Date: Sun, 17 Jul 2005 21:06:12 -0700 (PDT)
From: Andrew Howard <avehoward@yahoo.com>
Subject: Highland Lakes Cross-country, Part 3

Written by avehoward

Disclaimer--If you are underaged in your community or if you object to
homosexual content, then don't read this novella. You know the scoop kids.

Thanks to David, Mick, Paul, Joe, Bobby, Remmy, MK, Shash, Jack, John,
Richard, ZF, Cy, Rio, Daniel, Robert, Fred, Bill, Joe, Eli, Duffy, Craig &
Tim for giving me comments on the first two parts! Keep 'em coming
guys...that's why I write.



Chapter Three


JD stumbled into the house, deeply shaken by what had happened that
night. In more ways than one he had lost his virginity; first with the
alcohol and then just moments ago in the backseat of Steve Glineberg's
car. He stumbled downstairs without turning on the lights, since this was
the house he had called home for all of the 18 years and 26 days of his
life. He turned into his bedroom, stripping his shirt off of his six-foot
frame and shook off his khaki shorts and flopped down on his bed in just
his boxers, his body exhausted from his day that had brought so many new
experiences; he had finally found a measure of success in his running, he
had for the first time attended a party and got drunk, and pressing most on
his mind, he had given a blow job to his friend/teammate. As he lay on top
of the sheets on his twin bed, hand resting upon his mildly hairy chest,
JD's mind turned over and over in an internal monologue as he sobered
up. "What have I done? Jesus. I feel like such a fucking slut. I enjoyed
that, I can't deny that. But I want to deny that pleasure. I want to so
badly. That's not how I thought it would happen. Not at all. Not with the
first guy who came along. I wanted to save it for THE guy. Not just a
guy. Steve's nice and all but Christ, I don't want him as a boyfriend or
anything. That's who I wanted to be with, that unknown figure, ill-defined,
the guy I will date at some point and fall in love with."

JD Maynard's brain turned and turned but eventually his body, exhausted
from the day and the alcohol, won out and he fell into a deep sleep. He had
practice the next morning but his alarm was not set; fortunately he was
awoken by light streaming in through his window. He looked at his
clock. 7:53, good. He had plenty of time to grab a quick breakfast and to
drive down to Highland Lakes High School and make practice in time.

Since it was the Saturday after a Friday meet, Coach Carlson decided to
take it easy on his team; instead of the intervals that would be done on
Saturdays later in the season when the meet schedule became haphazard and
there would be races on any day of the week except for Friday, his team
would just indulge in some LSD. Although this acronym was well-known to
runners to mean Long Slow Distance, to those less in touch with the lingo
of the sport, it represented something quite different. Years before when
Carlson was just a novice coach, one of his younger runners who had only
recently begun running had seen LSD on the weekly schedule and assumed that
it referred to dropping acid. He reported this with some trepidation to his
mother who, being one of the over-protective, over-involved, over-bearing
types, went straight to the school principal with this news. Carlson was
summoned and an explanation was demanded of him that the mother accepted
with a Harrumph. After she stalked out, Carlson and the principal, who had
been a runner until his knees gave out, exchanged a bemused look. Nowadays
Carlson made certain to distribute a handout detailing his training
strategy and with definitions of running terms, just to advert situations
like that one.

It was early in the season, so the LSD would really not be all that
long. Carlson picked out a nine-mile route that would take the runners out
into the more rural areas around their town of 12,000. One of the
shortfalls of high school cross-country, he thought to himself, was that
early in the season when they should be doing miles and miles to build up a
base most of the kids weren't ready for the load. So he had to make certain
that the routes he selected had turnoffs or clearly distinguished
turnarounds so that the runners who were not in peak shape would not find
themselves bonking in the middle of nowhere. That would not be good.

Since it was only the beginning of September, the temperatures in the Upper
Midwest were still quite warm and muggy, even at 9:15 in the
morning. Accordingly, most of the older boys discarded their shirts near
the entrance to the high school, as to avoid running in an unpleasantly
damp tee shirt on such a glorious morning. That and to show off their lean
bodies to whomever was interested, since young males, as a rule, are
immodest about their bodies. The younger runners generally kept their
shirts on and suffered the sweaty, clingy shirts and the occasional case of
bloody nipples from where the wet fabric rubbed the sensitive nipple tips
raw. There were the one or two young runners who would join the
upperclassmen in partial nudity, but the lack of confidence and pride in
their developing bodies prevented most from doffing their shirts. Thus went
the pack of eighteen boys, some wearing shirts, others not; some in running
shorts, others in basketball shorts. It was a raggle-taggle batch of
runners heading out on this fine Saturday morning.

