19. New
Wave
"Okay, you're
freakin' me
out here, so I'm gonna have to fuckin' call 'bullshit' on you."
Trey searched my eyes with his, looking for any kind of sign that he
was
right. He wouldn't be getting one. I held his gaze; my face
was
locked in my
best "you-think-I'm-kidding?" demeanor.
Trey was a down-home Tennessee boy, and he was my roommate and my
teammate. We'd known each other for two months, and had hit it
off from
the moment he'd first walked into our dorm room and thrown his
suitcases
onto my
bed. My play matched his in intensity, on the field and off, and
he liked
that. He kept me laughing, and I liked that, especially
after the
summer I'd had. Trey was congenitally unable to keep from saying
exactly
what was on his mind, and the results were often hilarious.
We had a lot in common. We were both
midfielders; we were both "full-throttle" personalities; we were both
successful with the ladies; and besides all that, Trey had a
brain on
him. His southern drawl and aw-shucks delivery style could
sometimes make
you
forget that; but if you ever listened to what he said
instead
of how he said it, you realized right away that he was
perceptive and analytical.
So we had plenty to bind us together.
We were cut from the same cloth; he was just like me.
Sort of.
"Sort of," because I loved his chestnut hair and his deep brown eyes
and his smooth, muscular chest and his
right-out-of-an-Abercrombie-and-Fitch-catalog face.
"Sort of," because every time he
stripped out of his clothes, the lower regions of my torso tightened
up, and I
had to fight the urge to jump him.
"Sort of," because deep in the
night, whenever I heard him lying in bed and jerking off in the dark,
my head
filled with desires and fantasies I'd have been ashamed to own up to in
my high
school days.
Trey knew none of that, though. He just knew that I made him
laugh as
much as he made me laugh.
My thoughts strayed from the increasingly tense "discussion" we were
having and wandered back to the night he and I and three other guys
from the soccer
team
had gone to Sparks, a strip club not too far from campus. We'd
been in
preseason training for two weeks and school hadn't started yet.
We were
sitting at a picnic table behind the dorm one Thursday night, smoking a
little weed and talking
about
women, when the idea had hit us to go check the place out. During
my college days it was pretty much obligatory for young under-21 jocks
to have fake ID's, so getting in wasn't a problem. I
offered to
pick up the tab that evening, and between the drinks and the lap
dances, I'd
done damage on my credit card to the tune of about $700. I almost
shit
myself when I saw the total.
I didn't spend too much time thinking about it, though, because there
was a
stripper going by the stage name of Candy who took a clear interest in
me and
Trey
that evening. She decided she'd like to treat the two of us to a
little
free Candy after-hours. So after we said goodnight to our
pissed-off-and-jealous teammates, we got into my car and went to
Candy's place,
where the three of us pretty much went crazy. I'd done
over-the-top shit
before, sexually, but up until then I'd never had sex with a total
stranger,
and I'd never been in a threesome. Over the next hour, Trey and I
drilled
her in every available orifice. I came three times, in three
different
places, and so did he.
The two of us never touched each other during that wild ride, but I'd
be lying
if I said I wasn't turned on as much by his body as by hers. At
one point
I was fucking her doggy-style, and Trey was standing over her, feeding
her his
dick. I watched, mesmerized and flustered, as he fucked her
face.
Gradually I realized that part of what I was feeling was
jealousy. Why
couldn't I be the one sucking on his bone? I knew I
could do a better job of it than she was doing. And I'd probably
enjoy it more. And so would he.
I banished the mental image of Trey's dick and pulled myself back into
the moment. Damn, how did we get so deep
into this issue so fast? Actually, I'd known the answer to that
question as soon as I'd asked. You
know
damn well how. It's time to saddle up, boy. Show yourself you
meant
what you
promised.
I considered what to say to
him as I thought back on the conversation that had started all this.
