Chapter Seven
Jealousy blinded Lori, and she started campaigning against Evans. He was a
user, she said. He'd flee as soon as the rumors started, she said. He'd
throw me over as soon as some girl wanted to bed him, she said.
I protested but to no avail. According to Lori, I was emotionally
retarded, naive, and a rube. I was using my head, but the wrong one.
I was in the middle. I was Jennifer Jason Leigh at the end of the Hitcher.
I felt like I was going to be pulled apart.
I picked Evans. Lori was sullen and surly, mistreating me because she
wanted our story to remain a dyad. Her reaction confirmed the wisdom of my
pick.
Still, I was conflicted about it. Lori and I had stood shoulder to shoulder
for years, enduring and resilient. So many times, she had helped me up when
I had gotten knocked down.
My conflict piqued my mother, and she inquired. I explained that Lori was
being ridiculous and selfish. My mother disagreed. "She's stood with you
through thick and thin, Eric. Don't choose the new toy over the favorite
toy, unless you're sure the new toy will stand the test of time. Otherwise,
you'll wind up with no toys at all."
I understood what she was saying, but I didn't understand why we had to be
an alliance of two. I thought there was plenty of room for Evans, and I
thought Lori was ugly in her exclusivity. It seemed she was perpetuating
the them versus us mentality that we had long railed against. I stuck with
Evans.
In my core, I knew I was wrong. Lori had earned my loyalty with hers, and I
had betrayed it out of self-interest. I could pretend otherwise, but I knew
I was pretending.
*****
For Halloween, Evans decided we should dress as Sid Nancy. I told him it
was too esoteric, that only he and I would understand our costume. He
viewed that as a plus, not a minus.
We did. For that first time that year, I went to a school event. To avoid
stereotyping, Evans dressed as Nancy, and I dressed as Sid.
We were not a hit. If you can think only one thought, you eschew other
thoughts. We were another thought.
Evans reveled in the ridicule that came our direction. He found the
ignorance impressive, and he dismissed it with casual comfort of someone
who knew what and who he was and didn't care if others could not or would
not.
When the dance was over, we were at our kitchen table removing our makeup
and laughing. We were genuinely happy as we stared in the mirror, cold
cream caked on our faces. Evans leaned his head against mine, and we looked
into the same mirror. When Evans' eyes caught my eye, he smiled at me. I
melted into that smile.
Without saying a word, Evans moved to our phone, called his parents, and
told them he was staying the night. I was mortified. Our couch made a
horrible bed for me, much less for me and him. We'd have to sleep on the
floor.
We finished removing our makeup. I used my bare hand to remove cold cream
and makeup from his eyes and his cheeks. He ran his fingers along my
eyebrows and lashes, cleansing them as he did. The whole experience was
unintentionally erotic.
By the time we were done, I was on edge. But, I was still vexed by the
sleeping arrangements.
My mother solved the problem. She arrived home from an evening out, offered
us her full bed, and took the couch for herself.
I had never been in bed with another boy. Evans seemed unconcerned. He
pulled his clothes off, leaving on only his white briefs.
I could not help but steal glances. He was muscular, but almost hairless.
Other than a small trail that started about two inches above his navel and
flowed into his briefs, there was no hair on his torso. There was little
hair on his arms and legs.
I was much hairier. I had curly blond hair on my chest, on my stomach, and
on my arms and legs. I had clippered it once, but it had seemed for naught.
When we were in bed, Evans rolled onto his right side, and propped his head
on his hand.
"I had a great time tonight," he said, taking his left forefinger and
tracing along my clavicle. I cringed at his touch.
"I did, too."
"I have a great time with you."
"I have a great time with you, too."
"Tell me something about you that I don't know."
My trust in him shocked me. I told him about my temptations and the tunnels.
"Do you really think about that?"
"Sometimes, it's all I can think about."
"There's no hole too deep to climb out of."
"That's easy for you to say. You've never been in a deep hole. If you were,
there'd be an army to throw you ladders and ropes. I have only my mother."
"You have me," he said, stunning me. He leaned over, kissed my shoulder,
and said, "Good night, Cupcake. Sweet dreams."
I couldn't respond. I wanted to kiss him back, somewhere. I wanted to roll
over, pin him down, and kiss him until one or both of us suffocated. I
wanted to do to him anything and everything I had ever dreamed about doing
to anyone.
Instead, I did nothing. He rolled away, and then over, and I laid there,
paralyzed and imagining all the things I would have done if I could have
done any of the things I dreamed of doing.
When I awoke the next morning, Evans and I were face to face, and light was
barely breaking through the blinds. I couldn't resist, so I kissed his
nose, briefly.
When he opened his eyes, I sheepishly said, "Good morning."
He shielded his mouth with his hand and responded, "Good morning, Cupcake."
"Did you sleep well?"
"I did. I always sleep better with someone else in the bed. It's calming."
I rolled onto my back. To my surprise, Evans put his hand on my chest.
"You're hairy."
"I am. You're not."
