Chapter 16: Sitting Next To Paul in History Class
Author's Introduction: I originally wrote each of these chapters as individual stories some years ago when, as an adult already, I was finally learning to accept my sexual orientation. This particular chapter was actually the very first experience I dared commit to writing, though by chronology it is decidedly in the middle of my life's experiences. Perhaps it came to mind first because it was so blatantly insane in its risk, and because of the great shame and anguish I felt afterwards. I recall that putting this on paper was hard, but I couldn't have managed the other chapters without forcing myself to the starting line.
Finally, I wish I could rewind and change the ending of this story. If I could, my life would probably have taken a completely different path.
You may contact me at email@example.com. I will reply to all messages, and I will let you know when future chapters post.
I was sixteen and in the eleventh grade, and was just beginning to shockingly and horrifyingly truly realize that I was not very naturally attracted to girls, and that I preferred closeness with other boys. This wasn't a good feeling to a guy who wanted to be popular and fit in. In fact, it felt worse than terrible to me. Few teenage boys want to be different, especially in such a traumatic and important time of life as high school. In my world, boys who are attracted to other boys were considered outcasts, freaks and fags and queers and all sorts of other bad things. At least where I grew up, in the Philadelphia suburbs in the late 70's, admitting you were gay was in the same league as people finding out you were a transvestite or a mass murderer or something. I wasn't dealing with it well, and at 16 I knew that time was running out. I knew I was no longer an immature child, and I suspected that my affliction was real and permanent and was becoming a lifelong and incurable curse.
By the way, it's all this (and more) that leads me to conclude that most of our sexual orientation is decided before birth. Believe me, no scared, skinny teenager, desperate to be accepted by others would choose to be a freak and a misfit!
By day, I was the model of masculine boyhood. I played baseball, liked to wrestle and play active sports, and wore my clean white sneakers and tight Levis that were the uniform of my peer group. At 16 my voice had changed mostly but my face was still smooth and my cheeks pink. I had to shave my upper lip about once a week to keep on looking neat. My chest and stomach were smooth and hairless but my underarms were well adorned with tufts of dark hair that I was very proud of, and I was very satisfied with my body when I looked in the mirror. I'd do sit-ups every night and marvel that I could see some of my muscles ripple beneath my skin.
Though I wasn't proud of it, starting at thirteen my strong sex drive led me to masturbate every day, often several times each day, usually after school and at bedtime. I seemed nearly always physically aroused and while in school I was always on a sly lookout for other boys so afflicted. I would never have admitted it, but I liked to look for signs of sexual development and curiosity in boys my age and younger in high school. I shamefully fantasized about having a secret young friend, maybe a year or two younger than me, who would look "normal" just like me, but whom I could secretly hold and cuddle and undress and masturbate with in private. This boy of my dreams would need be able to throw a football, beat other boys arm wrestling and be tough and athletic and would certainly not be some mincing sissy or fairy.
When I was masturbating alone, my thoughts were shamefully filled with other boys like this whom I had seen naked in the showers, as well as those in class around me who regularly had hard-ons evidenced by their outlines through their tight blue jeans, pushing them secretly (or so they thought) against the desks while smiling quietly to themselves at the pleasurable way it felt inside. However, thinking like this, after I came, I was often angry and embarrassed by my thoughts, promising myself the "next time" I would think only of girls when I jerked off. Something that was so physically pleasurable was sadly so mentally painful at the same time.
Thursdays were "movie days" in 11th grade History class and were held in a special room in my high school. Built like a conference center or a college lecture hall, it had a sort of "stage" area at the floor in the front and ascending rows of tables that started at floor level and rose auditorium-style to the back of the room. Each tier had long, curved tables bolted to the floor, with permanent swivel chairs anchored to the table legs.
Paul was a slight, slim and handsome brown-haired boy who sat next to me in class, separated from me only by one of the table's big legs. Always conscious of my image, I seldom talked to Paul because he seemed somewhat gentle, almost too gentle for a boy, in a way that made my teenaged brain sound a silent alarm of discomfort. But Paul was funny and made me laugh. He liked to draw, and some of the drawings he did of space ships and monsters were amazingly good. I warmed up to him a little but I fearfully realized that I was becoming attracted to him in a way I absolutely needed to resist.
Paul had big, clear brown eyes and would lock his on mine when we spoke, and kept them that way just a little longer than I found comfortable. His arms and legs were lean and smooth and he appeared to not be shaving his face at all yet, as his cheeks still were adorned with the light peach fuzz that disappears forever; never seen again once a boy shaves for the very first time. When he talked to me he used a quiet, sort of soothing voice... not the kind of way I was used to boys talking to one another. His voice seemingly hadn't changed all the way yet, and he talked quietly enough that one had to get closer than the norm to hear him; close enough that his body heat could be felt—but just a little. He didn't seem to like girls either, which was tacitly comforting to me, though I wouldn't have admitted it.
