Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2011 11:55:34 -0700
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Love, or Sex, or Something Like Them

Disclaimer: this story, because it is one of love and passion, reflects the
physical union of two teenaged boys who fall in love. If you think it is
wrong to read this, I suggest that you don't. If it is illegal to read this
in your country of residence, I can only suggest you do one of two things:
(1) take the risk, or (2) move somewhere a bit more understanding.

Cheers,

Zack

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Love or Sex, or Something Like Them (b/b (13/15), mast)

Clear, bright, sunny mornings always remind me of those first few delicate,
unsure steps into a frightening, but exciting new world. It was like waking
after the apocalypse, a bright new dawn, a ray of light piercing the
darkness which surrounded me and lifting me free into a future where
happiness was possible and life was not always cruel and unkind. Imagine
those cinematic moments where the night has been survived, where humanity
has triumphed, where the good guys have made it, and you're somewhere near
the feelings which flooded through me in those early days. But let me not
get too far ahead of myself. To experience the joy I felt, you must have a
flavour of the darkness, and I will take you there. Not for long, mind you,
but I will give you a flavour.

Strike one was the death of both of my parents. There was always a family
rumour that they'd been killed for money, or something equally
intriguing. I've never discovered any evidence to that effect, but it's a
rather romantic myth, isn't it? Oh, I know what you're thinking - poor lad,
alone in the world, an orphan, and so on. Honestly, at the time I couldn't
care less. I think I'd met my parents about three times before they died,
so it was hardly a terrible shock. At the age of eight I had only ever
known a succession of nannies, while mum and dad continued to live the
exotic party lifestyle they were unwilling to alter in order to do
something quite so mundane as raising their child.

No, the problem with their demise was not so much the loss of family as the
loss of equity. All those around me had expected young master Zachary, on
the death of his parents, to become comfortably well-off. Not, it appeared,
the case. In actual fact, rather than a huge fortune I had been left a huge
debt. My parents' assets were sold off to pay those debts, and by the time
their numerous creditors were satisfied, there was very little left for
me. Cue the end of expensive prep schools, and the exit of the nanny, and
the sudden realisation that there really was very little in the world for
me to hold on to.

I almost went into care. I was with a foster family for three days before
my father's older sister was finally traced, and persuaded to take me
in. It wasn't as though she particularly hated the idea of me living with
her, but we simply didn't know each other. She lived on the south coast of
the UK, surviving on what little she could earn as a cleaner while
desperately seeking her muse. An artist. I hardly knew him to understand
his character, but somehow I knew my father wouldn't have approved, a
suspicion which was quickly confirmed by my aunt.

"Oh, your dad and I never much got on," she said breezily, almost her first
words to me, "but I'm sure things will be different with you, eh?"

I was used to a certain way of living, surrounded by a certain type of
person. Aunt Jane was scatterbrained, flighty and forgetful. Not neglectful
per se, but certainly of an artistic disposition, and hardly perfect parent
material. That's not to say artists can't be great parents, you
understand. Just not Aunt Jane, at least in the mundane 'food on the table,
clothes in the cupboard' kind of a way.

Strike two, returning to my misery, came three years later when, with a bit
of a start, I discovered that I really rather fancied one of the young men
who worked behind the counter in the local butcher's. That came as a bit of
a shock to my eleven year old self, when all is said and done. By this time
life with Aunt Jane was happily carrying on without being particularly
spectacular in any sense, but this sudden realisation and all of the
associated implications rather derailed the train.

Of course I dealt with it in a mature fashion, immediately becoming
obsessed with the idea of getting into a girl's pants. Oh, I know, most
boys that age are desperately trying to get into someone's pants anyway,
but there was a certain mania to my outlook. I must have determined that
the only way to cure myself of my budding homosexuality was to purge it
with a whacking great dose of 'straight'. I wasn't that successful, mind,
even if I managed to get Theresa Simpson to let me feel her up - my dick
was so regrettably limp throughout the experience that she ended up
laughing when she saw it. She didn't tell on me, though. Nice girl.

Strike three, and the ultimate knockout (quite literally), came about nine
months later when, upon finally revealing to someone that I thought I might
be a bit different, things went all too predictably wrong. All I can say is
it seemed like a good idea at the time. There was a sense in the national
media that homosexuality was, if not the norm, at least not entirely the
work of the devil. People were coming out all over the place, and there was
almost a bit of a trend to it. And so I made the decision, one fateful
Tuesday, to announce, in utmost secrecy (well, it was still a bit of a
risk, right?) to my best friend in the entire world that I might prefer
boys to girls.