The freakout in question, the one that resulted in his "having to call
'bullshit' on me," had gotten started just ten minutes earlier, after
practice. Trey and I were walking from the practice field back to
our dorm. We'd stripped off our t-shirts to let our sweaty chests
catch what little breeze there was, and as we walked, we traded insults
and discussed where to eat. Halfway to the dorm, I noticed we
were on a trajectory to cross paths with a guy I knew from my calculus
class. While Trey and I were busy dissing each other's lack of
skill on the soccer field, I'd noticed, absently, that Damien was
watching us as we drew closer. When we got within hailing
distance, he called out, hesitantly, "Hey, Andy." I looked over
at him and paused from insulting my roommate long enough to say "hi"
back to him. The three of us slowed to a stop and stood there
looking at each other. I jumped in and introduced the two guys to
each other; they bumped fists, and we had some brief and
inconsequential chatter. After a few moments we said our
"laters," and Damien continued on toward the student center. Trey
and I resumed our walk back to the dorm.
We'd walked about fifteen steps
when Trey let out an
evil-sounding
laugh.
I turned my head sideways to look at him. "What's funny?"
"That little faggot wants
your sweaty ass," he grinned.
I flinched as if I'd been slapped, and I felt anger--and shame--well up
in
me.
The day Matt drove out of my life, I swore I
was done with that shit; I'd lost him because of it. I'd
inflicted shame upon myself
over my ambiguous sexuality, and I'd pushed Matt away before he had a
chance to be the one doing the pushing.
I'd been totally fucked-up wrong, of course. He never felt the
way I'd imagined he
felt. He was never ashamed of me or disgusted with me. That
meant that I'd spent a whole school year hurting him, a whole school
year making him feel rejected by his lifelong best friend. By the
time I realized it, it was too late. I'd fucked him over, and I'd
fucked myself over.
The
days following Matt's departure had been among the most grief-washed
and difficult I'd ever had in my eighteen years on the planet.
The day he left I'd realized, finally, what I'd been doing to
myself--to us--to him--the
past school year. The enormity of that loss slammed into me
during those final days at home every
time I drove past his house, past the high school, past neighbors'
lawns he and I had cared for together. I replayed over and over
bitter moments from what should have been
the best year of high school for me. Sure, we'd
patched things up, on the surface, with that final hug and
handclasp. But now we were hundreds of miles away from each
other. The distance wasn't only geographical: I knew that it was
likely that my cowardice and self-absorption had destroyed what we'd
been for each other all those years. He'd said, as he was pulling
out of his
driveway,
that he'd always be my friend. But I understood that I'd probably
damaged his heart too much for him ever to let me be more than
someone who used to be his
best friend.
And anyway, our lives were moving on in different directions, apart
from each other. I'd squandered our final year together and
trashed what we'd had.
Almost
as ruthless as the grief of that last week in town was the rage that I
began to direct at myself over having been such a coward. Ever
since I was eight, I'd seen my way through life by throwing myself
headlong at fears and insecurities when they arose. What the hell
had happened to me my senior year that had turned me into the kid who
crawled under the blankets and pulled them up over his head?
People like that disgusted me.
But
it happened; I'd turned into one of those guys. In spite of my
liberal upbringing, in spite of a girlfriend who had understood and
accepted, in spite
of Matt's own declarations of affirmation and
love--hell, in spite of the fact that, for a straight guy, he'd let me
love him in a way that almost defied belief--my ambiguous sexuality
became for me the ultimate monster-under-the-bed. And when it
crawled out and bared its teeth at me, I ran from it. I
hid. I cowered instead of standing my ground. In short, I
turned into the very kind of person I least respected.
And
now Matt was gone.
That last week, I
couldn't wait to leave town. I had to get away from the scene of
my failure. I had to find a new place to make a stand.
And,
goddammit, stand was what I
was going to do.
After that final desperate grip of Matt's hand, that anguished night
lying on his pillow, I told myself that when I got
to
college I'd start putting on courage again, just as I'd had to when I'd
been a scared little kid confronted with the grisly story of the murder
of
Matt's brother. I was going to be who I was without shame; if
anyone else
gave me shit about it, I'd see to it that they'd
come to regret it.
