In the Arms of Someone I Imagine

Notes:

1. This story is set around the lyrics to the song "Sunday Morning Yellow Sky" by the October Project. I have no rights to this song. I am using it under the concepts of Fair Use and artistic interpretation. I will make no money off of this work.

2. The writing below walks the line between my lived experience and fiction. Names and other identifying features have been changed or omitted to focus this story on me rather than the other characters. Some things happened, some things didn't.

3. This is a tale about a man told through the eyes of another man, if you ain't down with the gay stuff, don't read it (and why are you here in the first place.)

4. This is not a story about sex. There are sexual aspects to it, but that is not the primary focus of the story. If you are just looking for humping, this is likely not the story for you.

5. This is my first foray into writing stories and/or erotica. Please be understanding.

6. Donate to nifty.org. I have been reading their stories for a long time, since before this story took place. Keep the archive alive.

In the Arms of Someone I Imagine

(When the darkness falls like a curtain And the night ahead is a long and uncertain dream Beyond the loss and the hope of redemption)

Phil was a few years younger than me. Not much younger, but he seemed it, in the way that a college senior at the ripe old age of 22 looks down on a 18 year old freshman. Neither of us quite had a traditional flow through college. Not fair off of the norm, but not the graduate high school, work for the summer start college in August trajectory.

But our lives lined up for three semesters. My senior year and an extra semester to finish a few things off (changed my major late and didn't have time to get everything in in the normal 4 years) were his first three of college.

Phil was a west coast kid at an east coast school. He presented between goth and grunge, in that early 2000s sort of way. Shaggy black hair, sometimes down, sometimes styled up into a fauxhawk. A lip ring of a large enough gauge to appear edgy, but not so large as to leave much of a scar. One of those hats that looked like something lost from a train conductor's costume, but faded gray rather than striped; the one with the floppy brim, an almost baseball cap. Baseball caps were for fratty types. Phil wasn't a fratty type.

Phil was not a big guy. Five foot nine or so. Slim but not skinny. Lightly tanned, golden skin. Not a smoke show, but definitely cute.

Under Phil's outer persona, there was an innocence that he couldn't quite shake. No matter what he did, he looked like, with a change of clothes, someone you would bring home to Sunday dinner. The kind of guy who would call your Granny beautiful just to see her smile. A guy who could charm the whole family.

But the most beautiful thing about Phil was his ability to make you his whole world. He was one of those people who, when you talked to him, he was always there with you. He never seemed to care about anything but you in those moments. And he was quick with a smile, crinkling his young cheeks with easy laugh lines. He put his whole self into the moment. He made you feel seen and heard.

I was one of the most out gay guys on campus. I was co-president of the Queer club. While I may not have been the most stereotypical gay guy ever, I also was not a Lax Bro. Most of the school knew I was gay. I was the one the school paper called when they needed a gay quote.

Phil came to one of the meetings early in his first term. Meetings were open and usually had a mix of queer women and mostly female allies. Phil came with another new student. When she introduced herself she talked about being bisexual. I figured Phil came with her as support when he didn't say much in his introduction beyond name, year, and where he was from. I was mildly surprised, when later in the meeting he mentioned something about the challenges of being a bi guy in high school.

At the broken heart of the city Where the hollow light of day never reaches in A man can break down and fall into pieces He will fall asleep like a baby And the unforgiving arms of the cradle Rock as hard as the face of the city pavement Hide your eyes Hide your eyes

Phil was a performer. He was always in a few student-directed shows, right from his arrival on campus.

He was also a member of an acapella group. He had a great singing voice. Not in the operatic or pop star autotuned sort of a way, but clean tone and pure. Think singer-songwriter, sitting on a stool with a mic.

Acapella was a big deal on campus. I think a lot of schools say that, especially the acapella groups, but most concerts were well attended and lots of people auditioned for very few slots. I think two different new groups popped up while I was there, made up of people who didn't make it through auditions.

I remember going to Phil's first concert. Not because of Phil, but rather for one of the girl's in the group. She and I had become close during a drawing class and our schedules often lined up such that we were in the studio alone together working on our projects. She was a senior and it was one of her last concerts before she graduated.

Phil was new and did not have any solos yet. However, near the beginning of the show, they did have a song for the newbies to each get a few lines of the main vocal part. When he stepped forward, he commanded the room. You couldn't not look at him. The concert was in a small space and he used that to engage with the audience. He looked out and saw everyone. At one point I could have sworn his eyes locked with mine. And I am sure everyone in there felt the same. He was magnetic.