I woke up two days later in hospital. I don't recall exactly what happened,
and only fractured reports of the truth have ever reached my ears. It
seemed to spread like wildfire, in the sense that not only was the
dispersal of the truth rapid, but it also inflamed all of those it
reached. I was confronted and set upon by a group of twenty or so lads,
including my former friend, who all saw it as their duty to protect
themselves from the faggot. I don't think it was meant to go that far, but
there really was a hint of something animalistic in the boys that day. They
beat me so badly that there is still a soft section in the back of my
skull.

Nothing positive was done, of course. Police interviewed various boys, but
no-one was saying anything, least of all the school, who wanted the whole
thing to go away as quickly as possible. They hung me out to dry - I was
branded a trouble-maker, a known problem child, and summarily expelled for
reasons which were never explained. A paper record from the time simply
says "Expelled for serious breach of school regulations". Apparently being
beaten to within an inch of my life was a serious offence. Or perhaps I was
expelled for being gay.

Whatever the truth of the matter, the reality was easy to see - I could
never return to that school. Nor to any in the area, because it was
well-known local gossip. Aunt Jane suffered for my lack of judgement,
too. Doors which had always been open to her suddenly closed. The stench of
homophobia settled over our little community, and before long one truth
became self-evident: we would have to move.

Aunt Jane should have hated me. She could have resented my very existence,
and right then I wouldn't have blamed her. It was my fault after all. I
didn't need to say anything, and it was my naivety which led to our
ostracism from a community she had lived in for years. But she never once
did so.

So, we packed up and left.

---

She gently reminded me, as I left for the first day of my new school, that
it was best not to say anything to anyone about a certain little thing, a
little thing of which we had not spoken since the day I returned from
hospital. That day, the first day of freedom after four weeks of
white-sheeted imprisonment, she had said,

"Is it true?"

I hadn't asked what. I knew what.

"Yes. Sorry."

She hugged me. "Never be sorry. Never."

Nothing more was said. And now here I was leaving for school again, a new
school, a fresh start, in a new town. Aunt Jane had sold her lovely little
seaside home and bought another, less lovely, slightly less seaside home a
hundred miles along the coast. She never said a thing about it, but I knew
how much it hurt her to leave the life she had built. She was bright and
breezy about the new start, but that simply masked the pain she bore.

---

I had a meeting with the headmaster, Mr Clarke, first thing. He was a
kindly, middle-aged man who welcomed me into his office with a soft 'hello'
and bade me sit. I still remember the chair, bottle green vinyl on a swivel
base, a chair built to adult proportions. It reminded me of the Mastermind
chair - not a great first impression! But he was a kindly man, interested
in what I had to say, not just going through the motions of appearing to be
interested because it was his job to do so. We chatted about this and that,
about my family past, about my current situation, my academic record, the
sports in which I enjoyed participating. In fact, the conversation was so
pleasant that when he brought it around to more recent matters, I was
caught completely off guard.

"So, you were expelled from your last school. Why was that?"

I didn't know what to say. How was I meant to answer that question. Aunt
Jane had already warned me against speaking about the reasons, but here I
was being directly asked a question by the headmaster. Could I lie to him?
Would he know? I hesitated too long.

"It's OK, Zachary, if you don't want to talk about it you don't have to. I
learned what happened from a friend of mine who's on the board of governors
there, but I wanted to hear things in your own words."

I waited a little longer, and then somehow found the words.

"I... I said something I shouldn't of said, and I got beaten up."

"Yes, that was what I was told. Can I ask a very personal question,
Zachary?"

I shrugged. I imagined he would ask anyway, regardless of my answer.

"Zachary, are you homosexual?"

I didn't have a clue how I should respond to that question, either. Making
the declaration of my budding sexuality in my last school had led to the
most dramatic possible consequences. I hadn't changed my mind, either -
this wasn't some 'phase'. But nor was I ready to go down the 'out and
proud' route. Again, it seemed I had hesitated too long. Mr Clarke raised
his hands.

"It's OK, you don't have to tell me anything, Zachary. Nor do you have to
be concerned that your classmates will trouble you. I honestly don't care,
as long as you feel as though you are happy to be here, and don't feel
threatened. It's a subject with which we as a school have had some prior
experience, with, thankfully, a positive outcome."

I didn't respond, and Mr Clarke seemed to sense that I wasn't going to.