Invoking
that new resolve was the only thing
that got me through those final days
in my hometown. College would give me an opportunity to
make up for my moral failure of the previous year. If it ever came up--and I
figured it would--I wouldn't lie about myself. I didn't know if
I could
explain it to anyone, because it wasn't as neat and clean as it was for
guys who
are totally gay or totally straight; but
I wasn't
going to apologize for being who I was. Not to anyone.
Especially not to myself.
And
something else followed from that: I wasn't going to let anybody
disparage
or shame
anybody else like that, either. Not in my presence. Not about that.
>From this point on, I'd
stand up against anyone who tried
to
humiliate a person because of his sexuality. I hadn't seen much
homophobia in my world, but I knew it was out there. I knew the
jocks from back home, but my new teammates...well, who knew how any of
them thought? I wouldn't sit quietly if someone
ever started ragging on
guys who
were attracted to guys; I'd get in the face of anyone who threw
down that kind of shit. I owed it to the memory of my friendship
with
Matt, and to the memory of how I'd destroyed that friendship.
I just hadn't expected the first challenge to come from my
roommate.
The best
friend I'd made at college so far.
Furious, I nevertheless kept my stride even and my face noncommittal,
and said, "I think
you're
wrong, but so what if he wants me? What's it to
ya?"
"Nothin' to me," he said, his
voice dripping with dark
mirth. "I'm just sayin', if you ever want some fagboy swingin' on
your dick, I guarantee that little queer's available."
"How 'bout we say 'gay' instead," I shot back, bristling a
little. "And
how are you so sure he's into guys?"
"A'ight; 'gay,' then," he said. "Whatever. I
didn't mean anything bad by it, so don't get all preachy on me; I
got no
problem with faggots." He snagged a rock off the ground and
tossed
it. "But I know that guy's gay. He was starin' at your
package practically the whole time. And didn't you see the way he
blushed
when you said 'hi'?"
I could feel anger spiking the adrenaline in me. Yeah, sure, you got no problem with it.
That's what the sneer and the evil-sounding laugh are all about.
"So you think he likes guys," I said, trying to sound casual.
"Fuck, I know he likes guys."
As angry as I was, part of me still hadn't been sure whether or not I'd
wanted
to get into this. But the smug expression on his
face as he
delivered that last remark decided the matter for me.
I wanted to knock that goddam smirk off his pretty face and bloody a
lip or blacken an eye. But, maintaining my cool, I asked, "You
think you can tell who likes guys and who doesn't?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Not that there's anything wrong
with it," he added, laughing as he quoted the infamous "Seinfeld"
line.
Yeah, you're fuckin' hilarious,
I said to myself. Asshole.
I guess if I'd only been angry, that would have been one thing.
But I was hurt, too. And sad. I felt I was watching our new
friendship begin an ugly self-destruct sequence, and I actually began
wondering if I'd be able to swap roommates with someone else in the
dorm.
I gave myself a little silent advice:
you're
gettin' way ahead of yourself. There'd be time to think
about getting a new roommate. Right now, since it looked as if
our
friendship might be circling the drain, I'd for damn sure see to it
that he got
a little dizzy from it. We walked a few more steps, and then I
stopped
and turned to face him.
Here
we go.
"Damien's okay," I told him, "but actually you're more my
type." I arched my eyebrows, smiled suggestively, and reached out
and touched his left pec. Slowly, I let my
finger glide down his sweat-drenched chest, all the way to the
waistband of his
shorts. Then I put my finger into my mouth, and made a show of sucking
the
sweat off. I closed my eyes, licked my lips, and moaned.
I'd have given anything for a camera at that moment. The look of
shock on
his face was priceless.
After a fifteen-second dumbfounded pause, he recovered, pushed me hard
on the
shoulder and muttered, "Fuck you."
"What do you mean?"
"Very funny, man, and you can stop now, 'cause I get it," he
said. "Seriously, dude, I mean it; nothin' wrong with
f...with
gay people. Really, I don't care, man, I don't care if
some guy
likes guys; I'm fine with it."
