This
story
concerns teenage gay males who are
involved in sexual situations. If it is illegal for you to read such
stories,
or if you do not like to read such stories, please leave now.
This story
is copyright 2006 by the author
who retains all rights.
This is a
work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This
is my second submission to Nifty. This is a
continuation of “Kiel’s Story”
which was last posted on 7/24/06. It is not
necessary to read “Kiel’s Story”
to enjoy this, but it may help you
understand where the character relationships started. Any comments or
questions
are welcome at: carl_holiday@att.net
A warm
thank you goes out to all who’ve
written. I appreciate knowing someone is actually reading this stuff. I
try to
respond to all, including flames, but time is precious in my life, so
if I
didn’t answer yours, please accept my apology.
Tim and the Corsair
by Carl Holiday
Chapter 4 – Wanted, A Friend . . .
Tim
had been gone a
week and
the Fairy Table was a lonely place to eat lunch. One table, six chairs,
two
occupants who didn’t talk to each other. It had always been a place for
outcasts and now it was plain to see who were the most unpopular
sophomores at
North Park High.
Naturally, a
suspected queer
had to sit at the table. Where else were the fairies supposed to sit?
The other
occupant was a victim. People hate victims, especially those who are
popular
one moment and not the next. Mark always sat across from me, even when
the
table had been full of friends. And, we continued to sit in the last
two seats
next to the window. The three of us, the bronze fairy in the atrium,
the
suspected fairy, and the victim ate lunch quietly, not saying a word,
not
acknowledging another’s presence, trying to appear inconspicuous in a
hell hole
of innuendo.
I thought I was
pathetic, but
Mark Patterson was much worse than me. He’d been a football hero Friday
night
standing in the glow of admiration from practically the whole school
and by
Monday morning was suspected of being the worse kind of person in the
world, a
homosexual. And, why? Because, according to his ex-girlfriend, he had
sex with
another boy.
But, Mark hadn’t
had sex with
one boy, no his case was much worse. He’d had sex with a man and five
other
boys. Sounds pretty damning when you look at it like that. In reality,
Mark had
been brutalized by his football coach, the quarterback, three running
backs,
and a wide receiver for his association with me. Can’t be a football
hero and
friends with the school’s suspected gay boy. Didn’t matter to them that
we
weren’t friends. We sat at the same table, when to movies, and
generally hung
out together. Didn’t matter that we were together because Monica,
Mark’s now
ex-girlfriend, was also my closest friend in school. Mark and I hung
out
together because both of us were with Monica.
So, Mark sat at the
Fairy
Table accused of being a homosexual. He was no longer a football hero.
Quite
the contrary, he was accused of destroying the career of a popular
football
coach and the futures of five popular teammates. Didn’t matter that
they almost
killed him. He didn’t have a friend in the world, or at least at North
Park High School.
I wasn’t his
friend. I
tolerated Mark because he was Monica’s boyfriend. Now, we sat at the
table
simply out of habit and due to the fact neither of us were welcome at
any of
the other tables. Kids can be cruel and our classmates were no
exception.
It was the Monday
before
Thanksgiving and the school’s rumor mill was going crazy from an
article in the
morning paper. It seems Tim’s parents had been found dead in their home
on Lake Mallard. According to the paper both had been killed
by a
single gunshot wound in the head. “Execution style” was the description
used by
paper. Nothing was missing from the house. The paper also identified
them as
the local porn king and queen, purveyors of illicit sexual products,
including
movies, books, magazines and sexual aids. The police were not ruling
out
involvement by some sort of organized criminal group.
But, that wasn’t
the subject
of Mark’s conversation with me. Since we never just talked, I was
somewhat
started when he said, “I’m letting you off the hook. I’ve decided
forcing you
to have sex with me makes me no different than what those bastards did
to me.”
“Okay,” I said. I
wasn’t
going to do it anyway, so he just gave me an easier out.
“But, I need your
help. I
know you’ve attempted suicide a couple times and I was wondering what’s
the
best way to do it.”
I might have
crapped my pants
if he had asked me that before his attacked, but I knew he wasn’t doing
well in Coventry, it takes a strong personality to be forced
to be
alone. He had me, but who wants a queer for a friend when you’ve been
accused
of being the same thing. No use in having everyone in school saying, “I
told
you so. He’s buddy-buddy with Geoff now.”
