Chapter One
Chubby and I live in the Northeast, a suburb of Boston named Framingham, Massachusetts. This morning, we're on our way to high school, tempting fate by taking the shortcut down Circle Avenue. If I found my homework quicker this morning, we wouldn't have had to use the shortcut. We congratulated ourselves on surviving our run past the ferocious brown and black German Sheppard with its bared, shark's teeth, its head as big as a watermelon, and it's scary, loud, deep throaty growl charging at us at a hundred miles an hour. It's on the flimsiest rope that somehow stopped her two feet from our asses.
I almost peed myself when it was charging down the driveway, and then Chubby yelled, "Oh, Dear Mother of God!" when that monster hit the end of the rope and flipped over on its broad back. Too bad it didn't break its fucking neck, but it got right back up to begin barking loud enough to wake the dead.
We quickly jogged away as an old lady screeched out, "Stop teasing my dog! Fucking kids in this neighborhood!!" Chubby and I exchanged terrified looks, and then he silently mouthed, "This is your fault, Dylan." I nodded to acknowledge that it was indeed my fault, and we ran hard and were almost off Circle Avenue and onto the main drag when that fat fuck, Freddy Chavez, stuck his foot out and tripped Chubby. We didn't see the prick sitting there on a stool in front of his car, waxing it or, who knows what he was doing. Freddy says, "Oops, the little fairy fell down and got a boo-boo."
I'm horrified, rushing over to Chubby as Freddy yells, "Chico, get the fuck out here. These two smartasses were teasing our old lady's dog again".
Chubby had gone down hard and slid four feet on the cement sidewalk. His jeans ripped at both knees, blood seeping out of the brush burns. He yelled at Freddy, "You ugly motherfucker, Chavez!" and then here comes Freddy's brother, Chico. "What'd you call him, faggot?" and a round-house punch bounces off Chubby's skull with a hollow "thunk." I jump on Chico's back, grabbing him around his dirt-ringed neck with one hand and going for his eyes with the other. Freddy rushed up behind me to give me two hard punches. The first knocked the wind out of me, and the second bounced off my backpack.
He dragged me off his brother and another punch in the softest part of my belly, followed by a hard shove up against his car. I flop down on the sidewalk, seeing stars and trying to get my breathing started. I need to start breathing soon as I hear Chico's voice say, "Check the fuckers' pockets, Freddy. That skinny shithead scratched the door of my car when he stumbled into it. I ain't paying for that; we'll get the money off them.
Chubby and I were wearing skinny dungarees, and Freddy's fat hand couldn't get in our pockets, so he pulled off our sneakers and jeans. Chub's jeans were big enough around the waist to come off with a couple of tugs on the pant legs. Mine were old and too tight for me, so with the Chavez brothers each holding onto a leg of my jeans, they dragged me halfway down the block, laughing like mad, before they could get the jeans to pull off over my hips. My head bounced on the cracked sidewalk with each new pull and drag; then, a massive air intake came into my lungs, and I breathed again. Thank you, God!
In the struggle, my underpants got half pulled off, which interested Chico. He came back towards me, panting a little with his tongue licking around his lips. He hesitated a second and then grabbed my boxers at the waistband. I said, "No, don't," just before he ripped them off me. His eyes got big and shiny, absorbing the image of my soft cock and shrunken nuts. Then, he seemed to snap out of it and looked toward sirens. While groping his junk, he mumbled, "What the fuck...?".
Someone had dropped a dime on the Chavez brother's shenanigans. Freddy motioned with his head for Chico to get in the car. After throwing our dungarees in the back seat, they casually drove down the street right past the police car as it flew by them in the opposite direction, its lights flashing and siren blaring; the dumb fucks. The cops, who have never done anything for me, almost drove right by us, too, and for all the good they did, they might as well have. But they slammed on the breaks and backed up to where we were sprawled out on the littered sidewalk without pants.
They looked at us, then looked all around, sitting there on their fat asses in the cruiser. After checking out the scene, they returned to staring blankly at Chubby and me. The black cop finally said something to the white one, and they both chuckled and, with bemused looks, they called for an ambulance. Chubby was sitting up by now, holding his head in both hands, blood drooling from a cut in the back. I was taking off my shirt so I could cover my dick. Both the cops put a hand over their mouths, laughing at me.
When asked finally, we told them exactly what happened and who did it, but three people from the neighborhood told a totally different story before we were even in the ambulance. They said we were teasing that friendly dog and cursing at the old lady who owned it, and when her sons tried to get us to move along, the little one, pointing at Chubby, swung at Freddy. Two of the liars were adults, and one was a teenager with cornrows, who kept giving Chubby and me the finger whenever the cops weren't looking his way. What a cluster fuck that whole scene was. I asked the cops indignantly, "Do you actually believe a word of this BS? Who would pick a fight with the Chavez brothers? Us two? Look at us!" I pointed at little Chubby and skinny me, "Are you serious?"
