Even though I took a long route I still got to Rob's place thirty minutes early. I saw that his car was in the parking lot so I knew he was home. But we had agreed that I was to arrive at seven and I didn't want to spoil the play by having an early curtain call. I got out of the car, fired up a cigarette and ambled across the parking lot trying to figure out what to do for the next half hour. Then it hit me. I was Prince Clayton, fleeing to safety. I've been hauling ass all day and Davis, my valet, will be waiting for me. I gotta show up grungy, hot, sweaty and all that. Solution: go running. Hell, I'm dressed for it, so go for it. So I dropped the cigarette on the ground, stomped it out with my foot and started doing a few leg stretches, bends and the like, then headed off down the street in a fast walk, twisting and stretching around, getting my muscles loosened up, probably looking like a complete idiot. After about a block I started a slow jog, concentrating on getting the motions of my hands, arms, legs and feet all going together in a smooth, coordinated manner. After covering four or five blocks, being satisfied everything was in harmony, I let The Rhythm take over and I started to run.
Let me explain how The Rhythm came about. Like every other school in the world mine requires everybody take some kind of sports or physical education; not something I really enjoyed but didn't hate. Physically I was built for wrestling and it was something I wanted to try; getting to grapple and grope around with other guys on a gym floor certain was appealing. But I knew, just knew in my heart, that the inevitable result would be erections and I'd be outed to the world by an errant penis.
With wrestling not a viable option I decided to go for the swim team. I love swimming and even though I'd be surrounded by virtually nude guys in skimpy bathing suits, being in the water keeps my dick under control. Swimming was a perfect sport for Clayton, but no dice. The swim coach had this stupid rule that you had to keep your body hair shaved off, some idiotic deal about keeping your skin all smooth so you'll glide through the water and be able to swim faster. Having to shave my face every morning is enough of a pain in the butt; having to also do my chest, arms, pits and legs would be ridiculous. I'd need to take out a bank loan to fund the cost of the additional disposable razors. No, I'm not gorilla hairy; my shoulders, back and butt haven't a trace of fur and for some weird reason my balls are virtually hairless. Yeah, I do a little bit of trimming on my pits but Clayton is not going the full, smooth body route.
I talked to Dad about it and his opinion was, as an engineer, that the frictional drag coefficient (or some mathematical concept like that) of body hair in the water would be so minimal that body shaving would make no difference, unless perhaps I was in the Olympics being timed down to the hundredth of a second or swimming a really long distance, like across the Atlantic Ocean. As far as Dad was concerned, swimmers shaving their bodies to improve their performance was just another sports myth. If this bullshit about reducing friction in the water really made a difference, then Olympic runners would also be shaved and wearing Speedos rather than baggy shirts and shorts in order to reduce wind friction. Dad even went and talked to the swim coach about it but the guy wouldn't listen. Dad told me that after he had explained the physics involved in the matter, all the coach said was, "Mr. Pelletier, this is my team and they will follow my rules." To which my father replied as he walked out the door, "I beg your pardon for being so iconoclastic. And fuck you too, shit for brains." Dad has such a way with words.
There was also the ego thing involved about body shaving. I love to pull off my shirt and show off what I've got; when I do that I can see guys exhale a little snort of envy while girls quickly inhale with a little sniff of desire. If I didn't keep my shirt tucked in on a date, the girl I was with would always be running her hand up my shirt while purring, "Oh, Clayton." And girls think they're the only ones who get groped. Now don't get me wrong about this thing I have about my body hair. Guys with smooth, muscled torsos make me drool. And from what I've seen a lot of guys have too much hair in the wrong places or not enough in the right places. I'm lucky enough to have just about the right balance, so why not flaunt it?
So with swimming also out of the picture I wound up on the track team. The coach figured my forte would be discus, shot put, javelin or pole-vaulting, and I was pretty good at those and caused relatively little damage. I never speared anybody or anything valuable with the javelin, although I nearly took Ronald Beveridge's head off with the discus one day when I released too late, and I only cracked one pole learning how to vault. But what I was really good at was cross-country running. Generally those guys tend to be a little on the scrawny and wiry side, sort of like professional soccer players. I've got a V-shaped torso, no butt and a set of thunder thighs so I did not fit the mold. But as the coach told us, the secret to cross-county is not speed, it's not so much strength: it's endurance and rhythm. I caught on fast and figured out something that worked great, at least for me: breathing and pacing my strides to a musical rhythm in my head. It's a thing I call The Rhythm.