After that, I couldn't seem to take my eyes off him, bouncing to the rhythm of the songs. He mostly stood with his eyes closed or looking at his fellow singers. His solo moment showed that he had star power, but the rest of the concert showed a kid who was tentative and learning to be part of this ensemble.

The concert ended and a party began. I found my friend and congratulated her on her performance. I also caught Phil's eye and mouthed, "well done." He flashed a smile and gave me a thumbs up.

He can see the face of a lover In the lonely face of the angel above him Carved into the stone that is changing around him He can feel her breathing inside him And the unforgiving visions deny him Life can only be what a man can make it Hide your eyes Hide your eyes

Phil was taking Chinese which was one of my majors. There were several times we connected in the library or the campus pub/cafe to help him with his homework. I wouldn't say we were friends exactly. But we were more than acquaintances. A smile and a wave on the path, maybe a quick check in if neither of us was rushing anywhere.

I note that only because it sets up how we knew each other. There are parts of this next story that I honestly don't remember. Not because of anything beyond the distance of time and the irrelevance of the context.

I don't remember how I ended up in his room. Maybe it was after I helped him with some homework. Maybe we met walking along a path. Maybe we were hanging after a meal with mutual friends. My memory starts in his room. We were both sitting on his bed. Our knees were touching. It was a pleasant warmth in that contact.

Phil pulled out a joint. He lit it, took a hit, and offered it to me. I had never smoked pot before, nor have I smoked since. I have no judgment about pot. But I also had no desire.

But there, in that moment, with him, I did. My one and only time. It never affected me, no high, but I was happy to spend a bit of time with him.

I had developed what I can best describe as a crush on Phil. It wasn't the type of crush that involved imagining a white wedding or a night of sweaty fucking. I didn't want to date him. It was mostly an acknowledgment of how cute he was and how much I enjoyed being around him. It was something between a friendship and a romantic crush. It was the reason I smoked that day.

We shared that joint, sitting together and just chilling. We shot the shit for a while and enjoyed companionship.

I don't remember what happened after either. We both moved on. But I remember with crystalline clarity, sitting and smoking together. An intimate bubble of a light in the dark. Phil probably doesn't even remember the moment.

Sunday morning Yellow sky The sun is floating diamond high Hours passing A baby cries In the arms of someone you imagine Close your eyes This is your lullaby Close your eyes This is your lullaby

It was nearing 2 am. The party was winding down. Pop divas and Europop thrummed in our veins. Bodies entwined and twisted. The dance floor was an ever-shifting mass. At that point, I found myself in a circle with Phil and several of his friends, the bi girl among them. The music shifted; Gasolina's reggaeton beats pulsed through the crowd. The circle collapsed. I found Phil against me.

We tentatively locked eyes, dancing together but apart. As things shifted, he moved closer. Was in the crowd or choice I don't know, but he did not back away. As we ground together, I moved a hand around his back. I slipped my hand under the hem of his shirt and held his smooth lower back, pulling him closer. My pinky slid just into the waistband of his boxers, not exploring, but in that liminal space just edging into private.

We ground against each other's thighs. While the moment of grinding together on the dance floor feels sexy, honestly it really isn't. But our eyes were locked and his cock was stiff against me. I am sure he could feel my erection pushing into him as well. The bodies around us blurred into a tangle of skin and cloth. All I knew at that moment was him. His body pressed to mine, my hand on his back, his hands on my hips.

In the last pulsing moments of the song, we pulled closer together. Our faces moved together and our lips touched. It wasn't a wild make out, but a simple kiss in acknowledgment of the moment.

The last song at a dance was always the same. Not "Stairway to Heaven," but the crooning voice of a pop diva. And everyone also took off their shirts, if they still had one on. As the first strains of the song fluttered over the crowd, Phil pulled back from me. He pulled his sweaty polo over his head exposing his smooth torso. Not muscular, not fat, not gaunt, just toned. He looked at me and winked. He faded into the mass of shirtless bodies looking for his friends again as the night, at least here, was coming to an end.

