Author's Note: Chapter 1 is mostly set-up, although there are some sexual or homoerotic acts therein. Chapter 2 is forthcoming.
Author's Notes: This is a work of erotic fiction featuring graphic descriptions of gay sex acts between consenting adults. If such acts disturb you, or if you are not of legal age to read stories intended for adults only, please stop reading immediately.
All characters engaging in any funny business are over the age of 18, as well as the age of consent in the (fictional) areas in which they reside. The characters are human beings and do not, therefore, always act with the highest moral integrity; this does not reflect my own views, nor do I personally endorse any of their actions. On the contrary, I may privately outright disagree with them, but the following is their story as they have told it to me -- over coffee. This is, after all, a work of fiction but also their collective autobiographies. Exercise your own good judgment when out in the world. And, for goodness' sake, play nice with others.
This work is presented free to you, the reader, at the Nifty Archive. It cannot be distributed, modified, or otherwise used without express written permission of the author.
Please consider donating to Nifty.org at http://donate.nifty.org as the site continues provide a safe, free space for creative endeavors for the enjoyment of those who wish to explore their fantasies and enjoy their sexual expression.
If you enjoy this work, I would love to hear from you. Send me your thoughts, impressions, comments, fantasies, and anything else you'd like to share: pilcrow.alinea@gmail.com
Oh, and I know there are glaring grammatical and idiomatic errors in the prose (e.g., subject-verb agreement, English idioms used incorrectly). They're all as intentional as they are flagrant. This story is told in the first person, and the narrator's register reflects his upbringing. No need to point them out; each was placed there with tender loving care for a particular reason.
Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. And leave me a comment! I love hearing from you!! Thanks to all the kind folks who've left me a word or two in the past. Rest assured I've read each and every one of your wonderful notes. Much obliged.
P. Alinea
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Learning the Ropes: Chapter 1
So I'm at work on a Friday afternoon, the one before Fourth of July. It's this sit-down burger joint: family-friendly, I guess, but popular enough with the high school and college crowd that it's a go-to spot for prom and other such get-togethers in the area. Anyways, so I'm just finishing up my shift when in comes these two guys, and right away, they're turning heads.
Partly, it's because they're dressed pretty flashy. Mostly, it's because they've got their arms slung over each other's shoulders. And that's not all: their opposite legs are so close, they're practically joined at the hip before they take two steps in through the front door.
They come in and sit down next to a family of six: Mom with bangs curled up in a ski slope and a backcomb to make 80s Cher jealous, Dad in matching royal blue track suit and baseball cap. Local team. From the looks of it, he either plays for them or has season tickets. Anyways, their four kids are fidgeting and screaming, but pretty soon the two of them are the ones looking antsy on the wooden bench in the waiting area.
The two young men next to them are sitting on each other's hands. It's totally obvious and intentional. Never seen anything like it around here. I mean, a guy and a girl, sure. Two guys? Well, you obviously haven't been in these parts.
One of them's got sandy blonde hair, same color as mine but with bleached tips. Think late 90s boy band and you got the right idea. Tight white shirt with open collared button-down over it. Ripped, faded boot-cut blue jeans and shades. White sneakers tied up real loose. About 15 years too late, but he doesn't seem too worried about it.
His partner -- that what you're supposed to call it? -- is a Latin guy with close-cropped hair all gelled up. He's wearing khaki cargo pants and a black button-up. He's built, a little bit thick in the middle, with broad shoulders and thick forearms. This guy's stereotype macho while Mister Backstreet is a pretty boy.
Their hands are slipped in each other's back pockets now. Mister Backstreet is whispering something in his bronzed boyfriend's ear; then the more athletic guy smiles and talks back with a whisper and a pinch to his round ass. He squirms in his seat, and Mother of Four gives them the stink eye. They're oblivious, though.
"I'll get this one, Erin," I say, my eyes never leaving their rambunctious forms. I grab a couple of our tall laminated menus and clear my throat.
"Thanks, Will. You know I can't deal with that."
I turn to grin at the petite blonde standing next to me and pulling her hair back in a ponytail.
"What, the flirting? I guess it is a bit raunchy."
"Nah," she replies, smacking her gum. "That kinda stuff happens in here every Saturday night. It's the faggotry."
Ouch. Hope she's joking. Who says that? Is it even a word? I tamp down the urge to tell her where she can stick the homophobia and put on my most hospitable smile before walking over to my overeager customers.
"Welcome to the Roadhouse. My name's Will. I'll be your server, but seeing as we're short on staff this evening, I'll also seat you and bus your table. Tips welcome."
The boy band boy flashes me his bleached whites and giggles. "You're pretty funny."
"Well, I've been trying to get 'em to agree to let me do some stand-up on Saturdays, but it's Saturday and, well, here I am. You can guess how well that went."
"Oh, stop... Baby, isn't he funny?"
The guy next to him smirks at me. I notice his eyes are looking me up and down a few times before he turns to kiss his companion on the cheek.
"Uh, can I show you to a booth?" I offer.
"We don't mind a table," Backstreet replies.
