Date: Thu, 8 Dec 2005 21:09:47 -0800 (PST) From: Robin Eagleson Subject: Luckiest Summer Part 11 The Luckiest Summer Robin Eagleson robineagleson@yahoo.com Part Eleven Brad was facing away from me, sleeping on his side. I buried my face in his back and wrapped my right arm around his chest. I squeezed him and felt it rise and fall, rise and fall. He hadn't stirred yet, but he would, and things would be forever different one way or the other. I was so scared now that I felt like crying, but I also knew that what I was doing was going to come naturally, and that I would enjoy it. I ignored the fact that my heart had reached a rate previously unheard of and brushed the back of my fingers across Brad's bare chest. I was shaking, but he still hadn't stirred. I closed my lips around a small part of flesh in the middle of his shoulders, and finally I felt a slight twitch. He might be waking up soon. My heart somehow had still not exploded, but it was close. Nearly convulsing out of my fear, I let my hand dip down Brad's chest and down his stomach. I was now more scared than I had ever been in my entire life, and surprisingly my actions got easier once I reached that level, because it no longer felt real. I allowed myself to appreciate just how amazing this was for me, even if I hadn't gotten away with anything yet. Tracing the very light definition on Brad's stomach was neat. I could feel the lines I had spotted out in the sun by the pool a while back on the day Robbie told me Nadia liked me. I could run my finger up and down his stomach and feel the slight bumps. His breathing was getting less spaced out now, and he was trying to reposition himself. I didn't have much time. I kissed him between the shoulder blades again, harder this time, and the electric current kissing with so much force resulted in nearly repelling me from his body, but I held on tight and slipped my hands inside the top of his boxers. I got right in and found my sticky, sugar-coated fingers fighting through a fluffy mound of blond pubic hair. It was soft, but also pretty thick, and I was momentarily stunned at realizing how much more hair was going to have to grow on mine before I was done. But I had expected this, because I knew guys Brad's age had some hair I didn't, and I was determined not to be intimidated by any development. My hand bravely pressed on, and I found his cock, dangling over his left thigh. I gently poked around the shaft and very nearly gasped when I realized how thick it was. I wouldn't know how long it was until he got hard, but the sheer thickness of it was enough to make me pause another split second. Still, I forged on, running my hand over the silky cobra-shaped head and fondled his balls, which were pleasantly soft and extremely sizeable. I tickled the sac and imagined running my tongue across it, which got me excited and lead to another kiss between his shoulder blades. He hadn't shown any more signs of stirring, and I began to get a little less cautious. My dick was now fully erect, and it poked him squarely in the back. I opened my mouth and dabbed at his back with my tongue, hoping to get a taste of his skin. The sensations were incredible, and I began to feel a light-headed sense of glee as I wrapped my fist firmly around his cock and started pumping it, slowly at first but gradually picking up the pace to where I knew he was going to wake up soon. And he did. He drew in a sharp breath first, and then grumbled something, and my heart took off once again. Never in my life had I ever done anything that required so much courage as leaving my hand clamped firmly around his dick when there was no longer any doubt that he was awake. I couldn't help but slow down my efforts on his cock, but I didn't stop. I tensed and waited for his first conscious reaction, feeling undeniably nauseous at the suspense. "Zach," he mumbled, turning slowly towards me. His dick had started to respond to my actions, and it was half hard now. As he turned I stopped pumping on it, but I didn't pull my hand back. "What the fuck are you doing?" "I didn't know what else to do," I said in a hoarse whisper, and even I didn't know what I meant. "Are you awake? Do you know what you're doing?" "Yes," I said, trying to swallow several times but finding my throat wouldn't allow it. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, and his voice was no longer a mumble. He had yanked my hand out of his boxers and was now squeezing my wrist with so much force I expected to hear a snap at any second. "I thought you might like it. Please don't be mad," I said, starting to stammer, starting to wish my heart would really explode and that I would die before I had to face the results of this. Unlike what happened with Robbie, this was no dream. "You thought I might like it if you tried to get me off while I slept?" he asked, his voice continuing to rise. "What the hell is the matter with you? Why would you think that?" he demanded, only now he was yelling, and his grip was increasing on my wrist. "Let go," I pleaded, legitimately afraid he was going to smash all the bones in it. He seemed to realize, for the first time, that he was squeezing me, and he let go right away. I yanked my hand back, tried to slide away from him, and fell off my side of the bed. I could sense I was about to start crying, so I stumbled to my feet clumsily and took off in the dark for the door. I had already started sniffling by the time my hand reached around blindly and finally found the handle. I tried to tug it open and then realized it was locked. "Hold on," Brad said, his voice a lot softer now. He threw the covers off and started to get out of the bed. This put me in a greater state of panic and I quickly turned the lock and forced the door open. "Shit!" I heard him yell as soon as I had scampered out into the hall and taken off in the direction I remembered the elevator being in. It didn't matter to me that I was only wearing my Astros jersey and a pair of boxers, or that I was barefoot, or that I didn't know anything about Houston. I was prepared to learn it over the course of what would become my new life as an outcast. Visions of this life played briefly in my head. I would have no home, no friends. I would never see my family again. I would live in dumpsters and eat whatever food I was lucky enough to come across. Maybe when I was older I could try and get a job so I wouldn't be homeless forever, but that would be a while. I got to the elevator and hammered on the button to open the doors, jumping inside and immediately smashing down the lobby button a dozen times, sniffling uncontrollably but still not crying yet. I was more horrified and numb than anything else right now, but as soon as I was hidden somewhere where Brad couldn't find me I would cry, maybe for the rest of my life. I willed the elevator to move faster, sniffling and shaking all the while, and then jumped out as soon as the doors parted. I jumped out right into Brad. He was waiting for me outside the elevator. I screamed when I felt his arms enclose around me, and not a subdued scream, either. Like me, he hadn't bothered to put on any of his clothes; he waited for me wearing only a pair of boxers and a very strained look on his face. He must have taken the stairs several at a time to beat me to the lobby. As soon as he wrapped his arms around me and picked me up and brought me back into the elevator, I started sobbing. The sobs were hysterical, and I had to pause just to make sure that was really me wailing like a wild animal. He squeezed me tightly, cradling me like an infant and pressed three so we would go back to our floor. By the time we got there I had reached triple digit decibels, and my tears were soaking my face and his flesh. He tried to calm me down by shushing me gently in my ear, but I was too far gone to listen to reason. I was so loud he ran the whole way down the hall with me in his arms at full speed trying to get us back into the room before anyone came to investigate. He got the card back in the door (how he thought fast enough to take it with him is something I'll never know), nudged it shut behind him, and then he stood in the doorway and rocked me against him for what probably added up to five minutes. I might never have cried so violently in all my life. "I'm really sorry," he whispered to me when I had finally quieted down enough to talk to. "I couldn't have possibly handled that any worse." "It's not your fault," I stuttered, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. "It's me. I'm so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'm so stupid." I was starting to cry again. "Stop," Brad said, and when I kept repeating how stupid I was instead, he got a really worried look on his face and shook me a little. "Please stop," he pleaded with me, and I did because I'd already put him through enough. "Let me go," I sniffed, knowing it had to revolt him to hold me after what I'd just done to him. I was amazed he even had it in him to touch me at all. "No," he said simply. "I'm not going to run away again." "I'm not going to let you go." We stared at each other, each waiting for the other to give in, and finally I did, putting my head on his shoulder and starting to sniffle all over again. He petted my hair soothingly and just kept rocking me back and forth until I couldn't cry anymore. Then, and only then, did he set me down so I was standing on my feet again. "You're not stupid, Zach," he said, bending over slightly so he could make direct eye contact with me. "Do you know what you are?" I shook my head and looked at the ground, biting my lip. "You're an awesome kid, and you're my friend. That's what you are. You're definitely not stupid, though." He paused and grinned. "But you are a little weird." I laughed, and in the process blew snot forcefully out of my nose and around my nostrils. He had a box of tissues in my hand almost instantly, and I cleaned up while he studied me carefully. "Jesus, you're a mess," he said, noting my streaked face, soaked shirt, and probably noting my fingers were still sticky and had chocolate residue on them. "You need to clean up a little," he suggested gently. "I know," I agreed, slumping my shoulders and hanging my head. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to start a bath for you, and you're going to get in and soak for about twenty minutes. Then you're going to dry off and sleep until morning. We'll get breakfast here, maybe lunch at Jack in the Box, and then we'll be home. Okay?" I nodded numbly but didn't move, and he took a hold of my shoulders and steered me to the bathroom. He turned the faucet on, and looked back at me as the water warmed up. I was standing in the doorway, frozen and feeling forever broken by my failure. Brad had his hand under the running water, and when he felt it was warm enough he flipped the switch to close the drain and stood back up to face me. I stared at him blankly, my eyes feeling puffy and overused. I could see him looking at me closely, and I knew he was concerned. He approached me and raised my arms, sliding the jersey over my head and tossing it out into the room. "You don't have to be sorry," he said, looking down into my eyes. "We don't even have to talk about it." I nodded, and he hugged me to him, my bare chest pressing up against his bare chest, my entire skeletal frame consumed by his muscular one. "Don't drown yourself or anything," he grinned, leaving me alone in the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. I took his advice and soaked for what I figured was twenty minutes, washing myself everywhere and scrubbing my scalp vigorously with the hotel shampoo. I sat and stared blankly at the wall for a few extra minutes afterwards until my skin started to shrivel up, and then I flipped the drain back on and stepped out, wrapped a towel around myself and walked back into the room, where Brad had the lights off, the TV on, and the cheap window unit air conditioner up full blast. He was resting on the bed on his back, his head propped up by his hands. My teeth started chattering because the room was so freezing. If he found it awkward for me to come in the room wearing only a towel after getting caught trying to jack him off less than an hour ago, he didn't let it register. He only smiled brightly when he saw me and asked if I felt better. I didn't, but I told him I did, and then I took my boxers and shirt back into the bathroom to put them on. When I came back out the TV was off and he was under the covers. I came up to the bed, still shivering, and hesitated. I wrung my hands, afraid to get back in bed with him. He recognized my apprehension, reached out and pulled me in beside him. He drew me to his chest and rubbed my shoulder while one last series of sniffles escaped me. My plan hadn't worked. I stared up at the ceiling and brooded. At least I had tried. At least he didn't hate me. And at least I was getting to sleep with him one last time. I pressed against him harder, because I was afraid I was doing it for the last time, and I didn't ever want to forget what he felt like. We didn't talk about it anymore. When morning came I had felt too guilty to make eye contact with him for longer than three seconds. He tried to be cheery, and he talked as much as he always had, but I saw through it, or at least I thought I did. I was determinedly quiet the whole drive home. I still wanted to be his friend, but things can't just go back to normal after something like that happens, and both of us knew it. I thought Brad seemed relieved when he finally dropped me off at the house at just after two on Sunday, and I couldn't blame him. He told me to come by his house later in the week and we could play tennis, and he told me to stop in and see him at work, but he was just trying to make me feel better because he felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for myself. I went through the motions that evening. Mom didn't give me any space, herding me into the car and making me go eat with her and Jesse almost as soon as I got home, and then she forced me to spend a few hours with Dad, who as far as I could tell didn't even notice I was being more subdued than usual. When I finally got home for the night, I closed myself up in my room and laid on my bed, wave after wave of self-pity hitting me full force. I had already decided the research was over forever. There would be no more late night downloads, and no more fantasies involving Brad. Discovering an interest in the male gender had done nothing