He can feel his skin like a prison Like a dying cage he struggles to live inside He tries to call out but nobody hears him At the ragged edge of the silence In the calm that only comes with the violent sleep Inside the heart and the hope of redemption Hide your eyes Hide your eyes

It was a fall weekend. Early enough that we didn't need jackets, late enough to let you know the cold was coming soon. It was late. I had spent most of my night at a house that a bunch of my friends lived in. I wasn't drunk, but I wasn't completely sober either. The party had ended, and after I sat with the guys who weren't busy and had one last drink, I headed across campus back towards my dorm.

I was sitting on a retaining wall, just thinking in the early morning hours. The stars were bright and I was enjoying the evening and its acknowledgment of the snow in the future. I have always loved that nip in the air.

A solo figure came stumbling down the road toward me. As they passed under a street lamp, I saw it was Phil. I watched him. He was drunk and weaving. Happy but not in complete control.

When he approached, I called out a greeting. Phil swerved towards me and slurred a hello. He was planning to head to another party, but he could not tell me exactly where that was. I suggested that heading to his bed might be a good idea. He tried to say no, but couldn't really put together much of an argument. I was glad he was a happy drunk rather than a sad or belligerent one.

I put an arm around his waist and started to steer him home. When he asked where we were going, I told him that I was putting him in bed. He complained like a little kid, but never really fought it.

When I got him back to his room, he dropped his pants and took off his flannel. He stood in black boxer briefs and a black tee shirt for some band I'd never heard of. With his trademark cheeky grin, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to the bed.

Twin beds in dorms are not comfortable for two, and the only real configuration that works is spooning. He cuddled up against me, and soon fell asleep in my arms. His hair smelled of his soap, and of stale pot smoke, and a musk of his own. I enjoyed having his back rising and falling against my chest. We lay together at peace.

I woke first, and I had to piss like a racehorse. I have never really had morning wood like many guys, so I didn't have my cock shoved in his butt crack or anything like that. I lay as long as I could just holding him. It was lovely. But nature called. I extracted myself. He rolled on his back for a moment. He did get morning wood. I could see his hard cock pushing against his underwear. His shirt had ridden up a bit and there was a tantalizing band of golden skin around his hips. He had grown his hair out into a shaggy mop. It was a haircut that I am sure looking back on now he would question. But that morning, the messy hair worked. He was an angel lying there in that bed. An angel who was going to wake up with a major hangover soon. He rolled over again and nestled himself down into his blankets.

I slipped out the door, and, after using the bathroom, headed back to my dorm. It was early. The campus was quiet. It was a walk of shame, with no shame, and very few spectators. When I got back to my room, I hopped into bed for a few more hours of sleep.

In the heart of someone you imagine Close your eyes This is your lullaby Close your eyes This is your lullaby

I did see Phil naked once. He, along with a group of guys and gals, the extreme croquet team or some craziness, streaked the library during exams at the end of my final semester. While streaking doesn't exactly provide an excellent opportunity to ogle, I remember a few things. The skin around his hips was much paler than the rest of him. A white swath in his golden skin. His butt was two perky small white globes, not huge, but just the right jiggle. The dark triangle of his pubic hair was stark against his untanned skin. He was a beautiful young man. And then, in an instant, Phil, and the rest of his shouting compatriots were gone.

That drunken night was one of my last real experiences with Phil. It never came up between us later. I am not sure if he even remembers that it happened. We continued to see each other around campus. I still helped him with Chinese. We still chatted occasionally. I graduated and moved on.

I saw Phil a few times that I was back on campus to visit friends or see performances. I even spent a night on his futon.

But I definitely dreamt of waking up with Phil in my arms again. And when I saw him shirtless, which was more frequent than one might imagine, I wondered what it would have been like if he had taken off a few more layers that drunken night. Nothing would have happened, he was too drunk to consent to anything (and likely too drunk to perform in any case.) But what would it have been like to feel his smooth skin. To rest a hand on his chest or his hip. To brush my thumb along his collarbones.

(Down, down, down Would the fall never come to an end? Wonder how many miles I've fallen Must be somewhere near the centre of the earth Wonder if I should fall right through the earth How funny it will seem to come out among the people Who walk with their heads downwards Down, down, down Down, down, down Would the fall never come to an end?)

Since he graduated, Phil has become somewhat of a minor celebrity, more than just on social media, although a viral video did help him get there. He has a Wikipedia page that someone other than him wrote. He has an IMDB page with more than just shorts that no one has seen.

I look him up occasionally. He has a wife and kid now. His bisexuality has been conveniently erased from the public eye. He looks happy. I am glad for him, but I do wonder what could have been. But as real as he is, he is truly someone I imagine.