Disclaimer: If you are going to get into heaps of trouble if caught reading gay erotica, why are you at this site? Anyways, this story contains gay themes and depending on the response I receive and my will power to continue, it may contain accounts of sexual interaction between males, probably some bad language, some violence...maybe a massacre or two, with a dash of catastrophe, who knows what the future will bring? Also, this isn't going be a tale of masturbation fodder, so be forewarned... I'm trying to warm your hearts, not your loins, really.
Everything about this story is completely fictional. I have no idea why you would want to steal this story or post it on a wall or in a report or article, so please don't unless you want to argue with me about fair use and copyright law through angry emails.
Chapter Two
I was still shuddering with displeasure from her touch when I realized what she said.
"What?! You told him about it?" I asked. I could feel the anxiety pouring through me.
"Well, I told him you wrote a poem that you're conflicted with and he just naturally grew interested and wanted to help you out with some feedback,' she stated coolly.
"Why did you tell him?!" I was going to faint.
"I didn't tell him what it was about, he'll find out soon enough though," --why did that sound cryptic?^×"besides, if you didn't want him reading it, you should've written something else," she answered.
Something else... I'd write another poem before Aaron got here!
I furiously fished out my notebook and grabbed a pen from my pocket and went to work.
Unfortunately my muses were busy washing their hair that evening.
"Uh, what rhymes with sky?" I quietly asked Ted, a regular, who was sitting three chairs away.
All of a sudden, my notebook was gone. I looked up and saw Charlotte, holding it under her arm with an incredulous look on her face.
"Don't even try it Derrick," she commanded.
As I got up and tried to pry my notebook from her hold, someone tapped my shoulder.
I turned around; it was Aaron, curiously smirking at the both of us.
"What's going on you guys?" he asked looking amused.
"Nothing, nothing, I was just giving Derrick his notebook back so he could recite his poem to you," Charlotte lied.
"Wow Derrick, when was the last time you presented a poem? I can't wait to hear your stuff." Why was he so damn excited? And why did he smell so good? He had to have taken a shower within the last hour; his light brown hair was still sculpted to his head, rather than falling gently in wispy strands like it would when dry, and he was surrounded by the light aroma of soap.
"Um, yea, I guess it has been a while," I stalled.
He came closer.
I inhaled more of the fresh scent; I didn't know whether to relax or have a panic attack.
"Would you read it for me," he gently implored.
Suddenly, I knew how to react:
Panic!
"I u-uh^×I^×um. Well, uh," I stumbled on my words.
"If you don't want to read it aloud, can I read it myself?" He wouldn't embarrass me, right? He was so gentle with his words, not like^×
"Hurry up, Derrick! I'd like to leave this meeting before I get wrinkles." Charlotte. What a comedian.
My mouth was dry, my muscles wracked with worry, but I still passed the notebook into Aaron's hands. His long, slender fingers grabbed onto the spiral spine, flipped it over, and he began to read.
The wait was excruciating. I was mentally cursing myself for being so irresponsible. How could I have even written such a poem? This poem was a welcome mat for speculation!
Aaron would ultimately wonder what my inner conflict is. Then try to figure out what part of me craves acceptance, and why. Whose acceptance would I have to worry about if there wasn't supposed to be anything 'interesting' about me?
I was Derrick Simmonds. I wasn't a jock, I wasn't a nerd, I wasn't a drama dork, I definitely was not Mr.Popular, but I was supposed to be complacent! I was supposed to be unfazed by things, calm, collected. The only things that really got to me were Charlotte, and now this poem.
It left me vulnerable, and my worst fear was that after reading the poem Aaron would investigate with his psychology crap and find out my ultimate secret.
I was gay.
[Yea, yea, nothing gets past the reader.]
But I was complacent (aside from my current worries). High school was not a good time to be out. Not that my school was completely filled with bigoted assholes, it's just, like I said before, I wasn't anything special, and I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I was happy being part of the background. My teachers recognized my efforts through my work, and I'd volunteer just enough to appear interested in class, but not enough to garner the attention of my peers, far be it from me to disturb their slumber. If it weren't for this literary journal group, I would never run into people from my high school outside those double doors. So, I was at the back of everyone's mind, and I was fine there. I knew once I revealed my homosexuality, Terry, the president of Gay Straight Alliance, would pester me until I felt obligated to join. Plus, I heard all they do is argue about politics, and if I wanted to do that I'd join debate team. Worse, someone could start a stupid rumor, and my life would be a living hell for the rest of the year, I had half a semester left, I wasn't about to blow it this late in the game.
I had a plan. Until college, only my mother would know about my sexuality. I didn't really have any close friends, just several acquaintances. I wouldn't have to worry about anyone 'figuring me out.'
I'd go to a decent, small, liberal arts college, meet the dapper man of my dreams in a Philosophy class, move in with him by junior year, and we'd decide whether we wanted oak or chestnut furnishings in our future home as we put ourselves through grad school. It was perfect.
But I had to screw up my American dream by bringing this stupid poem in tonight. Who even cares about their dreams? The only purposes they served were as boring conversation fillers, right?!
"^×rick? Derrick?," My reverie was broken. Aaron was waving his hand in front of me to get my attention.
"Yea?" My stomach fell somewhere between my feet. Here goes nothing.
"I think it's coming along...uh--nicely. It's a breach from your usual eloquence, but I guess the dreams they were based on^×if you actually had them^×could've been brief and simple. So maybe you wanted to keep that essence in the poem?" he asked.
"Uh, yea," my "usual eloquence" was nowhere to be found.
"Alright guys, it's five 'till seven. Clean up and I'll see everyone next week," Ms. Allen said.
Great, it's finally over! I can escape the scrutiny, sweet freedom!. Aaron's reaction was much better than I had hoped, and if I could get my ass out of the room he'd have no opportunity to delve further into his analysis!
As I lifted my backpack, Aaron's muddied Chuck Taylors came into view.
"I didn't get a chance to give you more feedback, and next week we're doing those stream-of-consciousness exercises. Can I call you tonight?" Aaron asked as I rose to meet his face.
For the second time that evening I was trying to think of plausible excuses but before I had a chance to tell him that my tomatoes were burning we were rudely interrupted.
"Aaron," Charlotte whined, "hurry, I need your help with math. Crotchety, old Pearson said that if I don't pass Friday's test she'll call my mother and tell her I'm failing Calc!"
She dragged him towards the door and I was left with no chance to refuse his help.
"So, I'll call you around nine thirty, apparently I've got some Calculus I need to finish. Later Derrick!" he cried, reading my silence as a confirmation to his question as he quickly disappeared into the hallway.
I was still doomed.
Once again, dun... dun.. dun..!
Ok, so Derrick is just a tad bit irrational.
Thanks again to all the readers who sent me their kind words! You guys are why I'm continuing with this thing! And, I'm soooooo relieved that you guys just laughed off Derrick's awful, awful poem. He and I both focus our "god-given talents" on prose fiction, y'know? Just be happy you didn't have to read through Charlotte's story. Until next chapter, toodles! Send all comments/criticism/suggestions to redbigballoon@gmail.com