Date: Sun, 29 Jan 2023 15:17:33 +0000
From: AP Webb <pjalexander1753@gmail.com>
Subject: A Very Ordinary Boy Part 2 Chapter 5

All the characters and events in this story are fictitious.  Any
resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely
unintentional.

The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the
express permission of the author who can be contacted at:
pjalexander1753@gmail.com

A Very Ordinary Boy (Part 2)

From Chapter 4:

Hey, you don't have to go home yet, do you?  Can't you stay a bit longer?
I was hoping that ... well ... that ... if you wanted to ... we could
... you know ... try the ... the kissing thing again.  But only if you want
to of course.  You do?  That's ... that's awesome.  Why don't you come and
sit over here on the bed with me?  Oh, and you'd better close the door.
You never know when one of the guards will decide to come and check up on
me.

**********

Chapter 5:

When you've got nothing to do and nowhere to go, weekends are looong.  So
looong.  And what's weird is that I never noticed before.  Before I was
pretty chilled about my life -- going to school, doing my art, riding my
bike, hanging out with Dyl and Si -- life was straight-forward and ordinary
and predictable and I, sort of, didn't need anything else.  Yeah, I know,
right back at the beginning I was moaning `cause life was so boring, even
saying that if I died it would be the most interesting thing I'd ever done.
(Fuck, don't tell Doctor Gutless that I even thought that.  He'd have me
back in the hospital, like, yesterday.)  But now, looking back, I realise
that I had my space, here at the top of the house, I had my mum and dad and
I had Granny Smith and Rosa, I had Chalky White and the art room at school.
What else did I need?  Of course, that was before FfT and before Noah and
before the Dyl and Si thing and before the camping trip and everything
that's happened since.

And before you.  You.  The person who was `interested in me', even though I
didn't know it.  The person who, these days, I cannot get out of my head.
The person who can make me hard when I think about making out with him
(which I do -- a lot!).  The person who almost made my heart stop beating
when he put his tongue in my mouth and his hands up inside my T-shirt and
let his fingers explore my chest and my not-much-to-write-home-about abs.

You remember that I told you, after that first kiss, that you'd made me
have my first wet dream in, like, years?  Well, making out was worse.  And
way better.  Doing what we did had me harder than I'd ever been, especially
when our bodies came so close together that I could feel your boner through
four layers of clothes.  (That's if you weren't going commando!  No?  But
you do sometimes?  Oh, way TMI.)  So, there we were and my breathing had
nearly stopped and my blood was rushing south making my cock throb like a
marching band.  My balls felt like they were gonna burst, so they did the
obvious thing and let go of about a gallon of cum, pumping it into my
underwear and making me feel wet and sticky and more alive than I had done
for weeks and weeks -- at least, since the camping trip.  Talk about a
hair-trigger.  I was so embarrassed and couldn't believe you didn't realise
what had happened.  It must have been down to the loose sweats and tight
briefs!

After we made out and you'd gone home, I decided that I wasn't gonna let
that happen again, oh no, too messy and embarrassing and something that
shouldn't happen to an almost adult.  So I decided that the best way of
avoiding that scenario, after the making out and the touching, was to keep
emptying my balls so there'd be no jizz that could make an unwelcome guest
appearance whenever I saw you or in the middle of the night, in bed.  So
I've been wanking, like a lot, like five or six times a day.  And I haven't
done that since back in the day when I first discovered just what a blast
hand-on-cock action could be.  And what I want to know is, where did that
fourteen-year old me get the energy to jerk-off that often?  Shit, these
days, two or three times in twenty-four hours and I'm beat.  (And I don't
mean beat-off!)  Totally shattered.  It's pathetic.  Shouldn't I be like,
at peak sexual performance?  I mean, like, totally ready to go again half
an hour after the last time?  That's what sites like Nifty are always
telling you.  What's that?  I shouldn't believe that the stuff in those
stories is real?  And you've got an idea about the cumming and you'll tell
me about it before you go?  A sort of experiment?  But not one that any of
the science teachers at Greenside would ever set for homework.  Hmm, sounds
in-ter-es-ting.