"Nope. I'm part Navajo. I'm almost hairless. Except for the black hair on
my head. And a little bush above my crotch."
I was surprised he mentioned his crotch. Between it being morning, me
kissing his nose, and his hand on my chest, my crotch was on fire.
I didn't say anything, enjoying the sensation of his fingers gently moving
in and out of my chest hair. My nipples were rock hard when he brushed up
against one.
His hand never went below my diaphragm. I wanted to grab it and press it to
my crotch, but I felt like I was behind enemy lines. I was on high alert.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked.
"Sure."
"I like you better without the makeup."
"Really?"
"Yep. I like the real you, not the mask you wear to hide the real you. I
like you right now. Authentic. Genuine. I feel like I can see what you're
thinking."
No one had ever accused the makeup of hiding the real me. It had only
confirmed the real me.
"You can't," I assured him. "If you could, you wouldn't have your hand on
my chest."
"Maybe not. Maybe I'd have it right here," he said, moving it to my stomach.
"Or right here," he said, moving it to my abdomen.
"Am I right? Can I see what you're thinking?"
"Yes," I croaked, from my arid mouth.
"What about right here?" he asked, moving his hand to my hard bulge. "Am I
still seeing what you're thinking?"
"Yes," I croaked again, looking at him. He looked at me as he rubbed and
squeezed my hardness. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, I came. I couldn't
help myself. I had never been touched by another.
"Dude, did you just come?" Evans asked.
"Yes," I said, more plaintively than I intended.
"My turn, then" he said, moving my hand to his bulge. I started rubbing and
squeezing.
"Take it out."
I reached through the hole in his boxers and worked his penis out. It was
smooth and turgid. It seemed there was a lot going on, roiling beneath the
skin.
I moved my hand on him the way I moved my hand on myself. Evans arched his
back, raised his hips, and came all over his stomach. It was the most
beautiful sight I had ever seen.
Carol's knock on the door knocked some sense into us. "Breakfast," she
proclaimed, through the pressed wood.
Evans hopped out of bed, tugged on a shirt and shorts, and headed to the
door. I followed, afraid my mother would see or smell what had happened.
I was also afraid Evans and I had taken a step too far. Momentarily, Evans
quelled my fear. Just before he opened the door, he leaned into me, almost
putting his lips to mine, and whispered "Boo!" into my mouth.
Breakfast was normal. My mother either did not suspect anything or did not
betray that she suspected anything. Evans was Evans, as always.
I didn't spend the rest of Sunday fretting. But, I also didn't hear from
Evans, which was weird.
On Monday morning, Evans was odd during homeroom. He lingered with the
girls, his backpack on his back, his desk empty. He bolted when the bell
rang. I was instantly concerned that our rub out was more significant than
he'd let on just after.
Chapter Eight
Homecoming was a week later, and I was, of course, dateless. Three months
earlier, I'd have gone with Lori. But, she was still off about Evans, and
she'd have been more off if she'd known about Halloween.
Evans was not dateless. He was going with Karen Nemelka, who was the likely
Homecoming Queen and who had badgered him into taking her.
I went alone in a group of friends, including Lori. We posed for pictures
together, but she barely talked to me.
Evans was staggeringly beautiful. He wore a black jacket and a black shirt
that complemented the blackness of his hair and his eyes.
I went old school. I wore a tuxedo I had found at a thrift store. I parted
my long, blonde hair on the side and combed it slick. I wore little makeup,
just enough to hide the imperfections in my face. And to highlight my blue
eyes. I looked like the Great Gatsby.
My friends and I danced to the fast dances, but sat out the slow dances.
Evans and Karen danced to the slow dances, but sat out the fast dances.
I hadn't really talked to Evans all week. As I trudged toward Homecoming,
I'd have given anything to undo the trauma of All Saints morning. It was
awesome, but it wasn't worth the rift. I wanted to lie on the hood of his
car and talk about life. I walked home alone instead.
Our Homecoming theme was "Follow You, Follow Me" from Genesis, which was
hard to get excited about. Phil Collins was just awful. When the theme came
on, everyone danced. I grabbed Lori and forced her to dance with me.
"You sure you don't want to dance with Evans," she hissed, as the song
played and we swayed back and forth. I couldn't answer her honestly. It
would have caused an even greater rupture.
"I'm sure," I said. "I'm dancing with the best friend I've ever had. Or
ever will have."
"It hasn't seemed like it lately," she answered.
"I'm sorry about that," I said, thinking Evans was gone and that I needed
to circle the wagons. "I got caught up in my shiny new toy. It wasn't all
it was cracked up to be."
"Have you seen your old makeout buddy, Steve? He and Sally look like
they're out of a fairy tale."
I had noticed Steve and Sally. Steve was in a traditional tuxedo, and he
looked perfect. Sally had her hair up, and she looked elegant, like Grace
Kelly at the height of her powers. They dripped of class, and they looked
like they were headed to a state dinner.
"Yes," I said. "But, she looks more like a beard than a princess."