"Right," he said, "That's probably all I need to see you about,
Zachary. Miss Templeton outside will show you around the school and get you
settled in."

I stood and, having rather uncertainly shaken his proffered hand, let
myself out of the office. I was white and shaking. Just as I had calmed my
breathing, waiting until Miss Templeton looked up rather than daring to
disturb her, the door opened behind me.

"Ah, Zachary, still here?" said Mr Clarke. "I forgot to say, if you happen
ever to cross paths with James McKinley, you might find him an interesting
person to talk to. Now, off you go."

The door closed again, and nervousness was joined by bewilderment in my
rapidly growing gallery of unwanted emotions.

---

What Mr Clarke said intrigued me, for some reason. It was barely a seed of
an idea sown in my mind, and yet I became rather obsessed by it - who the
hell was James McKinley, and why would I want to talk to him?

I found my place in my class quite quickly, probably one of the brighter
kids, but not outstandingly so. I tried to make myself fairly anonymous for
the most part, and with the complicity of my classmates it worked fairly
well. They were a unit, a just-about-balanced corps of boys and girls, and
I was an interloper. I had no indication at the time, but apparently it was
well known that I had been expelled from my last school, and it was
rumoured that it was because I'd beaten someone up really badly. No-one
asked about the livid scars on my face and forehead, or the fact that I was
excused from PE lessons for the first two terms.

No-one could tell me who James McKinley was, though.

---

I looked up from my homework and caught my aunt staring at me, a half smile
on her face.

"What?"

The smile broadened.

"You're quite cute, aren't you, Zack? All those girls at your school are
going to be disappointed, I'd say."

I scowled at her, whilst at the same time blushing furiously.

"Boys aren't meant to be cute, Aunt Jane, they're meant to be handsome."

"Well, I think cute is important. So, any 'handsome' boys at your new
school?"

I blushed an even deeper red; I could feel my skin prickling. Aunt Jane
seemed quite at home with conversing about my sexuality, but I certainly
wasn't, not just yet. It was easier if I simply didn't think about it. I
didn't respond to her question.

"Sorry, Zack," she said after a few moments' silence. "I thought it might
make things easier if we just chatted about it like it's normal. Look, I
have a couple of friends who know what you're going through, I think. If
you like you could meet one of them."

I stared at her in horror. If I'd been able to express my feelings with the
language I now have at my disposal, I might have explained that I wasn't
just another gay guy, that they probably didn't know what I was going
through, that I didn't see myself that way, I wasn't some sort of
stereotype charity case. Oh, all sorts of things. But right then I was
simply shocked and repelled by the idea.

"I'm not.... I don't.... no," I stammered, then more forcefully, "no!"

Aunt Jane held up her hands to placate me.

"OK, sorry, I didn't realise it was such a touchy subject."

I groaned and picked up my books.

"I'm going to do my homework in my room."

---

I turned thirteen with none of the associated fanfare. I'd told Aunt Jane
that I wanted no fuss to be made, and she seemed to understand I was quite
serious. She complied with my wishes almost too fully.

My sexuality was a constant source of introspection for me at the time. I
was perpetually horny, as I think most boys are at that age, but the things
which intrigued other boys held no fascination for me. Not that any of my
compatriots were given any reason to think otherwise. Nearly six months on
from the beating I had managed to retreat firmly into the closet and closed
the door behind me - no-one was told a thing.

I had to get a fix somehow, though. Masturbation was fun up to a point, but
I needed more than my imagination to fuel my fantasies. I needed something
real. Most boys my age were turning to porno magazines for their kicks, but
the only subject matter anyone could get hold of was soft-core and full of
women only. Pictures of naked men in magazines of the time were
astonishingly rare, at a point in history where Mary Whitehouse was still
peddling her insidious faux moral crusade and hiding her rampant homophobia
behind a banner of 'protecting the kids'. God forbid anyone saw an erect
penis on paper or on film, for instance, or they might become a serial
rapist, or worse, gay. I like to think things have moved on somewhat since
then.

I couldn't see a way of tricking any of Aunt Jane's friends, even the most
openly gay ones, into showing me their stuff. Rumour has it that at least
one of them was such an exhibitionist that he would happily have flashed me
if I'd asked, but what thirteen year old boy is going to ask an effective
stranger to show them his dick? Never going to happen. So instead I
embarked on a far more dangerous course of action.

I had heard all the rumours about the gents' toilets at Cray Park - the
best advice was to stay well clear at all times, but if you absolutely had
to pee, don't go there after dark. I think I implicitly knew what I was
going to find when I ignored the warnings, and find it I did.