I looked at him,
something I
didn’t normally do at all during lunch. Heck, the bronze fairy out in
the
atrium was friendlier than Mark. It had this smile that reminded me of
a little
kid who’d just filled its diaper, or the smile you get when you’ve had
one heck
of an orgasm. Mark was chewing his lower lip, definitely the sign of
someone
contemplating some sort of exit strategy. So, I said, “Depends on how
much pain
you’re willing to put up with until you lose consciousness. But, you
know,
Mark, killing yourself isn’t going to make the bastards like you. What
you need
is a friend, one friend. That’s all you need.”
“Who’s going to be
my friend?
The whole school hates me.”
“I don’t hate you,”
I said.
He was right, though. I think nearly everyone at North Park hated him,
even if they didn’t know him. He
could walk up to twenty
random students of each of the four grades and probably get the same
answer the
question, “Hi, I’m Mark Patterson and I want to be your friend.” It
wouldn’t
be, “Hey that’s great, I’d like to be your friend, too.” Probably more
along
the lines of, “Get away from me fucker,” if the person was trying to be
nice.
“Yeah, but you’re
sitting at
this table, too.”
“Well, how about a
friend
that had a different lunch period? He, or she, wouldn’t have to be in
your presence
at school. No use in ruining another student’s fragile ego.”
“Where am I going
to find
someone like that?”
How indeed? How do
you go
about finding a friend when probably most of the people who associate
with hate
your guts because you got the football coach suspended, or worse, hate
you
because someone sad you might be a ho-mo-sex-u-al. I could’ve let this
slide
by, but I needed something to do to keep my mind off Tim and, now, who
killed
his parents.
“How about if I
found you a
friend?” I asked. I didn’t have the foggiest idea how I was going to do
this,
but it sounded like a challenge.
“What another
faggot?” Mark
asked. I sighed and he noticed, but didn’t seem to catch on. “I rather
kill
myself than be a friend of someone you found. And, what about that? How
should
I go about killing myself?”
“How about I get
you someone
to talk to?”
“About what? I’m
not going to
have a faggot for a friend.”
“No, I want you to
talk to
someone about suicide,” I said. Why was I saying this? I’m often trying
to do
the same thing, but at least I talk to someone, someone who is coming
quite
close to being my new daddy. God, I hated that thought, almost enough
to kill
myself; almost, but not quite.
“Look, just tell me
how to do
it, okay?”
“Well, did you ever
read For
Whom the Bell Tolls? There’s a really interesting method in there.
Not
supposed to be too painful and there’s no turning back once you’ve
started.
Kind of messy, though.”
“You know English
Lit isn’t
my best subject. And, I’m definitely not going to read Hemingway.”
“How do you know
Hemingway
wrote that?”
“My brother had to
read it
last year. He says all the seniors at North Park have to
read it.”
I felt kind of
strange trying
to talk him out of killing himself; and, I wasn’t about to tell him how
to do
it. I definitely didn’t need to be mentioned in his suicide note, “p.s.
Geoff
Johnson told me how to do it.” No, I needed to figure a way of stalling
him
long enough to find him a friend, how ever I was going to do that.
“Look, Mark, I want
to help
you, okay? And, not by telling you how to off yourself. You can figure
that
out, yourself. You’re bright, you’ll figure a good way, a good show for
the
bastards, too. I tell you what. If I can’t find you a friend, I’ll help
you
kill yourself.”
“Well, okay, but I
can’t take
much more of this silent treatment.”
“How about if I
convince
Monica to talk to you?”
“After what that
bitch did to
me, why would I want to talk to her?”
“Because she was
your
girlfriend and knows more about you than I do.”
“Yeah, well, she’s
still a
bitch and I don’t know if I want to talk to her. Find me someone else
to talk
to. I’ll give you a month, but no more. If I don’t have a friend by
Christmas,
I want you to tell me how to kill myself.”
“Now, that’ll be a
wonderful
gift for your parents. Maybe they’ll drape your coffin with boughs and
holly.”
“Oh, shut up!”
First it was the
threat of
sex and now Mark was threatening me with assisting in his suicide; and,
some
people think I’m crazy. What I couldn’t figure out was how to find Mark
a
friend because the last thing I wanted was this lonely boy hanging
around my
house threatening me with some stupid idea. I thought of myself as nice
and
likeable, but being around someone who only recently lived solely for
football
was stretching my ability to like him.