As I said that, I caught Evans' eye. He was dancing with Karen, about 25
feet away. Unlike the rest of the week, he didn't look away, pretending he
didn't see me. Instead, he smiled and arched one eyebrow, a move that
reminded me of my mother.
I was surprised when he mouthed "hi" over Karen's shoulder. I did nothing
back. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was sure I was pissed at his
week of diffidence and indifference.
I turned Lori around so she was facing Evans and Karen.
"Ugh," she said. "There's Olive Oyl and your ridiculous Evans, dressed in
black like he's trying to live out Depeche Mode's 'Dressed in Black.'"
"I think he looks good," I said, not able to help myself.
"That's because you want to suck his dick," Lori responded, cutting to the
chase. "But, he's not going to let you, so you should stop pining for it."
I wanted to tell her I wasn't so sure, that we had slept in the same bed,
and that we'd made each other come. Instead, I said nothing. Discretion is
the better part of valor.
When "Follow You, Follow Me" ended, the lights came up. The dance was over.
Everyone would splinter off. Evans and Karen would go wherever that clique
went. Lori, my friends, and I would head to a basement, mostly to talk
about Evans and Karen and ridiculous people like them who thought things
like Homecoming King and Queen mattered.
We were in Peter's basement until almost 1 a.m. I thought of spending the
night. I had no curfew, but it was about 15 blocks to our apartment, and it
was a chilly November night. I don't know what persuaded me otherwise, but
I had an urge to walk home instead.
I was stunned to find Evans sitting on the porch of our building when I
walked up. He was shivering.
"What are you doing out here?" I asked.
"Waiting for you, Cupcake."
"Why?
"Because I wanted to see you."
"Did you buzz? My mother would've let you in."
"No, Eric. I decided to wait in the cold instead," he said, obviously
sarcastically. "Of course, I buzzed. I got no answer. I almost gave up on
you."
I wanted to say something clever, like "You should never give up on me."
But, I couldn't. I was in deeper water than I was used to, and I was an
awkward and clumsy swimmer.
I opened the door and led him up the stairs. Once in my apartment, we
plopped down on the couch and covered ourselves with my blanket. The walk
home had chilled me to the bones. I could only imagine how cold Evans was.
"I'm sorry," Evans started.
"For what?" I answered, pretending to be oblivious. "You didn't do
anything."
"I did. I freaked. I told myself I wouldn't, but I did."
"It's okay."
"It's not. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything I didn't
want yo to do. But, I kind of punished you anyway. It was a cookie move.
I'm not a cookie."
"It's okay, I promise."
"It's not. Anyway, I really like you, Cupcake. A lot. I didn't do anything
I didn't want to do. I'm just not sure I'm ready to do what I did. I talk a
good game. But, it's pretty much all talk. I'm afraid of this. Really,
really afraid."
I wasn't sure what he meant by "this." It could have been me and him. It
could have been resolving who he was.
I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to encourage him. I wanted to reassure
him.
But, I had no experience or innate wisdom from which to draw. I was as
afraid as he was. But, I was afraid of something different. He was afraid
of finding me. I was afraid of losing him.
I had nothing to say, so I put my head on his shoulder instead. He lowered
his head to mine. When I turned my face toward his, he asked if he could
kiss me.
"Only if you want to."
"If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have asked."
We were making things way too difficult. I should have said "Yes, please."
And, he should have said "I do."
Still, he lowered his mouth to mine, and everything happened at once. The
sun came out. The rain poured down. Thunder struck. Lightning hit. The
Earth trembled.
When we needed air, he pulled away. "My God," I said.
"Yes," he agreed. "My God."
We rested against each other. I wanted to ask him to stay, but I didn't. I
was too timid. I said nothing.
Nature abhors a vacuum. He filled the silence with his turmoil. "I'm not
sure I'm ready for this. It's very scary to me."
There are essential moments in life. They usually occur when two options
confront you, one that can be captured with a bold move, and the other that
defaults from a tepid move. I was tepid, and defaulted to what was easy,
but unwanted.
"Look, Evans, we can just be friends. I love being friends with you. I
don't need more than that. Hell, I don't want more than that. Let's forget
Halloween and the next morning and that kiss and go back to the way things
were. There's nothing scary in that."
I could tell from the look on his face that he was hoping for the bold
move. But, I couldn't take back what I had said.
"Yes, let's," he said, pulling the blanket off of himself and standing up.
"That'll be perfect. We'll go back to the way things were. We'll pretend
last weekend never happened. We'll pretend that kiss -- that awesome kiss
-- meant nothing."
He ducked out as my mother was coming in. I was crying when she closed the
door behind her.
"What's wrong, Honey?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I think I just made a terrible mistake."
"It can't be that bad."
"It is. I hate pretending. And, I just pretended I didn't want what I want.
I think my pretension was terrible."
My mother settled next to me and cradled me to her bosom. She let me cry
for awhile before imparting motherly wisdom.
