The Moon in Your Eyes
Disclaimer:The following story and subsequent submissions may contain scenes of sexual activity between males. If it is illegal for you to read such material in your locality or if you find such material offensive, you are advised to read no further. This story is fiction; it did not happen. Any similarity between characters and events portrayed in this story and real life is purely a coincidence. Do not copy this story or submit it to any forum without the permission of the author.
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Thank you to everyone who wrote me after my first chapter. I was afraid to post this story, but you have made me feel very warm. Thanks to Antnum, Brad, Eric, Dave J, Matthew in Vt, Matt, Francisco, Rob in Atlanta, Don K, Fisher Boy, Doc Harlin, Chris R, and Alexis S.
The Moon in Your Eyes
"So lonely `twas that God himself; Scarce seemed there to be."-Samuel Taylor Coleridge. "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" 1798
Tuesday morning, I walked alone up Berkshire to Twenty-fourth. There, standing on the corner, waiting for the Metrobus, was Jeff. His back was to me and he seemed to be staring off across the street. His golden hair flowed in the wind, his face seemed to glow in the early morning sun. He was the image of the perfect boy in my mind at that moment, his lips so soft and puffy, his cheeks so smooth, his eyes gazing off in a contemplative way. Despite my having taken care of certain physical needs earlier that morning, I felt a stirring in my slacks.
"Hi," offered tentatively as I approached. Jeff turned slowly and appraised me.
"Back for more? Couldn't get enough yesterday?"
Once again, my heart sank. I now knew what to expect when I arrived at school. I had gotten myself together the previous night and accepted my lot in life. However, I wasn't expecting such a harsh comment from Jeff. I couldn't understand him. He seemed to show no emotion at all most of the time; but, when he let his guard down and did show something, it seemed to be bitterness.
"Yeah," I responded quietly, looking at the ground in dejection. "I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment."
Neither of us said anything for a moment. I looked up to find Jeff looking intently at me and biting his lower lip. Quickly he looked away and focused up the street. As I saw him remove his pass from his blazer pocket, I realized the bus was coming. When it pulled up, Jeff climbed inside without a word to me. I followed, dropped my quarter in the machine and found Jeff had taken a seat next to a businessman despite there being numerous empty double seats through out the bus. Getting the message, I walked on past him and sat two rows behind.
I shall spare the reader the mundane details of my incidents of abuse that day. Suffice it to say it was more of the same as I entered the building, including Jeff walking on and seeming to be oblivious to my existence. Mr. Gordon began the study of Civics with a lesson on the meanings and origins of the word "citizen." Being an admittedly strange child, I enjoyed history and reading and politics; but, even I was bored by this class. I was disappointed yet again, expecting a stimulating intellectual and academic environment. So far, all I had found was mediocrity and abuse.
Second Hour P.E. proved to be the most challenging of the day. We had to suit up for the first time. I was able to survive the hour by thinking of the most disgusting things I could and not looking at the other boys, a strategy that worked until I was emerging from the shower at the end of class. I passed a naked Jeff as he was heading for the shower and I for the towel bin. Our eyes met and I saw as much fear in his as I'm sure he must have seen in mine. Abruptly, he turned his head to the right as I jerked my face to the left. The urge to look back and see him naked was almost too much. The thought that this beautiful boy was naked and just a few yards away from me was more than my self-control could handle. My penis began to grow before I even sat down on my bench. I did, however, succeed in climbing into my briefs and slacks before anyone noticed, (or, at least, before I thought anyone noticed). I saw nothing more of Jeff that hour. However, as I was leaving, a ninth grader with beautiful, thick, curly blond hair bumped into me on the way out into the hallway. He grinned nastily to me and quite obviously checked out my crotch before spinning abruptly away and disappearing. And, just as I was turning into the hallway, I saw another guy, maybe a sophomore, standing by the main door and looking at me intently. He had fairly short and neatly combed red hair. Tall and skinny, he seemed to have a wistful look on his face until he blushed and turned abruptly away. I felt myself continuing to grow hard. Quickly I hurried down the hall to my locker to retrieve my Science book. Perhaps, I could hide my state until I reached the safety of my seat.