positive for me, and even if it remained, I could always shut it out, if for nothing else than to make sure I never got rejected like that again. One life altering rejection was plenty, and I didn't think I'd ever be able to bear another one. The next several days drifted by after my trip to Houston, and I spent most of the time in a filmy daze. I found that I no longer cared if we moved, because nothing really bothered me now. So much had changed in my life over the summer I wasn't sure it would even be good to return to an environment that I found familiar. I felt so different now than I had on my last day of seventh grade that it almost made sense to start over somewhere new. Then there was Nadia. I had been waiting for her to get bored with me, and I had always worried that she would. It didn't take very long after I got back from my one-day trip to Houston that I realized it was me who was bored with her. I liked her just fine as a friend, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I didn't tell her, but whatever spark I may have felt with her at one point was gone, and even holding her hand was something I did mechanically now. I no longer thought about kissing her when we saw a movie together. If she noticed my cooler demeanor around her, she didn't let on, and if she was getting bored by me, she didn't say so. We continued to hang out a few times a week, and it was just about the only social thing I did that I didn't dread. Like seeing Dad, for instance. I never thought it would come to the point where I dreaded seeing my own father, but it was just so different now that I didn't live with him. He didn't act the same way he used to, he couldn't, and I didn't like the change. He seemed overly attentive, overly concerned for my happiness. Maybe he didn't know I was too old to just rely on him and Mom for my happiness. Happiness came from a lot of things that were out of his control, and I didn't understand why he felt so responsible for keeping a smile on my face. A Monday night in late August, seemingly forever removed from the trip to Houston, about exactly a week before school was supposed to start, I was sitting in the living room watching the Astros play when Mom came in the living room and sat down with me on the couch. I had been watching them every now and then, just because it made me feel better somehow. I never watched them for very long, but I would always flip back and forth and see if they were winning. They were playing really well. Brad had been right, way back at the beginning of the summer. He said everyone gave up on them, but that they would get better, and they had. It seemed like Brad was right about a lot of things. Now they were vying for a Wild Card spot, which meant they had a shot at making the playoffs. My baseball lingo had been improving steadily. "I'm worried about you," Mom said, and it didn't surprise me. "I'm fine," I shrugged. "Is it because of me and your dad?" she asked, completely disregarding my response. She did that to me a lot. I guess she did it because she thought she knew me better than I did, even though I didn't think that was true. I wasn't fine in some ways, but I didn't think I was doing that bad. I missed Brad, but he was right next door. It was my own decision not to see him. "I'm fine, Mom." My voice took on a slightly annoyed tone. "I'm fine." She looked at me long and hard for several seconds until I looked away and pretended to be watching the game. "I don't think you are," she disagreed softly, reaching for her cigarettes on the coffee table. She started to click her cheap red Bic lighter, and I turned slowly to face her. "I hate it when you smoke," I told her. "It smells bad and it gives me a headache." She paused, surprised, her thumb frozen on the tip of the lighter. She mulled my comment over for a second and set the cigarettes back on the coffee table. "Okay," she agreed good-naturedly. "Fair enough." I turned my attention back to the TV, and we watched it together for a few minutes in silence. "I still can't believe you're watching baseball now," she mused, shaking her head. "What have you done with my son?" She reached over and patted my leg, maybe to assure herself that it still felt like the same leg she'd been patting for more than the last decade or so. What did I do with him? I guessed he was still here, somewhere. I was different, yeah, but not that different. It wasn't like I'd grown a foot over the summer or anything; actually, it wasn't like I'd grown at all. I still looked the exact same as I had when summer started, except my hair was shorter. Sometimes, though, I felt about a billion years older on the inside. I wanted to tell her that, but I didn't. "I think you're growing up too fast," Mom said, saving me the trouble. "A year ago you were my little boy. Now you're staying up until four in the