Date: Thu, 6 Sep 2018 00:14:50 -0400
From: George DeCarlo
Subject: A Gay Boy's High School Years - Chapter 7

February 15th, 1970

	Fred, I can't imagine what it must have been like for you, for
everyone to only see you as a sports star, the golden child, just an
American man. For you to have to hide this whole side of yourself. A very
similar thing happened to my teacher back home in Hazelhurst, Mississippi a
few years ago. Mr. Pettigrew. He was accused of exposing himself to one of
his students. "Infamous crimes against nature" they called it. He swore it
wasn't true. The student who accused him failed his class, and he wanted
revenge. He went off to live with his sister in Meridian. I heard that he
died two years later. They say he put in his will that he didn't want his
name on his tombstone because it was worthless.

	I'm sorry to say that I snooped around and found out that Ralph
Cooper died this year at age 41. The things they accused him of were
absurd. I found the house he used to live in. It has all kinds of
obscenities written all over it. For a while he was considered the "queer"
of Waterford. Well, you know what? This queer says fuck you.

	I can't imagine what would you do if you were a gay high school boy
nine years ago that had to watch that video. I saw it too. It's filth, I
tell you. It's horrible. Our state attorney general even said it was
"exceptionally well done and in good taste". The words they used, "a
sickness of the mind", "demand an intimate relationship" is the most
slanderous bastardization I've ever come across. Every group of boys it was
showed to had to have included at least one gay kid. What a drag to sit
there and take in the distorted ideas in this film, and not be able to say
anything or comment upon it. That's the real perniciousness of this
film... the unquestioned assumption that no gay kids were in its target
audience.

	But you had a relationship with another sports star while you were
here? Right here in this locker room? Far out. I only had one buddy these
four years, and he moved away. His name was Mike. I remember once he
lowered his gym shorts right in front of me and pulled down his jockey. His
prick looked huge to me, bigger than my dad's. He wrapped his hand around
it, started to move his hand back and forth. As it grew, he moved his hand
faster and faster until a stream of white shot out onto this floor. He
taught me what blowjobs were, what his girlfriend did. I offered to do it
to him. I really wanted it. It was around then I learned that boys weren't
supposed to tell other boys they'd give them blowjobs. By then, it was all
I wanted to do.

	One day here, some gay kid had enough of this. Enough of living
like this. He left a note and went to town on some jock. The note read:

	"Your visceral disgust is indicative of everything. It says more
about your kind than a million manifestos! You are foolish to underestimate
the unbridled rage of the faggot. I wish you could be inside my body for
one minute and know what it feels like to be me. It's like when I had
tuberculosis, and my mom took me out to the Utah desert, and there was
nothing but dry open space for hundreds of miles around us. That is what is
inside of me. You think the world didn't exist before you were born?!
You've suffered nothing! You have no idea what it's like to be gutted! To
scrape yourself up off the floor! I matter!"

	I saw that kid get pushed around every day. Lit matches thrown at
him in the locker room. Heard he got the shit kicked out of him on the
playground when he was a kid. And this football jock dumped his head in a
toilet. It just made him snap! He followed him back to his locker and
slammed the locker on his hand. Broke three of his fingers. That was the
end of the season for him. Living like this, my life, it's exactly as he
described. And that's the way it is.

-Alan L.

************************

	Junior year felt different. So different, than freshman or
sophomore year. This time, I actually felt more adult than kid. And boy was
it enjoyable. For my first quarter, I had adventure education. Pretty
standard stuff. Harnesses, wires being tied to trees. I have to say, we've
come a long way in terms of how the public views and treats gay people
these past few decades. But society is only so much of the equation. I
watch these boys, how they interact, it's by nature exclusionary of gay
boys. But god is it hot. Stupid hot jocks and their stupid homoerotic
shenanigans.

	But they could never understand what it's like to be us. To have
one trait that disgusts them so much they don't want anything to do with
you.Name one fag who's a hero. Name one fag who's got a call from the
president saying, "great game." Name one fag that's fucked every Dallas
cheerleader. Name one fag every kid wants to grow up to be.

	Gym class does have its perks, though. I think the iron of my
sexuality was forged in the white-hot heat of the high school locker
room. All the coursing hormones, the braggadocio, the emerging
bro-ness... it all swirled together to make a potent sexual concoction. I
can't smell dried sweat, spy a pair of sweaty Under Armour compression
shorts or see one of those wooden slat benches without popping a raging,
straining erection. I think a lot of other gay men have a similar thing
going on based on the number of porn scenes I've seen filmed in locker
rooms. Same thing goes for gyms.