I was in fifth
period English
at the time. Lazily trying to pay attention to the class discussion of
some
rainy, dreary boring novel by Hardy when I saw two men get out of a big
black
car, it must have been a Cadillac, and walk into the front door of the
school.
Both were wearing dark suits and there was something about the way they
walked
that made me feel uncomfortable, kind of like the feeling I got when
the two
toughs first approached me on the bridge, before they knifed me. That
queasy
feeling you get about some people who you know are not nice and you
probably
should get away from them.
“Geoff, would you
like to
join the discussion?” Mrs. Sanderson asked. She was okay for an English
teacher, but wasn’t smart enough for someone who’d already read all of
Hardy
and still didn’t like him.
“Oh, sure, where
are we?” I
said. I didn’t care, but I played the good student for awhile, until
the two
men walked back to their car. One was taller and bigger than the other,
like a
lineman, like a tight end like Mark. He was clenching one of his fists
like he
was about ready to strangle someone with only one hand. The other one
was stiff
like he hadn’t been told the information he needed.
“Geoff, the bell’s
rung and
your classmates have gone,” Mrs. Sanderson said. “I want fifty pages on
Thomas
Hardy. I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something before
tomorrow’s
class.”
Let your mind
wander for a
few minutes and WHAM! get slammed with a fifty page essay. Who said
being in
honors English was easy?
“Okay, I’ll come up
with
something,” I said, grabbing my books and heading for the door. “I
certainly
need the typing practice.”
“Make that one
hundred
pages.”
“Okay, okay.”
Definitely not the
brightest
bulb in the teachers’ lounge, but Mrs. Sanderson certainly could come
up with
good punishment. Nothing like a one hundred page essay on an author you
don’t
like to get one in the mood for something. Only, I didn’t know what
something I
was in the mood for.
After seven period
study
hall, I walked to my locker wondering how I was going to get the essay
done and
talk to Monica about getting friendly with Mark. Girls were so
complicated. One
minute you think you’ve got them figured out, then they change course
and
you’re more confused than before. Monica was a nice friend, I’d known
her since
fourth grade when she decided I was going to be her boyfriend and we
were going
to grow up and get married, after college and I became a famous New
York lawyer or something. That lasted until
halfway
through sixth grade when she decided there was no future in a boy who
wasn’t
into sports, at all. She was definitely going for muscles over brains,
even
back then.
The back of my mind
kept busy
with figuring out what I was going to say about Hardy, while the rest
of it was
figuring out what I was going to say to Monica. Unfortunately, that
didn’t
leave a whole lot left to help me pay attention to the world around me.
I don’t
know how I got out of the school and down to the bus stop. I didn’t
even notice
there weren’t any other students waiting with me. I certainly didn’t
notice the
big black car pull up.
“Hey, kid, are you
Geoff
Johnson?” A voice broke my overly active concentration.
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
Well, of
course I was.
“Get in the
backseat,” the
voice said. Thomas Hardy was working his way to the front, pushing
Monica out
of the way and I wasn’t paying attention to anything.
“I said, get in the
backseat,” the voice said. It was a .45 caliber pistol. My father owned
one.
Mother sold it after dad died. It killed. It didn’t wound. It was
pointed at
me.
I stared at the
barrel. Then
my eyes went to the hand holding the pistol. They were adult hands, the
nails
were short and clean. There was the cuff of a white shirt, the cufflink
was
diamond studded gold, it sparkled in the late afternoon sun. My eyes
followed
the arm up along the dark suit to a face that sent chills down my
spine. That
was definitely the face of a criminal. I’d met enough of them in the
county
psych ward to know that face. That was the face of a man who could kill
a
sixteen year old boy and then have a beer in some tavern with a buddy
as if
killing a boy was an everyday kind of thing.
“Get in the car,”
the voice
said.
To die or not to
die, that
was my option; or, I think that was my option. I knew what crazy was
and this
man was definitely psycho material. I got in the car.
I suppose they
might have
been policemen, except I knew policemen didn’t drive big black
Cadillacs. It
was a nice car, probably rented. It smelled new. The Thomas Hardy part
of my
brain was still working out the possibilities of the essay, so I wasn’t
paying
too much attention to where we were going. I was definitely not being a
good
kidnap victim. Then, again, I wasn’t tied, gagged, or blindfolded,
either.