My mind was in a frenzy for all of third hour as images of Jeff, what little I saw of him naked coupled with what I imagined him to look like, mingled with images of the curly blond and the skinny redhead. Did the blond really want to fool around with me? With me? Someone really seemed to be flirting with me. I was completely blown away at the idea and wildly horny.
When the lunch hour mercifully arrived, I escaped to the nearest boys room. There were several boys in there, mostly older, none of the ones, from what I could tell, who had harassed me so far. They seemed to ignore me as I passed and went down to the last stall. With all the talking and laughing, I didn't think anyone would notice my frenzied mastur-bation. I hung my blazer on the peg, covering most of the crack between the door and the frame, dropped my pants and began to furiously stroke my rigid erection.
Thoughts of Jeff, his beautiful hair so silky and thick, his slender body, his puffy pink lips, his blue eyes, his almost delicate face, danced before me as I stoked faster and faster. But, images of the nasty curly blond pushed Jeff aside. I thought of his hot face and I felt myself getting closer and closer. The skinny redhead made an appearance in my fantasy. I loved the dreamy way he had been looking at me and I felt myself on the verge. My last rational thought before the explosion of my thirteen year-old's libido was of Jeff's beautiful face and of kissing those incredible lips.
I gasped and felt myself rocked by the most incredible spasms. I was jerking and twisting all over the toilet and when I finally collapsed in a breathless heap against the wall of the cubicle, I realized I had been moaning softly as I shot. A sudden attack of paranoia hit me as I remembered the boys standing by the sinks. Carefully getting myself organized and tucked back in, I took a deep breath and emerged from the stall. Several of the boys were standing guard in a line in front of the door. They began to applaud as I approached. I wanted to die.
It wasn't until I was outside and rushing down the hall that I realized they weren't being malicious. They were just having a good-natured laugh at my expense and it wasn't really all that bad. Every boy did it and they were probably just giving me a tease. However, the mortification and shame still seemed to overwhelm me. On autopilot, I went to the cafeteria and bought only an apple. Soon, I found myself walking over to the church.
There were few students hanging around the church as I trudged up the sidewalk. I felt relatively safe as I threw my apple core in a sidewalk trash can. There was a side door near the front of the church and it was unlocked. Quietly, not sure of the regulations regarding students in the chapel during lunch hour, I slipped in.
The church was very quaint and quite traditional, with detailed and obviously expensive stained glass windows and intricately carved wooden beams and supports. It reminded me of the church back home, the church I had grown up in, where I was baptized and confirmed. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed. Memories of the happy life I had known before that awful night, memories of the pain I had known since, frustration that St. Stephen's had turned out so very differently from what I had expected, all seemed to climax. I stumbled over to the aisle, genuflected, and entered a pew, where I broke down and cried.
I was on my knees for quite some time crying before I looked up at the altar. It had been two years or more since I had set foot in a church and the feeling of peace was comforting. But, then, it disappeared as the old shame and guilt returned.
A year and a half before, when I had first learned to masturbate, I found myself obsessed with my discovery. However, my enjoyment was tempered by intense feelings of guilt and shame. Every night for several months, I would be so overwhelmed with such guilt that I would beg God to take this curse away from me. I would promise that tomorrow I wouldn't masturbate. Then, the following night, I would lay in bed in a sexual torment until midnight, so I wouldn't break my promise to God. Then, I would let myself go and for two or three blissful minutes, I would escape from my world of pain and find peace and joy, only to return to reality feeling even worse than before. It was not long before I stopped the charade, indeed, before I stopped praying altogether. Either God wasn't listening or I just didn't deserve to have him listen.
Kneeling in my pew, I closed my eyes and prayed. I begged God to listen, to help me, to free me from the bondage of my evil sexual desires, from the perversity of being gay, from the constant and unrelenting torment I always faced at home and school. As I prayed, the tears returned.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw Father Parker sitting beside me and smiling kindly.
"Would you like someone to talk to?" he asked softly.
