Date: Thu, 8 Dec 2011 12:10:46 -0800 (PST) From: Mike Pendragon Subject: Harrington -- Chapter 3 If you shouldn't be reading this -- don't. Chapter 3 "Doctor Wheeler, page 2735. Doctor Wheeler, page 2735." The muffled mechanical voice from the hall startled me and I looked around in the darkness for the source, momentarily confused, trying to figure out where I was. Did she say Wheeler? Wheeler. I knew that name. From where? My mind quickly shuffled through decades of names, faces, contacts, sources, friends, classmates. That was it. Classmates. Yeah. Chad Wheeler, our neighbor at St. Philip's. I couldn't help it, I grinned and shook my head, remembering. He was a nice kid, all strawberry blond hair and freckles, braces, skinny arms, big feet, and an infectious giggle. He also was worth millions -- or would be when he turned 21. He also had an enormous dick. That first year at St. Philip's was simultaneously terrifying and wonderful. Far from my sheltered Mohawk Valley home and local elementary school, St. Philip's was a whole new world of new people, new experiences, new challenges, and new expectations. I saw, did, tasted, smelled, drank and felt things I didn't even know existed in my very limited experiences in my first 15 years. Teddy, of course, was at the very center of most of those new options. He always was. I arrived at St. Philip's that warm September morning, just after Labor Day, in the family station wagon. My mother seemed tense and fretful in the front seat, asking again and again during the five-hour drive about things that may have been forgotten, needed to be purchased when we reached town, what we could ship from home, and what would be allowed by the school rules, which went on for pages and pages in the student manual. "Michael," my mother fretted from the front seat, "Did you remember to pack your new underwear and socks?" "Yes, mother," I said -- for the fifth time. "And two pair of khakis and the three Brooks Brothers white shirts, and my blazer, and my grey flannels, and my black shoes." "Well, I'm sure we've forgotten something," she murmured. "Where did I put that final list?" My father glared at me from the rear view mirror. He was mostly silent the entire trip and spoke only when absolutely necessary. I didn't take it personally; I hardly knew him and when he was home tried to stay out of his way as much as possible. I assumed he would rather be somewhere else the entire time and that he could hardly wait to get this over and get back to Manhattan where there was money to be made. We arrived a little after 2, having stopped for lunch at a Friendly's restaurant in some small town, where I couldn't swallow a single bite of the tuna sandwich. The Coke, served in a frosty glass -- normally my favorite -- tasted like raw acid through the straw and the bubbles churned from the back of my throat and escaped through my nostrils, causing me to choke. My mother looked panicked; my father signaled the waitress for the bill and stood up while I mopped up the brown liquid dripping from my nose onto my shirt and lap. I'm sure I was a disappointment to my father. St. Philip's was not his school -- he went to St. Mark's in Massachusetts, as had his father and grandfather -- but he acquiesced to my mother's preference because she believed it would mean my chances of getting into the Ivy League would be significantly improved with St. Philip's credentials. As we pulled up in front of the admissions building, a gaggle of my new peers and their very cool parents chatted on the lawn under the huge oak trees in front of the Georgian mansion that housed the Administration. They all seemed so natural, comfortable, as if they belonged there. Fact was, they were and they did. I, on the other hand, felt and heard my guts gurgle and roll around. I felt like I could fart a hurricane but was afraid I would, instead, merely issue a very liquid river of shit. It was hot in the back seat but I shivered anyway. This was it. I remember as we got out of the car I felt like a thousand eyes were scrutinizing every move as my parents and I walked up the granite steps. Did we measure up? Could we measure up? Did it really matter anyway? The walk seemed like a mile of crunching gravel but suddenly we were inside, where it was cool, slightly musty like old books smell, and a smiling older student greeted my parents by name (how did he know them?), shook my hand and guided me to the matronly lady at the table who beamed up and said, earnestly, "Welcome to St. Phillip's, Michael. Do you prefer Michael or Mike?" I looked at my mother, then back at the woman, and whispered, "Michael is fine, thank you." "Good!" she said, a little too enthusiastically. "Well. You'll be housed in the Old School dormitory. Here's a map." She shuffled some papers, handing reams of stuff to my father, who promptly handed them to my mother. "Let's see, your roommate will be Theodore Harrington and .... yes, he's already arrived with his father. They should be already moved into your room, so you may find him in the Chapel where orientation will begin in 45 minutes." She looked beyond us, having completed her obligation, and looked for the next victim, while another Old Boy stepped forward and said to my father, "Right this way, sir." Teddy and I finally met in our room after the Opening Chapel service and dinner with the faculty and our parents. My parents came back to the room for a final inspection and mother began to fuss and looked as if she might cry. For the first time during the entire ordeal, my father came to my rescue, shook my hand, and ushered my mother down the stairs, her heels clacking on the floor. The door banged shut behind them and I let out my breath, not realizing I had been holding it. I sat at my desk and looked around: it was a small, old room, tucked under the eaves of a late-19th century monstrosity on a small hill overlooking the rest of the campus. Our single, tiny gable widow provided a glimpse of the woods toward the lake, which glimmered on the horizon in the setting sun. I suddenly felt very alone -- and it was wonderful! No