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Reunion
"American History," I said. Bonnie Ingebretsen smiled. "Really!" she said, in that tone of voice that told me she really hoped I would change the subject. I've come to recognize that tone. American History is not a popular major. It's respectable, looks satisfactory on a résumé; it's a good undergraduate degree from which to change your life's direction. That's what this is about: how my life changed direction.
My name is Morton; call me Mort. Or even better, use my middle name, Jim. That's what I go by, now. But to this crowd, at the five-year reunion of my high school graduating class, I was and forever will be Mort. I'd been away from Center City (which is nowhere near the center of the state, but let that pass) for nearly five years; I was back primarily for my sister's wedding and coincidentally for this reunion, which fell on the weekend following. I wasn't sure I really wanted to go to the reunion: it might be nice to catch up on old friendships, but there was also Dean, and I wasn't sure, even five years later, what would happen if I ran into Dean.
History: Dean and his dad moved to Center City when I was 16. He showed up in my class about half-way through the year, and I was supposed to be his "host." The idea of being a host came from the school guidance counselor. The host was expected to help the new kid get comfortable in his new school. So I was paired with Dean for no reason at all. It was an awkward relationship: Dean was a jock, and I was a nerd. I was a reasonably successful nerd, though: Assistant Editor of the school paper, lettered in Debate.
It was lettering in Debate that started things. Dean thought lettering in anything but sports was bullshit, and when he found out that's why I had a letterman's jacket, he broke out laughing. "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard, nerd!" He anointed me "nerd" on our first day together, and that was that. He thought I was supposed to be in charge of him, and he resented it. I tried to explain what "hosting" was all about, but he just pushed me against a wall of lockers and told me that he'd "do what he damn well wanted."
"Fair enough," I said. "I'm just here if you have questions."
"Like you'd know anything I needed to know, nerd."
Things more or less went downhill from there. He pretty quickly got into the jock crowd, and I just kept being Mort, the guy everyone thought they knew wasn't worth much attention. What they didn't know, what I barely knew, was that I was queer. Looking back now, it should have been obvious, but it's like looking at the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle when you don't have the picture on the box to show you what it's going to be when you put it together. I just knew that none of my friends were hot guys--and I had some pretty impressive friends.
Footnote: When I talked about "hot guys," I wasn't talking about the jocks. I was talking about the real rebels: the guys who got in trouble for wearing torn jeans, who wore leather jackets even on days when most of us were bundled into parkas, who came from "dysfunctional families," who sat as far as they could from the front of the classroom and passed because somebody (sometimes me) did their homework for them. I wanted something more than friendship from them, though I couldn't have told you what. They just wanted to pass the class.
So Dean and I drifted apart pretty quickly. "Good riddance," I said to myself when he walked up to me in the parking lot and told me to fuck off, that he had all the friends he needed. It felt like a "win-win" scenario.
Ted Robinson cornered me in our senior year American History class. Ted was one of those "hot guys:" greasy black hair, sharp features as if his face had been carved, moved like a coiled spring. He needed a partner for a "project." I was going to do something about the plight of the Negro in the North before the Civil War, and he agreed. He agreed, of course, because he expected me to do all the work. I agreed because it meant we spent after-school hours in my room, working on the project.
Ted Robinson knew I was gay before I did, and he used it. I was more than happy to do all the work; all he had to do was flash a smile, dig up some pictures and put together the table-top display. He did that, and to this day I am convinced that deep in his manipulative soul, there lurks a frustrated artist. We got a B, mostly (I think) because I didn't paint Northern whites as perfect angels in their dealings with "the Negroes."
But we got Bs, and I thought Ted would be happy about that. He wasn't. He cornered me after school and dragged me down the alley behind the building. "Fuckin' faggot," he snarled. "You said we'd get an A!"
I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the friendly, almost shy, Ted Robinson I'd been working with. And "faggot"? I did hint that it would be nice when it got warm enough to go swimming, but I swear that was an innocent remark. I thought it was, at least, but Ted knew different, and when he said that word, the jigsaw puzzle came together. I felt like my face was on fire. I had no idea what to say. Pretty quickly, though, it didn't matter, because I was lying on the ground, gasping for air, and Ted was storming away.