Within the first couple miles, the team generally stuck together. It was an
easy run so there really was no point in one group pushing hard during the
first bit. The purpose of a good LSD run is to get some good solid miles in
and to help condition the body to switching over from burning carbohydrate
stores to burning fat stores. And so when an SUV with several obnoxious
youths sped by with a honk and an accusatory call of "FAGGOTS!", the entire
team was able to react with the universal runner's salute: an upraised
middle finger and then they returned their minds to the conversation at
hand, mildly perturbed by the interruption. Ethan Hauck, one of the seniors
on the team was relaying a story about a rather pervy teacher at Highland
Lakes to the rest of the team. Though the other older runners had heard
this several times before because it was a piece of team folklore handed
down from one class to next, they still listened in as if it was the first
time they were hearing it. "So I went into Jake's [a well-known strip club]
with my friends and man is the place dark and creepy. The lady on stage,
well she wasn't as hot as we thought strippers would be but we told
ourselves that it's early and maybe she's just the warmup act. We got a
table over by the side and looked over at the row of guys at the bottom of
the stage. All these weird old guys and guess who was in the middle of the
bunch? Mr. Bass! We freaked out because this is just not cool. Fuck that we
were out of there."

The team broke up laughing in disbelief at the tale. And they had some
right to disbelief; it had been handed down so many generations that it
could very well be the figment of some 1980s teenager's imagination. But it
could be true, as the others shared anecdotes about how Mr. Bass always
seated the pretty girls in the front row and magically those who wore
skirts never got worse than a B-. After a couple miles the group began to
fragment. The young junior high kids turned back three miles into it; most
of the JV guys turned off on an alternate seven-mile route and the rest of
the runner broke into groups of two or three. Steve, JD and Kent Winden
formed one of the groups, but about two miles out from the school, Kent
turned off into the bushes to deal with the runs that sometimes accompany
long or hard runs. Sticking to pace, JD and Steve ran on alone in an
awkward silence typical after a night that sees friendships move beyond
just a simple friendship. Finally Steve broke the silence. "So what do you
think about last night?"

"Oh the party was great. I did feel rather under things this morning," JD
answered, trying to evade the blowjob.

"Oh yeah sure. But what about what happened after?"

"That. Well yeah, I dunno."

"Whaddaya mean? I didn't push too fast did I?"

"No, it's not that. Well it might be that. I don't know. Look I'm not that
kind of guy."

"But you like me, right?"

"Yeah I like you, but I don't know if I like you in that way."

"You sure seemed to last night."

"But that was last night. I was drunk then."

"Drunk or not, you know you wanted it."

"Fuck, I don't know. Look, I wanted my first time to be with a boyfriend,
not some drunken hookup."

"Okay fine. Will you go out with me?" Steve asked.

"Look, I said that I like you as a friend. Not boyfriend, friend," JD
answered, somewhat frustrated with the hole he had dug for himself. " You
want more out of it? Fine. I don't. If I was sober last night it wouldn't
have happened. You know that."

"I think there was something more to it but hey I'll let you go. Try to
catch me if you ever get your head straight. Or should I say 'if you ever
get your head gayed up'?" Steve then tossed in an acceleration, leaving JD
behind. JD mentally cursed himself for his outright truthfulness. While it
was true that he wanted Steve in a sexual way, he also knew that he did not
want to date him. And he did not want a reputation for being a slut. But
did he just sacrifice a budding friendship because of his own insecurities?
He couldn't answer this, so he ran on, alone.

Accelerating away, Steve fumed to himself. "Dammit man what the fuck was
that? After last night? What does that kid want? Did I push it or what? Was
last night a mistake? He wanted it as much as I did. I never forced him to
blow me. Good God! Fuckit. He's going to have to come to me. Until he does,
he is not going to beat me."