I sniffed, embarrassed to be caught crying in church. I couldn't say anything; I only looked down at the kneeler in shame.
"It can't be that bad, can it?" he asked.
How could I tell this priest what was going through my mind? How could I admit to something so disgusting and repellent that God wouldn't even listen to me?
"Look, I'm here everyday and when you're ready, you just come on over and I'll be hear to listen and help in anyway I can. Just remember, there's nothing, nothing, that God can't help you with. And, there's nothing, nothing, you can't share with me and I promise I won't tell anyone. You can trust me. And, you can trust God."
Father Parker smiled and handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I started to hand it back; he grinned and said, "Keep it."
"Thank you, Father." I said.
"Ah! He speaks!"
We both giggled and Father looked at his watch. "Fourth hour starts in about ten minutes. You might need to get going. Unless, of course, you want to talk. I can write you a pass if need be."
"No thank you, Father. I feel better now."
He smiled and squeezed my shoulder.
"By the way, who have I had the pleasure of meeting?"
I was stepping out of the pew; I turned and said, "Scott Forrester."
"Well, Scott, I hope we can meet again soon."
My moment of doubt and loathing past, and fortified by the knowledge I had someone to talk to at St. Stephen's, I stepped out into the sunlight and heat. Standing on the steps leading from the south transept, I tried to focus my eyes. It took a moment before I realized that, once again, Jeff was standing on the sidewalk beside the Main Building, watching me as I emerged. Once again, his face a blank, he turned and entered the east door. This was getting curious.
Fourth Hour passed with out incident, but on my way to Fifth Hour French, I felt someone pinch my butt as I climbed the stairs. Turning around, I found the curly-haired blond guy grinning nastily behind me. I was mortified and quickly looked back to the front and nearly ran the rest of the way up the stairs, terrified that someone had seen or would see if he did anything else. However, the incident left me breathlessly horny, a condition I sought to conceal by holding my French text in front of my crotch. This, of course, is exactly NOT what should be done. Anyone who has spent any time at all around hormone-crazed thirteen year-olds knows that a book in front of the crotch is a red flag announcing a rampant erection. I heard several snickers and giggles as I hurried down the hall, desperate to get to my desk. Unfortunately, just as I was about to reach the sanctuary of Mme. Brouchard's class, who should raise his ugly head, (actually, it was rather cute), but Mr. Baldwin the Younger, who, much to my chagrin and the entertainment of those around us, tipped my French text and my notebook and sent them careening across the floor, thus revealing a rather large, (forgive my lack of modesty on this point, but veracity requires my saying so), bulge in my slacks. And, yes, who should be standing directly in front of me watching the entire spectacle but Jeff.
With as much dignity as was possible, despite my face burning so intensely it could have set off the fire alarms, I retrieved my notebook and text and walked stoicly into class.
There were several more incidents between then and my arrival at the bus stop after school. It would serve no purpose to recount them, other than to engage in masochism. Suffice it to say, they were of a similar nature.
Jeff was already standing at the corner of Thirtieth and Franklin when I arrived. He looked at me neutrally. I stood behind him, saying nothing, deciding to let him have his way. But, I found myself nearly breathless. The angle of the sunlight falling on his golden hair and the way it illuminated his face made him appear almost like an angel from some Renaissance painting. He had slung his blazer over his shoulder and set his backpack on the sidewalk at his feet. Every once in awhile, he would glance back at me as he surveyed the traffic on Franklin and, when he did, he seemed to have a pensive expression on his face that made his lips and eyes look so cute. Yet, he refused to speak.
When the Metrobus finally arrived, Jeff repeated his actions of earlier, choosing a seat I could not sit next to. I went on past and sat several rows behind and when we stopped at Twenty-fourth and Berkshire, because he was closer to the front door, he was already across the street when I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Choking back the diesel fumes, I waited for a break in the traffic and then made my own mad dash across the street. Jeff was already a block away and seemed to be walking fast.
Suddenly, I was angry. I was angry as Hell. The frustrations of school and of my crushed expectations crashed down upon me and as I saw a boy who had no reason not to be my friend trying to get away from me, my emotions exploded.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Wait!"