Now for you to fully appreciate something really fantastic I'll get to later, you have to understand how this works, so pay attention and get this down.
The Rhythm is so simple, so easy and sounds so stupid; but it works. Man, does it work. After I figured it out I ran the socks off of every other cross-country runner. Here's how you do it:
Count to four, four times in succession, over and over again:
one two three four
one two three four
one two three four
one two three four
Pretty easy, huh? Just make sure when you count you do so to a regular
beat. Now you add the accents, putting an emphasis on certain counts, like this:
ONE two three four
ONE two three four
ONE two THREE four
ONE TWO THREE FOUR
Having mastered this incredibly intricate counting and emphasis pattern, which takes all of maybe fifteen seconds, you just apply it to what you want your body to do. Since you're running, the first thing you do is match the counting to when your "weak" foot hits the ground. Me, I'm right-handed, so my left foot is my "weak" foot. So get off your butt and get ambulatory; walk, jog, or run, whatever speed winds your clock.
I'll assume, like me, you're right-handed (if you're a southpaw, just reverse this shit). Now that you're moving ahead at whatever speed is comfortable, start matching the count to when your left foot hits the ground. Concentrate only on what your left foot is doing, the right will naturally follow. On the count of one, your left foot hits the ground (your right foot is going to come along and then hit the ground next but don't even think about what it is doing; it will do just fine all by itself without you having to tell it to do anything or even think about it). On the count of two, your left foot again hits the ground (and guess what, your right foot, without you even thinking about it, again hits the ground all on its own so that you don't fall down and bust your ass). On the count of three, your left foot again hits the ground (and your right foot then does something but you really don't care what). On the count of four, your left foot again hits the ground (and you don't even realize let alone care that you have a right foot; it's taking care of itself perfectly well without any help from you).
Okay. Having now mastered counting to four with your left foot
(hey, if a horse can do it, so can you) and forgotten that you even own a right foot,
start stepping down just a little bit harder with your left foot on each accent beat
you learned earlier:
On the first count of four, step down harder when you count ONE
On the second count of four, step down harder on ONE again
On the third count, step down harder on ONE and THREE
On the fourth count, step down hard on ONE TWO THREE and FOUR
Now when I say step down harder it doesn't have to be a lot harder; we're not stomping on bugs here. In fact, you can get away with just thinking you're stepping down a bit harder. But there does need to be a little bit something extra here. Practice 'til you get it down, which should take about thirty seconds.
Congratulations! You're nearly there. Next you gotta coordinate your breathing with the accents. And this is absolutely essential. You need to bust up some preprogrammed junk that is in your brain. If I tell you "hold your breath" what do you do? Suck in a lot of air and then clamp down. Now just where is it carved in stone you had to inhale before you clamped down? Nowhere. Breathing involves two things: (1) inhaling (2) exhaling. For some reason when you tell somebody to concentrate on their breathing all they think about is inhaling. Well, guess what, you're body ain't stupid. If you exhale it will instinctively follow this by inhaling air so you don't fall over dead. Just like you've forgotten you have a right foot, forget about the fact you inhale. Again, concentrate on the "weak" portion of breathing: exhaling. If you exhale I guarantee you'll inhale without even having to think about it.
You've probably guessed the next step. While doing the one two three four count, EXHALE only on the appropriate accent beat (which, egads! also happens to be the same count when your left foot hits the ground a little bit harder). Now while your left foot hits the ground just a little bit harder on the accent beat, don't be subtle when it's time to exhale on the accent beat. When you exhale, really snort it out. And don't be polite and just use your nose; breathe with your mouth.
Now go practice. Just keep all the parts together: count to four, four times in succession with the accents in the right places, step down harder on the accents and exhale on the accents. Then repeat. Over and over again.