These men had too much confidence for that. A picture came to my mind
of Tim’s
father on his knees with the barrel of a .45 caliber automatic pressed
against
the back of his head. The car came to a stop before the gun went off.
“Get out of the
car,” the man
with the gun said.
I was still too
interested in
Thomas Hardy to pay much attention. Suddenly, I was being pulled out of
the car
by the other man, the big man I’d seen walking out of the school. It
was as if
he’d practiced this maneuver. I was sitting in the car, then POOF! I
was
standing on the sidewalk. My arm and shoulder were sore.
I still wasn’t
being a good
kidnap victim, but did notice we were out near the foundry, somewhere
down past
the springs near where the old sawmill had been. I was being half
pulled, half
forced to walk into a building that might have been a garage or
something,
cinderblock, with steel doors, no windows. Inside it was dark. The
floor was
concrete. It was surprisingly clean, but looked like there were blood
stains. I
hoped they weren’t blood stains, but they looked like blood stains.
“Okay, this is the
deal,” the
man with the gun said. “We’re looking for Tim Chambers and we know you
know
where he is. Or, if you don’t, you know who we can talk to to find Tim
Chambers.”
I swallowed, air
mostly. I
needed to pee. Why is it you always have to pee when something
important is
happening?
“For the record and
so you
can tell us apart, I’m Mr. Smith and this is my associate Mr. Jones.
Now, Geoff
Johnson, where is Tim Chambers?”
I looked at them,
one then
the other. They weren’t the Smith and Jones type, something more
European, East
European.
“Okay, kid, I guess
we’re
going to have to do it the hard way,” Mr. Smith said, unbuttoning his
suit coat
and taking out the pistol. He placed it on a small table and hung his
coat on a
wooden chair. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Mr. Jones, assist
our young
friend with removing his garments.”
Mr. Jones took out
a
switchblade knife. I’d never actually seen such a knife, but when the
long,
very sharp appearing blade snapped out, I guessed it was a switchblade
knife.
He said, “Do I cut them off, trying very hard not to nick you, or are
you gong
to do it yourself?”
I started
unbuttoning my
shirt. It took me a while, but I was soon naked. The concrete floor
felt cold
to my feet. I was definitely embarrassed, but these men didn’t seem to
care. I
didn’t think it would help my case, but I said, “I don’t know where Tim
is.”
The pain was sharp
and
instantaneous, but not terribly severe. It was near my left kidney. I
cringed
and almost stumbled to the floor.
“Didn’t your mother
ever
teach you children are not to speak unless spoken to?” Mr. Smith asked.
His
face never showed any emotion. It was the face of someone who laughed
at the
wrong jokes. “You have noticed Mr. Jones is very good at inflicting
pain. That
is his job in this little venture of ours. Pain is a wonderful tool for
getting
information. Used correctly, pain can reveal a lot of things. Used
incorrectly
the victim dies or gets too brave and then goes nuts. My job is to ask
questions, gather information. You will also notice I have the gun. I
shoot
people for a living, but we’re not going to shoot you, Geoff. No, we
need
information and you’re going to give it to us.”
I shivered from the
cold. I
still needed to pee. I might have needed to shit, too, but not right
then. I
was scared. I was very scared. I didn’t want to be in so much pain, but
I
didn’t think I was lucky not to have to worry about being shot. They
weren’t
going to put me out of my misery. I, also, didn’t know where Tim was.
“Where’s Tim?”
“I don’t know.”
Pain, more pain
than the
first time, but not as bad as I expected. Mr. Jones was definitely good
at
this. He was smiling. His instrument of pain looked like a pool cue. It
was a
pool cue. Not only could he hit me, a poke from the pointy end in the
right
place could be excruciating.
The questions
continued. The
pain increased. I don’t exactly remember when I peed, but I remember my
bladder
emptying and hearing one of them chuckle as if he expected me to pee. I
can’t
remember when I collapsed to my knees, but I remember being down there,
the
cold concrete hard against my skin. I know I told them all about what
Tim told
me, I remember that. I don’t know when my bowels gave way. I think it
was sometime
after I told them about Jerry and Jerry calling me, but it might have
been
before.