"Honey, there's nothing that's done that can't be undone. Tomorrow's a new
day, and it holds endless opportunities. Wash today away. Embrace tomorrow
and the opportunities it offers."
I fell asleep wondering if I could heed her advice. And, if I could, how I
would.
My sleep was troubled. I awoke wondering why I had pretended to want other
than what I wanted. As I thought about it, I felt myself hurtling down
tunnel after tunnel, each narrower than the one before. Before I got stuck,
I hopped up and headed outside. The cold air jarred and rescued me. I
stayed outside until I was so cold I thought my teeth may break as I
chattered.
Chapter Nine
I slept in on Sunday. I was troubled, and I liked to sleep when I was
troubled. Even if slumber didn't bring clarity, it at least could quell the
thoughts I had trouble controlling. I was always at peace when I slept. I
didn't have night demons. I had day demons.
I awoke full of regret. Evans had tossed me a meat ball, and I hadn't even
fouled it off. I was not a ballplayer, and it showed.
I was still full of regret at school on Monday. I was plain faced, but I
had my hair back in a headband.
Evans was not at school. I was crushed.
Evans was also not at school on Tuesday. Arrogantly, I thought his absence
had something to do with me. I called his house when I got home. His mother
answered, dismissively told me he was sick, and hung up.
Evans was not at school the rest of the week. I called every day. His
mother wouldn't let me talk to him any time I called, dismissing me with a
"he's sick."
I fretted. He'd seemed perfectly healthy in the wee hours of Sunday
morning, but he was too sick to attend a second of school that week.
Something was up.
On Saturday morning, I decided to find out what. I walked to his house and
asked to see him. His mother blocked the door and refused to say anything
other than "Evans is sick."
As I walked away, I turned back toward the house. Evans was in an upstairs
window. He raised one hand in a meek wave, and I waved back.
Evans was in school Monday, but he pretended I was not. The shoulder he
gave me was as cold as ice.
The week went on like that. Friday morning, I couldn't take anymore, and I
cornered him in the bathroom.
"What the fuck, Evans?" I asked. "This on again off again bullshit is
fucking me up."
"I'm sorry, Eric," he said. "I fucked up. And, my fuck up is costing me.
I'm not allowed to talk to you, much less be friends with you."
"What happened?"
"I was pretty upset when I left your apartment Homecoming night. My mom was
still up when I got home. I thought I could trust her. I told her I had
feelings for you, and she betrayed me to my dad. He . . . freaked . . . the
. . . fuck . . . out. He threatened to 'beat the gay' out of me. He blamed
'the fag in the makeup.' I'm on house arrest. I can only come here and then
go straight home. I'm not allowed any calls. I'm not allowed any friends."
"Jesus, Evans, that's not a life. That's a prison."
"It's fine. I'll be leaving in less than a year. I can make it until then."
"Maybe, but you shouldn't have to. This is fucked up. You have to know
that."
"They're my parents. There's already been enough of a breach. I can't cause
more."
"They're not parenting you. They're oppressing you. Parents offer their
children unconditional love. Not 'I love you if' . . . . "
"That's easy for you, Eric. Your mother is awesome, and you're all she's
got. She's not going to let you go, no matter what you do or who you are. I
hold no such exalted place. I'm expendable, and I can't make it on my own.
I have to walk the line."
I was as sad as I'd ever been. I'd lived through people who gave up on
themselves, but never someone who'd given up on someone else. Or threatened
to. It was a sickening feeling. I wanted to retch.
I hated but understood Evans' choice. I was tearful as I turned to leave
the bathroom. Evans grabbed my arm and turned me back to him.
"I'm sorry, Eric. I really am. I just don't know what else to do."
"It's okay, Evans. It really is. It'll all be fine."
When I tried to pull away, Evans wouldn't let me go. He pulled me into him,
and I buried my head in his chest. He raised my face to his, and he kissed
me again. I had the same reaction I had to our prior kiss. I felt strong
and weak, like I was flying and like I couldn't move. I could tell from the
look on Evans' face when the kiss ended he had the same sensations.
We ducked into a stall. We kissed and kissed and kissed.
I felt powerful. I unbuckled Evans' belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his
khakis, and released him.
"Is this okay?" I asked, my voice a sandpaper whisper.
"Yes."
I stroked him as we kissed. He used his right hand to clamp my mouth to his
as hard as he could. He sucked my tongue and grunted in my mouth as he
came, coating the front of my pants. I kept stroking him and kissing him. I
don't know how long we were in there and didn't care. He was completely
soft when we finally broke the kiss. I was lightheaded, and my mouth felt
raw. He put himself away.
"Look at me," I said. My pants were covered in cum. I was going to have to
go home. There was no way I could go back to class.
"Sorry," he said. "I drop a pretty heavy load."
"No shit."
"Can we kiss again?"
"Sure."
We did. It was another long kiss. I tried through that kiss to convey "No
matter what, I love you." I'm not sure I did.
When the kiss was over, Evans quietly offered, "We can try to be friends at
school."