After you get this down a whole lot of other stuff starts kicking in. You'll begin to hear a musical cadence develop in your mind. And if you have any musical sense about you at all, the one two three four counts will become the "down" beats. Your brain will add the "up" beats automatically (which just also happens to be when your forgotten, orphaned right foot is hitting the ground). Because all your concentration is on the "weak" parts, your brain gets a little thrown off and the out of the ordinary breathing routine will cause you to hyperventilate just a little bit. Your mind then numbs out and you don't notice that your muscles may get tired or that you're sweating like a racehorse.
The last part is the icing on the cake, probably not essential but really cool. Develop a sense of timing: how many times a minute your left foot hits the ground. Think of your left foot as a metronome. Get a nice, even cadence going and keep it even and steady, just like a metronome ticking away at a regular pace. And when you can instinctively feel exactly how many times a minute your left foot is hitting the ground without having to count against a watch, you've got The Rhythm.
For me, cruising speed when I'm in The Rhythm is 90. Ninety left footsteps a minute. I can go for hours like that. Just counting to four, four times over, stepping harder and exhaling on the accents, over and over again. Nothing is going through my head but the musical beat that my body follows; it's much like the instinct to tap your foot while listening to music. You really aren't telling your body to do anything, it just does it on its own. It's like being on a mind-altering drug. If I want to pick up the pace and go a little faster, I gotta start concentrating a little bit. The faster I wanna go, the more I gotta concentrate. By the time I get to 120 I'm maxed out. But you don't jump from 90 to 120. You go from 90 to 95 and stay there for a little bit, then accelerate to 100 and stay there for a while and so on.
I wound up being a star cross-country runner using this technique. And I never told anyone how I did it. It was my secret. Everybody on the team and the coach figured I'd bomb out at cross-country. After I started stomping butt with my performance they begged me to know what it was I did, but I never told. When they asked, I just put a stupid look on my face and said, doing my best Forrest Gump imitation, "I dunno. I just like to run." Fuck those stupid jocks. If they couldn't figure out something this simple let them settle for less.
Okay, back to the story. I'm killing time, running down the street doing The Rhythm at 90 beats a minute, just letting my body dance forward in time to the music in my head. If you've ever been to Houston you can't help but notice something. It's humid, really humid. And it's also late May so it's hot. In no time at all I've got sweat pouring out of me. At 6:45 I circled around the block and headed back to Rob's. When I got back in sight of his apartment complex I began slowing down, 85, 80, 75, until I got to 60 and then quit. By then I was back in his parking lot and pretty worn out. I stumbled up the stairs, got to his door and knocked. I stood there waiting for him to answer the door, panting for breath, heart racing, hot as I could be, soaking wet with sweat dripping off my clothes. Rob opened the door and I barged in past him, fell to my hands and knees in exhaustion as the cold of his air conditioned apartment washed over me, then gasped out the words: "Davis! Water!"
Rob slammed the door shut and rushed over to me anxiously asking, "Clayton, what's the matter, what's happened?"
I realized maybe I had gotten a little too much into this game a little too soon. I had really caught Rob by surprise (like the night I showed up in the kangaroo suit). Well, I was not about to break out of character so I harshly said, "Davis! I command thee! Bring thy master water!"
That did it. Rob caught on. He knew the curtain had gone up. He rushed to the kitchen and returned with a large glass of water that I gulped down, then handed him the empty glass, motioning to indicate I wanted another. I was sitting on my haunches in his living room floor when Rob returned with the refilled glass. I didn't feel too good. In fact, I felt lousy. Rob knelt down in front of me holding the water glass, looking at me very worriedly asking, "Are you all right?"
I looked at him, a little annoyed that he wasn't using proper 18th century valet language, then a sudden wave of nausea came over me. My guts started contracting and heaving involuntarily and I knew what was about to happen. I tried to get to my feet to get to Rob's bathroom but my legs wouldn't work properly; they were like rubber. Rob was directly in f ront of me; I tried to push him out of the way but it was too late. I started hurling back up the water I had just drunk together with what little else was in my stomach all over Rob's chest and stomach. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to rush out of me and I went limp.
