He was heading toward my car in the driveway.
"You want to go to the town?"
"Someplace quaint."
"Clearly, you haven't seen the town," I shot back. "Won't you get in trouble?"
"Not if I'm back by curfew."
"Okey dokey," I said, opening my car door for him, "someplace quaint."
Matt had an interesting look. While his hair was still short, his was the longest of all the boys, forgoing the requisite buzzed sides and back. Medium brown and full, it was parted sloppily on the right. Having a mind of its own, it fell in bangs sometimes, or at cross-purposes, turned all directions at once. His eyelashes were also lusciously thick and long, setting off his brown eyes in a puppy-dog look. His skin had a hint of tawniness, but could not be considered olive, like Eric's, as it took color when he worked out. It was clear and smooth, and still had the sheen of boyhood. He hardly needed to shave. Only a sophomore, Matt was one of the younger campers, a fact accentuated rather than belied by his visage. He looked young for his age.
No, that wasn't true. His face looked young for his age. His body, on the other hand, like the other nine athletes, was very much that of a man. He filled his competition top quite fully.
We drove the 15 minutes to town.
I pulled into a Denny's.
"Quaint?"
"This is as quaint as it gets."
As we were getting out of the car, there was a noise -- indescribable -- a high pitched, piercing, endless squeal that could only have come from one source:
a 12-year-old girl.
"Are you Matt VanLuyken," she shrieked?
Her hair was pulled back in the tightest of pony tails, she wore makeup in primary colors, and from her outfit, I guessed she was either a gymnast herself -- or possibly a superhero.
Matt smiled, and nodded.
"Oh, my Gaaaaawwwwwwd! I saw you at Nationals. You were soooooo awesome!!!!" Exclamation points flew from her like drops of water off a shaking dog.
"Thanks."
"Can I have your autograph? I wanted to get autographs at Nationals, but my mom wouldn't let me stay. I was, like, so, 'puhleaze', and she was, like, 'we have to go,' and I was like, 'but it's Nationals', and..."
Matt turned to me and, interrupting her, asked if I had a pen. I reached into the car, dug one out of the glove compartment, and handed it to him.
"What's your name?"
"Christal," she cooed.
"What do you want me to write it on, Christal" he asked her?
She turned without ever taking her eyes off him, and offered her back. He signed the t-shirt over her left shoulder blade, writing, "Christal - Keep working it. Love, Matt VanLuyken."
"Take it easy," he said, as we turned to enter the restaurant. Her eyes remained glued to him the entire way in, and, probably, through the walls as we were led to a table. She might still be there to this day.
"You recognized often," I asked?
"Oh, yeah. All the time. Aren't you?"
"Of course. All the time," I laughed, "especially by 12-year-old girls."
"Hey -- a fan's a fan."
"Bet she spells her name with a heart over the i."
"She wasn't bad as they go. At least she didn't have those god awful sparkles in her hair. That's the rage, now."
"Yeh - maybe Gore would have gotten elected if Tipper wore sparkles." We laughed.
Dinner was ordered and arrived. The conversation flowed. Matt was witty and laughed readily. He was easy to get along with. Not the most well rounded education in the world -- he was actually majoring in phys ed -- but still a delight. At one point, there was a natural pause in the conversation. Matt carved patterns into his napkin with the tynes of his fork. I watched him do it.
"So," he said finally, "when did you know you were gay?"
"Thirteen," I answered. "Thought about a boy the first time I jerked off. Never changed."
He accepted this information contemplatively, changing the stroke of his napkin doodle.
"How about you," I asked?
"Pretty much the same."
So he would talk about it. That was nice. An unexpected gift for the summer and, perhaps, and an ally.
"Do the guys know?"
"Yeah. But we don't talk about it much."
"Why not," I asked? "They seem pretty comfortable with it."
"No, they're comfortable with you being gay. It's different for me.
You're not one of them."
I considered his words. They made sense. Brad had said they were used to guys making passes at them, and I knew from experience that at least he and Eric were used to accepting, should the circumstances permit. But those guys came and went -- or, rather, the boys came and the guys went. They were just for unreciprocated quickies, allowing the boys to be able to retain their undamaged heterosexual self-image. But someone who was one of them, and so would always be there, who might expect something in return? Someone who might fall in love? Someone who might suggest that the furtive blow jobs on the road might mean something more? Very threatening.
"There are a lot of expectations that go along with the job," Matt continued. "It's not as easy as it looks."
"Well, first of all, it doesn't look easy. When was the last time you didn't have at least one bruise on your arms or legs, or didn't hurt somewhere?"
Matt smiled. "Can't remember."
"Things that cause bruises don't look easy. Next, what expectations?"
"Oh, I don't know. Just the way we're supposed to act. On the floor, off the floor, when we're together. No one ever talks about it. It just is."
"Gimme a for instance."
Matt played with his napkin, and thought about it.
"For instance, we're supposed to be a team, right?"
"Sure."
"But that's only for some of the competitions. In others, it's every guy for himself. In the Olympics, it's split: you're a team one day, then boom. The next, you're competing against each other. And even when you're a team, you know that your participation in the individuals is determined by how well you do compared to your teammates."
"That must cause some weird dynamics."
"Yeah. We're practicing for Nationals now, right? So we're in team mode, but practicing for a meet where we'll be competing against each other. Not a moment goes by that each and every one of us isn't checking all the others out and comparing. How's he going to do on the vault? Should I increase my level of difficulty? That's his weak skill. If he gets better, should I do more on floor? It gets kind of crazy."