I told him I didn't think we could just be friends. I told him I thought
that, if we hung around each other, we'd wind up back in this bathroom, or
in an equipment closet, or in the boiler room, and we'd eventually get
caught. And then it would all be over for him, especially with his father.
I squeezed him, and he squeezed me back. I broke free and left the
bathroom. I was emotionally bankrupt as I walked home. Looking back, I
should have explicitly told Evans I loved him. That way, he could have
taken that knowledge with him.
That night, Evans' father asked if he had spoken to me at school. Evans
tried to lie, but was bad at it. So, he told his father about the encounter
in the bathroom, at least some of it. Evans never returned to school after
that. I heard that his parents had shipped him to a boarding school. But, I
also heard that they had shipped him to one of those facilities that
pretends to convert someone from gay to straight. I had no idea which was
true, until I got a letter from Evans telling me what had happened with his
father and that his "conversion therapy" was not working, he still thought
about me all the time, and he missed me every time he thought about me. He
told me not write him back, because they read every letter he received or
sent. He had snuck his letter to me out.
I cried and cried that night as I tried to allow sleep release me from the
grip of sadness. I cried because I felt I had been cheated out of Evans.
Mostly, I cried because Evans was being cheated out of his life.
Chapter Ten
I moped around school for a couple of weeks. I couldn't even tell Lori why,
as she still had a blind spot for Evans, and she'd have been pissed about
the encounter in the bathroom.
I was raw and so unprepared for Steve's return. I was at my locker, and
Steve -- out of nowhere -- asked me what me and my mother were doing for
Thanksgiving.
"I don't know. Why do you care? You haven't talked to me for, like, two
years."
"I know. That was douchey of me. I knew it was douchey, but then it went on
and on and just got easier and easier."
"It wasn't easy for me."
I thought Steve was going to cry. I was not a good person, but I decided to
do a good thing, so I tried to let him off the hook.
"Look, Steve. What's done is done. It's all behind me. I move forward, not
backward."
Steve grabbed my hand and apologized. "Eric, I'm really sorry. But, things
we spiraling out of control. We were making out all the time, I liked it
but wasn't sure I wanted it, and then my friends accused me of dating you,
and I lost it. I felt like I was getting painted with the wrong brush."
"It's okay. I'm fine. I missed you, but I got over it. I'm resilient,
remember."
"Yeah, I remember," Steve said, defeated. "I'm a better person than you
think I am."
I wanted to be curt and say "that's a low bar" or "I don't think about you
at all" something similarly accusatory and bitchy. But, I had already tried
to let him off the hook, so I decided in that split second to try again.
"Steve, I don't think you're a bad person. I just think you did bad thing.
And, I'm over the bad thing. If you need or want to be forgiven, you are.
You have been. Be free. Walk with a clear conscience. I'm over it." I
wanted to add "and you," but I didn't.
"Thank you. Anyway, my dad thinks you and your mom should come for
Thanksgiving this year."
Of course he did. And Steve almost certainly didn't know why. He would not
have been so cavalier if he had.
I didn't think we should go. My mother disagreed. Vehemently. I felt the
tunnels starting to narrow. I felt the water covering me. I felt the flames
engulfing me.
It was an extremely awkward dinner. Mr. Lustig sat at the head of the
table, directly across from his wife, pretending. My mother sat between
them, also pretending.
The pretense was suffocating me. The conversation got faster, the words
smashing into my like bullets from a machine gun. I couldn't breathe, and I
needed desperately to get away from that table, from my mother and from
Henry.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I put cold water on my face, but
it didn't help. I sat on the edge of the tub, trying to think of something
other than the game that was being played at the dining room table. My
thoughts started to scramble, and the demons started pressing in. I put my
head in my hands and tried to slow my breathing down. I knew the demons fed
off my anxiety.
I was in jeopardy when I heard a knock at the door. It was Steve, and he
was checking on me, just as he had when I had taken a knee to my stones.
I didn't answer him, but I moved from the tub to the floor. I leaned my
back against the door. I couldn't open it. If I had, I'd have spilled my
guts. And, the story was not mine to tell.
Steve asked me to let him in, and I told him I couldn't. So, Steve leaned
his back against the door, too. Neither of us said a word for the longest
time, but I started to calm down, knowing someone was on the other side,
that I was not alone. Finally, Steve asked again if he could come in. I
didn't answer, but I unlocked the door and moved out of the way.
Steve came in, and I settled back into my spot. Steve sat down next to me.
"Are you okay?"
"Did you know people call me Cupcake?"
"Yes."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"I'd rather be a Cupcake than a Cookie."
"I'm not sure I understand the difference."
"Of course you don't."
"You never answered me, Eric. Are . . . you . . . okay?"
"I'm not, but I think I will be."
"Can I help?"
"No."
"I'd like to."
"Okay, but you can't."
We sat silently. Without thinking, I rested my head on Steve's shoulder,
and he rested his head on mine.
I tried to match his breathing. I could feel myself calming down. I could
feel the threats evanescing, the demons retreating.