"Nah. I'm sure you wanna sit together." I pause here and throw a glance at their hands, which are still going to town. "Anyways, I opened a booth for you." I stop myself from adding the booth is in a corner where they might not be on full display.
"That's sweet. Isn't that sweet, baby?"
"Fuckin' faggots."
I turn to see Father of Four chewing on a toothpick and scowling at us. I'm sure my eyes must be as wide as the dinner plates on all the tables. Is this guy for real?
"Ugh..." Backstreet groans. I'm sure this isn't the first time he's had that kind of language slung at him. He's pretty femme.
"'Scuse me, sir: We're a family establishment. Now, I don't know what kind of language you use at home in front of your kids, but around here, that's not gonna fly." I'm trembling even as I hear these words come out of my mouth.
What the hell am I doing? Since when do I make waves? Everybody knows you don't make tips trying to play the hero. I don't even know what my own deal is, but I grip the menus tight to my chest with both hands as a shield. I set my jaw, gritting my teeth and trying to look like I mean business. I narrow my eyes and flare my nostrils. That's right, asshole: I'm in attack mode.
"Who you think you're talkin' to?" Mister Baseball says, standing up and turning red in the face. What a douche.
Then, he lurches forward a step in my direction. Oh, shit.
"You heard him. He said you need to show some respect or you're gonna have to leave." I could recognize that sass anywhere. I turn to see Erin with her hands on her hips and a scowl that makes Mister Homophobe look like Mister Rogers.
"Now, what'll it be, sir? Can I show you to a table, or are we gonna call it a night early? Your little ones look like they've been looking forward to dinner with us this evening." Here, she gestures at the kids. One little boy is tugging on his sister's hair. The two others are listening to what's going on with their folks.
"You're prolly a little fag, too."
Me? Does he mean me? Not hardly. I open my mouth to deny that claim, but he practically spats the next words in my direction before I can start.
"Come on, Con. Let's take our business someplace else. I don't need to take none of this shit. Specially not from some fag-loving teenagers."
"I am not a teenager!"
Erin throws a hand on one hip and another in the air, exasperated. She obviously has her priorities set.
Backcomb scoops the littlest girl up in her arms and takes her brother by the hand. Mister Baseball practically yanks the arms off the other two, tugging so hard I wonder for a second whether he's dislocated them. They go flying off the bench in the foyer, giggling as they're pitched into the air.
Dad walks away, kids in tow, muttering more profanity. Father of the Year. Makes my old man look like a saint.
"I'm really sorry about that," I offer to the two still sitting on the bench. "Can I show you guys that booth?"
"Yeah," says Mister Buff. He stands, and I finally get a good look at him. He's tall and built, muscled but with a little ponch after all, and bronzed by the summer sun. He smiles at me. "Thanks for stepping up for us, bro."
He claps me on the back and grasps my right hand in his. Right away, my palm is drenched. I can feel myself pitching my weight slightly forward onto the balls of my feet, inching closer to him, a grin spreading on my face. Damn.
Instinctively, I flip the menus in my hand down to my waist, clear my throat, and spin on my heels. "OK, let me show you that table. Err... Booth."
My cheeks are on fire. I clear my throat again and shuffle through the noisy dining room, past the rows of bright red booths and long tables, the guys following close behind. Standing with my back to them, I let them slide into the booth before slapping the menus down in front of them with gusto.
The specials, I can rattle off without even thinking. I take their drink orders, confirm they'll need a few, and promise to be back momentarily with a complimentary appetizer to make up for the fiasco in the foyer. Mozzarella sticks alright? Everyone loves deep-fried cheese. I head over to where Erin is organizing the kids' menus and the crayons that go in the little kiddie buckets.
I'm still shaking when I reach for my soda from its place in the cupboard in the foyer. I can't help but wonder whether it's residual adrenaline from telling a customer off or something else altogether.
"Damn, Will. Looked for a minute there like that guy was gonna deck ya. He was pissed. What a dick."
"I thought you weren't so much with the faggotry."
Erin is pulling her hair back into a ponytail for the third time since we got on shift. "Don't misunderstand. I'm just looking out for my friend. But look at you: Didn't know you had such a soft spot for the gay rights crowd."
"I don't! I mean, that guy was swearing, and there's little kids around. We can't let a bunch of redneck homophobes ruin the vibe in here, y'know? It's bad for business."
She holds a knife in one hand and is critiquing her teeth in its reflective surface. Finding them white enough, she puts it down and turns to me.
"I don't know that that's all it was. You had that look me and my friends did when we found out about that puppy mill two towns over. You know: pissed for justice. Like when we were in Intro to Soc together. A regular social justice warrior."
"Please..." I say, rolling my eyes.
She giggles and continues, a hint of mischief in her tone now. "And from the looks you were giving Mister Latin America afterward, I wonder if I might hafta have a little talk with Sharla one of these days."
She slaps me on the ass here to make her point, and a spray of diet soda pops out on impact.
"Jesus, Will! It was a joke. No need to go all Sea World on me. Look, your shift's over in ten, and speaking of Sharla, aren't you two supposed to be catching the new Marvel movie down the street in twenty? Captain Planet, was it?"