So, what else about today?  Well, Dyl came round.  Yeah, it surprised me
too.  I mean, yeah, I remembered granny saying that his mum had rung mine
`cause he'd tried phoning and texting me and was getting nowhere, and that
made him get really worried and stressed-out `cause he hadn't heard from me
for ages (whose fault was that?) but then he found out about me being in
hospital.  So, yeah, I knew all that.  And then Doctor Charmless gave the
go-ahead to him coming round -- I wonder who ran the idea past him in the
first place - just him, meaning not Si (not that she'd have wanted to,
probably), and not for very long.  Well, today was the day.  Not that
anyone bothered telling me he was coming.  Or even asked me if I wanted to
see him.  No, he just turned up.  First thing.  Rosa brought him up. She
said he was on his way to school and his mum was waiting for him outside
but there was no rush `cause he'd got permission from Ms. Ohura to be late.
Just this once, as she thought it was, "In a good cause".  So now I'm `a
good cause', like a charity case or, worse, a certified nut-job who people
can be officially and acceptably late for school so they can visit.

Not a great start, then, being `a good cause', and Dyl didn't make things
any better.  No, "Hey bro, how ya doing?" or "Great to see you, J", or
"You're looking well."  And definitely no, "I'm really sorry, man.  We both
are."  No, nothing like that.  True, he did look a bit on edge and
uncomfortable but, as soon as he walked in here, he looked straight at my
arms, made no secret of it.  So it was obvious that he knew what had
happened.  And so I'm asking myself, `If he knows what I did, why's it
taken him so long to visit?'  I mean, I bet if you knew your best friend in
the world had tried to kill himself, you'd be round there to check up on
him and be there for him.  I know you would `cause that's the kind of
person you are.  And d'ya know, until he knew that I knew about him and Si,
that's how he would've been with me.  Fuck not being able to get through on
the phone or send a text.  No, even if he'd known I only had a head cold,
Dyl would have made sure he was here to cheer me up or look after me or
even just sit there, on the chair you're sitting on now, and watch me
sleep.  That's how close we were; how special our friendship was.  And even
though we've always been really different from each other -- him the
super-brainy, games-ace klutz and me the average but arty nobody -- we've
never had any trouble talking to each other.  There wasn't anything we
couldn't talk about.  What?  Okay, yeah, him being with Si and me being
gay, maybe you've got a point, but normal stuff like school and parents and
music and TV shows and favourite pizzas, you know, standard teenage boy
stuff, we'd go on about that sort of thing all the time.

There was this one time when we got really into something Mr. Miles talked
to us about in English.  He said that language, you know, the way we speak,
the words we use, that language is always changing, with words not getting
used any more, new words coming in, even words completely changing their
meaning.  Well, that got sort of stuck in my head and for days Dyl and me,
we started making lists of all the words we knew that had changed.  You
know, like `wicked' and `bad' and `sick' all meaning something different
from before.  And then he said, "Yeah, like gay, that means something else
now."  I remember him saying it, we were getting ready for gym, and I
thought that this was the perfect time to, you know, to tell him about me.
But I couldn't, not there in the locker room with all the other guys.  And
besides, I still wasn't one hundred percent, that I was gay, I mean.  No,
that's a lie.  I knew, of course I did, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone
and definitely not Dyl.  I wouldn't have been able to hack it, not if he
turned round and said he didn't want to have anything to do with some
disgusting fag.  And he wouldn't have, deep down I knew that, but I just
couldn't take the risk and the moment passed and we carried on talking but
I don't remember what about and everything stayed the same and I never did
tell him.  Big mistake, `cause I think, looking back now, if I'd had the
balls to tell him then, or even some time later, if there had been just one
person I'd told, then things would have been different.  I wouldn't have
been so scared of being outed.  I wouldn't have been obsessed with Noah.  I
wouldn't have gone away with Noah.  I wouldn't have been raped by Noah.  I
wouldn't have tried to kill myself because of Noah.  If I'd manned up
enough to tell my best friend that I was gay, then things would have been
so, so different.

