It's sad but true: you can't spend all day with your boyfriend's dick in your mouth. At least not every day. Not even with yours in his. Or... you get the idea. Anyway, we spent more and more time together, doing various teenager things. I won't bore you with the details. We both had bikes and went places.
One thing we did do is go get some new clothes, especially for Fu... for Paul. For one thing, he didn't have a sweatshirt to wear anymore, now that I'd appropriated his Wisconsin one to sleep with. It had his smell, which made my heart glad, as I drifted off to sleep. I'd kiss it and whisper good morning, too. Silly, but true. He had a pair of my briefs he'd appropriated, too, but they don't hold the smell very well. Especially because they kept getting washed.
So, we had to get him a new sweatshirt and I needed one, too. To wear. So I had this idea. There was a silk screen place nearby that did team sweatshirts and stuff. They had a room where they sold the spoiled ones -- mostly misprints -- for, like, $3.50 apiece. My idea was to get four different ones. We could each wear one for a week, trade and have one to sleep with while we wore the clean one. So we got them and -- Ta Daa! -- wore them inside out. They were all fuzzy when they were new (perfect fetish items for me). But once you washed them a few times they pilled. Nice and evenly, though, so they still looked good. Like a rough sweater kind of thing.
It started a trend. At first a few other kids at school that we told about it, but by the end of the year, all their younger siblings were onto it, too, copying the high schoolers, and it swept the junior high. People made jokes about the hidden misprints. Like, that they said all this disparaging shit and that it wasn't really a misprint. I'd looked: "I Love A Fuzzy Boy" wasn't available. Must have sold out. Paul took the trend-starting thing in stride. He really had changed: a few months earlier, he would have been appalled. Anyway, most kids would never remember, or even know, how it got started.
Lately, I'd found myself spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about his muscles, the lines and planes of his body. The convexities and concavities. The last of his baby fat had burned off and he had grown an inch or so. His body just fascinated me. I couldn't look at it enough. His neck. His shoulders. His jawline, back by his ear. The quirky smile his lips sometimes got. The way he could sit back on his heels so easily. The roundness of his chest. His darling little nipples. I would just think of him and feel good all over.
Anyway, his birthday was coming up and I had an idea. I sneaked over and asked his mom if I could look at his personal cooking tools. His chef's knife was an inexpensive one with a plastic handle that had some fake-y chrome plating that was flaking off, exposing the greyish plastic. I checked that she wasn't getting him any cooking stuff for his birthday and then went home excited, with love and hope in my heart. She was awful nice to me, by the way.
I had some money saved up. I won't tell you how much, since prices have changed so much, but to me it was a lot. I had my mom take me to a place that sold chefs' tools, over in a fancy part of town. I saw what I wanted, immediately. Big and beautiful, with "Solingen" engraved on the blade and a big solid handle with the blade running through it and showing around the edges. It would be his pride and joy.
The price stunned me: twice as much as every cent I had. I looked at smaller and smaller knives, with my heart sinking. I found myself leaking at the eyes. I saw my mom coming over and wiped my face on my sweatshirt sleeve, trying to disguise the motion.
She looked at me, then looked away. "What did you find?" I motioned at the big beautiful chef's knife, showed her my meager cash.
"I can't afford it," I said, trying to keep my voice even. Failing.
The clerk came over and asked if we'd found something we liked. I reluctantly began to point to a modest 16 cm knife. Smaller than I wanted, but the quality of it was obvious. I knew Paul: he would feel only gratitude when he saw it.
"We'll take that one," my mom said, pointing to the big beautiful Chef's knife. "Solingen," it declared grandly, Solingen.
I looked at her and tears streamed down my face. She dug in her purse and handed the clerk a card and me a Kleenex.
"Always remember that I love you, Michael."
On the way home, I was still too moved to say anything. She looked over at me, then back at the road.
"It's rough, isn't it? Being in love?"
My guts froze. A wave of fear took hold, and a frantic impulse to deny. Fear battled with self-disgust, to even think of lying to her about this. Denying this, of all things. Denying what I had with Paul.
"He's... he's... " I choked, and began to sob helplessly.
"He's your first love, honey." It was so true. So true: I had to tell him.
"I have to tell him."
"He knows. It's written all over you. It's written all over him, too."
There was a long pause, punctuated by my sniffles and the boner I was getting.
"You should know something. Paul's mother and I have already talked."
"A couple of weeks ago."
"Weeks ago?" I echoed incredulously.
"Yeah, when you both started walking around like zombies."
"Zombies? !" I started laughing, "We were that obvious?"
"Honey, I love you. But it was impossible to miss, with you two."
"I have to tell him."
"Yes, you do. Do you want to stop for flowers?"
"Well, are you gonna tell him or not?"
We stopped for flowers. Those I bought with my own money.