"That's not it. And we were." I sigh.
Erin frowns here. "What happened?"
"She got a call from Steph. You know how she's not doing so hot after her breakup with Brad?"
"Ugh. What a prick." She makes a face. "Still, that sucks. Well, then, maybe you really should pull up a chair and join the two cuties in the booth after all. You might be able to talk them into taking you home to make a Marvelous flick of your own."
"Shut the fuck up!" I hiss a little too loudly. A woman who looks the better side of seventy is just walking out of the bathroom and clasps her hand to her chest over a red God Bless America T-shirt. You can't make this shit up.
"OK, Will: Keep it PG. This is a family joint!" With that, Erin slaps me upside the back of my head in mock consternation at my language. To Granny, she flashes her pearly whites and nods her head. "Sorry, ma'am. He's new. I'll make sure to wash his mouth out with that industrial soap in the kitchen before he clocks out."
The woman, whose eyes have just about popped out of her head, scurries off into the dining room muttering something that sounds like "Yeah, you'd better."
Erin heaves a sigh of relief. "Jeez. I was just ribbing ya, Will. We sure are touchy this evening, aren't we? What's your deal?"
"Sorry, Erin. Guess I don't do so good with the faggotry myself."
She snorts. "I was joking about the faggotry, Will. You know it's all good. I might not be a total fag hag, but I've got gay friends. I'm no biggot. It's just not something you see every day around these parts. Doesn't mean it's not there." She pats me on the shoulder. "Besides, you don't strike me as much of a homophobe. It doesn't suit you, Slim."
Here, she gestures to my lanky lags. "If anything, I'd say you might get mistaken for a twink if it weren't for those arms." She squeezes my bicep here for effect. "Oh, and your god-awful fashion sense."
I groan. "I'm gonna take off. Thanks for taking that booth. Cheese sticks on the house. Extra dipping sauce, charge them."
"Sure. Shame, though. I'm sure as heck not gonna get the tips you woulda from those two."
"I'll be sure to put in a good word and flash 'em a nice view of my ass when I walk out," I say, sticking my tongue out at her for good measure.
"I knew you weren't afraid to sell it."
"Good night, Erin," I say with finality. And then, softening, "Thanks."
She winks at me and heads toward my guys.
My heart is still thudding in my chest when I climb into my little red Toyota. It's sizzling hot. Summer nights and all that. I inhale a chestful of air and exhale with a whoosh, partly willing my heart to slow down. But more than that, I'm trying my damnedest to get rid of this goddamn stiffy I've been trying to cover up since that guy touched me.
I look at my hazelnut-colored eyes in the rearview mirror and rake my hands through my sandy blonde locks.
"You're not queer," I reassure myself. "You can't be. You've got a girl." I squeeze my eyes shut. My head feels fuzzy. "You were on the team with guys for four years and never once made a move in the showers. Even when you had the chance, you didn't. You don't swing that way..."
The words don't sound as reassuring as they usually do, though. I sigh, tilting my head back into the seat, and twist the key in the ignition. The stereo comes on blaring; the engine roars to life.
It's too early for a reckless romp around town, and Sharla's busy. Most of my other friends are either at the park or out of town for the holiday. Even my parents are bound to be out at the park for the concert heralding the height of summer.
I don't head over to theirs every weekend for dinner or anything. At nineteen, I've been away from home a year and some change, but I've decided a barbecued hamburger for the holiday sure would hit the spot. Hopefully there's still some patties left in the fridge, cooked or not.
Sharla and I were set to catch an early movie and then head up in my car to our usual spot. It's supposed to be our annual ritual on the Fourth: a final summer action flick and cheap dinner in the car before a walk outside and, if I'm good, some hot time in the car.
A smile crosses my lips at the thought of last year. DC movie, two slices of cardboard pizza and hopelessly big buckets of soda before getting down to business with our own little fireworks show. We didn't ever make it all the way. She's Baptist. I used to try and push the issue, but lately... Still, it's nice to be wanted and get some of the frustration out from time to time. She always lets me feel her up--says I'm good with my hands. If I'm good, she returns the favor and strokes me nice and slow through my jeans.
But Steph just found out Brad was screwing around with two different girls, one of them real close to Steph and Sharla. And so, my girlfriend stocked up on Ben and Jerry's and is no doubt baking up a storm now. She always says nothing beats a little kitchen therapy. She's too nice. Maybe I am, too.
I sigh. Nothing else to do but hightail it home and try going out for a run and then having an icy cold shower. I groan, realizing I haven't even jacked off this week. No wonder I'm so wound up. I was supposed to take care of her and me tonight.
I adjust the crotch of my jeans. Have they gotten tighter? I swear they're cutting of circulation to my dick. I fiddle with the air conditioner, blasting icy cold air onto my knees. It works. I'm feeling calmer in no time, and there's freed up real estate in my boxers.
"Finally..." I mutter aloud and flip the dial on the stereo to something a little livelier.
When I pull through the old neighborhood and bring the car to a stop in front of the garage next to my parents' condo, I notice a black SUV I instantly recognize.