When the lights were turned off and the movie projector turned on, the room was as dark as any theater. The flickering light from the projector on the large screen at the front of the large room was the only illumination to be seen. Thursdays passed one at a time and I found myself sometimes drawing closer to Paul in the dark, magnetically swiveling my rotating chair closer and closer to where he sat. He didn't seem to move away where a typical boy might have, I imagined. In the dark this all seemed all right, and one Thursday I allowed my leg to rest against his, first for only a moment, then for a bit longer. Finally I left it leaning against his, not moving it away at all. He didn't flinch, and my cock was alerted to attention by this response. Did he feel the same way I did? He certainly must.... Because no "regular" boy would allow his leg to be pressed against another's like mine without moving it aside.
Another week passed, and as we sat next to each other this particular Thursday, the movie was about French painters of the Impressionist Period. It was extremely boring, and provided the opportunity for some humorous interruption. As one painter spoke in French to another, Paul leaned over towards me and whispered into my ear behind cupped hand; "I think he just said in French 'please suck my dick'"
I had an immediate head rush. My heart pounded behind my thin Dodgers t-shirt. My already tight pants grew uncomfortably tighter as my penis jerked to attention with urgent suddenness. In reply, I leaned back towards Paul, trembling and cupping my hand over my mouth and replied to him "..and the other one just said "let me suck yours, too".
Simultaneously, moving of its own volition, my hand reached out across his thigh and in a single motion stopped on his crotch and gave a soft squeeze. With excited satisfaction, I felt he was hard just as I knew in my heart he would be. He flinched a little at my touch, at the likely unfamiliar touch of another boy's hand on his most private part.
But blood pounded in my ears and I quickly withdrew my hand as if I had been burned. Could this really be happening? Did I really reach out and touch another boy like that—and found him stiff because he was also excited by me? He not only permitted this, but perhaps he even welcomed my contact? I had only a moment or two to process my thoughts because almost immediately I felt a totally unfamiliar sensation as Paul reached over to me and placed his warm hand on my crotch in return. He caressed the bulge for just a moment or two, tracing his fingers from the top to the bottom of the shaft causing waves of electric pleasure to go up my spine.
I don't remember anything more about the movie. After confusion and euphoria joined to process these events in my mind for just a minute or two, I reached back to touch him again and allowed myself a longer feel this time. He allowed it, sitting back and spreading his legs just a bit. I gazed over and could see his beautiful dark and unblinking eyes staring ahead looking at the movie screen as I touched him. I used my thumb to gently rub his cock head through the fabric in a small circle once, then twice, then once again. I watched him flinch each time, almost imperceptibly at my lewd contact with his most sensitive spot. When I stopped, after only a moment he reached back and began to feel me in the same way. I marveled at what was happening. The sudden feeling of another boy's hand exploring such a secret and forbidden spot of my body—and in such a dangerous situation among all my classmates; it was enough almost to make me come right there.
When the movie ended the lights went on. Blinking at the blinding brightness, I got up and made my way quickly for the door, hiding my erection and the small wet spot that had appeared on the front of my jeans by putting my books in front of it.
Oh shit... What had just happened? My mind reeled in sudden turmoil. In the dark, this had felt so exciting and so right and all at the same time; but in the bright light it felt so shameful and wrong. My heart pounded in my ears- I could barely concentrate and couldn't wait for the day to end. Though I was deeply ashamed I was also euphoric beyond caring. I remember rushing home that afternoon to masturbate as quickly as I could, my bare cock in hand nearly before the door to the bathroom shut behind me. I came quickly and in copious amounts; my mind reeling with the thought that I had found another boy just like me, probably the only other one in the world.
Next Thursday took at least two months to come. Paul and I mumbled "hi" to each other as we sat down; I carefully avoided looking him in the eye. But as soon as the lights were dimmed, my hand was in his lap and his hand was in mine. This time I boldly unbuttoned his trousers and pushed down the zipper on the front. He made an audible intake of breath as my fingers touched the sticky damp spot that had already appeared on his tight briefs.
