"The Luckiest Boy in the World"
by
Timothy Stillman
They loomed out at him. He hid from their eyes, mean, and their words, meaner. They called him pansy and fairy and fag, and he hated them and wanted to hurt them, like they hurt him. He tried not to be feminine. He tried to be a boy. He did everything he could think of to get them not to notice him. He would be alone all his life. When he got out of high school, and then college, he would be alone. Have a job somewhere. And live alone. And these were his memories he was living now. These were the things that were supposed to have nostalgia attached to them. That were supposed to have a certain apogee of sweetness to them.
He could not help looking the way he did. He could not help the goldenness of hair and flesh. He could not help the bulge in his shorts, impossible to disguise in the locker room and in P.E. and he wanted them to stop laughing at him, because he had a right to be here too. He had a right not to be cannibalized by the others who could only talk about fucking girls and who could only talk about eating pussy. And how sick that seemed to him. And he wanted love. He wanted a boy to hold him. He wanted to make love with him and slowly undress each the other. To lie naked and to lie unashamed and to be with him and kiss his lips and hold him instead of being held, instead of being used, instead of being a receptacle, because that was what he was.
He was the fairy all the straight guys used who seemed to think, and it apparently was so, that if they fucked him, it would prove that they were normal, and they did fuck him and had him suck them, and it was by the numbers and embarrassed and awkward and some of the boys were kind, none rough, but it was him as machine, him as decoder, as he bent over and they pressed their football basketball baseball star penises into him, and held his hips and he sighed and pretended that he was being fucked by someone who loved him and who saw him as a person and not a milking machine, but always careful not to admit he enjoyed any of this, because he did. He hated himself for it but he did enjoy it. He loved a penis in his ass. And he loved when he got to suck a dick, and he loved the danger of it, like in the gym locker room after school or before, or after gym class or before, and the other boys looking on and they getting hard ons, as he saw, his veins in his temple throbbing as he bent over and gripped the shower stall wall and he saw them hard in their gym shorts or naked, and the main attraction with his creamy skin, bending over, long hair in his face that was beat red causing one or two in the background to rub their own dicks.
But he was the clown. He was the servant. He was never himself and he was not his name or the color of his love and he was only this relic of youth already old inside who was used and declaimed in the process, and he would never get a hard on when being fucked unless the fucker let him, and he would never get a hard on when sucking some jock cock unless he was told he could, for he was a metronomic device already. He did what they said. He played it their way. He would grip their cocks with his ass muscles and he learned to milk them but good and he would take all the jism up his butt and he would hold it in and not let any out and the fucker would pull out his dick and come a bit on the fag's ass, and never not one single time, did anyone ever let him fuck them, and he wanted them to so very much.
He saw them as lovely behind their pimpled names and their mean faces, for there were eyes beautiful and there were stacked bodies beautiful and there were mouths he so wanted to kiss but no one had ever let him, not one time.
And afterwards, there was no laughter at him, for he knew he sexually excited them, and they could not, could never admit it. The laughter came a little later, the next class, in the hall, at lunch, assembly the next day, home room, and he was a joke and a clown and he wanted to be no one. He wanted to just masturbate solitary at home and think of them or think of no one or think of boys he saw in movies and on TV and be totally alone. Be totally hollow inside himself. How he knew the boys were with the girls. Hollow. Saying words they did not mean, making sounds that were not them, just to get girl mouths to suck their dicks or let them fuck them, and the thing of it was, they were just like him, those girls, and they didn't know it. And when they laughed at him, as did the boys, they really were laughing at themselves.
Some of the girls were jealous of him. Because he looked prettier than they did. He looked like he had make up on, his lips were naturally red, his face seemed to have powder and a bit of rouge, and his eyelids were dark and long as though they had mascara on them. He was a lilting looking boy, he was tall and reed slender, and he walked and talked and moved like a girl, no matter how he tried not to. It was wrong to be him. He had known this from grammar school to now. And though no one back there knew why, it came down to, he looked and seemed a girl in a boy's body. And sometimes he wondered if he had been meant to be a girl. There were talk shows about transgenders and he thought he might be that, but he honestly did not know.
None of the girls were his friends either. He had read gays had girls who liked them, because they were kind of in the same boat, but that had never happened to him. He envied people like that guy over there, third left at the back of the English Lit. class. The loser. The fat guy. The guy who was dumb and barely passed any of his classes. The sweaty guy who had no idea how to dress. Who was short and already was losing some of his hair in front. The guy who was scared to death. Scared to look at anyone. Even the fag he was scared to look at. Because that was what he thought he was. Because he looked at the fairy when the fairy thought he was not, but he could feel the little bastard's eyes on the back of his neck and on his shapely girly buns, and he wanted that fairy, he wanted to be him. He wanted to be used like the fairy was.
He saw how the boys fucked him sometimes in the gym locker room, sometimes at night in the cemetery darkness. He knew they hated the fag because they kept saying they did and kept laughing at him and were always telling funny stories about him, and the loser, name of Darryl, wanted to be the homo, name of Daniel, and he would have given anything to be pushed into lockers like Daniel was or tripped by an extended boy leg and fall down in the hall way and come up with a bleeding split lip. He so envied him and he so wished he could trade places with him. And that was what it was all about. That was how it really was for Darryl--let me be not let alone, let me be seen and used and fucked and let me be someone who was no one but someone who was no one who was someone.
Oh god, did Daniel know how lucky he was? Did Daniel know all this writing was by Darryl and not Daniel at all? Did Daniel know how Darryl pretended he was Daniel night and day, and at home secretly worshiped Daniel, not that Darryl was gay, just that Darryl was a nobody, and he tried to get inside Daniel's head and make him himself. I'd love to be had and tripped and laughed at, and I wouldn't mind if they hit me sometimes and made me swallow their cum, even though the idea of it sickens me, but it would be me there instead of lucky lucky Daniel, and when he cries sometimes in study hall, because boys sit at his table and tell him of how they're going to really cream his ass tonight, oh let it be me. I don't care how it may hurt. They can laugh at me during. They can do me in the park downtown at high noon on Saturday with the whole world watching.
I'm just so tired of being alone. Oh God, Daniel, you are the luckiest boy in the world. And you'll never know it, I don't think. Not ever.