	I get copious amounts of eye candy. Jack Smith. Smooth black hair,
5'11". Total hottie. Current quarterback of the football team after Frank's
class graduated. I heard he was called into Mr. Brenn's office once and
when Mr. Brenn had to leave to talk to someone, he whipped out his dick and
shot a huge load all over Mr. Brenn's desk. When he got back, Jack was
gone, and he didn't even know how to process it. Rumor is he was caught
fucking his running back Josh Lontai in the weight room. Probably true. He
certainly thinks like a gay boy. Why clean up your load? Leave it like that
and it becomes a statement.

	Speaking of Josh Lontai, he has the kind of bubble butt that could
make all the guys on the football team cream their white pants. Any of the
guys would want to fuck this twink in his gym class.

	Then there's Travis Pawelek. Blonde God. I call him God because
he's certainly chiseled like one. He's about 6 feet tall and is sculpted
like Zeus. I intentionally moved my lock closer to his. Once, as a result
of my injury, I had to go to the nurse. When I got back to the locker room,
it was empty as everyone else had already gone outside. I opened his cubic
locker and sniffed his jock pants. Along with the help of Danny Canossa's
gray army shorts, I shot my load in my pants, cleaned up, got my harness,
and went outside.

	Once, when I was alone with him after gym class, we sat down
against the lockers, just behind the wooden slat bench.

************************

	"Wow, you're pretty strong," he said, complimenting my arm, sleeve
rolled up.

	"It's my other secret." I smirked.

	"So, Brianna King? Big whore." He really dragged that last
part. "She'll blow you, but she won't fuck if you're in this school. You'd
have to go somewhere else for that. Probably Catholic. But she's not a
dyke. She's a whore. There's a big difference." He said. I tried to laugh
along.

	"So you know Marisa Nicastro?" He nudged. I looked into his
eyes. "So she comes over to interview me for the school paper, about being
this great athlete and shit. And it's 4:00 O'Clock and my mom won't be home
`till 6:00." He paused for a little moment. "Next thing I know, she grabs
my dick."

	"No..." I said in disbelief. I could feel it. The rush. The
excitement. My dick hardening. It's all starting again.

	"Oh yeah, she went for it." He said. He started palming his
hardening cock through his black gym shorts and closed his eyes. "Not only
that... she unzips my fly... she's got my dick, and she's got all these
rings on. And they're cold but her hand's warm." He started stroking it
faster. I could start to make out the shape of his cock. It was a little
longer than average. And boy was it thick. Fit for a God like him.

	"And she's rubbing... rubbing... Oh yeah..." He panted. His dick
was almost big enough to make it through the bottom of the left side of his
shorts. I felt my dick leak some pre-cum just listening to this erotic man.

	"And then she's gotta go home." He cuts off the tension abruptly,
only to start it up again. "And I'm there... and I'm..." He breathily
whispered.

	"You're hard..." I say, staring down at his dick. The definition of
yearning is wanting something so bad it hurts. I want that dick. I reach
over and palm it. It's pulsing in my grip. His eyes are still closed. Is
this a sign for me? It must be. Is he letting me? He is. I should be so
lucky. I reach my hand into his black shorts, past his Calvin Klein
underwear and feel his heated, engorged penis almost speaking to me, asking
me to get him off. I start rubbing. Faster, and faster. He starts breathing
in a more uneven pace. I can see his chest rising and falling through his
gray shirt. His muscles, absolutely entrancing. There was nothing else in
the whole world. Just my hand, his cock, and the music of his panting.

	Before I know it, he lets out this groan, like nothing I'd ever
heard before, almost like it could start another universe. He shot out his
load into his shorts. A good portion of his jizz shot out onto his knee.
The rest of it left a huge white wet spot on his shorts. Most of it seeping
out of his pants. He opened his eyes again and looked down at the mess of
semen he made all over his shorts and the locker room floor.  Breathing in
the stench of his cum, I felt like I was in Heaven. I wished that I never
had to get up and live the rest of my life.

	"I shot buckets," he said still panting. He smiled and looked up at
me and gave me a big kiss. He ruffled my hair, got up, and left. Did I do
good? Did I please him?

God knows I tried.