My friend and I talked, about my stories on here, about how Caden/Nyx was crushed and true gay love was demolished. So we exchanged stories. Part 1 of 2 is soft. It's a combination of his truth, my truth, and a splash of fiction. He certainly didn't help write any of it.
When I write in my journal, I write as if I’m writing a novel. I sometimes read things online, passages from a journal or diary, or letter, mostly written to the empty pages of a familiar leather-bound book, or to someone in particular. As I read them, I gain this intense desire to write down my thoughts, my dreams, my most prized wishes that I whisper to the brightest star outside of my bedroom window before I fall asleep. The messages they write seem lost, confused, as if their minds have jumbled information they’re not willing to sort through, or bring into focus, and when I read books like Go Ask Alice or Jay’s Journal, the gap of time between entries make it seem so unrealistic—even when the books are terrifyingly real.
Writing that makes me confused, and that’s something I hardly ever feel. But I have something on my chest, and I want to write it down, but I don’t know how.
…when I write in my journal, I write as if I’m writing a novel…
…or short story, perhaps.
Ninth grade in high school, when I was fifteen after being held back in kindergarten, was the year I felt comfortable enough to come out of the closet. I had a majority of friends then, mostly younger than myself, and grew up in a society where any other sexuality than hetero was completely accepted. The chorus teacher was an obvious gay, an assistant for colored guard the same, my homeroom Algebra I teacher a lesbian and there were suspicions that our principal, Mrs. Fletcher, was bisexual after a picture circulated the Internet of her kissing said math teacher, even though she’s married to a man and has three children.
Nobody cared, or thought twice, about how they lived their lives. When the chorus teacher brought his boyfriend in and shared a kiss, there were more whispers of, “Awe,” from girls than the sounds of disgust by guys. In fact, I don’t think any guy, or girl, had anything negative to say about it.
What would be the harm if I told everyone the truth about me?
Before I told, there was a guy who I had an immense crush on. Blond hair the color of golden rays of sun, eyes that sparkled as if a gem taken from the ocean, and skin that acquired the right amount of light to darken the surface slightly. He joined chorus solely because the teacher, Graham, was an excellent vocal couch. He wasn’t interested in the type of music they sang; however, he was quite the talent with a guitar and wanted to sing solo one day: A boy who traveled the world singing of life, love, health, and the pursuit of happiness with nothing but an acoustic guitar and the occasional piano, something he hoped to learn later in his high school years. His name is Sydney Sharpe, but most people called him Aussie, including myself.
Aussie and I never spoke, regardless of our reputations in school. He and I had plenty of mutual friends, including my best friend Darcy. When she wasn’t locked at my hip, she was trailing beside him, never close enough to touch, but close indeed. It was terribly coveting, watching my best friend hang out with a guy who wouldn’t even look in my direction. She asked him once why he never acknowledged me, looked my way, said hi to me in the hallways as we passed each other.
His response? I know it verbatim. “One, just because you and I are friends doesn’t mean he and I have to be. You shouldn’t fix what isn’t broken, Darcy. There’s no need for it. And two, he doesn’t interest me.”
Ouch. It hurt. I remembered looking at the ceiling that night, thinking about Darcy’s radical honesty with me, tears peppering my cheeks at the pain of my feelings being sliced in two. I should have made him undesirable in my eyes then, but him wanting nothing to do with me only intensified the natural longing I felt to drown in his eyes and sizzle beneath his touch.
After midterms in my freshmen year, a rumor broke out through the school. I hadn’t told anyone the truth about me then, it was still a secret locked away in the back of my mind. The rumor had everything to with Aussie Sharpe. During one of his practice sessions with Graham, someone hid in the room, in one of the closets with a video recorder. They captured him singing a song. I watched the video over and over, dissecting the words, trying to figure out if he meant what he said or if it was foul play in attempt of gaining vocal strength.
It doesn’t matter if it rains
Because I know you’re the one to blame
Shattered memories fall from the skies
Destroyed by your lies
Was it enough, our love of betrayal
Was it enough, our love of forbidden
Your lips on my kiss
His breath on my cheek
And when I looked in your eyes
All I have to ask is why
Why does it matter if it rains
When you’re the one to blame
When he’s the one to blame…
It gave me shivers. You might think that’s melodramatic, but it’s not. Not by a long shot.
Long story short, the rumor made absolute no impact on Aussie’s life. Girls congratulated the courage it took for him to admit it, guys embraced him as if he were just another brother, Graham questioned him about it almost instantly.
“It’s not true,” he said demandingly, however. “None of it’s true. It came from a song I sung with you, Graham. You’re song, the one you wrote for an ex. You had me sing it because of the level of difficulty it possessed, not because it spoke any truth to me.”
I was reluctant to let the rumor go, but it faded quickly. Too quickly.
A month later, after Christmas break, I sat Darcy down outside the school steps. My hands shook. My heart fluttered wildly. My palms, my brow, beneath my arm pits, it seemed like my entire body broke out in sweats. “I’m gay,” I muttered, stuttering slightly, failing at sounding confident. “I didn’t know who else to tell.”