We'd reached our dorm, and as we walked up the front steps,
I smiled
at him and said, "Good, then...'cause I think you're hot!"
Grabbing the handle of the door, he paused and looked at me,
warily. We stepped into the lobby and made our way down the hall
to our door. I watched
his face for a response, but all I saw was a kind of tentativeness in
his
expression. He put his key in the
lock and shook his head.
"I said I get it already."
He walked in and threw his t-shirt on the floor. Following right
behind
him, I stretched myself out on my bed. "I'm
glad you get it," I said. "But that wasn't my point."
He grabbed a remote control, clicked his
TV on, and proceeded to ignore it. Standing at the foot of his
bed, he looked at me and said,
"Okay, dude, I'll play your stupid game. What was your
point?"
I put my hands behind my head and flexed my biceps. "My point
was, I
think you're hot."
I noted with some satisfaction that Damien's blush had nothing on
Trey's.
He sat down on his bed, looked over at me, and said, "Fuckin' bite me,
dude. No way you're queer, so go take your little comedy
routine
somewhere else."
"Who said anything about being queer?" I shot back. "I
didn't say I was gay. I just said I think you're hot, and if
you're
talkin' guys who wouldn't mind swingin' on a guy's dick, I'd fuckin'
swing on
yours in a New York minute. So before you go talking smack to me
about
guys who get off to other guys, you need to know who you're talkin' to."
When I heard the way I'd said those words, I was sorry. Now he knew I
was pissed. I'd spent my whole
life around athletes and I knew that a display of aggression like that
was likely to be met with the same. I hadn't meant to put it
quite like that, but the anger had taken
over. Still, I figured that since I'd lost my temper, at least
he'd
know I
wasn't
kidding.
No
such luck; that's when he
said he was "gonna have to call 'bullshit' on me."
After
having geared up for a confrontation, all I could do with his disbelief
was
meet it with my own. The hardest admission in my life and I
couldn't even get him to take me seriously? The last ten minutes
had to count as
among the weirdest, most tension-producing conversations I'd ever had.
It
was probably the same for Trey. "C'mon, man, it's not funny
anymore," he added, almost
pleading. "You've had girls in here three nights a week since we
got
here, and I been locked out more times than I can count already.
I been
meaning to talk to you about that anyway; you're
not the only one takin' booty calls, and I don't get my fair share
of room
usage. But, dude, that's my point! Last night I was sittin'
outside
in the hall waitin' for you and that Michelle girl to finish up, and I
could
hear y'all goin' at it. So I know you're not gay,
asshole. And anyway, that was me tag-teamin' the bitch
from Sparks
with you, or did you forget? I'm sayin' don't even try
to lay your
bullshit on me."
He was at least partly right: I'd definitely been into the
women my first two months at college; nothing new about that. But
for the first time in my
life, I was
ready to face the fact that there was a little of "the other team" in
me; hell, maybe even a lot. Before I'd even left home I'd
made peace with the realization that I had every intention of
catching a
game or two with that team during my college days. And I wasn't
planning
on shouting it from the rooftops, but I wasn't going to lie about it
either, if anyone found out. Up to this point, a topic like this
had never come up among my teammates. But since Trey had opened
the door
with his remark about Damien, I figured
I owed it to both of us to be upfront--now--about
my wiring.
I sat up and made myself look him in the eye as I responded. "I
never said I didn't like the
ladies.
I'm just saying, I like the goin' the other way a little, too." I
couldn't hold his gaze, though, after that admission. As the
silence grew between us, his facial expression grew stony, and my
resolve buckled momentarily. My mind went blank; after I faded
back in, I realized I was staring at my hands.
Finally
he said, quietly,
"You're serious, aren't you?"
I took a deep breath and, defiant, looked into his face again.
"Yeah.
I'm serious."
"What does it mean, then?" He paused.
"So...like..you're what? Bisexual?"
