Karl's Deepest Secret, part 1

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Karl's Deepest Secret, Part 1
by Greg Scott

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All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc.  In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it.  Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.

This is the nineteenth story in the series, The Lavender Line.

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I got home from the movie after my parents were already in bed.  The house seemed almost eerily quiet.  Kevin had been in college for two years, so I was used to that, but this was my first school year without Keith, my other brother, being around.  I hadn't realized how much I would miss him.

The movie was fairly good, I guess, but I didn't enjoy it.  I had gone with Alex and Rod, two friends of mine who had become an inseparable couple over the past month or so.  I felt like a third wheel, although I didn't seem to inhibit them in any way.  They held hands from the opening title sequence through the credits and kissed passionately once we were back to the car.  I just looked out the window.

Yeah, I felt a little sorry for myself.  I know it's selfish, but it didn't seem fair.  They had both been closeted until the past summer, and now they were suddenly displaying themselves to anyone who wanted to see it.  

On the other hand, I had never hidden my interest in guys.  I had sort of been out my whole life, but I still could not be seen with the man I loved.  Of course that was not the fault of my friends, but I still resented them being able to be so open.

I had fallen for the wrong guy.  I knew it right away, but I couldn't seem to help it.  The transition from lust to love is not a rational process.  When it happens, you just know that it was inevitable and there was nothing you could have done to stop it, although I probably wouldn't have tried to stop it anyway.

My friends all seem to enjoy telling me about their love lives.  Straight or gay doesn't matter; everyone likes to tell me about their latest loves or their problems involved in the romance department.  I guess they know that I'll respond, encourage them and, most important, keep it to myself.  I securely hold the secrets of lots of guys and girls.

Yet, there is nobody that I can tell my own secrets.  There is nobody that I can tell my joys or my frustrations.  Sometimes I feel as if there are so many secrets competing for space in my brain that I'm almost afraid to talk for fear that something is going to spring out into the open.  It's starting to drive me crazy.

What makes all of this worse is that none of my friends can understand why I never talk about my own dating life.  They think of me as the world's most open person, but I always ignore their questions about whether I'm seeing anyone or getting laid or anything at all dealing with my sexual life.  Even my parents have started asking why I never bring "a special boy" home with me.  I mean, I always have friends over, but even they can tell that these guys or girls are just friends and nothing more.  Hell, I can't even share my love life at my gay youth support group; the secret is that deep.

After this movie with Rod and Alex, I checked my phone as soon as I got to my bedroom.  I had a text from David.

"kw-come over or call-d," the screen displayed, indicating the message was two hours old.

It was late, so instead of calling, I just texted him back.  He would see the message whenever, but at least he would know that I wasn't ignoring him.

"d-2 l8. i call u 2morrow-k."

David and I first met over two years ago in my freshman history class.  I sensed that the attraction was mutual almost right away.  We only talked about stuff related to class, and we never had what you would call a real conversation the whole year.  However, we both seemed to spend a lot of the class staring at each other.

At first, if David looked at me while I was looking at him, I would quickly avert my eyes to my book or to the paper where I was supposed to be writing something.  If I happened to look at David while he was staring at me, he would quickly glance to another one of the other students or to the blackboard or the clock.

After a couple months of that, though, we stopped the panicky reaction.  We began to just give in and continue our stares, locking our eyes at the other and, eventually, to not feel embarrassed about it.  

It never seemed to register with the other students in the class that their gay classmate and their teacher spent most of the class staring only at each other.  But that was all that happened that year.  I mean there were no noteworty advances made by either of us.

During my sophomore year we only saw each other when we would pass in the halls.  We always greeted each other by name.

"Hello, Karl," he would say in his rich baritone.

"Hi, Mr. Robertson," I would reply in my relatively newly developed deep voice.

Near the end of the year, things began the inevitable shift.  We met once in the hall right after last period.  He stopped in his tracks when he saw me a few feet from him.  I did the same.  He asked how my classes were going.  I gave him the usual brief answer.  He asked how everything else in my life was.  I told him that my life was okay.

"I've been wondering a lot about you this year," he said.  "I was sorry to see that you weren't in my history class this year."

I felt as if he had just told me that he was deeply in love with me and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.  My heart fluttered, I'm sure.  I wanted to answer him with the emotional intensity that I had read into his remarks.  I wanted to be profound.

"Yeah, I wish I could be in your class, too," I said.  That was all of the profundity that I could muster.

"It was good seeing you, Karl," he said as he moved away.

"It was good seeing you, too," I answered.

I went home and jacked off, spewing my cum after about one minute of my rapid, urgent strokes.  It was the best orgasm I had had in quite a while.

I had always been attracted to older guys, something I really hadn't given much thought until recently.  I can remember back when I was eleven or twelve, when I first started having any sort of sexual urges that went beyond mere curiosity, I focused my attention and my fantasies on guys who were a few years ahead of me in school.  My brothers' friends were mostly two and four years older, so they provided me with plenty of imaginary partners.

In fact, my first sexual experience ever was with a friend of my brother Kevin.  I was twelve at the time, and he was sixteen, the same age I am now.  I'm not going to bore you with the details, because it really wasn't all that great.  Maybe the lack of a spectacular experience with him is what led me to focus my desires on even older guys, adults.