The team trickled in by twos and threes. Those who showered at the school
did so and those who did not went home to enjoy the rest of the weekend and
for the most part they did not see each other until Tuesday because of the
Labor Day holiday. Tuesday was the first day of classes and so when JD and
Steve came upon each other in the two classes that they had together
(Calculus and Political Science) they were cordial but there was a coolness
that existed there. The friendship that had been in bloom before the
weekend had now been pruned severely. It was not dead but it certainly was
not verdant and growing wildly. As the week progressed, the boys each
channeled his own frustration at this chasm into their workouts. All the
tension could have been spared if one had shown some humility and blinked
first in this stare down, but they were each well-schooled in the art of
masculinity, especially in never admitting fault. And while there was
palpable tension between them, the team did not notice much out of the
ordinary, but Mr. Carlson did. He noted the ferocity that each runner was
displaying in their workouts and was quite pleased. At last Steve was
cashing in on his natural talent and even better, JD was now reaping the
fruits of all of his struggles.

With the progression of days came a progression in temperatures as Mother
Nature decided to give summer one last hurrah before unleashing the
inevitable cool weather. By the meet on Friday the temperatures were an
unseasonably warm 92 degrees Fahrenheit. The meet itself was an important
early-season one that took them to Fairfield to face competition that was
from out of their typical competition pool. The course at Fairfield was a
regulation 5 kilometer setup, though because it incorporated the county
fairground and neighboring park, it was a very fast course, with nothing to
speak of in hills. There were a few bottlenecks in the course where a
wooded area crowded in along a baseball stadium but generally it was wide
open which made for some very good times.

Earlier in the JV race, some fairly impressive times were posted. Marc had
finished in the lead pack with a time of 18:43, a very enviable time for a
mere eighth grader. Also setting a PR was Adam, who ground out a 19:21 in
the heat, although the effort and conditions took so much out of him that
he nearly blacked out in the chute after he had finished. And then it was
time for the varsity race. The course was ideal for a coach because it was
in a fairly confined area and so Carlson could see each of his runners
three or four times during their races. He neglected to catch much of the
start except for the gun itself so that he could have accurate split times
for the runners at his position at the first mile.

The first Highland Lakes runner through the mile was Steve Glineberg. There
was nothing surprising there because this is where he should be. But what
was surprising was that Steve had separated himself from the chase group
twenty feet behind him. This was unlike Steve who in the past had allowed
himself to be pulled along by his competitors. Now it looked like he had
something to prove. Fifteen seconds behind Steve was the next pair of
Highland Lakes harriers, Ethan Hauck and Kent Winden tucked into a group of
about ten runners that formed the second chase group. This was a little
quick for them but nothing too far out of the ordinary. What was out of the
ordinary was JD Maynard sticking behind these two by only a couple of
seconds. He also looked as if he had something to prove, though he looked
as if he was laboring a bit. Carlson shouted at him to loosen up and
relax. The final three runners on Carlson's squad in this varsity race,
Greg Hansen, Scott Amundson and Andy Mueller were all fairly close together
at 5:24, twenty seconds behind JD. Carlson was pleased by this aggressive
pack mentality of his runners and giving some words of encouragement, he
cantered off to the two-mile mark.

When Steve came through the two-mile, he had widened his lead to about
fifteen seconds over his nearest competitors. This was superb. Glineberg's
face was set in a determined half-grimace but he was not showing any signs
of slowing down. In the afternoon sun, Steve's yellow-and-black jersey had
a sheen of sweat over it and with each arm swing, a shower of sweat
droplets flew off of his hands. Twenty seconds behind Steve were Kent and
Ethan, still working in tandem to hold their position. And the big surprise
of the year, JD, was still the number four runner on the team, though he
had lost some ground to Steve and Kent, but still his 10:56 split was his
best two-mile split ever. Still, he was not looking good, even if he gave a
difficult-to-perceive headshake when asked if he was feeling ill. Still,
his skin was a somewhat unnatural pale. But Carlson paid little mind to
this as JD sped by because he was looking for the final three Highland
Lakes runners who were still running together at 11:28, leading a small
pack of two dozen runners clad in varying colors of jersey.