It was nearing dusk when I entered the toilet. It smelled disgusting,
unclean, the stench of stale urine pervading throughout. Unsure of what to
do, I walked nervously towards the urinals. The place was empty as far as I
could see, the dim light cast by a single bulb bolted to the low ceiling
casting plenty of shadows. Thankfully I had made the decision to have a
back-up plan, and as I stood there with my dick sticking out through the
fly of my jeans I let loose a healthy stream of piss. I could simply have
been a kid caught short.

I was just beginning to relax into it when I heard the outside door
creaking open, and heavy footfalls on the tiled floor. A man came into view
on my right, a pleasant looking middle aged guy. He could easily have been
one of my teachers with the look he had, and he gave me a lopsided grin
when I glanced over at him. I looked straight back ahead of myself,
mortified that he'd seen me looking around. But fascination and a growing
sense of sexual need forced my gaze over to where his dick stood erect from
the fly of his trousers.

He made no move to hide it from my eyes, just stood there openly wanking,
showing it off to me it seemed. I stared at it, my gaze frozen for what
felt like hours but couldn't have been more than seconds. I looked up at
his face and his eyes were firmly glued on my crotch, and it was then I
realised that he was wanking because he could see my limp little dick. I
panicked, and ran. Literally.

I sprinted all the way home, a fifteen minute walk for anyone not in a
hurry. I was there in no more than five. I bounded up the stairs, past the
startled form of my aunt, and flew into my room. I slammed the door shut
behind me, and flung myself down onto my bed. Instantly I burst into tears,
so full was I with a mixture of fear and self-loathing. It was more than a
thirteen year old boy should have to go through, should have to feel about
himself. That night I cried myself to sleep.

Aunt Jane asked me nothing of it in the morning, but gave me a warm and
understanding smile when I feigned illness.

"I'll go and call the school. You just stay there today."

---

I got a summons to the headmaster's office the following week. It was an
official, typed letter on headed school notepaper, and was handed to me by
my teacher at morning registration, his expression grave. As I scanned down
the page I felt fear welling up inside, rising like a tidal wave until it
washed over me. I felt physically sick. What could I have done to be in
such trouble? The wording left a great deal to the imagination, giving me
no hint as to the possible cause for the meeting. My head was already
whirring with possibilities, the most frightening being that my secret had
been discovered and that I was to be expelled again (for I considered that
a real possibility), by the time I had scanned to the bottom of the page
and found a tiny little scrawl in blue ink. It read "Don't worry! -
E.L.T.".

The author of the added note I took to be Miss Templeton, the headmaster's
secretary, because she her signature on the headmaster's behalf on the main
body of the letter looked as though it might read 'Emma Templeton'. Her
attempt to reassure me did little to calm my nerves, however, which
continued to build through the day. The meeting was arranged for after
school that very day, and so at lunchtime I found a payphone and called my
aunt, telling her that I would be home late, only to discover that Miss
Templeton had already done so.

The rest of the afternoon I spent thoroughly distracted, failing to pay any
attention to my lessons because my mind was occupied daydreaming about the
horrific fate which awaited me in the headmaster's office. Come the end of
lessons I was a bag of nerves, and those of my friends I had told about the
letter patted me on the back, showing solidarity with the dead man
walking. None would accept that I had no idea what I had done wrong, and
plenty of opinions were voiced about what secret I might be hiding, but as
I was about to discover none of them hit close to the mark.

I wandered along the long, glass-walled corridor which due to a fluke of
architecture separated the offices from the main school building. A pond,
full of tall reeds and with a young willow at its edge lay to the right,
and to the left the view gave out over the school playing fields. I stepped
heavily, like a man condemned, taking my final walk to the gallows. With
each footfall the dread grew deeper in me, to the point that I wondered if
it would be possible for me to continue, but by some superhuman effort I
made it to the waiting room outside the head's office, where Miss Templeton
greeted me with a warm, motherly smile and asked if I would like a glass of
water. I refused, and took my place waiting on the row of chairs which
stood outside Mr Clarke's inner office.

A few moments later, an older boy also arrived. He looked a little more
cheerful, and I wondered whether he was to be punished, too. He greeted
Miss Templeton respectfully, but also like an old associate, someone with
whom he had clearly spent a lot of time sitting in this room. I wondered
how much of a trouble-maker he must be. he sat down a couple of chairs away
from me, gave me a silent 'hi!' and a wave of his hand, and then proceeded
to ignore me.