"Lousy faggot! Mort Nelesky is a faggot," he yelled as he left the alley, and by the next day, it was all over the school. According to the rumor, I'd come on to Ted, and tried to touch him, so he slugged me. The "proof" was that a couple of kids saw me rolling around on the ground and got Mister Grannigan, the football coach. Grannigan took me to the nurse, by which time I was groggy but breathing. I didn't tell anyone what happened, but Grannigan knew I'd been hit. I think he may have been impressed that I refused to name my attacker.
So I spent the rest of my senior year with a reputation for being a faggot. And I was, which made it worse, and nobody helped me deal with it. My folks refused to believe it, which was fine with me. The school counselor said it was okay to be gay, but I shouldn't have sex until was an adult, and I should use a condom. (I swear, that was all the counseling I got from him.) And for some reason, the other gay kids didn't say a thing. There had to be other gay guys, at least statistically. But they let me be the punching bag. Even five years ago, Center City was not "gay friendly."
Dean stopped me in the hall, a few days later. "You okay, Mort?" he said. "I heard you got in a fight, or something."
"It was nothing. It's over."
"Look. How about you and me get burgers or something after school? Catch up on shit."
"Sure," I said, baffled.
Dean seemed to be really interested in me, suddenly. He even told me that he'd "take care" of whoever beat me up.
"It was one lucky punch," I protested.
"Okay, but if he hassles you again, you let me know."
I almost teared up. I had a protector, if Ted Robinson decided to give me any more shit.
Later that spring, Dean said he and a couple of his buds were going fishing, and he wondered if I'd like to go along. "Sure, why not?"
He picked me up with two of his friends, Rick and Harry. I'd seen them around, but they were jocks and I was a nerd and...you've been to high school, you know the drill. We drove for a while, turned off the main road to a side road, turned off the side road onto a dirt road, and turned off the dirt road onto something that might have been a road once. Dean parked, and we got out of the car. The three of them surrounded me, and my heart sank.
No fishing gear.
Rick and Harry grabbed my arms, and Dean started unbuttoning my shirt. "I knew you were a faggot," he sneered. "And we don't like faggots." They stripped me pretty quickly and pushed me to my knees. "But we do like blow jobs. Get it?"
"I never--"
Dean slapped me, hard, and undid his pants. It wasn't the first time I'd seen a cock, of course, but it was the first time I saw Dean's. Even soft, it was big. Harry grabbed my hair and Rick forced my mouth open. Dean took a step forward and hit my nose with his dick. "Lick it, faggot. Make it big."
One of the guys stepped on my ankle, hard. At the same time, Rick said, "Do it, faggot. Lick that goddamn cock!"
It was the pain in my ankle that did it: I knew there was only one way out of this, one way I wouldn't wind up out here in the woods with at least one broken bone. I licked Dean's cock. He pushed it closer. I licked again, and kept licking as it started to stiffen. Pretty soon, the head was in my mouth.
"If I feel any teeth, I'll knock 'em out," Dean snarled. I curled my lips over my teeth, and Dean started moving his cock back and forth, slicking my lips with my saliva until he could slide his cock in and out easily. And every "in" pushed the thing deeper into my mouth. He hit my gag reflex and kept right on going while I struggled to keep from puking.
"Hey, man--he's gonna hurl," Rick said. Dean pulled his cock out and pushed my head to the side. Then they forced me forward until my face was almost on the ground, and I puked.
"Hold him," Dean commanded, and ran back to the car. A few minutes later, he returned with a cooler full of beer. He opened a bottle and poured some of it onto my face. "Okay, faggot, let's get back to business!" He grabbed his cock, which now looked mammoth, and rammed it into my face and down my throat. My stomach convulsed, but there was nothing to throw up. Eventually, I sort of gave up, and just let his shaft go in and out. "Yeah, cocksucker!" Dean yelled. "Gimme your fuckhole, cunt!"
I felt his shaft pulsing, and I knew he was shooting his come deep into my gut. I refused to let myself cry. Dean pulled out, and the three of them pushed me to the ground. I barely missed the puddle of puke.
