The Spanish Coast. Years ago-1805-this strategic body of water was the sight of Britain's greatest naval victory, and France's worst defeat. The Battle of Trafalgar, arguably the most significant European naval battle, the greatest engagement of the Napoleonic Age, and the pivotal battle in 19th century Europe was fought on Spain's southwestern edge.
"John."
Nelson's plan was to run his ships easterly into the French fleet; break the enemy line with two or three columns in order to cut the center and rear of the fleet from its van, and to then concentrate his forces on the ships in the rear part of the line. Divide and conquer.
To successfully rout the enemy, one must take them by surprise. Do something that will utterly confound them, set them back in their paces. Only then can victory be assured.
"John!"
"Wha-what?" My head rolled up from my history book blankly, angled to the desk next to me. To Tyler. In a millisecond, my mind registers that he's actually talking to me. I can't remember the last time this happened. We're in study hall, and the bell's just rung. Time to go to Economics.
"You had your nose buried in that book; I was trying to get your attention." He smiles as he says it.
"Oh," I say flatly. "Sorry I was...I get kinda into it. History, y'know." It's always awkward talking tom him, barring the fact that we've known each other since second grade.
"Yeah, its okay." He stands from the desk and slings a backpack over his shoulder. For a moment I see strong muscled arms flex and glimpse a small patch of hair in the armpit underneath his blue sleeveless shirt. He could get away with wearing a shirt like that; when you got it, flaunt it, after all.
Tyler--Ty, as I'd called him since the second grade--is a wrestler. And in the off- season, a running back for the football team. He's cute. Runner's legs-thin and sinewy, with tiny curls of hair in all the right places. He's wearing baggy khaki shorts today; leather flip-flops and an anklet that seems to separate his pale and bony feet from the tanned skin and black hair above. The sleeveless shirt he wears broadens his shoulders has a white swoosh on the left breast. The best PR Nike can ask for, standing right in front of me. He has a beautiful face, too. Deep set brown eyes, flawless complexion, a nose the shape of a downhill ski-slope that just screams handsome.
The truth of the matter? I'm gay. Tyler--straight. And not exactly a best friend either; hell, this is the first time he's said two words to me since we came into High School two years ago.
I want him. I know it. Christ, I'm a sophomore in High School; I should be learning this kind of thing. I should be...expanding horizons. Right?
We walk to Econ together, by virtue of having a similar schedule for once. We don't say anything. It gives me a chance to catalogue things in my head. He talked to me. He never talks to me.
He's a wrestler. Hot in itself. I've seen pictures in the papers; he's one of the best on the team. On the few occasions I've seen him in gym class changing his clothes-shirtless and once, standing in front of his locker, naked to God and everyone while he was rooting for clothes-that was when I knew I wanted him. When I knew I was gay. Physically, Tyler is perfection, from the neck down. A wrestler's sculpted chest and abs, hairless except for the remnants of a happy trail below his navel. That leads to a neatly-ordered array of pubic hair surrounding his cock. He was unabashed about his physical appearance; he knew he could get away with doing it. This all is coupled with a friendly demeanor and a friendly smile. The kind of smile that said "I can be your friend."
Maybe that's want I want. Or maybe its just hormones yanking me in a hundred directions at once. I want to go in Tyler's direction. To follow him anywhere. We get into Econ and sit at desk next to each other; business as usual. Tyler slouches in his chair. His shorts ride up slightly and reveal paler skin above his kneecaps, with less hair. Just as muscular though. My cock instantly sprang to life inside my denims. I hunched forward and immediately started writing in my notebook, pretending to look busy.
I felt something knock up against the sole of my boot, looked over the side of the desk to see one of Tyler's flip-flops pressing its toe on the black rubber. I can tell he's putting effort into it by the way the tendons of his toes rise under the skin. Hot. From the corner of his eye, he catches the action, pulls his foot back and apologies.
"It's okay," I say sheepishly, and go back to my work. At the head of the class, the teacher starts giving his spiel. I don't even bother to pay attention; I've heard it before.
By conventional standards, I'm a bit of a bookworm. Not exactly the greatest student, but I do well enough that the teachers seem to like me. I the realm of High School sociality, I'm the polar opposite of someone like Tyler. Someone like Tyler only comes to someone like me to get homework tips.
Still...
"So what are you doing tonight?"
"Tonight?" I ask, not looking up from my notebook. One ear catches the teacher's notes, and the other focuses on Tyler. "Nothing, why?"
"Got a wrestling meet-home match. Thought you might like to come."
I look at him with a raised eyebrow. This is me playing tough. "How much?"
"Two bucks. And afterward we can go to McDonald's or whatever; my treat. My gift to you, for helping me out with the Kennedy paper last week."
Yeah. Homework tips.
"Two bucks? Athletic Department must be getting a bigger budget."
"Come on," he presses. "What do you say?"
I sigh. "Alright. But I'm only staying for your match."
Tyler slaps a hand on the desk, smiles, and says, "That's fine."