But anyway, there wasn't any of the old chat, not this morning.  This
morning it was almost as if we hardly knew each other.  Yeah, I know it
must have been awkward trying to think of what to say to some crazy nut-job
who was so pissed off with life that he's tried to end it.  But I'm not a
crazy nut-job, not to Dyl.  At least, I shouldn't be.  To him I should be
his best, his closest bud.  He should have come in here and made some
stupid joke about me needing to take lessons so I can make a better job of
slashing my wrists next time!  Or asking what music I want at my funeral.
That's what he should have done.  Instead he just stood by the door,
obviously feeling uncomfortable, suddenly finding that his shoes were the
most interesting things in the world, mumbling something that sounded like,
"Long time, no see," as if I was some distant cousin who he'd met up with
at a family wedding and couldn't think of anything to talk about.

And to be fair, I didn't help.  Although I could see that he was
embarrassed and didn't know what to do or say, and even though, deep down,
I still care for him like a brother, I didn't do anything to make him feel
more comfortable or say something to get us talking.  No, I didn't do
anything like that.  It was almost as if I wanted him to suffer; as if I
was still somehow blaming him (and Si) for what I did because they'd shut
me out and left me with no-one to talk to.  And how fucked-up is that?
I've been complaining about him being a shit best friend but, when it
mattered, when he'd bothered to come to see me, when he'd found the balls
to visit the nut-job who'd tried to kill himself, what did I do?  I let him
stand there and suffer, that's what.  How's that for hypocrisy?
Bad-mouthing him for being a rubbish best friend and yet I leave him
hanging.  It was like he was drowning and I deliberately didn't throw him a
life belt.  And when he did, finally, look up, I swear there were tears in
his eyes.  But I didn't have a chance to be sure `cause he said something
like, "See ya, man," turned round and walked out.  He couldn't get out of
here fast enough.  And who could blame him for that?  Not me, that's for
sure.  And neither would I blame him if he never spoke to me again.  Why
would he?  Not after the way I treated him today.  Not after months and
months of choosing not to be honest with him about something as important
in my life as being gay.

Shit!  I wish I could turn back the clock, or dial up a time machine to
take me back to before I ever walked into FfT or got friendly with Noah or
found out about Dyl and Si.  Back to when life was ordinary and predictable
and ... safe.  Yeah, that's it, when life was safe and I knew, more or
less, what each day would be like and there were no surprises.  But then,
if I went back in time, there'd be no `you' in my life and that definitely
would not be good.  You're my life belt.  Yes, you are.  And I don't just
mean for the making-out.  It's `cause you turn up here almost every day and
you sit there and you listen to me and, even though it's not exactly
stand-up comedy, you never complain and you never tell me not to be stupid
or tell me to stop moaning and complaining all the time.  And yeah, the
making-out helps.  So, you see, if I was a nut-job before doing what I did,
it's you, not Doctor Mirthless, that's helping me get back on the right
side of sanity.

Hey it's nearly time for you to go and I can't help thinking about the
special homework idea you mentioned earlier.  It was when I was talking
about being at my sexual peak but not being able to wank as much as I did
when I was fourteen, so I'm wondering what sort of experiment you've come
up with that's gonna help.  Not something the teachers at school would ever
set, you said.  Okaaay, so I need to be in bed by nine and have my phone
switched on.  And a supply of paper tissues would be a good idea.  And I
can look forward to a good night's sleep with a guarantee of no unexpected
and unwanted nocturnal emissions.  Sounds cool.  I can't wait.

*****

As an author, it's REALLY encouraging to know that there are people out
there who are taking the time to read what I've written, and then bothering
to send a response.  So please, do feel free to write to me at the email
address given at the top of the chapter.  I welcome all comments and
guarantee to write back.  PJ

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