After a bit of feeling his cock through the thin fabric of his jockey shorts, I tugged the front down and for the first time felt his warm naked cock, exposed in the darkness. I wrapped my hand around it and found it to be a little smaller than mine, with a curious curve to one side. Since I couldn't see it, I examined it carefully with my fingers, imagining how it would look in the light. I felt down to its base and was greeted by a small patch of fuzzy hair, far less than I had. Feeling further down I felt both of his soft, smooth testicles, pushed up and out by his tight underpants that were tucked underneath. I explored around and around, oblivious to the fact that the teacher or another student simply glancing in our direction could have discovered us at any moment, ending life as I knew it.
Spreading my fingers out, I gripped his penis slightly and then allowed my hand to loosely slip along its length. He jerked his body again, this time slightly arching his back a little. While my position seated next to him made it somewhat awkward, I soon fell into a slow stroking rhythm, from base to tip and back again. With my other hand I had anxiously reached inside my own trousers and began to rub myself desperately. I couldn't ever remember being more excited. I wanted to see his penis but couldn't in the darkness so I stared straight ahead blind to the room around me yet focused on my own pleasure.
Without much warning, suddenly Paul started bucking and thrusting as he began to come, forcibly holding my hand down with his so I would stop rubbing him so hard. He began to gush and splatter his sticky semen all over my hand, the underside of the table and his shirt.
He moaned quietly "oooohhh" and went visibly limp beside me. Dazed, and removing my wet hand from his penis, I thrust it on my own and used his warm, slippery cum to quickly bring myself to my own brain-numbing orgasm inside my own pants.
The afterglow of warmth that usually accompanied such a powerful orgasm was short lived; suddenly and cruelly replaced by a feeling of panic. Here we were, two cum-soaked disheveled and half undressed boys in the back of social studies class, surrounded by 30 other kids. I didn't have time to worry about him or his predicament before the movie ended. I quickly yanked my shirt out of my pants and was horrified to find it soaked with gooey thick sperm—more than I think I had ever made at one time in my whole life. I wiped as much of it as I could off of it onto my hand and then onto my pants leg, hoping it wouldn't be seen, while at the same time grasping desperately at the front of my trousers to see if it had soaked through from the inside. I was relived that it had appeared not to, and I busied myself with tucking my shirttail back in, using its cloth to dry up as much of the sticky damage as I could inside my shorts. I resolved to get to the nearest boys' room immediately after class to finish the disastrous cleanup.
Though I didn't give it much thought while absorbed in my own problems, Paul's situation was probably even more perilous than mine. After all, he had been completely exposed when he came, his penis naked to the air with nothing to stop his stuff from getting everywhere. I numbly sensed him cleaning up the best he could beside me in the dark. Then, he was still.
My head ached. And when I sat back and closed my eyes the room seemed to spin. What in the world had I just done???? After a few minutes I felt Paul's hand on mine, as he drew close to me and whispered, "Sorry".
I recoiled involuntarily at his touch. Sorry? "Sorry for what?" I asked with annoyance in my voice.
"Is that what you wanted to have happen?" he asked quietly in his soft boyish voice. "Did you want me to do THAT?" he asked, referring to what had just happened to our bodies minutes before.
My cheeks burned red. Of course I had wanted this to happen. Why the hell else would I have felt him and unzipped him and exposed him and rubbed his stiff prick till it shot all over both of us? But why did I want it to have happened? I couldn't answer my own question with any sense. "No, it's OK" I muttered in return.
As soon as the lights went on I bolted for the door, holding my books in front of me to cover the massive stains that I knew were there but that I hadn't even seen yet. As I reached the door, he was there beside me, nearly a head smaller than me and gazing up at my face. "I like being with you" he said. "my favorite time is with you."
Now, so many years later, I wish I could stop the tape and rewind precisely in time back to this moment, and re-live this situation. Because then, I just wasn't ready for the emotions I felt.
My face reddened and I felt the anger rise in my neck. I turned from him quickly and pushed my way through the door. I didn't answer him, and after that day I never sat next to him in class again. I'd ignore his glance when we'd pass in the halls. I hated him and what I had imagined he had made me become. I never spoke to him again, and after graduation just over a year later, we never saw each other again.
It wasn't till many, many years later when I began to finally accept my sexuality that I began to feel deep pangs of regret about what happened that year with Paul. We were both so scared and alone but so similar inside. While as a young teenager, he appeared then ready to deal with the emotions of it all, and I would not be ready for nearly another twenty years to confront how I really was wired inside.
I have looked for him many times using people searches on the 'net, and have never been able to find him or any trace of his family. I just want to say I am sorry. Paul, if you are ever reading this, I hope I didn't confuse you like I am afraid I did. I just couldn't deal with it then.
Telling this story makes me feel better. I know I am not the only one to have grown up this way, so frightened and ashamed. I have often wondered if I had admitted my feelings back then how differently my life might have turned out.