Darcy laughed. She shook her head violently, her dark curls bounced off of her shoulders. Punching me in the arm hard as she dared, the pain there lasted only a moment when her eyes grew rather dark. "Bradley," she said, my name spoken rather short. "You, erm, you can't be serious." Her eyes searched my face questioningly, trying to look into my mind to make sure I'm telling the truth, obviously hoping for a lie. "I mean, being gay doesn't bother me at all, but you aren't serious. Are you?"
I nodded my head, never more unsure as to where our friendship was going to go.
"I was born this way," I had said, knowing deep within myself that I had felt a gravitational pull toward boys since I met my year-long, no more than that!, best friend, Hunter Wilson. "For as long as I can remember."
Her eyes turned to black. "And you're telling me this now?"
"It doesn't matter, does it? I mean, was I not trustworthy enough for you?"
"Darcy, I didn't mean--"
Darcy stood to her feet without a moment's hesitation and stormed off. Within the next hour, the entire school knew my biggest secret and I had lost my best friend.
When the whole school laughed at me, I felt ashamed, as if I was wrong in being this way. The only person who refused to laugh was Aussie. But when he strayed away from me and avoided contact as if I were a deadly virus, I think that hurt me more than anything, more than the betrayal from Darcy.
The dream is always the same. It’s the current period of my life, senior year. I’m late for gym class, as always, and rush into the empty locker room. The sound of my footsteps is nothing more than echoes. Dropping to the floor, my bag falls open spilling my gym shorts and shirt over the floor.
Coach is behind me. “Late again, Mr. Strickland.”
“I’m sorry,” I say back to him, peeling my shirt from my back. “I can’t help it. I have to stop at my locker after pre-cal.”
“No excuses, Bradley. I’m locking up the locker room, as always. I’ll give you a break today, but no more excuses. Understand?” Just as silently and mysteriously as he appears, Coach leaves. The door clicks locked, and I’m alone.
Picking up my gym clothes, I walk to the back where the long walls of mirrors stand. I’m a handsome enough guy, hair dark brown to my shoulders, green eyes, lips fuller than most guys. I’ve rarely got muscle in my chest or abdomen so I’d say I have an average body. I’m not husky or chubby; I’m normal—as normal as any other guy in senior class, I suppose.
Sliding my feet from my shoes, I unbuckle my belt so that my jeans fall around my ankles. I step out of them and turn from the mirror. My briefs are black, clinging tightly to my waist and hips so that any bulge one might envision on me is clearly visible. I fall short of a foot in front of a urinal and spread my feet out before me. As always, I piss.
Tap…tap…tap… footstep faintly heard hardly causes my mind to stir as they draw closer.
Only his voice arouses me. It’s richly dark, deeper than the ninth grade, and when he sings now it’s as if anyone who listens to him is walking along the streets of heaven. “Bradley. It’s me. Aussie.”
Aussie. For the first time since I’ve known him, he calls my name. It happens everytime I have this dream. I don’t particularly know if it’s a curse, or a blessing.
“Aren’t you going to say anything to me, Bradley?” His footsteps become closer to be. The light behind me casts a shadow over mine, almost identical to the way he looks in real life. I look up to watch the shadow tamper at its side before peeling an invisible shirt away from its black upper body. The shirt falls to the ground, the fabric sliding on the ground until it stops against my socked foot.
Everything falls quiet. I can hear the song being sung through their air. His voice like liquid diamonds against my ears. Then the whispers of various voices ring out. "He's gay...Aussie's gay...he likes boys...he wants to sleep with boys...Aussie is a homosexual..."
"...maybe he's in love with me," my whisper screams loudly in my ears. A ringing of a bell shrieks as loud as it dares and the only to draw me back to reality is the sound of the urinal flushing and his hand on the lower of my back.
Almost as if I had been daydreaming, Aussie's voice is heard midsentence, the first of it clearly unheard. "...come back to me. Bradley, you're scaring me."
I shake my head, and look to the side. My voice comes out irritated, annoyed, but my mind rushes with gold. "Scaring you? The fact that you're bothering to talk to me now after so many years is frightening, I must admit."
"What if Darcy catches you speaking to me?"
"I don't give a damn what Darcy says, Bradley." Then it hits me. Aussie is naked, standing before he, the warmth of his body enveloping my own. I'm naked too. And I'm so close to tears by the sight of his bare body I hardly have enough time to cry before he lunges, pinning my body against the back wall, smashing his lips against my own until I can't breathe any longer.
And I don't want to.
It's been a month since I've had that dream. This is the longest period of time since I've been haunted by it.
The clock on the wall reads 12:32. A.M. I know I should be sleeping. Instead I have the screen of my computer split. The lower 1/4th of the screen is this Word document, the rests Google Chrome lit into use. Mom and Dad are sleeping down the hall from my room, my little brother's snores easily heard through the bedroom wall.
I open my Facebook account. 1,323 friends, most of them strangers from various teen chatting sites, but plenty from school as well. Almost all of the seniors have added each other. I rarely talk to any of them, but I scroll down my friends list searching for his name. SYDNEY "AUSSIE" SHARPE. I click on his profile, read through his wall.