I lost track of
time. My
world was being measured with a question, an answer, and a brief moment
of
pain. Question, answer, pain. Question, answer, pain. I know I was
bleeding, I
felt it trickling down my body, but Mr. Jones was very good at keeping
me just
aware enough to answer each of the questions, eventually to their
liking. Somewhere
in all of that agony, I stopped thinking of what I was going to write
about
Thomas Hardy.
Then I wasn’t aware
of
anything.
--------------
I wasn’t in County General when I woke up. That much I was certain. It
was
definitely a hospital, but not County General. I was alone. As
awareness slowly took its
time I saw
the IV bottles and the tube coming down towards me. I looked at my hand
and
arm, but didn’t see where they put the needle. Then I felt something on
my
neck. There was an IV in my neck. You have to be pretty bad to have an
IV in
your neck. My mind slowly started taking inventory. Two hands, two
arms, chest,
abdomen, catheter, two feet. The legs must have been there because I
could
wiggle my toes, but they seemed apart as if there was a gap between the
catheter and my toes. You, also, have to be pretty bad to have a
catheter. I’ve
been there, I know.
What I didn’t know
was where
I was. I knew I was alive; or, I suspected I was alive. I didn’t want
this to
be my own personal Hell. Forever plumbed to a catheter. Spending
eternity with
wiggling toes somewhere past the end of my body.
I went back to
sleep.
When I woke again
someone was
cleaning me, I think. I felt a warm wash cloth rubbing against my body.
I
opened my eyes and saw the hand and its arm, then the body it was
attached to.
The covers had been pulled back and I was naked. I saw the tube in the
end of
my dick. My legs were bruised and bandaged. I thought I saw a stitch or
two.
“Good morning,
Geoff,” a
voice said, probably the nurse ministering to my body. “It’s the
morning after
Thanksgiving. If you’re a good boy, I think the doctor will take out
the
catheter. I know you’ll want to get up.”
“Where am I?”
“West Ward, Room
509, North Park Memorial.”
“Oh.”
“You were
transferred here
from County General three days ago. I heard there was some
concern about
your safety down there.”
“I know some of the
staff.
They don’t like me.”
“Well, I’m sure
you’ll find
us to be very likeable.”
I still hadn’t seen
the
nurse’s face, just the arm and the uniform, which was more of a jacket
than a
blouse or dress. Then he turned to me. He smiled. The nametag said,
“John
Allen, RN.”
“Don’t look so
shocked, guys
can be nurses, too.”
I went back to
sleep.
Doctor Randall
allowed Sam to
come in and stay with me while I spent the weeks between Thanksgiving
and
Christmas, at home. Another month away from school, my sophomore year
wasn’t
going very well. Of course, that didn’t stop the teachers from sending
work home
and it gave Monica a chance to be with me more often as she shuttled
the
schoolwork back and forth.
The police weren’t
all that
helpful, but then North
Park’s finest weren’t
that helpful to anyone, ever. If you
were going to be the victim of a crime, most people in North Park knew
it was best to be in Seattle or out in the county somewhere. The police
were
working on the theory I was beaten up because I was gay. It was easier
because
the whole world was suspect. They took my descriptions of the two men,
the
place where I was tortured, and the big black Cadillac, but they seemed
too
perfunctory in their questions and the notes they were taking. I was
just
another gay boy who got beat up, an everyday event, something expected,
something normal.
Only, my injuries
weren’t
what someone would expect from a regular beating. Mine were very
specific.
Someone with a trained eye could have seen that. Doctor Randall brought
in a
private investigator, who took one look at me and called the State
Police. They
seemed particularly interested in my description of Mr. Jones. Seems
there was
a body in the morgue in Olympia
that fit that description. The man was wanted on a number of warrants
from back
East. He was known to various public servants as someone good at
inflicting
pain. He’d been shot with a .45 caliber bullet, execution style. Maybe,
Mr.
Smith no longer needed Mr. Jones’ assistance in their little venture. I
hoped
they hadn’t found Tim, or Jerry.
A cracked kneecap,
a couple
broken ribs, a broken collar bone, many bruises, and a lot of
interesting knife
wounds, that was the extent of my injuries. My doctor seemed
particularly
interested in the knife wounds. He said they were targeted at specific
sensitive areas of the body where the right kind of wound would produce
a lot
of pain. He said, “Most of these aren’t that deep, they stay right at
the
surface where most of the nerve endings are. Whoever did this to you,
knew what
they were doing.”