Jeff turned around and looked at me. A nervous expression on his face was quickly replaced with his usual blank neutrality as I stormed up.
"You know, there's no reason you and I can't be friends. We live half a block away from each other. We go to the same school. We ride the bus together. I don't get it. You act like I'm some kind of freak."
With each sentence, Jeff flinched, but his face remained frozen in the burning heat of the last day of August. I continued.
"I figured out why nobody at St. Stephen's like's me, and I guess I'll just have to live with it. But, I don't get it. Why don't you like me? You're not like them. Why?"
He stood for a second, squinting at me as the sun shone on his face.
"Because," he said softly after a moment, "you're one of them."
This confused me.
"What are you talking about?" I demanded.
"You're a snob," he replied a bit more confidently. "You're one of them."
This was totally stupid.
"How can you say that?! I'm not a snob! The whole reason I'm getting all this awful treatment is because they're snobs and I'm not!"
Jeff shook his head as he looked down at the street. Then, looking up, he said, "OK. You're not one of them. But, you want to be one of them. And, that's just as bad. In fact, that's worse. They have an excuse for being jerks. You don't."
"I don't want to be one of them!"
"Yes, you do! Why did you go to St. Stephen's?"
I had to pause and take a breath.
"Because my grandparents thought it would be better for me than Franklin Park. They wanted me to have all the opportunities my Dad never had. They want me to be a big success."
Jeff nodded his head. I continued.
"And, because of what you said yesterday. I was tired of getting the heck beat of me everyday, like I did at Franklin Park. I thought they would like me there."
Jeff bit his lip and looked down at the street again, but only for a second. When he looked back up again, his face was angry.
"You're a snob. When Spenser called you `white trash' yesterday, what did you say?"
I took a deep breath.
"I said I wasn't."
"Yeah, but what was the reason you gave. Why aren't you white trash?"
I had to think back.
"Well... because I live in a nice neighborhood."
I looked at him as if he were crazy.
He shook his head.
"You're not white trash because you live in a nice neighborhood. Does that mean if someone doesn't live in a nice neighborhood, then they are white trash?"
"No! That's not... I mean... no, it means...."
Jeff turned around and began walking on, his head bowed down. But, before he had gone too far, he turned back and said, sadly, "See? You really are just like them. You're a snob."
I was floored. He was right. That was what I meant. I didn't even realize it. I was crushed. I went to St. Stephen's for a lot of reasons, but one of the reasons, I had to admit, was that I wanted to be like the rich kids. I wanted to be one of them. The kids at Franklin Park had hated me because they thought I was a snob. I had never been laughed at in my old town and school. When I was tormented at Franklin Park, I assumed that things would be different at St. Stephen's, after my grandparents suggested I go there. I thought that if the kids at Franklin Park hated me, then maybe I belonged at St. Stephen's. Now, I realized, I didn't. Now, I realized I was a snob.
It was several minutes before I was able to look up from the street. My shame was overwhelming. Tears had formed in my eyes. I knew my father would have been so disappointed in me. He was a good and decent man, very proper in his actions and speech and dress. But, he was never a snob and could make friends with anyone. I knew he would have been so ashamed of me and the thought just added to my self-loathing.
As I began to slowly walk toward my house, I noticed Jeff standing at the corner on Twenty-first, watching me. I stopped, afraid he might have more to say. Slowly, he turned and began to walk up toward his house. I proceeded on.
When I entered the kitchen, I tried to put on a cheerful facade for my mother as she stood at the sink peeling potatoes, but I knew immediately she saw through it.
"Oh, no," she declared with disgust. "You haven't messed up already, have you?"
I just stood, looking silently at her, dropping all pretense.
"Do you like having everyone hate you?" she demanded. "Do you have to make enemies all the time?"
Wordlessly, I turned and trudged up the stairs to my attic. Once in the safety of my retreat, I turned on the air conditioner, tuned my radio to the classical station, stripped my clothes off, and lay naked on the bed.