"But you're all friends, aren't you?"
"Absolutely. Good friends. But nobody ever forgets why we're here. Ever."
Even Adam? Of course Adam. Especially Adam. A thought clicked into place: that's why he used them to get off rather than me. Talk about a competitive edge! I would have to consider this more, later. I returned to the present.
"So you got a guy back home?"
"Nope. Yourself?"
"Nope."
He smiled. I realized for the first time, with some humor, that I was on a date.
"What do you do, exactly?"
"You mean, other than all of you?" He laughed.
"And while we're on that topic," I added, steering the conversation away from his topic, "'Heywood?'"
Matt grinned sheepishly, and returned his gaze to his napkin, now fairly shredded on the table.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Part of the pose."
"'sokay. I thought it was funny."
I paid the bill, and we returned to the car. The night was cool and clear. Within the context of the date -- getting to know this pleasant and affable young man -- the rinkydink-ness of the one-main-steet town did, indeed, seem quaint.
I drove us off into the mountains, over the pass which would return us to camp.
"So," I said, bringing the conversation back to an earlier point, "let's see if I have this clear: you're young, nice, truly cute, incredibly built, and you don't have a boyfriend? What's up with that?"
Sitting in the passenger seat, staring off into darkness beyond the beams of the headlights, Matt shrugged his shoulders.
"Never really had one."
"Why not? Is there some terrible deformity I don't know about? Secretly a serial killer?" He laughed.
"Naw. Just haven't found anyone."
"But plenty of sex, I'm sure."
"Some. Never enough, but I'm not a slut or anything."
"I never know what that means. I always thought the whole slut thing was a straight paradigm, not a gay one. They're so much more invested, on paper at least, in the no-sex-without-love thing."
Matt giggled.
"You say the weirdest things, amigo."
"Me," I said, surprised? "What's weird?"
"'Paradigm?' What the hell's a 'paradigm'?"
Oh, right. Phys ed major, and a young one, at that.
"Oh. Sorry. Their assumptions -- the way they think. Straights think it's more important than most gays do."
"Oh. Well, I've been with a bunch of guys. But I don't know. Practice takes up a lot of time. And the travel -- all my vacations are shot. So you add classes to that, and I guess I've just never had the time for it."
We drove in silence for a minute, when he turned to face me and added, as if I had just said it, "and I think you're cute too."
Back at the camp, I asked him if he wanted to watch some TV in my room.
Retrieving the remote and moving the coffee table out of the way, I sat on the floor leaning back against the couch, spread my legs out in front of me, and patted the floor inviting him to join me. Matt dimmed the light and came over. His back to me, he sat in the space on the floor between my thighs, nestling his hips as far back as they would go. I turned on the tube, and he leaned back against my chest.
Matt's face may have been boyish, but his torso had the weight of a man's -- a very substantial man. While my shoulders were actually wider than his -- through bone structure alone, not development -- the sheer weight of his pinned my clavicles to the couch. His lats pressed against my sternum, and, lower, my abdominals. He relaxed his head back onto my shoulder, bringing his ear next to my mouth. I could smell his hair. Strawberry shampoo.
There was nothing on TV, really. We settled on an action movie. Dropping the remote, I brought my hands to his shoulders, and began absentmindedly massaging them.
I actually did know massage, but not because I had served the fleet. I had taken an elective as part of an experimental college my undergraduate school had set up where students could share areas of expertise with other students for credit. Taking that course, I relearned what I had already known about myself: I'm tremendously tactile. I tend to stroke, hold, and rub even when not thinking about it. And so it was that I found my hands on Matt's shoulders, exploring the shape and meanderings of his muscles.
"Mmmmm," he purred, "that's nice."
"You're nice," I whispered into his ear.
One hand fell below the collar of his t-shirt, and, savoring the feel of his smooth skin, swept over his opposite pec. Finding his nipple, I began circling it with my forefinger, and gently pinching and pulling it. It hardened immediately to a small ovate nub. He rested his elbows on my thighs, and gently stroked my knees through my pants.
We sat there for some time like that, spooning, softly caressing each other, not feeling the need to speak. It was pleasant, and I realized just how much I had missed not being touched back. At one point, without really breaking my embrace, he turned his head to the side so that we could look at each other, face to face. His eyes were remarkable, really. So soft. I inched in, repeating the script of the movie scene I had originally played with Brad, but this time, it resolved as it should have. Matt inched back.
His soft lips met mine, and we kissed. It lacked urgency, but not tenderness. Instead, we explored, breathing each other's sweet breath. Satisfied, at least for the time being, we broke the kiss, and he turned back to the TV, relaxing his head, again, contentedly into the crook of my neck.
At a commercial break, I took his biceps in my hands, and said, into his ear, "I think you're breaking curfew."
"I know. But I'm enjoying this so much."
"Me too, stud."
"I should go, though."
"Who's your roommate? Evan? He'll wonder."
"Yeah." Still, he made no attempt to move.
"We've got plenty of time, you know."
"Yeah."
Taking the initiative, I lifted him away from me using the grip I had on his arms. He reluctantly let himself be removed. He stood and stretched. His litheness took my breath away. He put his shirt back on , covering the beauty of his chest and abdomen. He smiled at me. I smiled back. We stayed like that for longer than was right.
Breaking the sudden tension, he laughed.
"Well," he said, making for the door, "thanks for dinner. I had a great time."
"Me too."
"It's been nice to get to know you..." He was halfway out the door when he added, "...Heywood."