"I'm not good with secrets," I finally offered. "They threaten me."
"You kept a pretty big one for a long time."
"No, I didn't. People just chose not to know what they didn't want to know."
"I knew."
"I know."
We stayed like that, quiet, our breathing matching each others',
unconcerned about what was going on at that table. "Talk to me," I insisted.
"About what?"
"I don't care. I just need you to talk." I couldn't tell him I needed him
to drown out the voices in my head, the ones that wanted me to do what I
didn't want to do. "Just talk about you."
He started. "Alright. Let's see. I'm color blind. Not a lot of people know
that. My favorite color, to the extent I have one, is orange. I see orange
better than I see other colors. But, it's not your orange. It's my orange.
My colors are different than everyone else's. For some reason, I like the
idea of having my own colors. My favorite sport is football. My favorite
player is Joe Montana. I like how calm he is under pressure. I'm not. I get
rattled. My favorite movie is Animal House. My favorite TV show is Cheers.
Your turn."
"My favorite color is red. Blood red. I don't have a favorite sport. I
don't much care for sports. I like athletes, but not sports. My favorite
athlete is Bjorn Borg. Like me, he has long blond hair. And, he's hot. My
favorite movie is Ordinary People. It's also my favorite book. I don't
watch TV much. Your turn."
"I rooted for McEnroe over Borg at Wimbledon. Because he's American. I
hated Ordinary People. It was too slow. And Mary Tyler Moore was not the
Mary Tyler Moore I knew. They made her awful. Raging Bull was a better
movie and should have won the Oscar. My favorite book is In Cold Blood. My
favorite song is Bruce Springsteen's 'Born to Run.' I miss kissing you.
Your turn."
I was surprised by the candor of "I miss kissing you." With that admission,
I felt free to move my right hand under his shirt. I wanted to be
distracted from what I would have given anything not to know but could not
un-know.
Like me, Steve had both filled out and thinned out in the intervening two
years. He was 6'4". His curly brown hair was longer. His face and body had
lost all vestiges of any baby fat. His arms and chest and legs were thick
with muscle. He shuddered a little when I rested my hand on his stomach.
"I love Ordinary People because Donald Sutherland and Timothy Hutton
survive the brother's death and Timothy's attempted suicide. It resonated
with me, in light of what me and my mother have gone through. My favorite
song is Dolly Parton's 'Coat Of Many Colors'; it reminds me of my mother
and what she's done for me. Although I also love Allison Moyet's
'Invisible.' I feel that way most times . . . invisible. I started wearing
makeup when I was little. It made me feel special. It still does. I miss
kissing you, too. A lot. Your turn."
"You're not invisible, Eric. You're among the most visible. You wear makeup
and stake out ground that no one else walks on. It draws the light to you .
. . ."
I didn't hear the rest of what Steve said. I held my breath as I moved my
hand over him. His nipples were hard, and had a hint of hair around them.
He had a narrow, thick mat of hair on his chest. As I moved my hands to his
belt, I felt the same hair leading from his navel to his crotch.
I started to unbuckle his belt. I was disappointed when he told me to stop.
"Not here," he said, "not like this."
"Why not?"
"One, they're going to come looking for us soon. I don't think they should
find us rolling around on the bathroom floor. Two, I don't want my first
time with you to be on a bathroom floor."
"With me?" I asked.
"I'm not a virgin."
"I am. Mostly."
"Mostly? You either are or you're not."
"I made a guy come once," I said, ignoring the events of the bathroom stall
as too sordid to share.
"Evans?"
"How'd you know?"
"I was jealous."
"Really?"
"Yes. Very much . . . . Since it's confession time, I have one. I'm really
nervous about this. I've never been with a guy. Ever."
"Are you sure you want to be," I asked, standing up, and preparing myself
to return to the table.
"I'm sure I want to be with you," he answered, certainly. "I have for a
couple of years."
With my mother sober, there was no reason for her to spend the night, and
she didn't. I did. When we got back to the table, Steve asked his mother
and my mother if it was alright if I stayed.
My mother raised an eyebrow and asked to talk to me one on one before
answering. We went to the family room, and she asked about my abrupt and
extended departure from the table. I was honest with her, even though I
feared I'd wound her, and I had never wounded her before.
"I just couldn't take the pretense. We were all just sitting there,
ignoring the betrayal and the damage and the dishonesty. I had to get away.
I couldn't control my thoughts. They were pinging and racing and out of
control."
"Son, with all due respect, you don't know as much as you think you know."
She then proceeded to tell me about the Lustig's marriage, which apparently
had been sexless for a decade and joyless for longer than that. Mrs.
Lustig had long taken a "don't ask, don't tell" approach toward her husband
and whatever he did without her.
For the first time, she didn't comfort me when I told her my thoughts were
uncontrollable. She must have trusted that I had worked through it. Or, she
was more interested in her self than in me.