"I guess you could call it that," I said, "if you have
to call it something. I mean, I get harder quicker over the
ladies, but
good-lookin' guys do something for me." This time I forced myself
to keep looking into his eyes.
His blank face unnerved me. I had no idea what he was thinking,
what he was feeling. I prepared myself for the hostilities to
escalate.
Instead,
he shook his
head a little and smiled. Almost. Then he got up and
starting pacing, first away from me and toward the door,
then
back in my direction. After
a few trips back and forth, he stopped at the foot of my bed and looked
at me. "Were
you kidding about thinking I'm hot?"
After
all the gearing-up I'd done, I was uncertain how to continue. I
was in battle mode. But I could tell he was more confused than
hostile. Gradually, I
felt my anger at
him beginning to drain away, and tailored my response accordingly.
"I'm not kidding. You're hot. Sorry if that fucks
you up, but it's how it is with me."
His eyes narrowed and he took a few steps backward. "Like as in,
I-make-you-hard hot?"
"Like as in, that night we did Candy, I was kinda jealous that she was
gettin' to suck your dick and I wasn't!"
He sat down hard on his desk chair and muttered, "Fuck."
This was clearly uncomfortable for both of us.
I
hoped I
hadn't said too much too fast. Maybe he was speaking the truth
when he said he was okay with guys who
liked guys, but how was he going to handle knowing I was sexually
attracted to him? We were teammates, and we had to
live
together. I didn't want to fuck that up.
I couldn't stand having us just sit there staring at each other
again.
Finally I managed, weakly, "Dude...are we good?"
He studied me for a while longer.
Our
eyes locked, searching. For
truth. For a meeting place. For a path forward.
Gradually, a smile began to
form at the
corners of his mouth, as he said, "Course we're good."
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. What he said
felt to me like air rushing back into the room. I
tried to smile back at him. "You have no idea what a relief it is
to hear you say that."
"I
know," he said. "I'm sorry for acting all fucked up. It was
just kind
of a bombshell, that's all.
"I don't think I ever met a
guy
who
likes guys like that," he added. "I mean, I'll be honest: I
notice when guys
are
good-looking--like you, for example," and he smiled and
flushed
slightly as he said it. "But I never wanted to do
stuff
with 'em."
He sat down on my bed. "Why'd you tell me?"
"We're teammates. We're roommates. This is me. You
need to
know."
"Right," he said. "You wanted to know if you'd have to
get a new roommate. A new friend, maybe even."
"Maybe," I said. "Before we started talking this shit, I was
getting to think I could trust you if it ever came up, I guess.
But
then after we ran into Damien what
you said stung me a little. It was me you were talking about, at
least partly. Even if you didn't know it. And I was pissed
off, and
all of a
sudden I wasn't so sure about you. And it made me sad."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I really do mean what I said about
being okay with it. I don't feel any different about you. I
guess I feel honored you cared enough to trust me."
"I
do trust you," I said, "but
at the moment it wasn't about trust. It was about keeping a
promise to myself."
He
nodded. It was clear he understood what I meant. He
stood up and started pacing again. On his second pass in my
direction, he stopped at the foot of my bed again, and said, "Can I ask
you something personal?"
I thought I knew where this was going, and I wasn't crazy about it, but
I
figured I couldn't back out now. "Sure, go ahead."
"Have you...I mean, did you ever...have you ever, you know...had sex
with
a guy?'
I couldn't even hear the question without feeling last year's waves
wash over
me. Waves of love; of ecstasy; of guilt. But mostly, waves
of
regret and loss.
But Trey wasn't asking about all that. So I simply said,
"Yeah. Once. Last September. It was my best
friend. We were on the football team together."
"Man." He sat down on my bed again. "Was he
bisexual too?"
"No," I replied. This was difficult for me even to think about
and still maintain any kind of detachment. I needed a little
distance, so I stood up and walked over to the window. I
stared out toward the horizon as I tried to stay in the
here-and-now; as I concentrated on keeping my eyes dry.
