Caveats: same as all those other stories: don't read if you're underage. Events portrayed only mildly represent reality and any resemblance to real people or events is--well--you'd have to be clever to pick up on it. Still developing characters, and perhaps some plot. It will make the sex scenes more worthwhile, I promise.
Nothing Special, Chapter 2 by uscboy41 (uscboy41@hotmail.com)
...quamvis robur aevo erat... ...He was like an oak in its youth...
Enough story. Enough background. Let's get to the good part. Where's the sex? Where's the kissing, the passionate nights, waking up the next morning in a warm embrace--when's this going to get good? Don't worry--I was thinking the same thing. Maybe it was because I've read too much "erotic fiction" that I'd forgotten about that second part. Essentially, it's fiction. Do guys ever really get together like that? It seems a bit glorified.
So yes, I was studying literature in college. Poetry, books, plots, "art". I like to call it art, because you can set a boundary between reality (which is what is "actually happening") and fantasy (which is what art represents).
Yes, I'm so romantically desperate that I've established a decent philosophical basis behind my desperation.
"You want to stay and throw a little longer?" I asked. "Of course!" Jon replied. Ultimate frisbee ran through my blood like erythrocytes, only faster and shaped like a disc. Wait. They're both disc-shaped. That metaphor worked better than I thought. But we shared an equal enthusiasm for ultimate, and so, as our teammates left the field one by one, we were still throwing disc back and forth. I was good at ultimate, too, so that helped, and so was Jon. It made me feel on his level--
there is this aching feeling that you get when you see someone better than you. That guy who is more muscled, whose face shines, who always wears the shirt that fits just right, he even has sexy ankles. We can see this as inspiration to become better than ourselves or desperation (despiration?) at an unattainable goal. And it's worse when you're hopelessly attracted to him--
I didn't have his bulk, but I was quick on the field, fast enough to get where I needed to be, outrun my defender (generally), and the height to jump in the air. I wasn't tall enough to be lanky, but I had quite a jump, and tenacity can often make up for physical defiency. There was something about ultimate that made me try harder, work a little extra for the catch, layout to get the defensive play. Well, there was Jon, too--I babbled something about inspiration, right? To know that he could rely on me in the game gave me hope for an emotional development outside of the game as well.
Eh, but you can't talk when you're throwing the disc. Well, you can, but not at the distances we usually threw from--the focus was on the disc, not on the conversation, not on the other person. This, I was cool with. I don't want to make myself out as an emotional fob--even if I were acting that way I wouldn't write about it in my fantasy. I mean, when we were in game, I was focused. When we talked, I was his friend. Always. There weren't awkward moments--I didn't ever run into a trash can because I was staring at him instead (although I did once, staring at the frisbee). We decided to turn it in for the afternoon. We walked back to where we'd thrown down our stuff.
"Water?" I asked. "Great!" he replied, taking one of the extra bottles I always bring with me.
He drank, refreshed. He put on his shirt. See? I'm not obsessed with him--I didn't even say how I was staring at him when he was shirtless. The hot sun gave the glisten of sweat to his body, especially wetting the cute little tips of his bangs hanging across his forehead. I couldn't let myself get lost exploring every inch of his face, each bead of sweat that was pouring down his cheek.
I went shirtless sometimes, too. I mean, I'm not repulsive. Put me up on the stage, I'll hold my own. Put me next to Jon, and the picture's quite a bit different: you see where all the muscles should be. It's not my fault I work cardio instead of muscle. Looking back now, I wonder how Jon looked at me then. Was it like 1 1/2 cups of pity, 1/2 cup of compassion (well-packed), 2 sticks of promise, 1/2 tsp of imitation bad-ass extract, and a pinch of non-iodized regret? Or was it just me?
I read his shirt. "You swam in high school?"
"Yeah, I did short lengths--50, 100 freestyle."
"I swam back in the day. Not well, mind you, but I usually stuck to distance. I liked the 500 free." Granted, no one in their right mind really "liked" the 500 free, but that's how it was. I forced myself to like it because I was the only person on the team who would. And it fit how my body worked, just as the 50 free fit Jon: short distance for the big, muscley power guys, long distance for the non-muscley guys, in the hopes that their cardio abilities would make up for their lack of power. "Haven't done a lot of swimming since then--a little here and there just so's I don't forget how. Whenever I'm in the pool, though, I always think: 'You know, I really like this, I should do it more often,' and then I never do. Figures."
"Same here. I brought my suit and goggles to school, but I never use them as often as I'd like. Lifting always takes up all my time and the gym."
It was a long shot, but, "Do you want to swim together sometime, try to keep it regular-like?" Our abilities didn't match up. I wasn't very good at swimming in high school, and I'm not any better now that I'm out of regular practice for two years. I'd embarrass myself.
You know, I'm not doing myself justice here. It's a little crass to think that I'm just trying to get into his pants. I want to make the story interesting (i.e., sex scenes), but I don't want to stretch the fantasy too much. I really do like swimming--and I want to do it more often. He's good at it, and I can learn from him. He's my friend, and it's an excuse to hang out together more often.
Okay, and I wanted to get into his pants.