Carlson had to put a bit of effort into his run to make the finish, but his
work was quickly rewarded when he saw Steve come into the final stretch on
the grassy mall that divided the livestock barns from the dirt track that
hosted demolition derbies. There was nobody in sight behind him. Steve
powered through the finish line a good fifty yards ahead of his nearest
rival, finishing with a time of 15:41, a very impressive time for so early
in the season on so hot a day. Only after exiting the chute did Steve allow
himself to bend over and grab his knees and admit how much the race had
taken out of him. Finishing over half a minute behind him in a pack of four
other runners were Kent and Ethan, placing 9th and 12th, respectively. A
minute and twenty seconds went by before the next Highland Lakes runner
crossed the line and he was followed by another and another, all within
seven places and five seconds of each other.

But none of them was JD Maynard. Carlson scanned the line of runners in the
chute in hopes that he missed JD. To no avail. And then a race volunteer
tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Are you the coach of Highland
Lakes."

Brow knitting in consternation, he replied, "Yes I am."

"One of your runners ran off the course and went down about a half mile
back."

"Shit."

"We have a medic out there looking at him right now."

Carlson took off in a run, weaving through the spectators watching the last
runners come in. He found JD sitting upright on the ground with a small
group of medical attendees and spectators around the fallen athlete. JD was
looking pale and somewhat disoriented. The heat and the effort he had been
putting forth had sapped a great deal of energy out of him but with the
ingestion of fluids he was beginning to come around. He could not bring
himself to make eye contact with Carlson. He mumbled, "Sorry coach."

Carlson immediately corrected him, "JD, there is nothing to be sorry
for. You were running your hardest for the team--maybe too hard--and there
is nothing to apologize for."

"But I did not finish the race."

"It's early in the season. What counts is that you're recovering and you're
going to use this as a learning experience. Now come on, let me help you
back to camp."

The coach helped the athlete up and walked him slowly back to the team
camp. Upon returning, JD was subjected to the concerned solicitations of
his teammates (and their rather concerned parents). He soon wearied of
telling about how he just started feeling woozy and somehow left the trail
and how he was okay now, just a little out of things. Only Steve remained
aloof from this scene, hovering around the outsides of the concerned
persons but never actually enquiring upon JD's health. After a while the
attentions were turned to the announcement of placings. While the loss of
JD as the #4 runner on the squad was damaging and the Highland Lakes squad
would have been very close to first had he finished, if they were not the
winners, the team still placed third behind two teams in the class above
them. A marked improvement from years previous.

On the bus ride home, JD sat alone with his thoughts. While his race this
afternoon had ended quite badly, he was not obsessed over it. He had run a
good race up to that point and then it was just the heat that struck him
down. It surely would not be 93 degrees in late October. No, his thoughts
turned inward to the past week. Things had been quite rocky for him. At one
moment he would be rampantly horny and he would settle for any one. Yet
without warning, his mood would shift 180 degrees and the thought of sexual
contact repulsed him. It infuriated him being unable to find a measure of
control of his body.

His mind was still clouded when he drove Marc home as always. And he was
consciously aware that his sex drive was kicking in when he looked at the
younger runner. Shorter in stature but with the perfect toned runner's
look, neatly mussed blondish hair, a face that was both innocent and
sensual and an openness about his body around the team--this kid was
perfect. JD so very much wanted to just kiss him and surreptitiously slide
his hand down Marc's khaki shorts right there, but no. He couldn't do
that. He shook his head to clear those lustful thoughts from his
brain. Marc was four years younger than he was. There was no way that he
was going to go that far. He wouldn't let himself. But still, that luscious
body...

He stopped his car in front of Marc's house and as the younger runner
gathered his belongings from the back seat, JD said, "Hey Marc--"

"Yeah?"

"Um, I just wanted to say that, uh, you had a great race today. And I'm
happy you did so well."

"Thanks JD. Can you get me down to practice tomorrow?"

"Well, coach says that I shouldn't run and just take the weekend to
recover, but I was thinking I was going to show up anyhow. And if you need
a ride, I'll get you there."

"Thanks."

As JD drove home, he was mentally flagellating himself both for being
attracted to a kid that much younger than himself...but also for not acting
on his desires.

-------------------

Okay, that was my third installment. No sex but honestly, sex is secondary
to a good homoerotic running story. Like it? Hate it? Email me at
avehoward@yahoo.com

I love getting feedback...the only reason I'm writing this stuff is because
of the feedback that I get.