I could then feel raindrops on my face. No, not raindrops. There were too many of them for it to be rain. And they weren't just landing on my face; they were hitting me all over. For some reason my eyes were closed, so I opened them and nothing around me looked familiar at first. I slowly realized I was lying in the floor of Rob's shower; well, not exactly lying in the floor since I also realized Rob was in the shower with me, cradling me in his arms, talking on his cordless telephone. And for some damned fool reason, as if talking on the phone in the shower wasn't ridiculous enough, we both had our clothes on and the shower was on full blast with both of us being soaked to the skin.
Rob's shower is not what you usually find in an apartment; it has no bathtub. Apparently recognizing the bathtub was a total waste, someone tore the entire thing out and built a big shower stall in its place. All in all, I think that's a pretty good idea. I, like most of the civilized world, take showers; I haven't taken a bath in years. Jeez, who wants to lie in a tub full of stuff you just washed off of yourself? The other cool thing about it is that two people can easily shower in it together, a fact Rob and I put to good use whenever possible. I liked the thing so much I even talked Dad into letting me remodel my bathroom last summer to do something similar.
Looking down at me into my eyes, Rob told the telephone: "Hold on a minute, his eyes are open, hang on." I noticed that the shower door was wide open as Rob sat the phone down in the floor outside the shower door and then started gently patting and rubbing my face, saying my name over and over again and asking me if I could talk.
"Yeah, sure. What the fuck is going on here?" I weakly asked him.
"Clayton, what happened to you before you got here?" implored Rob.
"Nuthin'. Nuthin' at all. I just got here a little early so I ran around a little bit."
"Whaddya mean 'ran around a little bit?'"
"I went running."
"You went running?" exclaimed Rob. "How much running?"
"Ohhhhh, a few miles, probably, for about half an hour."
"Oh shit!" muttered Rob in an obviously annoyed tone of voice. He reached over and picked up the phone from the floor and began talking back into it. "He went running." (pause) "He said he went running." (pause) "I don't know; it's just another one of those weird things of his." (pause) "He said for about thirty minutes." (pause) "I think so, let me ask." Looking back at me Rob said, pointing the phone to me, "Clayton, it's your parents; can you talk to them?"
Thoroughly confused by why my parents would be on the phone with Rob and now wanted to talk to me I said, "Sure." Rob sat the phone back down and pulled me up into a sitting position so I'd be out of the shower spray then handed the phone to me.
"Hello," I asked with a questioning tone in my voice.
"Clayton! Are you okay?" It was my Dad. He sounded really worried. And not too happy either.
"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine. Well, kinda woozy feeling. And wet."
"You little dumbshit. What's the matter with you running in this heat? You scared the hell out of Rob passing out like that."
"Passing out?" I asked. This was making no sense.
"Clayton." It was Mom's voice this time; apparently she was on an extension. "Give the phone back to Rob."
"Okay, Mom." I handed the phone back to Rob.
Rob talked with my parents for about a minute; he didn't say much, mainly "yes" and "I will" several times. He shut off the phone and sat it back outside the shower stall. Looking at me with the biggest set of puppy dog eyes I'd ever seen, he pulled me into him and began stroking my face with his right hand, occasionally kissing me lightly on the cheek and forehead.
Over the next several minutes, with Rob explaining what happened while he continued to cradle me in his arms, I realized what had occurred. I'd overdone it with the running. Not having a water bottle with me I hadn't kept loaded up with liquids (plus, the beer earlier in the day had helped dehydrate me). I hadn't warmed up properly to acclimate my body to the heat and humidity (climbing out of an air conditioned car, then into the heat, then back into Rob's air conditioned apartment). The result: I had passed out from heat exhaustion. Rob, seeing the condition I was in and feeling my elevated body temperature, had picked me up and put me in his shower to get my body temperature down. He then grabbed his phone and got in the shower with me, calling my parents to find out if I had diabetes or anything like that, thinking I might possibly be in some sort of diabetic shock. Before they had let Dad become a Boy Scout scoutmaster, he had to take an extensive first aid course so, over the phone, Dad ran Rob through the ropes, checking my pulse, breathing and all that stuff.