"Well?" Harry asked.
"Pretty good," Dean laughed. "Good as a cunt, almost. And you don't have to be nice, or lick it, or anything. Who's next?"
Rick was next. His cock wasn't as big as Dean's, but it was plenty big enough to fill my face. He slammed into me, again and again, harder and faster than Dean, and pretty quickly left his load on my tongue. "Swallow it, fag!"
"That is so gross," Harry laughed. Dean joined him. One more cock and it would be over.
I was wrong.
I took Harry's shaft, which was about the same size as mine, easily. I even tickled the bottom of it with my tongue, like some sort of reflex. Harry made it last, though. My neck muscles were aching by the time he pulled out and shot all over my face.
I started to get to my feet, but Dean pushed me down. "Not so fast, faggot. We're just getting started."
They dragged me to a nearby tree. "Hug it," Dean ordered. I obeyed and felt Harry tying my wrists. Then they tied my waist, and finally my feet. Dean grabbed my hair and pulled my face back. Harry's come was already crusted from my cheeks to my chin. "My old man whips me when I fuck up. I think you fucked up!"
For a moment, it was just me, pressed against the rough bark. Then I heard their footsteps behind me, and felt a belt hit my ass. It was weird. I felt the strap hit, and then the pain sort of erupted from deep inside the muscle. I screamed. The second blow fell, from the opposite side, and I screamed again.
"Hold it, guys," Dean commanded. "Gimme his socks." First, he tried pushing one of them into my mouth and tying the other around my head, but it wasn't long enough. So he tied the toes together, stuffed the knot into my mouth, and tied the other ends behind my head. "Okay, go for it!"
The next blow hit just below the first one. I had that same moment before the pain overtook me, and then I screamed. Or tried to. I can't describe the sound; it reminded me a little of a muted trumpet. But it wasn't that loud. It occurred to me that we might be near someplace with other people, and then the next blow hit and all I could think of was my burning ass. By the time they stopped, I was limp against the tree, sobbing. I felt the ropes coming off, and they dragged me to the front of the car. I just lay there against the warm metal while they tied me in place, stretching my arms past my head, and spreading my legs by tying one rope around each of the front wheels.
"I don't know, man. I think his hole's too high," Rick said.
"I got it!" Harry replied, and ran off. He returned a minute later, and I heard bottles and ice sloshing. He put the ice chest on the ground behind me.
"Perfect," Dean said. I felt someone--I'm pretty sure it was Dean, because of where his voice came from--smearing something on my ass, then pushing more of it into my butthole.
"What if his ass is full of shit?" Rick asked.
"Then I'll just push it back in," Dean laughed.
I felt Dean's legs against mine. He must have taken his pants off. And then I felt his pole poking my butt. And then he found the hole. It's a good thing I was still gagged. It was worse than the biggest, hardest turd you ever pushed out. It felt like a telephone pole, even after the pain subsided. It felt like Dean was ramming a telephone pole in and out of my ass. I had to be bleeding, I just knew it. And I was squirming against the car; I couldn't help it.
"Yeah, boy. Wiggle that ass!" Dean hissed.
I did--I couldn't stop. And I suddenly realized I was also rubbing my own cock against the car. It hurt, but my cock was getting harder anyway. The telephone pole kept pumping my hole, I kept squirming, and my dick kept growing.
Dean dug his fingers into my hips and pumped harder, and then suddenly he stopped. His body was tight against me, and I felt his cock shooting. And my own cock started trying to shoot, but it was squeezed against the car, so the come just sort of oozed out and slicked up the car and my stomach. Dean pulled away and my cock took advantage of the sudden lubrication and I shot the rest of my load.
"You guys gotta try that!" Dean said. It seemed to me there was a hint of awe in his voice.
"I don't know, man. It's sloppy seconds," Harry said.
"Yeah," Rick agreed, but there was some hesitation in his voice.
I lost it. I made angry noises and slammed my hands on the hood as hard as possible. Dean untied the gag. "What, faggot?"
