Chapter 16: Sitting Next To Paul in History Class
Author's Introduction: I originally wrote each of these chapters as individual stories some years ago when, as an adult already, I was finally learning to accept my sexual orientation. This particular chapter was actually the very first experience I dared commit to writing, though by chronology it is decidedly in the middle of my life's experiences. Perhaps it came to mind first because it was so blatantly insane in its risk, and because of the great shame and anguish I felt afterwards. I recall that putting this on paper was hard, but I couldn't have managed the other chapters without forcing myself to the starting line.
Finally, I wish I could rewind and change the ending of this story. If I could, my life would probably have taken a completely different path.
You may contact me at bradhealey@rocketmail.com. I will reply to all messages, and I will let you know when future chapters post.
I was sixteen and in the eleventh grade, and was just beginning to shockingly
and horrifyingly truly realize that I was not very naturally attracted to
girls, and that I preferred closeness with other boys. This wasn't a good
feeling to a guy who wanted to be popular and fit in. In fact, it felt worse
than terrible to me. Few teenage boys want to be different, especially in such
a traumatic and important time of life as high school. In my world, boys who
are attracted to other boys were considered outcasts, freaks and fags and
queers and all sorts of other bad things. At least where I grew up, in the Philadelphia suburbs in the late 70's, admitting you were gay was in the same league as
people finding out you were a transvestite or a mass murderer or something. I
wasn't dealing with it well, and at 16 I knew that time was running out. I knew
I was no longer an immature child, and I suspected that my affliction was real
and permanent and was becoming a lifelong and incurable curse.
By the way, it's all this (and more) that leads me to conclude that most of our
sexual orientation is decided before birth. Believe me, no scared, skinny
teenager, desperate to be accepted by others would choose to be a freak and a
misfit!
By day, I was the model of masculine boyhood. I played baseball, liked to
wrestle and play active sports, and wore my clean white sneakers and tight Levis that were the uniform of my peer group. At 16 my voice had changed mostly but my face
was still smooth and my cheeks pink. I had to shave my upper lip about once a
week to keep on looking neat. My chest and stomach were smooth and hairless but
my underarms were well adorned with tufts of dark hair that I was very proud
of, and I was very satisfied with my body when I looked in the mirror. I'd do
sit-ups every night and marvel that I could see some of my muscles ripple
beneath my skin.
Though I wasn't proud of it, starting at thirteen my strong sex drive led me to
masturbate every day, often several times each day, usually after school and at
bedtime. I seemed nearly always physically aroused and while in school I was
always on a sly lookout for other boys so afflicted. I would never have
admitted it, but I liked to look for signs of sexual development and curiosity
in boys my age and younger in high school. I shamefully fantasized about having
a secret young friend, maybe a year or two younger than me, who would look
"normal" just like me, but whom I could secretly hold and cuddle and
undress and masturbate with in private. This boy of my dreams would need be
able to throw a football, beat other boys arm wrestling and be tough and
athletic and would certainly not be some mincing sissy or fairy.
When I was masturbating alone, my thoughts were shamefully filled with other
boys like this whom I had seen naked in the showers, as well as those in class
around me who regularly had hard-ons evidenced by their outlines through their
tight blue jeans, pushing them secretly (or so they thought) against the desks
while smiling quietly to themselves at the pleasurable way it felt inside.
However, thinking like this, after I came, I was often angry and embarrassed by
my thoughts, promising myself the "next time" I would think only of
girls when I jerked off. Something that was so physically pleasurable was
sadly so mentally painful at the same time.
Thursdays were "movie days" in 11th grade History class and were held
in a special room in my high school. Built like a conference center or a
college lecture hall, it had a sort of "stage" area at the floor in
the front and ascending rows of tables that started at floor level and rose
auditorium-style to the back of the room. Each tier had long, curved tables
bolted to the floor, with permanent swivel chairs anchored to the table legs.
Paul was a slight, slim and handsome brown-haired boy who sat next to me in
class, separated from me only by one of the table's big legs. Always conscious
of my image, I seldom talked to Paul because he seemed somewhat gentle, almost
too gentle for a boy, in a way that made my teenaged brain sound a silent alarm
of discomfort. But Paul was funny and made me laugh. He liked to draw, and some
of the drawings he did of space ships and monsters were amazingly good. I
warmed up to him a little but I fearfully realized that I was becoming
attracted to him in a way I absolutely needed to resist.
Paul had big, clear brown eyes and would lock his on mine when we spoke, and
kept them that way just a little longer than I found comfortable. His arms and
legs were lean and smooth and he appeared to not be shaving his face at all
yet, as his cheeks still were adorned with the light peach fuzz that disappears
forever; never seen again once a boy shaves for the very first time. When he talked
to me he used a quiet, sort of soothing voice... not the kind of way I was used
to boys talking to one another. His voice seemingly hadn't changed all the way
yet, and he talked quietly enough that one had to get closer than the norm to
hear him; close enough that his body heat could be felt—but just a little. He
didn't seem to like girls either, which was tacitly comforting to me, though I
wouldn't have admitted it.