After several minutes I began to feel better, not great, but better. I realized the water continuing to spray out of the showerhead on Rob and me both was freezing cold. "You not pay your hot water bill?" I asked Rob.
Rob laughed. "Okay, you're over the hump. Your dad said when you noticed the water was cold your body temperature would be back to normal." Rob propped me in a sitting position in the corner of the stall, stood up, shut the shower door and adjusted the shower faucet to a normal warm shower position. Turning back to me he said, "Let's get you out of those wet clothes." As comfortably warm water began spraying over us, Rob knelt down and began untying the laces on my sneakers. I reached down to help but he gently pushed me back saying, "No, let me handle this, okay?"
"Okay." Rob and I enjoyed undressing one another but this time the experience wasn't exactly what you could call erotic. Wet clothes do not slip sensually off your body. They stick and have to be peeled off. Plus, I was a little bit cold so I had goose bumps; when my shorts and briefs came off I saw that my scrotum was all drawn up and wrinkly and my dick was shriveled up from the cold. With me now nude, Rob stood up and removed all of his clothes, dropping them on top of where he had piled mine in the corner. After he had finished undressing he picked up the heap of wet clothes, opened the shower door, stepped out and placed the mess in the sink, then looked back in the shower and told me, "Don't move, I'll be right back." In about a minute Rob got back into the shower and handed me a huge travel mug, one of those big plastic cups with a top on it that prevents your coffee from sloshing all over the car when driving. "It's Gatorade. Sip it slowly; don't gulp it down," Rob gently ordered me. Grabbing some soap and a sponge out of the shower caddy, he sat down next to me and began to wash me. Unlike getting wet clothes peeled off of you, getting washed is very erotic.
Rob and I had showered together lots of times. Last summer we often went back to his place after work, both hot and sweaty from the affairs of the day. As soon as we were in his apartment we would strip off our clothes; I would go get the shower going while Rob got a cold can of beer out of the fridge, then into the shower we would go. We'd share the single beer while soaping and scrubbing one another. Of course, each one of us had an erection and those always got special attention. We never fucked in the shower figuring we might slip and break the glass in the shower door. But we did just about everything else. It was also common practice for us to shower after we screwed, and those were fun too in a different way. In a pre-sex shower, you're horny to start with and the activity gets you hornier. In a post-sex shower you've gotten your nut so you're no longer horny; the shower seems to add to the sense of relaxation that you get after having an orgasm.
This evening, Rob's attentions to me produced a nice, warm, fuzzy feeling. I wasn't horny, throwing up and passing out seems to be a cure for that but it's not one I would recommend; having an orgasm is by far preferable. Even though I was a little weak I was not just relaxed, I was content. Rob's hands carefully but deliberately worked their way over my body, gently kneading my muscles, washing and rinsing my skin. We never stood up; at most, he helped me rise to my knees so he could attend to my back and butt. All I did was let Rob handle things, that and slowly drink my Gatorade. That was really thoughtful of Rob, putting it in a travel cup so water and soap wouldn't get into it.
After he finished with my body he repositioned me. With Rob sitting against the wall of the shower, he cradled me in his arms, my head below his, and he began to shampoo my hair. Thereafter he spread the lather from my hair over my face and very slowly, and very carefully, he shaved me. I'd never had that done before. Rob made a great barber. The shave completed, Rob helped me stand up, turning me about under the shower head, using his hands to splash water about as needed, rinsing all the remaining suds from me. I drained the rest of the Gatorade down and Rob asked me, "Want some more?" I nodded my head in the affirmative. Rob told me, "Okay, sit back down and I'll be right back."
I had figured with the last rinsing we'd get out of the shower, but Rob's statement told me this wonderful experience was not yet over. Rob helped me sit back down against the back wall of the shower and left, again shortly returning with a refilled mug that he handed to me. Kneeling in front of me, his back to the showerhead to prevent water from spraying on me, using some of the shampoo, Rob began to soap my genitals. I drank more Gatorade and watched him. The warm water, together with Rob's gentle kneading and lathering, soon had my genitals back in a normal state rather than all shrunken up as before. Looking at me, not as if asking permission but conveying assurance, he stood back up, got a fresh razor out of the shower caddy, sat back down in front of me and began shaving my privates.