"He's straight."
He must have seen my mood darken. He
walked over to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and pulled me around to
face
him. Smiling, he said, "So, you'd really like suckin' my dick,
huh?"
I pushed the dark cloud behind me and brought him back into
focus.
"You bet," I said, grinning back at him. "Why? Are you makin'
me an offer here?"
"Fuck, no," he said. "I was just trying to lighten it up a
little; I kinda lost you there for a minute. I mean, that would
be too
weird, don't you think? Andy, you're the best friend I've made up
here,
and it don't make any difference to me if you swing both ways, but I
don't know
if I wanna mess things up between us with something that would prolly
fuck with
both our heads. I...I'm not queer. I'm not even bi. I
mean..."
He looked at me wide-eyed, blushed, and said,
"Shit, I bet you know how to give a mean blowjob."
"Well, I don't have much experience, but since I got the same
equipment, I
pretty much know how to make it feel good."
"That's what I was thinking," he said, laughing. "And
dude, don't get me wrong, a warm hole's a warm hole; and you do have
a
pretty face."
That got me laughing too.
"But if we did that," he added, "I'd feel like I owed you something in
return, and I just don't think I could ever suck a guy's cock.
Especially
not that ugly monster of yours."
We'd reached a turning point in the conversation. It was time to
move on. "You're just jealous," I taunted. "But just so you
know,
I'm offering. No expiration date, either, so if you ever change
your mind, let me
know in your usual subtle way."
He punched me on the shoulder. "I say what's on
my mind, dude."
"Did you hear me complain?"
"Well, don't be dissin' my style, then," he said with a smile.
"Anyway...I
think I'll pass." Turning serious, he added, "I hope you know
I'll keep all this between the two of us."
I looked at him and said, "I didn't ask you to keep any secrets for
me. It's not something I'm ashamed of. Been there, done
that, and
I'm finished with it. I don't give a shit who knows. I'm
not goin'
through life being ashamed of who I am. That's cost me too much
already. I'm just not advertising it if it doesn't come up."
"What do you mean, it cost you too much?"
I grimaced. "I don't want to go there. Let's just say that
being ashamed of
myself made me pay a high price, and I swore I was done with that shit."
He thought for a bit, and said, "I'm sorry, man. Whatever it was. But I still
won't
bring
it up to anybody. It's just fuckin' gossip when it spreads like
that."
He sat down on his bed and began taking off
his shoes. "Anyway, let's go shower and get somethin' to eat;
I'm fuckin' starving."
"Me too," I said, shucking my shoes, socks, and shin guards.
"Hey, now that you know all about my perverted sexual urges, can I soap
your butt in the shower?"
He pushed his soccer shorts down to his ankles and stepped out of
them.
"You keep your damn hands to yourself," he laughed, "and if you
behave, I'll let you watch while I soap myself up."
He
slid out of his jock and stood facing me, naked, and began rubbing his
hands
all over his torso, mimicking giving himself a full-body lather.
"I don't know, man," I said. "I may pop a chub from all
that. Are you sure you can handle me gettin' all excited over
your manly
form?"
"Any time, stud," he laughed. "Hell, gettin' a big jock
like you all hot and bothered? I'd feel pretty damn sexy if I can
even
get a guy hard." Fondling his crotch, he licked his lips
and moaned, just the way I had earlier.
I grabbed his towel from the rack and threw it at him. "Okay, cut
the shit," I said. "Now you're freakin' me out."
He laughed and wrapped the towel around his waist. As we made our
way out
the door he said, "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"
-------------------------------------
Copyright 2007 by Adam Phillips
Many of my Nifty readers know that Crosscurrents had disappeared for
a while from Nifty. I'm back for good now, and it's my intention
to finish. You're invited to join my Yahoo group, Adamstories, to
keep in more regular touch so that you'll know when new chapters are
coming out, or just to hang out and "talk."
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Adamstories/
Also, you can email me at
aaptx28@yahoo.com. I'd love to hear from you, and I'll do my best
to reply.