parents, new possibilities, the chance to become myself. I busied myself arranging my desk and putting away a few things and rearranging the things mother had assigned to various drawers. It was a slightly rebellious thing to do and I loved it. I flopped down on my bed and had just opened a book when a herd of elephants swooped up the stairs and rounded the corner into my room. Four boys skidded to a stop in the doorway and stared at me. The lead boy was about my height, 5'8", a true jock, and had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. His medium blond hair hung over his eyes and he shook his head slightly to clear his view. Then he put his hands on his hips and his broad grin lit up the room. "You must be Michael!" he boomed in his adolescent voice. "I'm Teach. Welcome to St. Philip's!" He walked the short distance between the door and my bed, his hand extended, then he took a last short hopping step and pounced on me, digging his fingers into my ribs. I exploded in laughter, shocked beyond imagination. Nobody had ever done that to me! And I loved it! "Get him good, Teach," one of the other boys yelled, so my new roommate suddenly stopped and, still sitting on top of me, pointed to the gaggle of boys in the doorway. "Michael, meet Harry, Chad and Tyler, my best buds from Country Day School," he said. Then, looking down at me, he slid off the bed and said, "Sorry, that's a funny way to meet, I guess." I was enchanted. I'd never experienced such energy and open friendliness from anyone. I lay there, stunned, and looked him up and down: nice solid body tucked inside well-worn chino shorts, rumpled polo shirt, and his feet stuffed into hopelessly wrecked Topsiders. My gaze stayed a moment too long on the obvious bulge, wondering what was inside those tight shorts, and I looked up and knew he'd caught me looking. He gave a single nod, grinned, and told the other boys, "Gotta talk with my new roomie, gentlemen. See you later." Their own grins faded when they realized they had been perfunctorily dismissed and they shuffled out of the room, letting the solid oak door click shut behind them. "So, Michael -- or is it Mike -- where ya from?" he asked, sitting facing me from his own bed. I sat up and leaned back against the wall, grabbing my pillow and tucking it into my lap, attempting to hide my suddenly raging hardon. "Umm, ahhh, Renssalear, New York, y'know, near Albany," I stammered, not knowing what else to say. I didn't know what to call him; I thought I'd heard them say "Teach", but that didn't make sense. "Sweet," he said, scratching his crotch nonchalantly the way jocks do. "North Shore here," he explained, as if I should know exactly on which north shore he resided. Silence. I began to sweat but I couldn't break away from his drilling gaze and that crazy grin. "So, do you jerk off?" he asked. My breathing stopped and I felt like I might pass out. Had he really asked me that? Here, now, after we met less than 5 minutes ago, and had a whole year to go? How should I answer? How could I answer? Of course I jerked off, as often as possible, ever since I was 12 -- even before I could cum. I relished the time I spent under my covers, rubbing my cock to amazing hardness and keeping it hard for as long as possible before erupting gushers of cum into a tissue. But how could I admit that? I suspected other boys did it, too, but none of my friends back home ever admitted it, or talked about it, or could have talked about it. I'm sure we all wanted to; I know I wondered all the time if any other other boys I'd grown up with beat off three or four times a day like I did. Or was I just weird, a pervert, sick. I also had incredible curiosity about other boys' bodies that was not satisfied with the infrequent glimpses in the gym locker room. As an only child with an absent father and no other men or boys in my life outside of school, I was pretty clueless. Yet, here I was, at age 15, being asked by someone I didn't even know if I jerked off. I didn't know what to say or do. I felt the heat in my face and knew I was blushing bright red -- I always did when flustered -- and my guts gurgled again. But my cock was rock hard. "Hey, no problem," he said. "Just so you know, I jerk it every morning when I get up -- you know, morning piss woodie --and sometimes in the afternoon if I'm bored, and always before I go to sleep -- can't sleep without it, y'know. I just didn't want you to be weirded out, y'know?" Oh my God! He's just like me. But he said it, out loud, like he was talking about what gym shoes he wore or if he preferred a ballpoint or fountain pen for writing. My cock throbbed in my pants and a little drop of drool slid from the corner of my mouth and down my chin. "Hey, are you OK?" he asked, leaning forward and scrutinizing my face. "You're not gonna puke or anything, are you? Cause you look sorta sick." "NO! I mean yes! No! I don't know?" I blabbed. "How can you talk about stuff like that? I mean, I don't even know your name!" "Oh, right, of course, stupid me," he slapped his forehead, stood up, extended his right hand and announced, "Theodore Elliot Augustus Carruthers Harrington. But you can call me Teach." I mush have looked confused. "You mean you're a teacher?" I asked. "Um, no. Teach -- as in all of my first initials. That's what everyone calls me," he paused, looking at me apparently waiting for the wheels of my little brain to calculate the initials and the word he was using to name himself. Then I got it. "Teach!" I exclaimed. "Cool. Teach." I shook my head up and down to emphasize my awareness and sudden understanding. "Teach. Wow, what a great name. Teach. I like that. Teach." "Well, fuck, don't wear it out," he grinned. "We're gonna be here all year and I only allow you to use my name so many times a day, y'know." Then he grinned, punched me in the arm (ouch!) and looked me straight in the eyes. "So, do you?" It took me a second to comprehend what he was asking. Before I could panic, I simply nodded and said, "Yeah. Same as you." "Sweet," he whispered. "We're going to have a good time this year."