When the lights were turned off and the movie projector turned on, the room was
as dark as any theater. The flickering light from the projector on the large
screen at the front of the large room was the only illumination to be seen.
Thursdays passed one at a time and I found myself sometimes drawing closer to Paul
in the dark, magnetically swiveling my rotating chair closer and closer to
where he sat. He didn't seem to move away where a typical boy might have, I
imagined. In the dark this all seemed all right, and one Thursday I allowed my
leg to rest against his, first for only a moment, then for a bit longer.
Finally I left it leaning against his, not moving it away at all. He didn't
flinch, and my cock was alerted to attention by this response. Did he feel the
same way I did? He certainly must.... Because no "regular" boy would
allow his leg to be pressed against another's like mine without moving it
aside.
Another week passed, and as we sat next to each other this particular Thursday,
the movie was about French painters of the Impressionist Period. It was
extremely boring, and provided the opportunity for some humorous interruption.
As one painter spoke in French to another, Paul leaned over towards me and
whispered into my ear behind cupped hand; "I think he just said in French
'please suck my dick'"
I had an immediate head rush. My heart pounded behind my thin Dodgers t-shirt.
My already tight pants grew uncomfortably tighter as my penis jerked to
attention with urgent suddenness. In reply, I leaned back towards Paul,
trembling and cupping my hand over my mouth and replied to him "..and the
other one just said "let me suck yours, too".
Simultaneously, moving of its own volition, my hand reached out across his
thigh and in a single motion stopped on his crotch and gave a soft squeeze.
With excited satisfaction, I felt he was hard just as I knew in my heart he
would be. He flinched a little at my touch, at the likely unfamiliar touch of
another boy's hand on his most private part.
But blood pounded in my ears and I quickly withdrew my hand as if I had been
burned. Could this really be happening? Did I really reach out and touch
another boy like that—and found him stiff because he was also excited by me?
He not only permitted this, but perhaps he even welcomed my contact? I had
only a moment or two to process my thoughts because almost immediately I felt a
totally unfamiliar sensation as Paul reached over to me and placed his warm
hand on my crotch in return. He caressed the bulge for just a moment or two,
tracing his fingers from the top to the bottom of the shaft causing waves of
electric pleasure to go up my spine.
I don't remember anything more about the movie. After confusion and euphoria
joined to process these events in my mind for just a minute or two, I reached
back to touch him again and allowed myself a longer feel this time. He allowed
it, sitting back and spreading his legs just a bit. I gazed over and could see
his beautiful dark and unblinking eyes staring ahead looking at the movie
screen as I touched him. I used my thumb to gently rub his cock head through
the fabric in a small circle once, then twice, then once again. I watched him
flinch each time, almost imperceptibly at my lewd contact with his most
sensitive spot. When I stopped, after only a moment he reached back and began
to feel me in the same way. I marveled at what was happening. The sudden
feeling of another boy's hand exploring such a secret and forbidden spot of my
body—and in such a dangerous situation among all my classmates; it was enough
almost to make me come right there.
When the movie ended the lights went on. Blinking at the blinding brightness, I
got up and made my way quickly for the door, hiding my erection and the small
wet spot that had appeared on the front of my jeans by putting my books in
front of it.
Oh shit... What had just happened? My mind reeled in sudden turmoil. In the
dark, this had felt so exciting and so right and all at the same time; but in
the bright light it felt so shameful and wrong. My heart pounded in my ears- I
could barely concentrate and couldn't wait for the day to end. Though I was
deeply ashamed I was also euphoric beyond caring. I remember rushing home that
afternoon to masturbate as quickly as I could, my bare cock in hand nearly
before the door to the bathroom shut behind me. I came quickly and in copious
amounts; my mind reeling with the thought that I had found another boy just
like me, probably the only other one in the world.
Next Thursday took at least two months to come. Paul and I mumbled
"hi" to each other as we sat down; I carefully avoided looking him in
the eye. But as soon as the lights were dimmed, my hand was in his lap and his hand
was in mine. This time I boldly unbuttoned his trousers and pushed down the
zipper on the front. He made an audible intake of breath as my fingers touched
the sticky damp spot that had already appeared on his tight briefs.