As I have mentioned, I'm not into body shaving, but that doesn't mean I'm against giving my hair a little help from time to time. I've kept my pits trimmed but have never used a razor anywhere except on my face. It was rather an odd feeling that came over me; another man taking a razor to my manhood, but I didn't resist or even raise a protest. I figured Rob knew what he was doing. He began with my dick. I wasn't erect, so he gently pulled my cock outwards to stretch it to length, tightening the skin, and then removed the small trails of hair that ran partially up the shaft. After he had shaved my dick clean all the way to the base, he did my balls; again, taking his time and being very careful not to hurt me. Finishing with my scrotum he lifted my legs and smoothed my perineum. Lastly, he had me stand and turn away from him. Spreading my butt cheeks, he gently administered the same treatment to that area.
After standing and rinsing me for a final time Rob turned off the water and told me, "Stay here, I'll be right back," and got out of the shower to quickly dry himself, then returned to lead me out of the shower and began to dry me, changing towels several times.
After I was dry, Rob motioned for me to lean against the sink counter, partially resting my butt on the edge. Reaching into a drawer Rob removed a pair of scissors and a brush. Setting the scissors aside for the moment, Rob began brushing my hair, all of it, starting with my head, then my torso, followed by my arms and legs. Using the scissors he then began to trim away small bits of hair from my chest and pits, occasionally using a razor to completely smooth an area. This was really cool; talk about a full service barber. After spending several minutes trimming my chest, he knelt before me, running his fingers through my treasure trail and bush, combing and fluffing the same. He began to clip away the ends of the wisps of fur running from my navel to my groin, leaving the broad trail clearly defined.
Rob again ran his fingers through the bush around my dick, looked up at me to silently assure me he knew what he was doing. Opening the scissors, he brought them down just a fraction of an inch away from my skin and rapidly began cutting away. The clipping and trimming in other areas had been light, hardly anything at all; this, however, was major hair removal. Watching this, somewhat in horror, I was astounded at the amount of hair falling to the floor. Oh, well, too late to stop this; like a bad haircut, I resigned myself to this knowing that eventually it would grow back. Like a stylist in a shop, Rob quickly shaped and sculpted this area, finishing with small clips here and there, stopping to survey his progress, finger combing what was left, brushing away severed hairs, touching things up, completing his task. Setting the scissors back down on the counter, Rob stood up and turned me around to face the mirror, not unlike a barber swinging you around in the chair after he's completed to let me judge his work.
I couldn't believe what Rob had done. The minor amounts he had removed from my chest had formed up my muscles; they were now visible through the hair that now accented them rather than obscured them as before. I was a little shocked to see my nipples now fully exposed and visible on each side. And then my gaze went downward and a slight sense of shock came over me. Beneath my now thinned and shortened pubic bush, my manhood was fully revealed, and it looked enormous in comparison to what I was accustomed to seeing in the mirror. I couldn't believe it.
I turned and looked at Rob, an obvious look of amazement covering my face. He grinned and gave me a quick kiss on the lips then added, almost by way of apology, "Hey, if it works for porn stars, why not everyone?" That statement jolted a realization in me. Duhhhh. Those guys aren't any different from anyone else, well, at least most of them. The only reason male models and such appear to have big dicks is simply because you can see everything they're got.
Rob then got one of his world famous mischievous looks and snickered, "Let's see the full results." Dropping to his knees he immediately took my dick in his mouth, firmly sucking it not for purpose of his sexual pleasure or mine, but to bring me to erection, which didn't take long. Getting me to full mast Rob got back up and said, "Well, whaddya think?" I looked back in the mirror and saw myself in profile. The damned thing was huge. I had always thought Rob was bigger than me, judging by sight. Now it was the other way around. The thing looked like something I'd stolen off of a farm animal. Rob commanded me, "Hold on a sec," and left the bathroom to return with a ruler. "Let's get an accurate measurement here."