morning, dating girls, drinking my coffee, and telling me I can't smoke in my own living room." She shot me a meaningful smile at the last remark and tousled my hair. Was growing up bad? I didn't think so. If it meant being miserable all the time, then maybe it was bad, but I didn't think I'd be miserable the rest of my life. I was just going through a lot of changes. Wasn't it normal to grow up a little when your parents were getting divorced? When you were going to switch schools a year before high school? When you had your first kiss? When you had your heart broken? "I just don't want you to be unhappy," Mom was saying now, even though I hadn't responded in quite a while. "I know this is a pretty tough time for everyone, and maybe it's even tougher for you. I just wish you wouldn't be so guarded. I hardly ever get to talk to you anymore." Now she was imagining things. We talked all the time. Since she had separated with Dad we'd talked so much I didn't think it was possible for us to have anything else to talk about. "I'm just glad you met Brad," she sighed, and I cringed hearing his name. "I don't know where you'd be without him. When does he leave, anyway?" she asked. "I don't know," I admitted, feeling a pang of sadness when I realized I might not even get a chance to say goodbye. "Well, make sure you tell him thanks for being so nice to you before he goes," she said. "I'm going to go read for a little while. I got this new book yesterday and I can't put it down!" She picked up her cigarettes and lighter from the table and brought them back to her room with her. I sat perfectly still and watched the Astros play for a few more minutes, and then something erupted inside of me and I jumped off the couch and bolted out the door, running at a full sprint across the grass through my yard and through Brad's. I dashed up the steps to his porch and banged on the screen door frantically. Instantly someone wrenched it open from inside, and I saw it was Tyler. "What's wrong, Zach?" Tyler asked, looking at me as though I had just been returned from another planet. "I need to talk to Brad," I blurted. "What's wrong?" Tyler repeated, and I wanted to push him down and go inside over his fallen body. "Shut up and go away, Ty," Brad's voice said, growing closer with each word. He had been on the couch watching the Astros, of course. "What's up?" he asked me, looking momentarily concerned. "Nothing," I mumbled lamely. "I just wanted to talk to you." "What happened?" Tyler yelled, trying to get back to the doorway so he could look directly at me, but Brad kept him shielded and reached back and pushed him away. "Go away," Brad repeated. "Mind your own business." He squeezed out the door and pressed it shut behind him. "Is everything okay?" he asked me right away. "When are you leaving?" I demanded. "I don't want you to go while you still hate me." "I don't hate you, Zach," he insisted quickly, pulling the door shut sharply when Tyler cracked it open and tried to listen. "One more time and I'll tell Dad!" he shouted inside. "And I don't leave for almost two more weeks. We don't start school until the second week of September, the day after Labor Day. I'm going to go back the weekend before." "We start next Monday," I said softly, even though I wasn't sure it was relevant. "I know," he said. "I took Tyler to get some school shit earlier tonight. He's such a dork. He's actually excited." "I'm not a dork!" Tyler yelled through the door. "Hold on," Brad said in an agitated manner, and he disappeared inside and didn't come out for almost five minutes while I waited on the porch awkwardly. He finally reappeared, brushing his hands together in a satisfied way. "Sorry he got to the door before me. He heard you knocking and came running out of his room before I could even get up. I think I took care of him now, though," he said, pulling the front door shut behind him once again. "Why haven't you come by? I haven't seen you since the game." "I thought you were mad," I said quietly, looking at my bare feet as I spoke under my breath. "Or at least I didn't think you'd want to see me." "Don't be stupid," he waved me off. "I'm used to people wanting my dick." I blushed the deepest shade of red imaginable. "Sorry," he laughed immediately. "That wasn't cool for me to say. Listen, I don't care what happened, alright? I told you we don't even have to talk about it." "Okay," I mumbled, wishing that we hadn't, because I was really embarrassed and awkward now. "Can we play tennis, then?" I asked, slowly lifting my head back up to look him in the eyes, a smile forming on my face. "Go get your racket," was all he said, and he returned my smile. I grinned and turned to run back to my house. "There is one catch," he called, and I turned to listen to what he had to say. "We have to watch the rest of the Astros game first."