My mother's explanation did not assuage my concerns. But, they were at
least cast in a different light, encased in a different context. I didn't
head toward Steve with a clear conscience, but it was clearer than it had
been.
Mollified, my mother headed home knowing that I was not in jeopardy. I
don't know what I was in, but it wasn't jeopardy.
Chapter Eleven
"How do we do this?" Steve asked as we settled on the floor of the family
room, sitting cross-legged and stripped to our underpants. It was obvious
we were both excited about what was about to happen.
"Beats me," I responded. "You've at least had sex before. I never have."
"It has to be pretty much the same."
"One would think."
"We should lie down," Steve insisted. We did, on our sides and face to
face. Steve pressed his groin to mine and started rubbing against me. I
gripped his hip and pulled him harder into me. Our foreheads were pressed
together.
I rolled onto my back, pulling him on top of me. I raised my knees and
spread my legs as Steve moved his hips and crotch against me. I was quickly
headed over the edge, and I could tell he was, too. He breathed raggedly
into my ear. "I'm so close."
"Me, too."
I shoved my hands down the back of his briefs and squeezed his cheeks as
hard as I could. He panted and came, grunting as he did. I was so thrilled,
I came, too, filling my briefs.
"Wow, that was pretty awesome."
I didn't think so. I was disappointed. I wanted to touch him with my hands
and my mouth. I wanted to kiss him, lick him, suck him.
He rolled off of me and onto his back, announcing he needed to catch his
breath.
"I'm taking my underwear off," I announced. "I don't want my cum to dry in
them."
"That's a good idea. Me, either."
We stood up and stepped out of our briefs. For the first time, I was
looking sexually at a live, naked man. Steve was looking back at me.
I had been right about his dark chest hair. I was a narrow patch, but it
was thick. It stopped at his diaphragm and re-started at his navel,
trailing down to a thick bush above and around his penis. It had felt large
against me, and I could tell looking at him soft that he was hung,
certainly moreso than I was. Like his arms, Steve's legs were also hairy
and muscled, and the tops of his feet were hairy, too.
Mine were not. I had more hair on my chest and stomach, but it was blond
and curly. My body was not as defined as Steve's, but it had come a long
way in my two summers at the plant. I was just over 6 inches maxed out, and
thick enough, although by no means thick.
I got hard as a I looked at Steve, and I felt a desire from somewhere deep
within to feel him inside me. "So, you've fucked girls?" I asked.
"One. Sally. A lot."
"You want to try with me?"
"Seriously?"
"Sure," I said, more confidently than I was. I moved to the floor, on my
stomach. Steve moved behind me.
"I'm not sure how to do this," he said.
"I don't want to oversimplify things," I said, "but I think it's pretty
much the same. You slide in and start going."
"Help me in."
I reached behind me, touched him for the first time, and guided him to my
opening. He pushed, but nothing happened. He pushed again, but nothing
happened again.
"I think we need something," I said. "Like lotion or oil."
"You're probably right. Sally's always soaked when we have sex. I slide
right in."
He left and returned with Extra Virgin Olive Oil from the kitchen. When he
showed it to me, I laughed at the "Extra Virgin" promise. He caught my
drift and started laughing, too.
We were both nervous, but we were also both having fun.
When we were re-positioned, he poured some on him and poured way too much
into my crack. It did the trick. Both of us were slippery, and it was much
easier for him to push in. I gasped when his head pushed past my ring. He
was thicker even than he looked.
"Stop, please."
"Am I hurting you?"
"Of course."
"You want me to pull out?"
"Of course not. Just let me catch my breath." I paused for what seemed like
forever, but was probably only a matter of seconds. "Okay, I think I'm
ready for more. Please go slow."
I'm sure Steve thought he was going slow, but he wasn't. He was only 18, so
slow was not in his bones. He pushed the rest of the way in.
I had never heard the noise that came from within me as he filled me. It
was somewhere between a low moan and a deep gasp. I hadn't realized it, but
I was biting my forearm to stifle whatever noise I wanted to make.
"Please hold still."
"I'm not sure I can."
"You have to."
I was sweating. I felt full. Somehow, I also felt happy. I loved the
feeling of being covered and full. I felt something inside me give. Steve
gasped when it did.
"Eric, can I move now? I'm about to come."
"Yes, but please go slow."
Steve pulled slowly out and then lowered himself slowly back in. I felt a
little pain and a lot of excitement.
"Oh my God," Steve whispered in my ear. "You're so smooth and tight and
warm."
Combined with the rubbing of my dick against the sleeping bag, the
whispering sent me over the edge, and I finished. I must have clenched as I
did, because Steve twitched and finished inside me. He grunted as he did.
Neither of us moved. Steve relaxed on top of me, and we both tried to get
our minds around what we had just done. Steve slid his fingers between
mine. His hands were large and strong. He softened and slid out of me.
"Was that horrible?" he asked, in a gentle whisper.
"Not at all. I kind of liked it."
"Really?"
"Did you?"
"Sure. A lot. It was super tight."
"I liked it, too, I think."
"Didn't it hurt?"