I’m certain Mr.
Jones and Mr.
Smith would have agreed with him.
Three days before
Christmas,
Mark showed up at our front door. He certainly looked better than he
did before
Thanksgiving. Sam brought him up to my room where I was camped out on
my bed.
With my right arm braced up so my collar bone could heal and my left
leg in a
cast so my kneecap could heal, I did not move about well; usually,
staying put
most of the time in one location, either upstairs or down. Maybe if I’d
been
more athletic I could get around better, but I wasn’t, so I didn’t.
“Hey, is that Tim’s
Corsair?”
Mark asked, almost as soon as he came into the room.
“Yeah, he gave it
to me
before he left, sort of something to remind me of him. How do you know
about
the Corsair?”
“I helped him build
it when
we were in seventh grade.”
“You’re kidding,
right?”
“No, me and Tim go
way back.
Kindergarten, I think. At least to first grade. I’m sorry about your
beating.”
“I wasn’t beaten
up,” I said.
He was still standing by my bookshelf where the Corsair took up space
formerly
occupied by my collection of Hardy Boys books. “Are you going to sit
down, or
is this a short visit?”
“I came to thank
you for
getting Monica to talk to me, again,” Mark said as he sat down on the
end of my
bed, turning to face me. “And, I want to say that I’m not thinking
about
killing myself.”
“That’s good,” Sam
said. He
looked at me, but I shrugged. I figured Mark would get around to
explaining if
he wanted to.
“Yeah, I told Geoff
to find
me a friend before Christmas or he had to help me commit suicide. Kind
of
crazy, if you think about it, but with Monica talking to me again, I
guess it’s
okay I don’t have a friend.”
“I’ll be your
friend,” Sam
said.
“You’re a faggot
and Geoff’s
friend.”
“Guilty on both
counts, but I
can still be your friend.”
“I don’t want no
faggots for
friends.”
“Scared of me?”
“I’m not scared of
nobody.”
“You know me, Mark,
you’ve
been to my house with Tim.”
“Yeah, well, Tim’s
a faggot,
too.”
“He’s your friend.”
“Was my friend.”
“Was? What
happened?”
“I found out his
was a faggot
and I stopped being his friend.”
“Just like that.”
“Yeah, just like
that.”
I watched these two
go at it.
Sam trying to wheedle his way into Mark’s heart and Mark doing his
damnedest to
keep away. He certainly had a bad attitude to gay boys and I was
certain Sam
was going to get Mark mad enough to do something really stupid like try
to hit
one of us. He wouldn’t have trouble with me, but I wasn’t certain how
much of
this hate Sam could take. It got so bad I was positive one of them was
going to
hit the other, but then Mark suddenly changed tactics and I didn’t know
where
he was going.
“Look, Sam, I don’t
like boys
who like boys.”
“You like boys.”
“Not the way you
like them.”
“I like you and I
want to be
your friend. I’m not asking you to kiss me and I’m certainly not going
to touch
you in anyway you don’t want. What kind of movies do you like?”
“He likes
brainless,
screwball, comedies, Three Stooges,” I said.
“What a
coincidence, I do
too,” Sam said.
“You do?” I asked.
“Yeah, the funnier
the
better. You know, Mark, there’s a Three Stooges movie at the Crest this
weekend. We could go. It would give us a chance to get to know one
another.”
Mark looked
stunned, that
deer in the headlights look. He was definitely wavering.
“How about it,
Mark?”
“Just you?”
“Just me. You have
a car?”
“No, I haven’t
taken Driver’s
Ed yet, but my brother can take us.”
“Saturday?”
“Yeah, Saturday is
okay. You
have a phone number?”
“I’m staying here
with Geoff.
He needs my help.”
And, that was it,
Mark had a
friend, or at least someone to go to stupid movies with him.
After Mark left,
Sam came
back upstairs. He was shaking his head.
“First thing I
going to do is
get him to stop calling us faggots,” Sam said, sitting down on my bed
and his
hand on my thigh. It felt warm, especially when he started to lightly
rub my
leg.
“Good luck, he
probably
picked that up at home.”