-Meeting Darcy at the party tonight. (about an hour ago)
-Listening to NSN and writing music. Thinking about you...but who are you? (3 hours ago: 32 comments) I don't read them. The only visible comment is from Darcy. "I wish you'd get that girl out of your mind...LOL!"
(I hate it when people capitalize every letter in "Lol.")
-I dreamed of you again. Any ideas, guys? (10 hours ago: 4 likes: 25 comments)
-I wish you'd stop doing this to me. It's fucking irritating!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Wednesday 11:32: 18 likes: 59 comments) I open up the comments tab. The last six in order...
Darcy Adcock, "Get over it, babe. I'm always here for you, xoxoxo."
Sydney "Aussie" Sharpe, "Easy for you to say. I can't help it. It's like, killing me. I hope other sexually driven and confused teenagers like myself dream of people who aren't even real."
Darcy Adcock, "Are you sure she's not real?"
Megan Sharpe, "Watch you're mouth, son. The F word is a disgusting word and you're better than that."
Darcy Adcock, "Agreed, Mrs. Sharpe."
Sydney "Aussie" Sharpe, "I'm sorry Mom. Really, I am. Darcy, you'll never understand what I'm going through. No one will. Never. I'm going to bed anyway, maybe I'll text you in the morning... :(" (22 likes)
Okay, back to this journaling thing. Is what I wrote above me confusing? Do you get how to read it? What am I asking for, I'm the only person who will ever read this. Unless some freak hacks my computer and steals all of my documents.
I scroll back up to his profile picture. Aussie stares in the opposite direction of a sunset, the glow of light making his skin look golden, flashing an imperfect smile full of flawless teeth. The flash from the camera makes his eyes an even deeper shade of blue. Over his bare chest is his guitar, one nipple peaking out one side, and his hands wrapped gently around it. When you look at the picture, taken only a week ago, he looks so beautiful. Angelic. But when you look in closely at his eyes, I wonder who else notices the abrupt sadness, discontent, fear and confusion so visibly written there?
It's enough to make me click the X at the top corner of the screen and shut down the opened Google Chrome window.
Another window stays open, however. A video is paused, one that I'm too ashamed of to write. It's part of my addiction, something that's become an obsession since beginning of eleventh grade.
I plug my ear buds into my ears and lean back in the seat. The only way to get Aussie's picture out of my head is to watch porn, and release all of the negative energy out of my body through, well, masturbation...
Gag. I ought to cry.
Who do I have to thank for making last night a Friday night?
Who do I have to thank for free Internet porn...minus the risk of viruses and the like?
I've yet to even speak to any of my family this morning. After my dream last night, I've woken up feeling so jumbled with my emotions I didn't know where to go, who to speak to, whether I should keep the dream just a memory or write it down.
I remember it, thought, all too familiarly and visibly I can't bear to keep it to myself.
It happened! It really happened! I swear to whoever responisible, I will kiss your feet and anything else (as long as your name is Aussie and you don't have a vagina) you wish.
I remember it all, everything he said, everything he had done to me, second by second...
I tore all of my clothes from my body, rushing forward, my dick starting to hurt from the need to pee. The urinal seems so far away, too far away, and I'm afraid that I won't make it in time and start pissing everywhere.
Then I reach it, just like that, and freeze. His footsteps behind me, his shadow cast over my own on the wall. He marches forward, his bare feet slapping on the floor loudly so that I know he's mere inches from me. Quickly, without hesitation, he breathes my name, "Bradley," and leans forward, his lips pressing into the back of my neck and exhaling warmth against my flesh.
I gasp. "Aussie," I say, my voice weak and my knees instantly starting to tremble.
"Call me Sydney," he says back, his voice deeper than usual and husky. "I love it when you call me Sydney."
"Sydney," I whisper back and feel vibrations like spasms through his fingertips against my side. He kisses my neck, his tongue swirling around on my skin, and wraps his arms around me. I feel his stomach pressing into my back and his chest rising and falling from every breath. There's a sense of heat that envelopes me, causing chills to carry through my spine. I'm not given a second longer when his hands travel further down my body, sliding between my legs and spreading them apart. He rakes his nails into my flesh there, scratching tenderly into me making me shudder again.
"Sydney, what are you doing."
"Making you horny," he breathes back, his teeth biting down into my neck. "I want to make you horny."
"Because I love you."
I try to pull away, but he stops me. "No. Stay. Don't leave."
"You're straight," I argue back.
"I'm gay. I really am. The rumor was the truth."
"Why deny it?"
"I was ashamed."
Then he shoves me forward, pressing my face into the wall as he slides down his my body.
"What are you," I try before I start to scream. His lips press into the center of my ass, sucking slightly on my hole and trying to push his tongue through. I feel dirty, raped, forced into something I don't want to do.
The feeling of needing to pee hits me like a bullet to the chest and I feel his hand reach up and grip hard on my cock. He starts to stroke my completely flaccid penis, piss spraying all over the urinal and his hand. I grow in his hand. Looking down, I watch my dick extend out from his fingers, my head glistening the brightest of reds underneath my foreskin.