During dinner, my evil stepfather laughed at my obvious discomfort.
"So, Little Lord Fauntroy isn't fittin' in to his snob school, is he?"
Never had I hated the man as much as I did at that moment. Nothing would have made me happier than to drive my dinner knife through his heart at that moment. But, I said nothing and finished my meal before going upstairs to do my homework.
I had no enthusiasm for the day, Wednesday morning, as I walked up Berkshire to the bus stop. I saw Jeff up at the corner, but I just plodded slowly up the street. I was a block away when the Metrobus stopped. Jeff stood in the door, saying something to the driver, holding the bus for me. I half-heartedly ran and he stood aside as I entered. I apologized to the driver, who gave me a dirty look, as did several passengers. I found an empty seat and was shocked when Jeff sat down beside me.
"Thanks for holding the bus for me," I muttered.
"Yeah, no problem," he replied.
We were silent for the rest of the ride. I wanted to say something, but I just couldn't think of anything. Besides, I figured he didn't want to talk anyway, or he would have said something.
I was relieved when I pulled the chord to signal the driver to stop at Thirtieth St. Jeff muttered, "See ya," as he stood up.
"Yeah," was all I could reply.
As I crossed the grass in front of the school, the pustulent sophomore from Monday morning came up beside me and tripped me. I sprawled across the grass as my book bag was sent flying. Several onlookers, both male and female, laughed loudly in appreciation of my humiliation. Looking at my slacks, I wanted to die. Mother had bought only three pairs of grey slacks and now these were ruined. Huge green grass stains covered the knees. Mother would kill me.
Civics went by without too much trouble. But, PE was another matter. The curly haired blond stood next to me during calisthenics. I discovered his name was Chad Fielding and every time I bent over during my sit-ups, I could see him out of the corner of my eye watching me. I started to get hard and I knew my jock strap was not going to conceal it. When I thought no one was looking, I reached in to stick it behind the elastic band of my shorts, where my t-shirt would hopefully conceal it. When Coach sent us outside to run laps, Spenser announced so that everyone could hear, "WT's gotta bone-on!" Naturally, there was great hilarity among the dozens of boys witness to my humiliation.
Fielding managed to run right next to me and, at one point, looked at me nastily and whispered, "Feel good?"
"Leave me alone!" I spat. I looked around to make sure no one had heard and saw Jeff running just behind me. Great. Well, he already hated me, so what was one more humiliation. However, what happened next shocked me. Jeff ran up beside Fielding and shoved him to the side. Fielding sprawled onto the clay surface of the running track.
"You fucking faggot!" he yelled at Jeff.
I saw Coach watching the whole incident. Jeff ran over to him and as I crossed the bend and came up toward them, I saw Jeff walk slowly into the locker room.
"Coach, its my fault. Robinson was just taking up for me," I panted as I stopped.
"Did I ask your opinion, Forrester?"
"Drop and give me twenty!"
God could not have designed a better Hell for me than this. A boy I thought was more beautiful than any I had ever seen and who saw through my superficiality and pretension and couldn't stand me had come to my defense as I was harassed by a guy who either knew I was gay and wanted to humiliate me or who wanted to get it on with me. Then, the boy gets punished for defending me. The injustices were piling on each other.
I was so out of shape and so winded from the run, that I could not make it past ten push ups. Coach looked at me with contempt and ordered me to the showers. For good measure, he ordered Fielding in as well. THAT was all I needed.
Jeff was naked and walking into the shower as I entered. My erection had not subsided and I couldn't bare the thought of him seeing me in this condition. I sat on the bench in dejection, hoping he would come out soon and I could shower in solitude. Fielding entered and sat on a bench opposite me, pulling off his shoes.
"Come on, man! It's OK. Hey, look! You don't have to exercise anymore today!"
I looked at him with a mixture of desperation and contempt.
"Why can't everyone leave me alone? Why can't you leave me alone?"
Fielding was standing now and removed his t-shirt.
"Hey, lighten up a little. Everybody gets hard. Just enjoy it. Have fun!"