Now before you start dusting off your old psychology text books, I should tell you that I never felt rejected by my father.  In fact, I think we have a perfect relationship, something that most teenage boys won't say.  Furthermore, I was never molested by an adult (or by anyone else for that matter), so there go those myths about cross-generational attractions.

No, I really think that my interest in older guys is because of the experience that they have.  I'm not talking only about sexual experience, which is a big plus.  I also mean their experience with life.  It's a big turn-on for me.

I saw David again the next day, at the same place and time.  I was sure that this was no coincidence.

"Hi, Karl," he greeted me.

"Hi, Mr. Robertson," I said.

"I was thinking," he said.  "You might enjoy coming by the practice field to watch the spring practices, since you have some friends on the team."

"Okay, I'll think about it," I said.

"Great.  Hope to see you there.  It's not as boring as you think," he emphasized.

In addition to being a history teacher, David is an assistant football coach.  He coaches the backs, which included my brother until now, since my brother was a senior (now a graduate) and wouldn't be on the team in the fall.  Keith had been the quarterback.

I didn't go to the practice that day.  I went home and, you guessed it, jacked off again.  I lasted a little longer that time than I had on the previous day, which actually resulted in an even more mind blowing orgasm.

The next day was Friday.  I didn't see David after school, which disappointed me, so I decided to go watch the team practice to at least be able to look at him.

I walked very slowly to the practice field, knowing that the practice wouldn't start for a while.  The team had to change into workout clothes.  They didn't wear uniforms for spring practice.  There was no contact in the spring, no blocking or tackling.  These practices I knew were about learning the plays and conditioning.  Keith had told me all of this a couple years before, even though I didn't really have any interest in what he was telling me.

When the practice started, David wasn't there.  I was disappointed, but I took advantage of watching the muscular upper classmen running around in their tight shorts and sleeveless shirts.  I noticed that a couple of the coaches weren't bad too look at either.

I took a seat in the stands next to the only other two spectators.  They were two girls who I knew, although I didn't know them very well.  I was aware that they both dated guys on the football team.

"Is your boyfriend on the team, too?" one asked me.

"No.  I'm afraid not," I answered.

"Too bad," she said.

I think everyone at the school thought of me as some virgin boy, who for some inexplicable reason had never been with another guy.  A lot of my friends often tried to fix me up with someone who they either knew to be gay or for some, usually stereotypical reason suspect might be.  I always turned them down, of course, and I never revealed that I was having sex on a fairly regular basis.

For the past couple years, I had been visiting my brother Kevin at his college about four times per year.  On my first visit, I stumbled onto a building that had a men's room that was a gathering place for a lot of the guys on campus who wanted to exchange blow jobs or more.  With my looks, I had no problem finding an older student or a graduate student or, on two occasions, a faculty member who would take me home for a little mutual satisfaction of various kinds.  I hope that I don't sound too conceited.

To keep myself sufficiently entertained between my college weekends, I discovered that the mall was a great place to connect with guys who had some maturity.  While I wished that some of these could turn into more than one day stands, I hadn't really connected with anyone yet on a truly emotional level.

Eventually David arrived at the practice.  He looked exceptionally hot in the tight shorts and shirt that seemed to be the regular practice outfit for players and coaches.

"Oh my god, look at Coach Robertson," one of the girls said to her friend.

"Man, I would spread my legs so wide for him," said the friend.  Then, remembering my presence, she added to me, "You can't ever tell anyone I said that, Karl."

"Don't worry," I replied thinking, "great another secret."

When practice ended, the girls headed out of the stands to walk their boyfriends back to the school.  The players and most of the coaches headed in the same direction.  David, though, came toward me.

I met him half way.

"I'm glad you came," he said.  "I hope you weren't too bored."

"Not at all.  After a while, I found it interesting enough."

"The reason I was late was that I forgot my workout clothes.  I had to go home to get them, so I just changed there," he explained, although I had not asked.

"I see," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Anyway, I don't have to go change or anything, so would you like a ride home?" he asked.

"Sure," I responded, hiding the excitement that I was really feeling.

We talked for a while about the practice while we were driving toward my house.  I wanted to think of some way to mention that it would be okay with me if we went to his house, instead.

"Are you sixteen, yet?" he asked.  

The question was totally unrelated to anything we had been discussing.  For me, though, it was as if he had spoken some secret code.  I had learned the importance of my sixteenth birthday quite by accident from a man I met at the mall who had backed out of entertaining me at the last moment.  In my state, the age of consent is sixteen.  He wasn't willing to risk going to jail and ruining his life for a little fun, he had explained.  That was the first time that I had been aware that technically I was not allowed to choose who I had sex with.  I realized that most of the guys that I had been with were, in fact, breaking the law.

"Next Tuesday," I answered David's question.

"We should celebrate," he said.

"We should," I agreed.

"I imagine you're busy Tuesday after school," he stated.

"Nothing I can't postpone," I said trying to sound as seductive as I could.

"Can you come to practice after school on Tuesday?" David asked.  "Plan on staying for dinner."

"Rain or shine," I replied as I got out of the car and watched him pull away.  We were both smiling.

Of course, you know what I did as soon as I got inside.  I wondered if he did the same.

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