Then we stop. Just like that.
We’re no longer in the bathroom, but in my bedroom. Bare of furniture, I find myself pressed against the wall. My hard cock presses into the drywall, blasting away a hole so that when I feel him press against my back and thrust his hips, I begin to fuck the wall.
“Sydney,” I cry, wanting him to stop, begging him to end it, but he shoves his hand over my mouth to block the sound.
And then he fucks me.
Okay. So the dream wasn't all that long. And I didn't exactly get to finish anything with him, or actually get to feel any part of him eating my ass or stroking my dick as I pissed, but I swear I could feel his hands on me when he did touch me, and I felt his presence there.
When my eyes finally opened, I was aware of two things.
One: I had a raging, throbbing, seemingly Vampiric in it's desire for my blood, boner. It was the kind that is so hard, it hurts. The kind that everything touch the fabric of your underwear or shorts, or blanket if you happen to sleep naked, makes your entire body shiver from the sensitivity and you have no choice but to JACK THE FUCK OFF!
And two: I HAD TO PISS LIKE CRAZY! It's agony, really, truly and honestly, when your body is begging the piss our of you (no pun intended) to just relieve the monster of the south of its unfathomable wrath raging in your hormones, but you have to pee.
So I rushed to the bathroom, did that awkward pose where you lean over the toilet, prop one hand against the wall and the other around your wood, push it against its will to the bowl and give birth to a tremendous line of piss.
Agony. Torture. All who sins deserves this pain. That, my friend, is what I call the wordly epiphany of hell for men.
As if I care to really tell you, my boner has gone away and I did not touch myself in any way.
Not that it's any of anyone's business in the first place.
It's Monday. School was a drag.
But something happened. Something terrifyingly real. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to write this as if it's a novel. No way, no how.
Just imagine a lonely boy walking home from school alone.
Imagine a truck full of pathetic redneck incestual freaks blaring country music at the highest level pulling in behind you on the sidewalk you walk along. And although this is usually a heavily travelled road, and although there's absolutely no houses or businesses here, and although at this hour it's generally caked with students walking, or people jogging, and cars traveling to work, or from work and school, to whatever else they have planned, today it's mysteriously empty.
Imagine the driver sliding out of his seat, his three best friends (one sliding out of the passenger side, the other two jumping from the bed of the truck) joining.
Fingers pointed. Laughs ensuing. Threats, insults, teasing, the usual bullying.
And then the words escape the drivers mouth, "You fucking fag! On your knees where you belong." One gets behind you, kicks you in the back of the knee until you practically bite the dust head first. Another throws his crotch into your face in mockery.
Wouldn't you be ashamed?
Wouldn't you just want to die, even though you'd never have done it?
Wouldn't you just wish for someone to come to your safety.
One of the knees to my jeans tore and my knee was ripped to shreds. The driver slapped me across the cheek and called me a bitch. Another kneed me in the eye. Then they laughed and jumped into the truck when the sound of a horn blaring behind them was heard.
Then he stepped out of the car. Aussie. He helped me to my feet, tears staining his cheeks, telling me he saw what they had done as he was passing the intersection and came back to help.
My life changed today.
The boat rocks back and forth as I stand amongst the crowd, thinking back to the day Aussie picked me up from my knees. It's been six entire months today. That day changed my life.
I'm sure you can figure out why.
"He's this way," the man says to me, pointing at the back hallway and pulling me through the crowd. People flush out of the way as I walk, hoping to avoid me, not caring where my feet land as I walk away. When I emerge from the crowd, I see the man's hand point to the stairs then turns down the hallway. I walk up the stairs, traveling to an upper layer of the boat when I see him appear before me down the hall, breathing hard. "Someone almost saw me," he says and waves me over.
Leading me down a hall, we find ourselves at a back staircase covered in a layer of dust. Together, we rush down the stairs and hide in a shadow until the hall clears. "Third door on the left," he says, pointing, turning back to the steps to walk away and join the party. "The one with the faded blue star on the door."
I take a deep breath and force myself back against the wall when an unexpected group of kids round the corner and down the hall. They talk incredibly loud, something about getting drunk the next day for an post-grad party. When the hall is cleared once more, I sneak from the shadow and tear down the hall.
I reach the door with the faded blue star and find it unlocked. Quickly, and as silently as I can imagine, the door appears to rip from the threshold. I don't look in. I don't look back. Rushing clumisly, I slip on the floor and manage to shut the door behind me. As I try to catch my breath, I turn the lock in the door and slide around on my feet.
We face each other, my heart hammering in my chest, my eyes searching through the fabric of his shirt to see if his is too. The six months we’ve been together, the six months we’ve been waiting for the moment to happen, a moment inevitable with time, I’ve never felt so nervous before.
This morning, he called my phone. His voice was overly excited, shaky, high-pitched and airy when he said, “Today is the day. Graduation. The boat ride into the Gulf. I know the boat; I know a place where we can go, to be alone and away from everyone else. I’m ready, Bradley. Are you?” He sounded just as nervous then as I feel now, althought reluctant to the thought that I might turn him down, turn us down, descend away from the idea that he and I would be together tonight in a way neither of us has been before.