He paused, looked around, dropped his shorts, and revealed an enormous, (to my eyes), erection, surrounded by thick dark blond curls. I stared, mesmerized despite myself.
""Hey, nobody's here. Let's you and me have some fun in the shower. Jeff can be real fun when he tries."
He walked on into the shower and I heard Jeff say, in a furious whisper, "Leave me alone, Fielding, or I'll kick you in the nuts."
I considered the implications of what I had just heard. Fielding had messed around with Jeff before? Jeff didn't like but had done it? I could do it if I wanted to. What was stopping me? Fear of getting caught? Disgust at the idea of doing it?"
Quickly, I stripped off and ran naked, my erection leading the way, to the urinals in the corner. I sat on a toilet and desperately masturbated, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible so my erection would subside. In a dazed, sexual frenzy, I thought of Fielding and Jeff alone and naked in the shower. I thought of being in there with them. I thought of being hard with them, of feeling their penises, of stroking them, of them stroking me. At one moment, I almost jumped up from the toilet and ran to the shower. But, something stopped me. Instead, I remained where I was, madly whacking off until I exploded.
Just as my last spasm died, I heard a yelp of pain coming from the shower and Jeff declaring, "I told you to leave me alone!"
When I returned to the bench, both had emerged from the shower. Jeff was drying off and hidden behind his towel, fortunately. Fielding was grinning from his bench, his erection still standing up obscenely.
"You'll come around again, some day," he said unctuously. Jeff gave him a murderous look and said, with ice in his voice, "Shut up."
My erection had not subsided, though the urgency was gone. I ran, my face burning with embarrassment and humiliation, to the shower, stood under a torrent of cold water, rinsing off the sweat and dirt, and ran to the towel bin just as the other boys were entering from the track for their own showers. Jeff had seen my erection, and, once again, I wanted to die. However, strange as it may have seemed, I was getting used to humiliation and embarrassment. What was one more incident?
For lunch, I bought an apple again, but added a cheese sandwich and a pint of chocolate milk, which I consumed in the shade of a magnolia tree beside the church. I sat in the grass out of sight of most of the other kids, figuring that if my slacks were already ruined with grass stains on the knees, what harm would more stains on the seat cause. The heat wave had broken and occasional clouds were passing the sun and providing moments of relief from the usual summer heat.
When I completed my repast, I went into the church again and sat in "my" pew in the south transept. It was quiet, peaceful, and beautiful. I didn't feel the need to cry this time; I was so emotionally drained that it just wasn't possible to shed any more tears. I had rather hoped Father Parker might make another appearance. I wasn't certain I wanted to talk with him just yet, but if he was there.... Just before Fourth Hour, I re-emerged into the "real" world. This time, I did not see Jeff outside the church. In fact, I didn't see him until just before the bell rang for Fifth Hour French. He rushed in flushed and out of breath, collapsing into his seat just as the bell rang, earning a disapproving look from Mme. Brouchard.
Soon, I found myself awaking from what I called my "robot mode" and standing at the corner awaiting the Metrobus. Jeff was walking slowly toward the corner, much as I had that morning. And, just as he had, I held the bus until he was able to catch up. Once again, we sat together, silently watching the houses go by as the bus negotiated the afternoon traffic on Franklin Avenue.
It was not until we turned the corner at Twenty-fourth that I found the courage to speak.
Jeff merely nodded. We remained silent the rest of the way and when we got off the bus at Berkshire, Jeff said nothing and walked on ahead.
I, too, was silent as I entered the house. My bratty sister, Cindy, was watching H.R. Puffinstuff and made some hateful comment to me, which I ignored, much to her irritation. I muttered only a half-hearted "hi" to Mother as I passed her folding clothes in the utility room. Soon, I was back in my sanctuary, laying naked on my bed, cooling off, and trying to let go of the day's anxieties.
Once again, Fred made a stupid comment at dinner about my being "Little Lord Fauntroy."
Disrespectfully, I replied, "First, it isn't `Fauntroy.' Its `Fauntleroy.' Second, I am not `Little Lord Fauntleroy.' I earned a scholarship to that school and my grandparents are paying for everything else. Its not costing you a penny."