“No, that’s the
strange thing
about it. I know his family. None of them are close to acting anything
like
him. I even think he’s got an uncle who might be queer, he’s certainly
swishy
enough to be.”
“I know men like
that who
have families. Swishy doesn’t mean gay.”
“Yeah, well, Uncle
Norbert is
so much like a fairy they have to keep the windows closed when he comes
over.”
“What?”
“They’re afraid
he’ll fly
away.”
“Ha ha, very funny,
ha ha.
That’s about as bad as Mark calling us faggots.”
Sam’s hand was in
my crotch.
It had never been that high before. We’d kissed some, but hadn’t come
close to
anything sexual, what with me being laid up with plaster all over my
body. I
felt my zipper being pulled down. The button at the top of my jeans was
released. I didn’t want to say anything, afraid to break the spell.
“You don’t mind, do
you?” Sam
asked as he pulled my pants and briefs down to my ankles.
“No,” I whispered.
“Good, because I’m
in a
faggoty mood.”
He lowered his
mouth and
sucked in one of my balls. I spread my legs a little more and he began
to lick
the tender area behind my ball sack. I closed my eyes not wanting the
magic to
go away. My cock felt warm and wet as Sam’s mouth enveloped it. His
lips firm
against my hardness, his tongue swirling, teasing, exciting me, I
wanted to
hold his head, run my fingers through his hair, but I kept my eyes
closed, not
wanting to watch.
I couldn’t take
much more,
but Sam was insatiable. His fingers massaged my balls, squeezing,
prodding,
sending me places I hadn’t seen in weeks. His mouth, lips, and tongue
worked up
and down the length of my cock and his head bobbed up and down drawing
me
deeper into his throat. I didn’t want to come, I didn’t want these
feelings to
stop, but I couldn’t hold it back. The tingling between my legs, the
burning
sensation at the tip of my cock, my whole body shuddering as the orgasm
overwhelmed me. He took the first shot on the down stroke and pulled me
back
into his throat as more come spewed out of me. He was swallowing me. I
wanted
him.
“Fuck me,” I
whispered. “I
want your faggot dick up my ass. I want it now.”
With my leg and arm
covered
in plaster it wasn’t practical to do it on the bed, so I stood up and
bent over
as much as I could while Sam lubed his dick. He came up behind me and
placed
his dick head at my opening. I waited as warm hands massaged my back. I
opened
myself and Sam entered me, not stopping until he was all the way in. He
held me
against him, pulling me up slightly. Then pulled out a few inches and
slowly
thrust in.
Fingers were
pinching my
nipples as the tempo increased. He was pounding my ass with short,
rapid
thrusts. I looked down and I was hard, again. There was nothing to do
except
shut my eyes and keep the magic going. I imagined his lips pressed
against
mine, his tongue playfully exciting me. I imagined seeing his face as
his
orgasm overpowered him. I imagined reaching up and pinching his
nipples. My
dick throbbed as another orgasm suddenly overtook my awareness. I
hadn’t
touched it, yet long ropes of come shot out splattering onto the
linoleum.
Sam was holding me
tight as
he shoved his engorged cock deep inside me. I could feel it jerking as
volleys
of come flowed into me. I wanted his lips on mine, but accepted two
fingers
that inadvertently passed my mouth as his hands began to caress my
face. I drew
in the fingers sucking on them, softly biting, not knowing what I was
doing.
Sam stayed inside me as our bodies slowly came down from heights of
pleasure.
This was more than I ever expected when Sam said he wanted to be my
lover. This
was everything I wanted from Kiel, but never got.
I felt his come
begin to
dribble down my thigh and said, “Hey, lover, you’ve got a mess to clean
up.”
“Anything for my
lover,” he
said taking some tissues and squatting down behind me. His hand gently
held my
leg to steady him as the other hand went about wiping up his come. He
took a
few more tissues and knelt down on the floor to wipe up my come.
“You’ve got a nice
looking
ass,” I said, hobbling over to my bed. “I wish I could come down their
and kiss
it.”
I thought of Tim’s
ass and
felt sad. I didn’t know if he was dead or hiding out somewhere with
Jerry’s
friends. I wanted him now, even though I’d had the most wonderful time
with
Sam. I looked at the Corsair on the bookshelf and began to cry.