After a bit of feeling his cock through the thin fabric of his jockey shorts, I
tugged the front down and for the first time felt his warm naked cock, exposed
in the darkness. I wrapped my hand around it and found it to be a little
smaller than mine, with a curious curve to one side. Since I couldn't see it, I
examined it carefully with my fingers, imagining how it would look in the
light. I felt down to its base and was greeted by a small patch of fuzzy hair,
far less than I had. Feeling further down I felt both of his soft, smooth
testicles, pushed up and out by his tight underpants that were tucked
underneath. I explored around and around, oblivious to the fact that the
teacher or another student simply glancing in our direction could have
discovered us at any moment, ending life as I knew it.
Spreading my fingers out, I gripped his penis slightly and then allowed my hand
to loosely slip along its length. He jerked his body again, this time slightly
arching his back a little. While my position seated next to him made it
somewhat awkward, I soon fell into a slow stroking rhythm, from base to tip and
back again. With my other hand I had anxiously reached inside my own trousers
and began to rub myself desperately. I couldn't ever remember being more
excited. I wanted to see his penis but couldn't in the darkness so I stared
straight ahead blind to the room around me yet focused on my own pleasure.
Without much warning, suddenly Paul started bucking and thrusting as he began
to come, forcibly holding my hand down with his so I would stop rubbing him so
hard. He began to gush and splatter his sticky semen all over my hand, the
underside of the table and his shirt.
He moaned quietly "oooohhh" and went visibly limp beside me. Dazed,
and removing my wet hand from his penis, I thrust it on my own and used his
warm, slippery cum to quickly bring myself to my own brain-numbing orgasm
inside my own pants.
The afterglow of warmth that usually accompanied such a powerful orgasm was
short lived; suddenly and cruelly replaced by a feeling of panic. Here we were,
two cum-soaked disheveled and half undressed boys in the back of social studies
class, surrounded by 30 other kids. I didn't have time to worry about him or
his predicament before the movie ended. I quickly yanked my shirt out of my
pants and was horrified to find it soaked with gooey thick sperm—more than I
think I had ever made at one time in my whole life. I wiped as much of it as I
could off of it onto my hand and then onto my pants leg, hoping it wouldn't be
seen, while at the same time grasping desperately at the front of my trousers
to see if it had soaked through from the inside. I was relived that it had
appeared not to, and I busied myself with tucking my shirttail back in, using
its cloth to dry up as much of the sticky damage as I could inside my shorts. I
resolved to get to the nearest boys' room immediately after class to finish the
disastrous cleanup.
Though I didn't give it much thought while absorbed in my own problems, Paul's
situation was probably even more perilous than mine. After all, he had been
completely exposed when he came, his penis naked to the air with nothing to
stop his stuff from getting everywhere. I numbly sensed him cleaning up the
best he could beside me in the dark. Then, he was still.
My head ached. And when I sat back and closed my eyes the room seemed to spin.
What in the world had I just done???? After a few minutes I felt Paul's hand on
mine, as he drew close to me and whispered, "Sorry".
I recoiled involuntarily at his touch. Sorry? "Sorry for what?" I
asked with annoyance in my voice.
"Is that what you wanted to have happen?" he asked quietly in his
soft boyish voice. "Did you want me to do THAT?" he asked, referring
to what had just happened to our bodies minutes before.
My cheeks burned red. Of course I had wanted this to happen. Why the hell else
would I have felt him and unzipped him and exposed him and rubbed his stiff
prick till it shot all over both of us? But why did I want it to have happened?
I couldn't answer my own question with any sense. "No, it's OK" I
muttered in return.
As soon as the lights went on I bolted for the door, holding my books in front
of me to cover the massive stains that I knew were there but that I hadn't even
seen yet. As I reached the door, he was there beside me, nearly a head smaller
than me and gazing up at my face. "I like being with you" he said.
"my favorite time is with you."
Now, so many years later, I wish I could stop the tape and rewind precisely in
time back to this moment, and re-live this situation. Because then, I just
wasn't ready for the emotions I felt.
My face reddened and I felt the anger rise in my neck. I turned from him
quickly and pushed my way through the door. I didn't answer him, and after that
day I never sat next to him in class again. I'd ignore his glance when we'd
pass in the halls. I hated him and what I had imagined he had made me become. I
never spoke to him again, and after graduation just over a year later, we never
saw each other again.
It wasn't till many, many years later when I began to finally accept my
sexuality that I began to feel deep pangs of regret about what happened that
year with Paul. We were both so scared and alone but so similar inside. While
as a young teenager, he appeared then ready to deal with the emotions of it
all, and I would not be ready for nearly another twenty years to confront how I
really was wired inside.
I have looked for him many times using people searches on the 'net, and have
never been able to find him or any trace of his family. I just want to say I am
sorry. Paul, if you are ever reading this, I hope I didn't confuse you like I
am afraid I did. I just couldn't deal with it then.
Telling this story makes me feel better. I know I am not the only one to have
grown up this way, so frightened and ashamed. I have often wondered if I had
admitted my feelings back then how differently my life might have turned out.