Seconds ticked by on the large wall clock to our right. Each tick seemed
louder than the last, until the sound threatened to engulf me, to drive me
insane. I wanted to rip that clock down from the wall and stamp on it
repeatedly until it spilled its gears like blood on the floor. I daydreamed
about pulling it down and throwing it through the plate glass window of the
office into the pond, still visible beyond.

Just as the tension reached boiling point and I felt the legs in my muscles
begin to twitch unbidden, the door opened and there was Mr Clarke, beaming
at us as if out mere presence had made his day.

"Come in, boys, come in. Sorry to have kept you."

I rose mechanically and followed him into the room, now more confused than
ever. The other boy came, too, though he showed no signs if distress. Mr
Clarke turned to use and spoke,

"Don't bother sitting down, I won't keep you long. I just thought you two
ought to meet, maybe have a chat or something. Zachary McNaught, this is
James McKinley."

I turned woodenly to the older boy standing next to me. He looked about
fifteen or sixteen, maybe a fourth or fifth former. He gave me a wry smile
and extended a hand. I shook it, and felt for the first time in my life a
genuine shiver run down my spine at the touch of someone's skin on my
own. But I was too worked up by nerves to consider for a moment what that
might mean.

"Well, that's it, really," Mr Clarke said, his voice still light and
airy. "Mr McKinley, I'd like you to talk to Zachary about a few things. I'm
sure you can guess why I'm calling on your particular expertise, and as you
know you do owe me a favour or two."

James was smiling again, this time with the defeated look of someone who is
being forced to do something they would rather avoid.

"Of course, sir. I understand."

"Right, good. Off you go, then," Mr Clarke said, moving to open the door
and usher us out.

---

We left the office together, though our destinations were, for now, quite
different. James was smiling ruefully and shaking his head.

"He treats me like a little pet project, you know," he said as we walked
along the corridor back toward the main school building. "Always showing me
off to people and getting me to do tricks."

"Um..." I said, speaking up for the first time, my curiosity finally
overcoming my nervousness. "Why?"

"Can't you tell?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, I'm not very good at things like that, all in code
and things."

He laughed. "Yeah, it was a bit like that, wasn't it? Like a secret spy
meeting or something. So you have no idea why he wanted us to meet?"

"No, nothing. He said when I started that I should talk to you, but then
no-one knew who you were, so I couldn't. And he didn't say why. Do you like
cricket? I said I liked cricket in the meeting we had."

James laughed again, this time genuinely amused. I could feel myself
blushing furiously.

"Yeah, but I bat for the other team!"

I still had no idea what he was talking about. The euphemism meant nothing
to me, gave me no further hint.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he asked. "Why did you get expelled from
your last place?"

"I wasn't -" I began, but he cut across me.

"Everyone knows you got chucked out, mate, so there's no point trying to
deny it. So, who did you beat up?"

I realised that there was little point hiding the truth any longer. And
besides, something about James' manner put me at ease; he was certainly
nicer than most fourth-formers.

"Me."

"What?"

"I got myself beaten up."

"What? That doesn't make any sense. Cut the bullshit, mate."

"I said something which got me beaten up. They said it was my fault and
that it was safer for me to not be there, and then they said I was expelled
for 'inviting violence' or something."

"I think you mean 'inciting'," he said, and then suddenly stopped in the
middle of the corridor. I carried on a few metres before noticing, then
stopped and turned to face him. He had the strangest look on his face.

"Wait a minute. What did you say to them?"

I froze to the spot, unable to move. He advanced on me.

"You came out, didn't you? You told people you're gay."

I expected there to be anger in his face, but there was something
else. Pain. Pity, perhaps. Something else, too, something I couldn't
read. By now he was standing close in front of me. I couldn't move,
couldn't respond to his questions. I just stared at him, mute. His voice
when he next spoke was soft, quiet, and broken with emotion.

"They beat you up because you're gay, didn't they?"

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes and he wiped them out.

"Didn't they?" he repeated. "You poor kid."

I nodded only very slightly. His arms engulfed me, drew me into him,
crushed my face against his chest. I could feel the sobs racking his body,
and they triggered tears of my own. Thank God the school was deserted.


End of Part 1

More to come, including the really naughty bits. Patience, grasshopper. But
in the meantime, feel free to encourage me to write, by writing to me:
zackmcnaught@hotmail.com. Also on Twitter: @zackmcnaught