Fred threw his fork down on the plate.
"Don't you talk that way to me, you little punk. I'll beat you senseless. I may not be your father, but I'm the man of this house and you're gonna God-damned well respect me!"
I was about to make a comment about "earning" respect, but the look from my mother, both angry and scared, told me to keep it to myself. I got up from the table and started walking toward the stairs in the utility room.
"That's it," Fred spat. "Runaway to your fraidy hole like a little coward."
I sighed and trudged up the stairs.
When dinner was over and everyone was in the living room watching television, I took my English book down to the front yard and sat under the maple tree and began to read my assignment. I was wearing Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt. Walking barefoot through the grass felt so good. It reminded me of the innocence of my earlier years, a time when I was happy and secure, when people loved me, when I loved me, before I became a freak and a pervert.
I was supposed to read "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," by Coleridge, but I just couldn't concentrate. Thoughts of my childhood coupled with anger about my current life kept flooding into my consciousness, polluting my attempts to understand the poem. Suddenly, a horrifying thought occurred to me. My life was a lot like the story in the poem. Everything was just fine until the albatross was killed. Then, everything turned horrible. The same was true in my life. Everything was fine until Daddy died and then everything went to Hell. Maybe I killed Daddy. I knew it was a car wreck, but maybe God was punishing me for that time in....
I couldn't go on. Yes. That was it. No. It wasn't. No, it was silly to think that. It wasn't my fault that Daddy's car slid on the ice or that the semi hit it head-on. God didn't kill Daddy to punish me. God had some perverse ways of doing things, but he wasn't that cruel. No, the analogy of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" to my life wasn't completely true. But it was close, close enough that tears formed in my eyes yet again. However, I still couldn't cry. I just sat there in the grass, watching the fading glow of the evening sunlight in the green leaves above me.
Some movement to the left of me caught my eye. Looking up the street, I saw Jeff, wearing a wildly colored t-shirt and khaki shorts, standing in his front yard and looking down the street at my house. He didn't move for several minutes; he just stood there, looking. I couldn't imagine what he was doing, unless he was about to come down and lecture me again. Sure enough, he slowly started walking my way.
My heart sank again as I watched him and when he reached the corner, he didn't say anything. He stood in the street and looked at me, as if asking permission to enter the yard.
"Hi," I said softly.
"Hi," he replied. He kept standing there and, then, took a breath and said, "Can we talk for a minute?"
I sighed and looked down at my textbook.
"Yeah," I answered dejectedly.
Jeff approached and sat directly in front of me, Indian style, just as I was. I looked at him. He seemed almost completely different from the Jeff I normally saw. His hair, usually neat and combed to the side, was wild and hung over his ears and forehead. His t-shirt was one of those hippie shirts that had been died with wild colors in circles and patterns. He was wearing sandals and looked just like one of those demonstrators who gathered every weekend at the University or in Central Park to protest the war.
He took my breath away, again. It was not the way he was dressed, though I had never had a friend dressed that way before. It was him. His face seemed so delicate, so almost girl-like, yet boyish at the same time. His skin seemed so smooth, but even the pimples beside his nose and on his cheek and the hint of blond down on his upper lip looked so cute. His lips were so pink and puffy. There was a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks. I was hard in an instant and it was a moment before I realized I had been staring- and not breathing.
Jeff, too, had been staring. After a moment, he looked down at my book, which was, fortunately, covering my rampant hard-on. He cleared his throat.
"About what I said yesterday... about you being just like them... uh, about you being a snob...."
"Listen," I said, "you're right. I am. I didn't realize it. But, you're right. I am. I don't mean to be and I am really sorry."
"No, no, no. Its me who has to apologize. I was wrong. You're not like them at all. And, I guess I've been kind of a shit to you since Monday. Um, I'm like... I'm really sorry. And, um, if, uh, if you want to be friends, that's Ok with me."
I hope you have enjoyed Chapter Two. If you would like to, please write to me firstname.lastname@example.org. Please remember the double "c" at the beginning of the address.