Mark's home!
He won't mind my crashing his Fourth. Maybe he'll even let me order takeout and eat it with him at his. I'll have to count my tips, but there's got to be enough for a pizza or some Chinese.
Mark's real chill. He always lets me have a beer or two when we're eating and watching the game on TV. I'm a soccer fan; he's from Canada and won't let me forget it, so he's always watching hockey. Neither of us is very lucky when it comes to good coverage of our favorite sports, as you might imagine. Luckily, Mark's got satellite.
I pull my car into my parents' spot and switch the car off before running the usual checks and then running up to Mark's before even showering. I just want to make sure he doesn't have plans, too. Wouldn't be unheard of. After all, everybody else left me high and dry without anyone to share food and summer fun with.
A few knocks but no answer. Nobody home, so I head over to my parents' place. Depositing my keys in the little basket Mom keeps in the entryway, I shuck off my clothes on the way to the bathroom to splash water on my face before heading out on a run.
I'll admit an evening run in the late summer heat wasn't my most inspired idea or even a safe one. I end up running 90-30 interval sprints and calling it quits after twenty and the first signs of heat exhaustion. I'm pouring with sweat and cursing the fact I didn't bring a towel with when a familiar voice bellows through the evening air.
"Hey, kid."
I'm just wiping the sweat off my face with my shirt, abdomen fully exposed, and flip around without thinking. Beads of runner's sweat scatter, some hitting the man standing in front of me.
There stands Mark looking disheveled in his crumpled suit and white shirt. He's wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.
"Hey, kid: I'm happy to see you, too, but say it, don't spray it, eh?"
"Mark! Shit, I'm sorry. Just got back from a little jog." I pause and assess. He's a mess. "What's your excuse?"
"Walked home from work. Well, from the bus stop. Been away from the gym too long, and too many late nights with takeout instead of workout. It's been salad and daily walks since Memorial Day."
"Ah, man! Here I was hoping I could talk you into letting me call for takeout and we could catch up. It is Independence Day weekend after all. Gotta live it up a little, right?"
"No can do, Slim. I'm not about to fuck my diet over for an American holiday. 'Sides, I don't wanna end up looking like most of your compatriots."
I flip him the bird and laugh. "The People of Wal-Mart, you mean?"
"Exactly. Canadians are hotter."
"Can't argue there," I blurt out without thinking. He raises an eyebrow at me.
"Well, not every Canadian," I quickly recover. "You're lookin' old these days."
"Didn't your parents teach you that that's no way to speak to your elders?"
I'm just giving him shit. Mark is anything if not youthful. He's not five years younger than my parents, putting him at 39, but he looks at least 5 years younger. If it weren't for his graying hair, he'd look about 30 or so.
His ex, Cheri, was always after him to dye it. He stubbornly refused, saying his "ashen locks" were a mark of dignity that comes with age. My personal theory is he's too lazy to keep up with the routine trips to the salon keeping up a masquerade job like that would take.
"Tell ya what, big guy: Come on over for pho and some spring rolls. I stopped by the Asian market over on Tenth and got all the herbs and toppings to fix it up just like Mom used to make. The broth's been steeping away in the crockpot since six this morning."
He glances at his watch. "It's getting late, though. You gonna go down and catch the fireworks?"
"Nah, thought maybe I'd catch it on TV. You?"
He makes a face. "Fight those crowds? Nuh-uh. No thanks. Thought I'd catch some movie on the streaming service or something. But I gotta get all this stuff washed up and chopped up first."
He motions to the plastic bag full of leafy greens and exotic aromatics. "In fact, come over right away. You can have a beer while I prep this stuff."
"I won't be long: just need to shower."
"You can shower at mine."
"Yeah, but it's not a long ways across the parking lot. Besides, my clothes are drenched."
"You can borrow something of mine," he insists, and then he's fishing in a pocket for his keys. "It'll be like old times, eh? Don't take away my only chance to play host this summer."
He climbs a few stairs now, never looking back over his shoulder. "You coming or what?"
I feel a strange fluttering in my stomach. I wonder why he's so insistent on my coming over right away.
"You're dreaming, kid," I chide myself. And then, disgusted at the fact I'm even going there, I dash off after him.
"Hey, wait up!"
Mark's place is part bachelor's pad and part newlywed bride turned loose on the Pottery Barn catalog. He's gotten rid of the dining room table since I visited last, setting up a smallish home gym up in its place.
"Awesome setup, man. Thought you said you're having trouble getting to the gym."
"I did. That's why I got rid of my dining room set and put that up last week. Pulled a muscle the first day, so I decided to take it slow."
He pulls at his tie and then begins untying it with nimble fingers and painstaking care. "You gotta remember: I'm an old man."
"Forget that. You're not old. You can keep up with the best of 'em. If I'd a known you were looking to get in shape, I'd've offered my services."
He pulls off his suit jacket and goes to town with the Fabreeze now. He grins and shakes his head. "Services?"
"Yeah, I know a thing or two about staying in shape. I used to run track and cross-country."