Then later, at graduation, as Aussie sat in the front row with the students who received top honor for their high GPA’s and award winning grades in school, I stared into the back of his head, my eyes trying desperately to penetrate the black back of his cap to see what he was thinking.
Is he thinking of me? Is he thinking of tonight, the boat ride into the Gulf, his skin against my skin if not a brush of lips like we’ve shared so many times before?
I watched only moments later as his row stood to their feet and ascended the stairs. Bradley was the eighth in line, the eighth highest GPA in all of senior year, and looked into the crowd and caught someone’s eye on the other side. Darcy… I winced, hoping that he would look at me, knowing that Darcy would only glare with intense anger if he did, and smiled brightly when his face turned slightly and our eyes locked. He nodded his head, flashed a row of pearls in my direction, and waved his hand lightly on his side.
“SYDNEY COLLINS SHARPE,” Principal Dembowski shouted at the top of her lungs. Aussie walked from his place at the edge of the stage, his head held high in the air, his blond curls peaking out under his cap and looking like gold under the ceiling lights, and reached for Dembowski’s hand. They shook generously as he took his diploma. All around me, the audience and senior class erupted into shouts, hollers and applause, calling his name with great victory and standing to their feet. “With a total GPA of 3.824, a 100% paid scholarship to University of Florida, and always quick to spread the message that our community needs to learn to stand hand-in-hand, back-to-back, with love and kindness, I wish you well, Mr. Sharpe.”
I cried as he walked off the stage, forgetting that I was making a fool of myself entirely.
A long rush of air is all I hear when I look at him, standing before me in a white undershirt, a pair of black gym shorts sporting our high school's logo and sandals on his feet. I wear exactly the same, opting out as he had at wearing our senior shirt. His shoulders and chest rise and fall dramatically, his hands at his side clenching and unclenching in attempt to stop the sweat that is there. I feel it on my palms as well and I shake them quickly.
“I’m so nervous,” I say to him honestly, my voice in a hushed whisper so that any passing that happened to venture this far back in the boat won’t hear me speak.
He nods his head and wipes his palms on his shorts. “Me too,” he says back and takes a step forward, closing the distance between up.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath and step forward, closing more distance, and crossing my hands before me. Without looking to see if he’s following, I grip the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it behind me, and swallowing a lump in my throat. When my eyes open, I see that he’s done the same. His body is incredibly tan, tone and cut. Although he doesn’t have the body of a Greek god, it’s perfect for a guy like me. I look and see every muscle outlined as if he’s cartoon, etched into his flesh as if God had intended him to look this way.
Against the room, I find myself looking into a mirror I just felt was there. My body is nowhere near his. Even though he and I have become partners in weight-lifting class and he’s helped me to sculpt my body into a more favorable picture, I can see the parts where I lack his immense beauty.
I’m nearly knocked to my feet when he says something I’ve never heard him say before, words I only thought men spoke to their women. “You’re beautiful, Bradley.”
My eyes widen and I look at him. The corner of my mouth begins to quiver without hesitation and I’m shocked to find that I’m damn near tears just by the three words he spoke. “I am,” I ask, honestly questioning his opinion of me. You’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous. You’re the sight of…
“Perfection,” he says and takes another step toward me. “You’re perfection. A ten.”
I feel my cheeks burn, blush, torn to crimson as my blood boils under my skin. Only, it doesn’t boil as if I’m angry or mad, but because I can feel a passion starting to rise from the tips of my toes and into my heart. It shows on my cheeks.
“You’re cute when you blush,” he says, flashing a smile that should belong to a cunning vampire, but still managing to be on him, a mortal, my boyfriend.
Together, we kick our sandals from our feet and walk over to the far wall of the room. Our backs against the smooth surface, we grip each other’s hand as we slide down the wall, landing on our bottoms and stretching our legs out before us. Immediately, Aussie slips his bare foot over mine, his toes attempting to play with my toes and he turns his head to beckon my kiss with his lips. I oblige.
We stay that way for longer than a moment, the steady beat, beat, beat of the rythmic music banging on bass outside of the door matching our heartbeats, our hands still connected tightly together. His thumb taps lightly over my hand, the electric current that spans between us breaking and forming through our flesh, until he suddenly pulls away from my lips and takes a deep breath.
His eyes dart to a wall and he shakes his head with a simple smile on his face. "What," I ask, eager to know what he's thinking.
A small laugh bubbles from his lips and he brushes a strand of hair out of my face. "Believe it or not, but we've been kissing just shy of five whole minutes."
"We were," I say, scratching an itch across my chest. I watch him nod and lean back against the wall. "We weren't even really making out," I mention thoughtfully and bend my head to kiss his lips gently. "It went," I kiss him a few times just as gently, "a little," his lips feel like pillows filled with down against my own, "like this," and we join kisses once more, our tongues hardly exchanging saliva, but passion all the same, "didn't it?" I pull away; he laughs again and pulls my hand up to place his lips against its back.