"Some. But, the thrill kind of drowned that out, after a bit."
"Can I do it again?"
"Sure. When you're ready."
I rolled out from under him and took him in my hand. I wanted to really
touch him. He was warm and soft and tender. His glans was silky. It was not
long before he was hardening in my hand.
I rolled onto my stomach and guided him back in. He was flat on my back
again, moving in and out of me. He lasted a lot longer. I loved the feeling
of him moving in and out of me, the sound of his breath quickening as he
moved closer and closer to the edge, the thickening of him as he grunted
"Oh God" and filled me.
We were both sweating when he rolled off of me, onto his back, and ran his
hands through his hair. "Wow," was all he said.
I scrambled over him. I straddled him, took myself in my hand, and brought
myself over the edge. I coated his stomach and chest. He winced a little
when the first jolt hit him. I don't think he was thrilled by the idea of
being coated. I was. I felt like I was marking him.
Steve discreetly left to clean himself up. When he was back, so did I.
When I returned, Steve was on back, his underwear back on. I settled next
to him, put my head on his shoulder, and played with his chest hair.
"Can I ask you a question?" I asked.
"Another one?" Steve responded, sophomorically.
"Sure," I answered, dismissively.
"How did that compare to having sex with a girl."
"Funny, I was just thinking about the same thing. It's close. It's harder
at first, but, once you get going, it feels pretty much the same.
Definitely tighter, but I suspect that depends on the girl. I suspect a
virgin girl is close to a virgin guy. I don't know for sure, I've never
taken anyone's cherry. Sally's pretty loose."
"You took my cherry."
"I don't think guys have cherries."
"It sure felt like I did."
I tickled Steve's chest and stomach. I tickled him through his underwear.
"It'll be good practice for you," I offered.
"I guess it will."
"Will you take your underwear back off?"
"Sure," he answered, raising his hips and sliding them off. I returned my
hand to him, tickling his balls, his length, his pelvis, and his taint.
"Does that feel good?" I asked.
"Yes. Very."
"Do you want me to try to give you blow job?"
"Sure. If you're up for it."
"I am," I answered, showing him my hard on through my briefs and laughing
at the play on words.
I moved between his legs. I wasn't sure what to do, but my limited
experience reading gay porn suggested it was not a difficult task. I licked
my lips and moved my mouth toward him. The smell emanating from his crotch
made me lightheaded. As when my fingers touched it, his glans was silky and
smooth on my tongue. Steve twitched when they made contact. I encircled him
with my mouth. I heard another low moan as I did. I cupped his balls with
my left hand and started moving my mouth up and down his length. Steve
started raising his hips to match my rhythm. Before long, he tapped me on
the shoulder and said "I'm close." I think he was trying to warn me so I
could pull off, but there was no way I was pulling off. I wanted him to
come in my mouth. I wanted the full experience of my first blow job. And, I
wanted to bring him as much pleasure as I could.
"Oh, God, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come," Steve cried out, just before
filling my mouth. It was his fourth load in less than two hours, so it was
weak and small. I didn't care. I swallowed it all. It was bitter and salty
and delicious and made me gag a little and then made me very, very happy.
I kept at it until Steve insisted that I stop. I moved to his balls and his
thighs, kissing and licking and not wanting the experience ever to end.
"How was I?" I asked.
"Awesome."
"As good as a girl?"
"I don't know. I've never gotten a blow job before."
"Really? Sally doesn't blow you?"
"No. She let's me fuck her, but she barely touches my dick, usually only to
help me in. She won't even consider sucking it."
"I'll suck it whenever you want."
"I'm going to want a lot."
I hoped so.
We fell asleep naked. When we awoke, light was streaming into the room, and
we could hear dishes in the kitchen. I wondered if Steve's parents had
checked on us. If they had, there's be no mistaking what had happened. We
were in the same sleeping bag, wrapped around each other.
We dressed hurriedly. Steve didn't look at me, much less talk to me. He
sent me into the kitchen first. Apparently, I was the scout.
"Good morning, Eric," Mr. Lustig greeted me. "Did you sleep well?"
"I did."
I sat down to a cup of coffee. As I sipped it, I realized that, even if Mr.
Lustig had looked in on us, he could not say a word. He'd have to keep our
secret if he expected me to keep his.
Steve came into the kitchen from the bathroom. After I'd left the family
room, he rolled up the sleeping bags and tucked the Olive Oil into the
center of one of them. He'd have to sneak it back when no one was looking.
I couldn't read Steve. I couldn't tell if his aloofness was a mask or
regret.
When breakfast was over, I asked if I could use the telephone to call my
mother to retrieve me. "No need," said Mr. Lustig. "I'll drive you."
"Let Steve do it," Mrs. Lustig offered.
"That's okay. I'll do it. I want to talk to Eric. And, I want to swing by
the plant for a bit. There'll be no one there. I'll catch up on some
paperwork, undisturbed.'
I knew it was all a ruse. There's be no trip to the plant.
To be continued....