"That's right. What about these days? You're not on any sports teams at the college?"
"Nah, too busy with work and class to do that."
"Remind me again why you're not living at home, eh? You live, what, twenty minutes away? Seems like you could be saving yourself a lot of money if you just lived at home. I mean, you're going to the local place anyway. I could see it if you'd gone off to university."
"If you must know, I'll tell you, but first let me use your shower?"
I begin peeling off the skin-tight running shirt. My skin is covered in beads of sweat, little droplets that make me practically shine in the low light of the living room.
"Dayum," he teases and then wolf whistles. "Take it off!"
I'm instantly red in the face but more concerned with a familiar pressure starting to build in my groin. I brush my hand across it, trying to adjust myself without drawing any attention to that particular area.
He finishes unbuttoning his own dress shirt and pulls it off to reveal a tank. His biceps are sculpted, triceps popping. I knew he was being modest when he said he wasn't in shape.
"I thought you said you were outta shape. Those arms could crush a man."
"I meant outta shape for a man. Not a boy. I know I could own you in arm wrestling."
"My great aunt arm wrestles the cousins at family reunions. If you wanna prove you still got it, how about a real man's sport?"
"What'd you have in mind? I can take you any time, anywhere."
I laugh and crouch down, ready to wrestle.
"You've gotta be kidding."
"Alright, if you're scared..." I offer. And then he shucks off his slacks. Underneath are short boxers that end right below his ass and cut across his thighs. Mark crouches to match my stance. Contrary to his complaints, his body is sturdy, muscled. He has some softness around his middle, but, heck, so do most guys my age; he's definitely in better shape than most men whose age is better than thirty.
I take in his physique: Mark's mom is Vietnamese. I've met her a few times. Sweet lady, awesome cook. His Dad was a card-carrying Quebecois and passed away a few years back. Mark's got a blend of Asian and Caucasian features thanks to his blended heritage. He often jokes he's the original multicultural poster child, in fact.
His skin is bronzed from the summer sun and his dark eyes are almost almond-shaped. He has a slight widow's peak, which he hides with a straight part down the middle of his hair with a few wisps of white.
His chest is muscled from years of playing sports, and he has a defined abdomen despite the subtle softness that's got him eating salads. He's in good shape, and the sheen of sweat makes him look kind of like a middle-aged boxer.
"Like what you see?" he asks, alerting me to my wandering eyes. Here I choke on my own spit, resisting the urge to hurl some snide remark or to run the other way.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with you?
No matter how many times I ask myself, no answer comes. I repeat this like a mantra in my head even as I brace myself for the impromptu wrestling match to come.
"Ready?" I ask.
"You know it. But what're you gonna do when you lose?"
I snort. "The day you pin me is the day I eat your Mom's pho buck naked."
He busts out laughing. "And I'm gonna have to hold you to that, you little shit. Loser loses his clothes. No trow, no pants."
"Underwear," I offer. "We're in the U.S., Mister Canada. On this last summer holiday weekend of our great nation, I'd appreciate if you call it by the Yank name."
"Fine. No underwear for you while you eat your noodles." He jeers. "You ready, kid? I'm gonna pin you and then smack your ass like your mama shoulda for sassing your elders." His attempt at a southern accent is pretty awful.
"Bring it," I counter. "One... Two... Three!"
And then our bodies collide in the middle of the living room, a few feet away from the oversized chest Mark uses as a coffee table and from his home gym. The smack of skin and spray of sweat is followed by grunting and struggle.
I lock my hands on Mark's shoulders and feel tension fill his muscles and mine. I pitch my weight left and then right, twisting my leg against his and then press hard into his torso. We cling together in the film of sweat and our body heat. I squeeze his deltoid and pull him off balance.
We fall to the ground. I crawl halfway onto his back. I'm sure I have him when I feel his forearm come down on my shoulder; he's pinned one side of my torso to the room rug. He flips me onto my stomach and the other shoulder comes down next.
I'm stunned at how fast it's over.
"Pinned ya," he declares. I stop struggling and drop completely to the rug. I'm covered in sweat and heaving in and out. I can feel the tight muscles of his arms and abdomen against my back. I notice I can feel his pelvis brush against my ass. That's his bulge against my cheeks. Oh, god. I'm instantly rock hard.
I look up. I see Mark tugging my shorts down. His nimble fingers slip my sweaty briefs to the side. His cock pops out from his tight briefs. He guides it to my crack and feeds his hard cock into my virgin hole. I see myself writhing under him, his arm pulling me to him by my chest, his lips forceful on mine as he takes me in the living room. I see us fucking on the living room floor in sweaty clothes.
Fuck. Where did that come from? The image of Mark fucking me cut across my mind's eye before I could stop it. A wave of anxiety tears through my stomach. It feels like the ground has fallen out from under me. My heart is thudding in my ears. The room starts to spin.
I'm just thankful my dick is pressed against the carpet and not the other way around. This was stupid. What the hell possessed me even to tease about wrestling considering my... current condition?
"Alright. Drop trow," he says, rolling off of me and laughing.