"It did." He pauses and just stares at me for what felt like forever before he blinks. "Are you sure you're ready, baby?"
Kissing him made the butterflies in my stomach flee, but at the mention of my comfortability they immediately return in a flutter. "What if I..."
"Baby," he says, his fingers tightening their grip with mine. "We don't have to do this if you're not ready."
"Aren't you nervous?"
"I'm nervous as hell," he admits and stares down at his feet. "I know we're a rare, dying breed but believe me when I say I'm just as virgin as you are. I keep thinking about..."
"What if it's not good? What if I screw this up?"
"Exactly," he says, excitedly and in that moment his eyes shine brightly, a light illuminating behind them. "We're connected, you and I." With his free hand, he points at his eyes and then at mine, a layer of humor bubbling behind his lips again. This his face turns serious and he shakes his head. Sighing, he gazes back down at his feet. "I'm afraid that because I've never touched another man, by hand or lips or... you know, that what we have could become awkward. What if what he have becomes destroyed by this?"
I grip him tighter this time and lean closer to him. "I feel your fear," I say quietly, then release my hand from his. "But this won't break us, this won't even fracture anything we share between us. I promise you." I feel his eyes scan over my body when I grip the waste of my shorts at my hip and gently push. The fabric releases its hold on my and slides down over my briefs, teasing his wandering eyes for what lies beneath the thin veil of cotton.
As I kick the shorts off of my feet, I look over to watch him do the same until he sits in a pair of loose-fitting boxers. On the floor, I notice the way his fingers twitch from nerves and I lean into him, closing my eyes, gripping his hand into mine and venturing back to the kiss we shared minutes ago.
Just as suddenly as it started, it stops and I find him leaning away from me and staring down at his feet again. His chest rises dramatically and falls just the same, then he quickly pushes on with waist of his boxers without warning to me until he's revealed himself completely. When he looks back up at me, he looks surprised that my eyes stare into his instead of what's below his waist. "I did it," he says, his cheeks starting to burn just as my had previously. He cocks his head to the side and furrows his eyebrows. "Why aren't you looking?"
I don't answer him. Instead, I do just as he had and slip my legs free of my briefs. Just like Aussie, I sit completely naked. Just like me, he stares at nothing but my eyes shining with a gleaming stare back. "Why aren't you?"
"Because," he answers, sliding closer to me and kissing lightly on my bottom lip. "I don't have to." Then his eyes dart south, looking at what I've presented to him. I look down at my own body as well.
Just like I've been for the past two years, I'm cleanly shaven and bare of any hair. When I ventured into the dark world of Internet porn, I found quickly that any pubic hair was a grand turn off for me. I could tolerate a perfect trim, but I'd much preferred to be naked of hair and began shaving in the tenth grade. Without the sensation of blood rushing to my member, I feel our eyes looking at my cock. Flaccid. Three inches, not circumsized, sitting more to the left and pointing toward his legs and feet.
Then I look over at what he's offering me. Flaccid. Uncut, just like mine, but looks to be slightly longer and thicker. His cock even appears to be perfectly nestled in the center of his balls, pointing more to the ground than anything else. And because I feel like I might even love him (can you imagine me loving a man like him?!), I'm not at all bothered to see that he has pubic hair; it's trimmed short and black looking against his tanned skin.
I notice a twitch there and hear him laugh a little. "You're the only other guy, besides my younger brother, who I know hasn't been circumcised," he says, looking back up at me and flashing a perfect smile again. "You're still beautiful, Bradley. You know that, right?"
"You are too," I answer and lean into him. Placing my head on his right shoulder, I feel him do just the same as we look down; my eyes to the left, his to the right. I watch as he extends his right hand and takes hold of his member gingerly, gripping it by the base and pulling it up until his palm has enclosed his head in the depths of his hand. He watches as I do somewhat of the same gesture, using my left to grab the base of my cock. The difference between our holds is that my hand appears to be upside down, my thumb and index finger applied to the base and I slowly begin to jerk.
We sit like that for at least a minute, listening to only the sound of our breath, stroking our growing members until we both hold in our hands the first start of what I hope to be many nights.
Without words, we transition. Aussie lets his cock fall back against his stomach and I take a second to really notice it in full detail. He texted me once telling me his size. "I can't lie to you. I'm not big, I've seem way bigger," he wrote. "I can't be more than just a hair over six inches."
"Measure and I'll measure myself," I had sent back.
I did as promised and sent him the details almost instantly. "Six and a half, almost exactly."
"Exactly," he sent back to me, almost as a question, then a second text, "Ok. Exactly. I'm 6 and 2/10ths of an inch." He was exact. That had been two weeks ago. That was the first time he and I really spoke of having sex. What had to have been almost a complete hour, he and I texted back and forth, telling each other what we would do if we were in the other's presence.
It went like:
Me: Pulls you close to my body, kissing the tip of your dick lightly while massaging your balls.
Him: Moans lightly as I run my fingers through your hair and thrust gently between your lips.
Me: Feels your head hit my throat and gags a little bit. "You're bigger than you admit," I say with a laugh and kiss your inner thigh.