All right, this sounds like a lie, but it's not. I have never actually measured my dick. I just went by sight, and looking down at it when I was erect, it looked like six inches to me. But it had been partially hidden by hair, a lot of it, and with the bush now pruned back you could fully see what I had. Rob grasped my erection with his left hand, laying the ruler on top of it with the end pushed against my groin. I couldn't believe it. I had a seven and a half-inch dick, closer to eight, actually.
Okay. Like every other guy in the world, I have to admit I've got the same worry every guy has about his dick size. Just how big am I in comparison to others? Straight or gay, guys always check one another out. In locker rooms I'd always been a little embarrassed about dropping my jock; it seemed other guys had more than I did, at least in the dick department. >From time to time someone would make some comment about my balls, and their relatively larger size from the ordinary soothed my ego somewhat. While I knew I didn't have a little dick, I had often wished I had a bigger one. I think every guy in the world is like this.
I felt like a dumbass. Yeah, I had more hair on my chest than any other guy in the locker room, but also in my crotch, and that had worked to my disadvantage, hiding what I really had. I could have really been showing off all along. Yeah, I'd always been worried about popping a boner in the locker room around other naked guys figuring that would be a giveaway about being queer, and I nearly always managed somehow to prevent this. But there were one or two guys, Cameron Dolan in particular, who'd often stroke himself to full or partial erection while showering to show off what he had, which was impressive, just to piss off and intimidate the rest of us. But what Cameron had was nothing to compare with what I now saw in the mirror. Thank god I had two days left of gym class. Cameron Dolan, be prepared to meet thy doom in the showers come Monday, you obnoxious little shit.
I didn't know what to say to Rob to thank him for what he had done. So I kissed him. Rob reached behind the door and brought out two bathrobes, one for me, the other for him telling me, "You'd better call your parents and let 'em know you're okay," as he picked the phone up off the floor and sat it on the counter. As Rob walked out of the bathroom putting on his robe, I put on mine, then picked the phone up, punched in my home number and followed Rob out into the living room. Mom answered the phone. Hearing me say, "Hi, Mom," Rob walked into the kitchen, symbolically giving me privacy during the conversation, even though he undoubtedly could hear every word I said.
The conversation was as you would expect. Her inquiries about my physical state. My assurances I was fine. Her gentle scolding for my actions. My apologies for the same. Et cetera. Et cetera. Then Mom put Dad on the phone. And the conversation pretty much repeated itself all over again. Finally Dad asked, "Is Rob still there?" "Well, of course he is Dad," I thought, "you think he evaporated or got washed down the shower drain or something?" Rather than be snotty I just told my father, "Yes sir, he's in the kitchen."
"Well put him on the phone, your mother wants to say something to him."
I walked into the kitchen and handed the phone to Rob who was digging stuff out of the fridge and putting it on the kitchen counter. "Mom wants to talk to you."
Rob took the phone and answered with a somewhat reluctant, "Yes, Mrs. Pelletier, this is Rob." As I walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch I could hear Rob giving expected responses of "yes ma'am," "no problem," "you're welcome," "I will" and the like. From what I could tell, Rob then had to endure similar treatment from my father, which could be expected. After the conversation had ended, Rob walked back into the living room and replaced the phone in the charger, then looked at me saying in a very serious tone of voice, "Clayton, I've got some bad news for you."
"Your parents are very worried about you. Even though you feel better, they want you to take it easy. I promised them I would take your car keys away from you and not let you drive anywhere tonight. If you insist on going home, I'm to either call you a cab or drive you there myself. Otherwise, you are to spend the night here with me."
Rob then broke into a huge grin and giving an evil laugh, wickedly cackled in a Wicked Witch of the West imitation, "I've got you now my pretty," then, reaching up under my robe and grabbing my dick, he added, "and your little dog too!"
Authors are a strange lot, but quite practical. We like to hear from readers.
If we don't hear from folks, we stop writing.
Based upon the dead silence I'm getting, I've decided to act accordingly.