"Yeah, about that..." I protest, never moving from my place, hugging the floor. I'm praying that my body will cooperate and let go of this tension between my legs. I know the minute I stand up, he'll know I've been hard. I have on my running briefs. My running shorts are tight. The set-up leaves nothing to the imagination.
"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now. No need to be shy." He laughs and then pulls me up to my feet. And I see his eyes dart down to my groin.
"I uh..."
"Whoa, someone's happy to see me."
"Shit. Sorry, man," I stutter. "I was, uh, supposed to be spending the night with the girlfriend and, you know, I'm a little excitable. So, um..."
He guffaws and slaps my ass. "Hit the showers. Make it a cold one. Listen, I'm gonna finish off that broth and all the fixings while you're in there, and then you can mix up some drinks and boil the noodles while I get a shower in."
"Not going with beer?" I ask, trying not to be too obvious that I'm relieved he's not freaking out over the wood I'm sporting through my shorts.
"Too many carbs. Let's go with some highballs."
"What's that?"
"Whiskey and soda."
"Sounds good."
"And you can keep your shorts. I won't make you sit through dinner in your birthday suit. But you'd better catch me up, kid. I didn't realize you had a best girl."
"I'll tell you all about it," I promise.
He claps a hand on my sweaty shoulder and I forget about the possibility of getting rid of this lump in my underwear. It's harder than ever.
Mark doesn't seem to notice. He talks me through how to use the shower and shows me into the bathroom.
"Shampoo, body wash... And here's a towel," he says, tossing terry cloth at me. I go to catch it but it hits me in the face.
"Too slow, Joe. You alright?"
I mumble something about heat exhaustion and cover my waist with the towel, happy to be able to cover my inconvenient little problem. Mark turns on his heel and is almost out the door when he stops and flashes me a thousand-watt smile.
"Hey, Will, don't sweat it, OK? At your age, anything physical is liable to get your blood pumping. I'm not worried about it, so neither should you be."
I try to smile and nod. He closes the bathroom door and I breathe a sigh of relief. Alone at last.
I'm covered in sticky sweat and hard as steel. I peel off the confining boxer-briefs and step into the shower. Before turning on the water, I get a good look at myself in the mirror.
If Mark is fairly thin, I'm downright lanky. Though I've tried weightlifting and even bulking in the past to try and put on some muscle, it's mostly no use. I don't mean I'm not trim and toned. My abdomen is split in six, although it's not necessarily someplace you could wash clothes. Running keeps my muscles showing, and I do the push-ups and ab work I need to stay in shape.
I run my hands through my sandy shag of hair. Need to get a cut. My hazel eyes are looking a little tired, which must be the heat and the wrestling match earlier.
Not the smartest move ever, I decide, turning on the cold water tap and letting it cascade over my shoulders before allowing it to hit my pecs and then my groin. It has the effect I have been hoping for. The tension drains from my aching cock, and I set about lathering my body up, running my hands over sore muscles. My eyes drift to the whirlpool that springs up from the drain.
Up from this whirlpool floats an image from high school. I was good friends with Shane, a guy who transferred in from out of town. The city. He was really different from everybody else. Urban. He had traveled a lot and even spoke some Chinese or something. When he joined cross-country, nobody else would give him the time of day. He was soft-spoken and there were these rumors going around he was in a cult. And bi.
Well, it turned out he wasn't in a cult, just Buddhist. And I don't know if he was bi, but one day, we happened to be hanging out and watching a movie after going out for a run. Must have been summer break, I guess. Anyways, so we were watching this movie with subtitles. He was always getting me to watch the foreign stuff. I always complained I did enough reading in class, but he insisted it was good for me.
This particular movie was about these high school guys who go to this camp and are on a swim team. Well, one of them realizes he's gay and has a crush on one of the other guys. At one point, they're making out for what seems like forever.
"Whoa!" I said. "They can cut away any time, right?" I laughed. Silence. So, I turned over to look at Shane, and he had this glazed-over look on his eyes. In a trance, I guess. I tapped him on the shoulder, and that's when he asked me.
"Will, do you think anything like that could ever happen?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, you know, two guys realize they have feelings for each other."
I shrugged, squirming in my place next to him on my bed. We were sitting side by side, watching on my little TV that sat on top of my dresser. I looked down at my bare feet. "I guess. I mean, you don't really get a telegram about that kind of thing. I guess you just sort of figure it out sooner or--"
I turned over to judge his reaction, and he launched himself forward to catch my lips with his. My face was instantly ablaze, my ears thudding with my heartbeat and a faint ringing. His hand reached over to caress my cheek. It caught me off-guard, and I didn't pull away just then. His lips tasted like salt and sweet from the carb gels we ate during our long-distance run.
As luck would have it--and I have the devil's own luck sometimes--the door opened just then and my father saw us.
He never hit me growing up. He had a mouth on him, and he would threaten to, but he never did. Well, that day, he did. He hit me, and he hit Shane. And he said words you don't ever want to hear your father say. And he made threats you never want to imagine your father could make. Shane ended up out on the front stoop with a bloody nose and threats that, if my father ever caught his faggot ass around his son again, he wouldn't be walking away from it.