Him: Reaches down to stroke my cock and push your lips back down on it.
So on, and so on.
In person, I have to admit that he doesn't look spectacularly big. It was definitely just the smallest big longer than I when soft, but now that he's carrying full hard-on, I can't help but notice, as if I have perfect vision, that we are practically the same size. The only difference is his being shy of a few tenths of an inch, and his far larger girth compared to my own. When gripping myself, my hand wraps easily around the shaft, the tips of my thumb and index overlapping each other by at least half an inch, if that.
I hear him giggle again and I'm pulled from my thoughts. "Is it weird if I admit that when I was younger, I thought it the coolest thing that after squeezing your head it, like, grows back?" He does it to himself and it looks like a mushroom growing from a thick stem. Then he shoves his hand down until his head curves forward and deepens in color.
Watching him play with himself, I shake my head and say, "Not weird at all. But it has to be the cutest story you've ever told me."
"Cutest? That's kind of perverted, don't you think? I was twelve."
"I hit puberty at ten."
"Congrats for you," he says back in a joking manner. Then he looks over at me and allows his cock to stay there. Being so used to porn, It was weird noticing that when he let go of his member, it didn't fall back over his stomach like so many do. Instead, it leaned forward just the tiniest bit, staying erect in the air. "Honesty? You have a hot dick, babe."
I look back down at me, watch myself stroke it in the same manner I've been since we've begun. I let it go to see it's full potential; the curve back it has, then to the left at him. I always felt weird and different. In my time in high school, I've seen dick. Whether in science class behind the ridiculously tall lab tables, or the high school locker room, or tucked away in the corner of the gymnasium bleachers, it's been everywhere. I once caught a guy jacking in a bathroom stall. Weird. Almost as if he forgot where he was, he even started moaning. Then he saw me and spit, "Fag. Go away," and slammed the door shut. It should have been shut in the first place. Anyway, point is, not any of the cocks there have such a dramatic curve in either direction, except back of course.
"Honesty," I add, gripping it with my hand and jerking it back and forth. "I've always been embarrassed by it."
"Why? Because it curves?"
I nod, and he rests a hand over my stomach. "Don't be, Bradley. Every guy has something about their sexual bodies they hate."
"And what's your's?"
He laughs and shakes his head.
"What," I ask again, impatiently.
"Lean over me," he says and I do. Looking on the left side of his cock, I notice a line of skin much lighter than the rest of his dick. It's shaped weird, curving slightly and almost split like a Y at the top. "When I was fifteen, I was jacking off in my room and my little cousin walked in on me. The light was on and everything. Somehow, my dick got caught in the zipper of my jeans. It cut me."
I look at him and smile. "Why would you be embarrassed over that," I ask.
He just shakes his head in return and returns his gaze to his member. Hiding the scar with his thumb, he pulls down so that his foreskin detaches itself from his head. He shines a soft pink color, the light from the roof reflecting in a small pool of light on the tip of his dick. Using his free hand, he grips his head firmly and twists in his fist. I hear a rush of air escape his lips like a whisper. Looking at him, his head arches back so that it hits the wall. His free hand reaches up to his lips and he spits into his palm before going back to pleasuring himself.
Then he sighs. "I don't know why."
When he looks back at me, we lock eyes, and I feel our bodies pulling each other in like we're magnets.
The next few moments are filled with silence. Our arms become abrasive as we jack off together, our elbows in a constant battle of rubbing against each other to the point they become the color red. Never being one to use my saliva as lubrication, my hand is starting to feel like sandpaper to my own cock and I let go, surprised to feel the way air fills my lungs as if I've been underwater. Sweat glistens on my arms and I can feel it between my legs and forehead. It literally feels as if someone turned the heat on in the room.
Upon further thought, I don't even remember air conditioning even being on in here.
Aussie allows his cock free of his hand, and in one swift motion he's bending over me, tucking his hands under my hips, and I'm being pulled into the air. I throw my leg over his lap and fall to rest on top of him, my body forcing his cock to bend back into his stomach and crushing it there. My dick falls on the other side of his, against his stomach, and I can feel my balls bouncing once on top of his.
We embrace in another kiss.
In our kiss, we move out in the center of the room so that I can stretch my legs out before me. I sit on him as if I'm sitting backwards in a chair. My hands fall on either side of his jaw, pulling him closer to me and forcing my tongue into his mouth. Obliging, I find myself really making out with him this time, exchanging saliva like we're undergoing urgent blood transfusion, as if our lives depend of it.
I start to thrust my hips against his. I can feel my skin-covered head scrape along his stomach and cock, pulling my foreskin away from my head without help from my hands.
Detaching my lips from his, I lie down on top of him so that our chests fall skin-to-skin, causing him to lean back and myself to lean forward. I force my head into the curve of his shoulder to his neck and kiss him tenderly on the flesh there. Still moving my hips so that I'm basically fucking his stomach, I feel his warm hands wrap around my body, massaging my back, playing gracfully down my spine until they pull apart my ass. A cool breeze hits my ass hole, a sensation I've only felt during cool nights alone in my room, and his fingertips dare to seek attention there.
