Efrain and Cory 0-1
Efrain x Cory
Author’s Note
Characters really do take on a life of their own, so it’s not my fault that I’m writing erotic fiction. I’d been developing characters for an unrelated project, and two of them couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It was like those annoying neighbors that have loud sex all the fucking time, only it’s going on in your own head and you can’t call the management. So, I gave up on trying to keep them from fucking and started writing a vignette (and possibly an apology letter to some aurally abused former neighbors). Efrain and Cory liked it so much, they asked for another. Then they decided they were totally into each other and the rest kinda if-you-give-a-mouse-a-cookie’d out from there.
Efrain and Cory’s story doesn’t really have a plot-plot, as it was always episodic and character-driven to begin with, and the narrative point-of-view shifts to which ever character can most effectively tell the story at that moment. This is my first attempt at both erotica and extended fiction, and I more than welcome feedback. Thank you for reading. ~Dayne (dayne.mora@gmail.com)
Prologue – Locker Staring Contest
I thought I’d left my days of staring into gym lockers back in high school. I picked up the habit in middle school the one time I caught the wrong asshole’s attention and got the shit beat out of me. I’d kept it up for six years, and thought my senior year would be the last time. University was supposed to be the liberal bastion of sodomy and sin, and I’d left my homophobic Texas hometown for Virginia (which if you ask any Southerner isn’t technically in the South, even if it is below the Mason-Dixon). I am in a much better place, I shouldn’t have to stare at my locker while changing for practice.
It’s not that I want to stay in the closet, I don’t hide that I’m bi, I just can’t find a less awkward time to come out. I don’t really brag about conquests, male or female, and I’m not in a relationship either. Plus, the places I pick up men and the places I pick up women aren’t the same, and there is only one place I seem to run into my teammates. So I can’t really blame them for not figuring out that Cory Card, freshman linebacker, plays for both teams.
And, to be honest, most of them seem like they wouldn’t care, nor would they read anything into stray looks. I’ve managed to break the locker-staring habit, and do well enough to look at whoever is talking to me, but I still have reason enough to keep my eyes fixed where they’d been for most of my teens –
Fucking Efrain fucking Garza.
Chapter One – Eat a Dick, Texas
Before I get anywhere, I would like to make this point understood: Texas can eat a dick. In fact, Texas can eat a big fucking bag of dicks. It’s only 9 AM, but it’s hot as balls already and mine are currently stuck to my leg. Kinda awkward to give my mom goodbye hugs and kisses while trying to discreetly unglue my family jewels from my thigh.
But, hug and kiss I do, rubber-cemented nutsack notwithstanding, and say my goodbyes to Dad before I climb into my truck. I turn the key in the ignition and roll down my window for final goodbyes. I promise to take frequent breaks, and they threaten to check my credit card charges to make sure I stop at the appropriate number of hotels to get a decent night’s sleep.
“There’s 24 hours in a day, what’s the harm in using 19 of them to drive?”
“Two days, minimum.” My dad gets this really stern look on his face.
“I really do wish you’d take at least three, Cory.”
“I’m like the fourth son you’ve sent off,” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to be so over child rearing that you let me do whatever?”
“Two days. Minimum.” He sets his jaw and folds his arms over his chest and I immediately 86 the “why” game.
I sigh. “Fine.” Satisfied, they wave me off. I put the truck in gear and get on the road to my new life as a freshman at Virginia Tech. My friends think I’m crazy to move so far away; we’ve lived in this small Texas town for most of our lives. There are some upsides to being a big fish in a little pond. Everybody knows everybody. But then everybody knows everybody’s business. I’m ready to be a little fish.
Not that I’m little. I’m just shy of 6 feet and weigh close to 200lbs, mostly muscle. This being Texas, I naturally ended up playing football. Now that I think about it, I do look like a walking (driving?) Texas stereotype. Country music just happens to be playing on the radio (although it is one of twenty songs out of 2000 songs on my phone), my Stetson is sitting on top of my bags (mainly because I didn’t know where to put it), and I even brought my boots (along with half a dozen pairs of Converse). And I’m driving a big fucking truck. To be fair, it’s a Toyota and it used to be my dad’s. Still, I have a sinking feeling that someone is going to nickname me “Tex.”
However, there is one thing that doesn’t fit the stereotype. I’m bi. Which is why I really wanted to get out of this town, and why I jumped at VT’s full ride. I’ve had enough with living in the closet because I’m too afraid of what people will say. Like I said, little fish. I can come out, get my ass pounded, and no one would even notice or care. I’ve managed to keep that part of my life hidden here in Cibolo, but I’ve had it – officially.