"Fuck me, you sissy chicken!" I yelled. What the hell? Did I say that? Did I actually want to be raped?
Rick climbed aboard. It was a good thing Dean had stretched my hole. The three of them sat in the shade, drinking beer, while I roasted on the car in the afternoon sun.
Eventually, Dean said something to Harry, who strolled over and began untying me. I peeled myself off the car and crawled after him as he headed back to the tree. "Gimme a beer, for god's sake," I said.
"Sure," Dean replied, and pissed all over my back. I didn't give a damn. Right then, they could have torn me limb from limb and I wouldn't have given a damn. I just dropped into the dirt and cried.
"What's the matter, little fag?" Dean mocked. He slid his sneaker under my face. "Why don't you kiss my sneakers?" I moved my lips. "Cunt!" Dean said, and rolled me over. "I said, kiss my sneakers!" and he pressed his left foot onto my face. I kissed the sneaker. He rubbed it against my nose, then walked away. "Next?" he asked Harry and Rick.
Rick had his pants on, but his feet were still naked. He walked over to me and put his left foot onto my face. "Lick!" Rick's feet were big, dirty and stinky. He made things worse by pressing his toes onto my nose. "Lick, and keep licking."
"Make him suck your toes, man," Harry laughed.
"You heard the man, asshole. Suck my toes." I rolled over and took his big toe into my mouth, sucking it like some sort of weirdly shaped cock. "Feels good," Rick said. "Why don't you see how many you can take at once." It was a little tricky--Rick didn't have anything to help him balance. But he managed to get all five toes into my mouth. I tried to tickle his foot with my tongue, hoping that would make him pull out, but it just made him like it more. "Harry! Get the damn ice chest." Harry ran over with the chest, and Rick sat down so he could really use my mouth. The thing is, the worst part of sucking toes is the smell, and once they're in your mouth, it's just a salty taste. So it was just humiliating. Harry got his toes sucked, next. Dean gave it a try, but he was too ticklish. So he made me do his sneakers again.
I got another load of piss, then they tied me to the tree, face out this time, and pressed ice against my nuts. They stuffed my mouth with ice, and then Rick got the idea to tickle me. If you think that's nothing, try it stark naked and tied to a tree. My back was raw by the time they were bored. For a finale, they tied a rope around my nuts, then made me crawl around dragging the damn cooler. If I didn't go fast enough, they encouraged me with their belts.
At last, I was kneeling in front of Dean with my hands tied behind my back and pulled up with a rope around my neck. "You a faggot?" I nodded. Dean slapped me. "Say it. And call me Sir!"
"I'm a faggot, Sir."
"Now lick my balls!"
"Yes, Sir." I whirled my tongue around each one, then took them both in my mouth and massaged them.
"Now beg to suck my cock."
"Please let me suck your cock, Sir."
"Yeah, faggot. Go for it. Show me how much you want it."
I took his shaft, praying that he wouldn't see the tears. Because I did want his cock. I wanted his cock in me, deep in me, so the smell of his sweat filled me, so my nose was buried in his crotch hair. I wanted him in my mouth forever.
When he came again and drew his cock back, I fell to the ground, sobbing. "You're disgusting," Dean said. He walked away, some time went by, I ran out of tears.
"What should we do with him?" Harry asked . Dean sighed. "Nothing. Let's get out of here."
Was he serious? "Hey, fuckers," I called. "The least you could do is get me back to town, dammit."
"Get in the fucking car, then. Back seat, on the floor. Fuck your clothes," Dean replied. I crawled into the car and laid on the floor. Rick beat Harry to the front seat, so Harry climbed into the back, sliding his shoes over my body until he was settled. Dean started the car, and I more or less passed out until it stopped in Center City. "Get rid of him," Dean said, and Harry and Rick dragged me out of the car.
They left me in an alley, butt naked. Two cops picked me up and I wound up in the Emergency Room.
"Party too hard?" the nurse said, bandaging the wounds on my back.
"Yeah," I answered. "I just need to get home."
The nurse sighed. "Wait here," she said.
One of the cops--Officer Watters, I think the name badge said--looked at me, stared deep into my eyes. "Did you get raped?" he asked, gently.