Wrapping my own arms around his back, I reach up to grab onto his shoulders as I pull my head away and hold him there. A smile plays along my lips. "We're really doing this, huh?
"No turning back now," he says in a voice sounding more like an exhale of air. I watch him pull a finger up to his mouth and suck the tip in. He blows his finger for a moment, saliva clinging tightly to his skin, then he reaches back down to my opened ass and plays against my hole. I giggle as he plays with it, a tickling sensation that I hadn't expected immediately welcoming his gesture. "Bradley."
"Yes," I ask him, eager to know what he has to say.
"I saw something in a porno before."
"Lie down on the floor," he says, and I do just that. Pushing himself up so that he can rest on his knees, he grabs my legs and pushes them into the air. "Hold them there," he demands softly. I do as he asks. Staying to my right, his left knee juts into my side as his other stops under my raised leg. With his left hand, he reaches down and takes his cock in his hand. "Stroke with me."
Still in the same position, I pick my head up off the ground so that I can look at my cock resting over my stomach. I immediately grasp it in my hand and jerk, noticing a bead of white peeking out of my head when I pull the foreskin down. With his free hand, Aussie grips my head and plucks the precum off as if a delicate flower. Then he sucks it into his mouth, a smile forming on his lips, and pulls his finger from his throat covered in a thick layer of saliva just as it had before.
Leaving me with no warning, his finger tickles me once more before sliding painfully into my ass. Although I've used a dildo only once before, the force in his finger, the way he took no time slamming it into my ass, his nail scraping slightly on the outer skin, caused me to freeze in a tensed state. I can feel my ass closing around his finger, tightly holding him there without any means to release.
I feel like hands have wrapped themselves around my lungs, restricting me of breath until my face turns gray and cold.
Within seconds, however, my body cools and I start to feel as if sleep is threatening to take me over.
Aussie pulls his finger out from my ass and holds it up in the light. I can see the faint line of red there at the base that trails no more than an inch up. "Baby," he says, beginning to panic. "I've cut you. Outside of your ass, not inside. I didn't mean--"
Sshhh, I feel my lips making the noise, telling him to stop speaking. Shaking my head, I say, "It's okay, Aussie."
"I've hurt your."
"It's just a small scratch."
He turns his face away from me, hiding his eyes in shadow.
"Aussie," I say his name in an attempt to catch his attention and plead to him that I am, in fact, okay when he suddenly scoots away from me. The distance between us lasts only a breath before he's back, dead center between my legs, and falling down to the floor. With both of his hands on the bottom of my planted firmly on my inner thighs, he pushes them back so that my ass lifts further from the floor.
Then he kisses me where he scratched me, his bottom lips brushing against the hole of my ass, a hole that, to my surprise, begs him to enter again. When he kisses the cut again, I feel a spasm lurch through my body as his lip falls over my hole a second time. This time he notices, this time, when he looks at me, his eyes grow with light and any awkwardness that looms over us dissolves away.
He releases my legs from his grasp when he kisses not over the scratch, but in the center of my ass. I feel a spasm move through me again and I'm forced to moan as he begins to kiss me harder, faster, his tongue dancing along the opening. I realize from my porn addiction that he's rimming me, eating my ass as if it's a full meal, a buffet, devouring me as if he's eager to end his hunger and quench his thirst. One of his hands grabs my wrist and forces me to set free my cock from my stroking. Then he grips the head and pulls down, displaying my head for the world to see, staring up at me as if it's a prize in need of winning.
His lips on my ass hole, his hand around my cock, the pleasure he's sending through my body is too much for me to bare. For what in reality has only been maybe a minute or two, I sense my balls tightening and an orgasmic sensation floods my body, turning my eyesight the color of black, constricting my lungs and causing me to go mute.
But before I can explode, I look down at him, my vision blurred, and nearly shouts, "STOP!"
He freezes and pulls away from me.
The only sound to be heard is my breathing returning to me and the steady beat, beat, beat of musing blaring through speakers outside the door and down the hall.
My head falls to the floor and I have no choice than to make my dick twitch. With the twitch, a line of precum oozes from my head and falls over the top of my cock, a warning and foreshadow that what lies ahead.
"I've never," I say, reaching up to feel my forehead glistening with sweat. "Too much."
"You were about to--"
I nod as his voice trails off, looking at the shadow in the corner of the bare walls coming together. My voice sounds far away when I say, "I was about to cum."
"Why'd you stop me, Bradley," he asks, his voice sounding sharp and unpleasant. "Why didn't you let me finish you?"
"Don't be mad," I say to him. "I didn't want this to end."
I look at my cock to notice it losing it's edge. Ever so slightly, it becomes the tiniest bit flexible, the blood rushing away.
Aussie stands to his feet before me. His cock hangs, staring down at the floor, no longer in full erection. "What happened," I ask.
"I guess I spent too much thought on making you cum I forgot about myself," he says, shaking his head with a laugh. Then he stops and brushes a single finger over his lips. "Even though I just had your ass in my mouth, can I kiss you?"