We never spoke again.
My mother really worries about what other people think, and she has some weird ideas about what to do in situations like this. She called up Mark and asked him if I could stay over at his while she and my father went out of town, last minute. Family emergency, she said. Evidently, she was going to try and calm my father down and decide what would be done with me.
They ended up shipping me off to work in the fields near my grandparents' for the summer for less than minimum wage. They fed them some bogus story about my being caught shoplifting and how they thought it was from a lack of discipline. Where did we go wrong and all that. I was so embarrassed and ashamed, I just went along with it and endured lectures almost every night from my grandfather about the importance of living with integrity.
You'd better have your story straight when it comes to what you value. Walk your talk. All that.
But that first night, I went over to Mark's. Cheri was there, too, later on. Fridays were yoga night, so she didn't show up until quite a bit later on. At first, I remember sitting at Mark's dining room table with an open bottle of seltzer water in front of me, the only non-alcoholic beverage he had on such short notice besides coffee.
"You wanna tell me what this is all about?" he asked, opening a bottle of beer and taking a sip.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "My mom told you: family emergency."
He sighed. "My mom is the queen of that kind of 'emergency.' She played the same card whenever I got caught doing something I wasn't supposed to, which was more often than I would like to admit."
"Why's that?"
"I don't like to admit I got caught."
I made a feeble attempt at laughing. It was a funny joke; I just wasn't in a jolly mood.
"So, I know what it's like. I've been there."
"Oh, you've never been here like I am right now."
"Try me."
"I kissed a guy. Well, he kissed me."
Mike's eyes widened, but he recovered quickly, taking a swig of his beer and nodding. "And your mom wasn't too happy?"
"My dad," I corrected. "And unhappy is just the tip of that iceburg."
"I'm sorry, Will."
"I didn't ask for it. I mean, he's a guy on cross-country with me. Has a bit of a reputation, I guess you might say, but we were watching this movie, and then he kissed me."
"Did you kiss him back?"
"No!" I dropped my eyes back to the seltzer water. "I mean, I don't think so. It happened so fast..." I realized this left things too muddled. "I am not queer."
"Nobody said you were. And if you were gay, what difference would it make?"
"Oh, come off it, Mark: you and I both know that's just something people say to make kids feel better. Nobody, least of all my parents, is OK with two guys kissing."
"Maybe nobody in this town, but there are plenty of good people who are just fine with it. Hell, some people are even more than just fine with it." He laughed at his own attempt at humor.
"I just didn't ask for this, you know? I haven't even had a girlfriend, and then this fag from school comes over and fucks me over like this."
Mark slammed his bottle down on the table. "Hey, Will, what's wrong? That's not you, kid. I know that's not you. Why you talking like that, hmm?"
I rubbed at my eyes. The stinging in them told me I was precious seconds away from tears. I sighed and looked up at the vaulted ceiling in the dining room. "I just don't want things to get all fucked up. I'm not gay."
"Things are only as fucked up as you believe they are. You're, what, fifteen? Nobody knows what they like at fifteen. And your hormones are going wild. So, you kissed a guy?"
"He kissed me," I countered.
"So what? Who cares? It doesn't matter. Did you slip him the tongue?"
I screwed up my face at the thought. "Gross, Mark!"
He grinned at me and then sighed. "What a waste."
"Come again?"
"This is your time to figure stuff out. You're young. You're not tied down. Why the hell not? If this guy liked you enough to kiss you, you should've kissed him back."
I sighed. This guy was crazy. Here I was with a bruise on my shoulder and another on my chest from where my father hit me and nursing a bigger bruise to my pride, and he was telling me I should've been French kissing some guy who came on to me? Still, I guess it made some weird kind of sense when he said it.
"You ever do anything like that?" I asked.
"Kiss a guy?"
"Yeah. Or whatever."
Mark got this far-away look in his eyes then. "No."
"See?"
"No, but it doesn't mean I didn't ever wonder. And if some guy would have kissed me when I was your age, I probably would have just gone with it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"You're a weirdo."
"I guess I just don't have the same hang-ups you do."
"I don't have hang-ups."
"Then why are you using the language of the ignorant?"
He had a point. I nodded and took a sip of my seltzer water.
He handed me his beer.
"What's this for?" I asked.
He shrugged. "You kissed a boy for the first time. Might as well add another first to your day to round it out."
We talked well into the evening until Cheri came home from the gym. She cooked a quick stir-fry and made bright conversation to take my mind off of the family emergency my mother had phoned about. Mark didn't correct her but also assured her there was nothing to worry about. My mother had called to tell him that much. He didn't miss a beat. The guy was solid when it came to crises of the personal type. It was that night, when I lay in bed looking into the darkness, I realized I loved him more than my own father.
I shut off the water and towel myself dry. I study my reflection in the mirror a minute longer before realizing I don't have any clothes to change into. I go to open the door when I see they have been set out on top of the little cart beside the bathroom door. A pair of navy boxer shorts and a black tank top. These, I slip into, and I step out of the bathroom, swiping at my wet hair with the towel.