"No," I answered. I didn't want to talk about it, I didn't want to tell anyone, ever, what they did to me. I guess I thought it wouldn't be real if I didn't talk about it. That it would just go away, like a nightmare, or something. Eventually, the nurse returned with a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of those hospital footies--basically, socks with treads--and Officer Watters and his partner took me to my folks' house. Watters helped me out of the car and handed me a card. "You decide you want to talk about this, you callme, okay? You want me to come in, maybe talk to your folks?"
I shook my head. "No. My folks are away for the weekend," I lied, "but they keep a key by the back door, hidden in one of those phony rocks."
Watters nodded. "We'll wait until you're inside, okay?"
"Yeah," I said, then added, "Thanks for the ride."
I went into the house and turned on the living room light and waved at the cops, so they left, and I took a shower for an hour or so.
Life as a faggot was a hell of a lot easier in college, where people were civilized. They let me take Modern Dance instead of Phy Ed, and I got into pretty good shape. (If you think modern dance is for sissies, try it some time.) I eased my way into sex, gentle, caring sex, frisky sometimes, but nothing more. I didn't tell anyone about my dreams.
And now I was back in Center City, in a room with the kids I'd gone to high school with. A lot of them didn't want to make eye contact with me, and I got some pleasure out of that. But where the hell was Dean? I checked the welcome table, and his nametag had been taken, so he must have been around somewhere.
I saw a chance to corner Rick, got a little too close for him to be comfortable. "How you been, Rick?"
"Hey, Mort. Good to see you." He wasn't looking at me, though. "I want to introduce you to my wife." He tried to take a sip of his drink.
"Actually, I'm looking for Dean. Is he here?"
"I haven't seen him, Mort. Sorry."
"Be good to yourself, Rick," I said, and walked away. I looked back about a minute later, and he was still leaning against the wall, with an empty glass in his hand.
There was no point looking for Harry. He'd died in Afghanistan, so we were more than even.
"I've been looking for you, Mort."
The voice was soft, but I knew it. "I've been looking for you, Dean." I turned to face him.
Dean had matured into a pretty good-looking guy. "I, ah, I...Did you know that Harry died?" he said, awkwardly.
"I heard." My stomach muscles were so tight they were almost cramping.
"Rick's around, somewhere."
"I know. I talked to him."
"Just give me a minute, Mort. I was hoping...I owe you an apology, man."
"At least," I answered, my lips tight.
"I didn't--I was a jock, we didn't do--oh hell, I had this worked out. Can I get you a drink?"
"No."
"Can I get me a drink?"
I nodded toward the bar and walked over with him, waited while he ordered and paid, stayed tight to him as he turned from the bar and drained half the glass. "Let me try again. It's--the weird thing about being gay is that you hate yourself." The words rushed out, mumbled in an undertone. "I wasn't--it wasn't..." He took a deep breath and met my eyes at last. "I know you'll never forgive me, but I want you to know I've never...I hate myself for what we did. For what I did. You have a right to know that. I hope it helps, maybe. A little."
I took the drink from his hand, held it near his throat, and started slowly pouring it down his chest. "You have no idea what I've been thinking about since I heard about this reunion, how many ways I tore you apart, destroyed you, wiped the floor with your carcass, Dean."
Dean was shivering, and I was pretty sure it wasn't because of his wet shirt.
"Didn't help," I went on. "Didn't make me feel any better. So, finally, I had to admit it. I--" and then, the weirdest thing of all happened.
"I loved you." We both said it at the same time, and stared at each other.
"I didn't know," Dean said, struggling to hold back tears. "I destroyed the only thing--the only man who could have saved me. I killed myself, and I didn't even know it!"
"Now what?" I whispered.
"Now, I'm divorced, living in a rooming house, assistant managing a MisterBurger, working for a kid who still has zits. I go to a gay bar every weekend, and drink myself into oblivion and go home alone and lie in bed thinking about...you know."
"You still into bullying guys?"
Dean shook his head. "I would do anything to get past that day. Anything." He stared into my eyes. "Sir."
I smiled.