I thought about telling Mom and Dad about me. I think about it a lot. I mean, I’m sure I could bring them around and they wouldn’t care. I even think about telling my brothers. One of my middle brothers already knows (Cameron kinda caught me in the tool shed with my hands down a friend’s pants) and he’s been okay with it. I could’ve pulled a dick move the day before and peace out before they can react. I think about all these things, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Skipping town just seems easier.
Before I leave town, I take a quick detour past my favorite Mexican place for some breakfast tacos because I know I’ll never get decent tortillas in Virginia. I wolf down my chorizo and egg, and vow to visit every Buc-ees from here to the state line because this may be the last time I ever see a nice, clean gas station bathroom. If I didn’t hate Texas so damn much, I’d consider crying for that alone.
I know I should feel little more nostalgic for all the stuff I’m leaving behind in Texas. I should also be upset about only getting in a couple weeks of summer vacation before I have to report for preseason training, but I’m too excited to start my new life.
Once I get to the Texas state line (a little later than schedule because I had to stop for a kolache…four times), I decide to get a little crazy. I log into Facebook from my phone and change my profile to say that I’m bi. I fully expect a shitstorm, but my phone isn’t blowing up and nobody had commented on my status change by the time I log in at the hotel. I call my best friend Keenan (who’s beyond straight, but okay with my semi-gay ass) to see if he’s heard anything.
“Dude, no one gives a fuck.”
“I doubt that man,” I say. “Remember when Juan’s little brother pranked him on Twitter? Everyone went insane. And he wasn’t even remotely gay.” Despite my efforts to convert him.
“Whatever. You left and we already forgot about your faggy ass.”
Biggest. Let down. Ever.
***
I make the trip in a very Mom-pleasing un-record time. I tried for two days, but I figured I would have gotten in too late to check into my dorm, so I might as well take it easy. I get in Saturday afternoon, right before the dorm admin closes shop, so I’m able to get my keys. I bought a parking pass, but I soon learn that “parking pass” doesn’t mean that you get a spot to park, just that you get to fight for a spot to park.
I manage to find a space two blocks from the dorms and I’m glad my mom talked me out of taking more stuff with me. I’m in great shape, but I’m still huffing by the time I get my things over to my room. The only upside is that it isn’t so goddamn hot out here and I won’t meet my roommate looking like a drowned rat.
As I unlock the door, it occurs to me that I should have found a way to contact this guy, instead of just walking in on him. Figured someone had to have told him I was coming today. I open the door and peek in, the guy is a pretty normal looking dude – a little bookish in the face, preppy clothes, decent body, short light brown hair. He’s actually pretty cute, but looks kinda confused. He tells the person he’s talking to on the phone that he’ll call back and stands up.
I set down a duffle bag and extend my hand. “I’m Cory Card.”
“Ah,” the look of confusion fades into one of those polite business smiles, “You’re here to invade my fortress of solitude.” He shakes my hand. “Romero Mackey.” Damn, he’s really cute. This is like the premise to half the gay porn I’ve seen -- ya know, two roommates just chilling when BAM! GAY SEX!
Romero has been in this room since the fall term, so his side is pretty settled in. I notice a couple pictures of him and a girl thumbtacked to the wall above his desk. Damn, no BAM! GAY SEX!
He looks at me strangely then, and I realize he’s waiting for a response. “Huh?”
“I heard you’re on the football team.”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Fucking sweet! You can score me some tickets.”
“Sure, I can try,” I say. Then I get this idea “…only if you help me get the rest of my stuff.”
This has the intended effect and his business smile becomes more genuine. “Was going to offer anyway.”
We make quick work of getting my things in and I busy myself with getting the essentials unpacked. Romero picks back up his phone, probably to call back whoever he was talking to earlier, and begins talking about random shit. I make my bed up and flop onto it. I should call home to let them know I got in alright, but I’m just too tired. I at least force myself to call Mom and chat with her for a few minutes or else she will blow up my cell, then call all three of my brothers to bother me until I call.
By the time I hang up, Romero has picked up my Stetson from where I tossed it on my desk. “So,” he says, examining my hat. “Texas license plates, cowboy hat, accent, big ass truck…”
“Hey, it’s a mid-size.”
“Big ass truck,” he repeats. “I bet you listen to country music and own cowboy boots.”
“I don’t just listen to country, and” I point to my Chucks laying on the floor by my bed. “I own other shoes.”
“’Other’ shoes, he says.” We both laugh a little. “You know what, I’m going to call you ‘Tex’ from now on.”
Fucking knew it.