Mark is just bringing a small spoon to his mouth from over in the kitchen. The kitchen is open to the living room, save for a wrap-around bar with barstools lined up. He stands at the counter on the other side of the bar, his eyebrows creased in concentration.
"Is it soup yet?" I ask.
"Definitely," he says. "But it's missing something, and I can't quite figure it out. I'm going to give it a think, but why don't you show me a thing or two on the bench before I hit the showers?"
I nod. "Sure. You want to bench or what?"
"I have no clue. What do you suggest?"
"In that case, a bench press, a dumbell fly, and a chest press."
"OK, then. Teach me how to do those last two and check my form on the bench."
He steps over the bench, straddling it, and sits down. "I'm all yours. Tell me what I should be doing."
I smile, picking up two five-pounders and hand these to him.
"What, don't you trust me with the big boy weights?" Mark always has some snide remark prepared.
"I would, but we're just going through form. Didn't you say you strained something?"
"Yeah," he says, rubbing his pectoral to illustrate.
"Well, then, we go light."
We run through the bench press, and I critique his form. He's throwing the weights up, which tells me he doesn't have the control he needs to lift with good form. When I mention this to him, he nods and asks about the fly. I stand at his shoulders and take his wrists into my palms.
"So, you're going to bring your arms up straight above your chest; extend fully here. Then, you drop them out to the sides."
I release his wrists and bring a palm to cover his right pec. "You should feel pulling here." I brush my hand over his taut chest muscle to check the tension and nod. "Like that."
"That smarts a bit."
"Well, if you strained anything, that would explain it."
He nods. "What about the chest press?"
I take his wrists into my hands again and bring his arms straight up. "All you do is lift your alternating arms to extend them straight up. It also works your shoulders." Here I touch his deltoid. "And you might feel it in your arms, too." My hand runs along his tricep, and I feel a stirring between my legs again.
This is getting ridiculous.
"Anyways, I'm starved. Do you want to go through it one more time, or..."
"No, that's OK. I think I've got it. I'll just hop in the shower. Why don't you pour a drink and I'll be out before you can say 'My name is Will' in Vietnamese."
"Yeah, well, I can't even remember how to say that, so you'll definitely be out before then."
He smiles and is gone. I go about mixing up drinks but soon have doubts about the ratios. I add some seltzer water to whiskey and taste. The burning in the back of my throat tells me I've went way too heavy on the alcohol. After a bit of trial and error, the fire in the glass has died down, and I am able to drink without much problem. It's still a little heavy-handed; I decide there is no way I'm getting a job as a mixologist any time soon.
With drink in hand, I fall back onto the brown leather sofa and kick my bare feet up onto the chest. It takes a minute to figure out the remote, but soon I'm toggling through Mark's collection of saved movies and TV shows. Most of these are documentaries and sitcoms I've heard of but never bothered to watch. My eyes dart to the final title in the list and my finger falters on the remote.
David & Felix - First Time
My heart thuds against my ribs. I throw a nervous glance at the hallway leading to the bathroom. Still no sign of Mark's return. I can hear the water running. Without another thought, I hit the large circle in the center of the remote control, and the screen goes blank.
A still camera comes into focus to reveal a male duo sitting on a white duvet. One of them is beautiful. There is no other way to describe him. His hair is longish and brushed to the side, thick auburn locks swept across his pale forehead. His blue eyes peer into the dark eyes of the man rubbing his bare chest. His muscles tense when his companion begins to kiss his neck and rake at his chest with one hand. They exchange no words, but the beautiful one is letting out low whimpers from time to time.
Without warning, the other man tugs on his auburn locks and forces his tongue past his pouty lips. He gasps and opens his mouth to the oral assault. His hands go to the other man's T-shirt and lift it above his head. The beautiful one rakes his hands through the other man's cropped black hair and begins kneading his newly exposed pecs. He pinches the nipples and pushes the man down onto the bed before bringing his narrow hips down on the other man's crotch.
"Fuck..." the bigger man declares, and then he is tugging at the thinner man's belt. This comes off, and then he is unbuttoning the fly.
I know I shouldn't be watching this. The two of them are obviously having sex. Gay sex. On Mark's TV. Mark. Newly divorced Mark. Family friend Mark. I love him like a father Mark.
Before I can carry that thought any further, the bigger man starts fisting the smaller man's dick. He pushes the smaller man onto the mattress and claims both his cock and one nipple.
"Fuck..." It takes a moment for me to register that this was not a line of dialogue but words passing my own lips. I have one hand buried in the boxers I've borrowed from Mark. I have a finger rolling along my slit, tracing the sensitive head and leaving a trail of precum.
The remote drops from my hand, and my other hand dives under my tank. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the heat gathering in my chest around my nipple. I strum my fingers across it and sigh as more precum spills from my dick.
"Hey, Will, how about that drink?"
My eyes shoot open to see Mark walking out from the hall, bare-chested and drying his hair with the towel draped from his shoulders. His eyes fly from the screen to the hand in my lap molesting my rod.
"Fuck." I say again, only this time, with a totally different meaning.
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