The cop said it's our word against the witnesses. One of the paramedics gave me a blue hospital pajama bottom to wear. I called my Mom on the paramedic's cell phone. That would have been the end of this nightmare, except Chubby passed out on the way to the hospital, so the nightmare continued. All I could think of as I watched the paramedic give Chubby oxygen was the sound Chico's huge fist made when it connected with Chubby's head and then the "boink" when the back of Chubby's head hit the sidewalk.
At the hospital, I was taken for an XRAY of my ribs, which turned out negative. I just had bruises from the three punches. They hurt and were turning yellowish purple, and I had cuts on the back of my head from being dragged on the sidewalk, but I was okay.
Chubby was being examined for a concussion and other things. Sitting in the waiting room looking for our Moms to arrive, I thought about me and Chubby. He's been my best friend all my life. I have memories of Chubby from about age four. We played together every day and slept together many nights until about age ten. Jeffery Romero is Chubby's real name, but I've never called him that. He got his nickname as a toddler, mostly because he was never chubby, even as a baby.
Chubby and I both just turned seventeen, which makes us the two youngest juniors at Framingham High School, as almost every junior is eighteen or soon will be. That's our only claim to fame, being the youngest juniors in Framingham, Massachusetts. Being the youngest sucks, by the way, but summer vacation is only six weeks away.
My mom and Chubby's mom have been best friends forever, and Chubby and I are, too. I'd guess our moms both must be about thirty-five by now. I know they were both pregnant with Chubby and me at age seventeen. I get to officially be a bastard, literally, as my Mom never married the boy who made her pregnant. As far as anyone knows, he's still in the Navy. I learned, years ago, that he'd been under the impression Mom was going to abort me. She didn't because Tris, Chubby's mom, had gotten knocked up, and those two best friends, with all the wisdom of teenage girls, thought it would be fun to have babies together, and thank God they did.
Anyway, the Hispanic boy who is Chubby's father married Tris but died on the steps outside their apartment right after Chubby was born. Man, what a way to start and end a life. Chubby's Dad died from an aneurysm in the brain. It's sad. He went out to get the newspaper one morning, sat down on the curb, wet his pants, and then passed out after asking the mailman, "What's happening to me?" Chubby was one week old. Chubby carries a picture in his wallet of his Dad holding him at two days old.
It was amazing how good-looking and how young his Dad was in that picture. He was as old then as Chubby and I are now, and he always will be, too. Like I said, sad. I'm feeling shitty sitting there in the hospital waiting room. I took a deep breath and thought that the wallet with that picture of Chubby and his dad was in the hands of those cretin Chavez brothers right now."
Interrupting my thoughts was a ruckus at the emergency room entrance, where paramedics wheeled in accident victims. It seems relatives of the accident victims didn't appreciate how long it took to get the survivors here. There is lots of yelling and cursing, and two men go down on the floor fighting. Jesus! This place sucks the big one.
I get up and move to the other side of the room near an old woman moaning with another old woman, patting the moaning woman's hand. Delightful. Let's see, where was I? Oh yeah, I'm thinking about Chubby and my daily schedule. Frankly, until now, I never thought we had a schedule.
Well, our school days go like this: We wait for each other in front of our double-decker duplex and walk to school together. On the way, we share a Marlboro cigarette, passing it back and forth till it's done. Then we walk another ten blocks and do it again with the other cigarette. After school, we work on the school newspaper for an hour, then come home, say hello to our Moms, and go out again, rain or shine, for our run. We do a four-mile run along the trail through Parker's Park every weekday and sometimes on the weekend.
The daily four-mile run takes about an hour each way, and we come back to my place for Cokes and snacks and talk some more with our Moms before they go to work. They work as waitresses at Renny's Bar and Grille, mainly in the bar section, because they get more significant tips there. They work from four o'clock until midnight, so Chubby and I are on our own. Both of our Moms are smiley ladies, happy and chatty, always ready to laugh, and always supportive of Chubby and me. When they leave for work, we do our homework. Chubby is smart in Math, and I'm smart in English, so we help each other.
Thinking about this is keeping my mind off worrying about Chubby. I'm realizing how much we're a part of each other. As far back as age six, there are pictures of us two on the beach, in our too-big, baggy bathing suits, hugging each other with our skinny arms, our heads together, smiling like our lives depended on it. Chubby likes being in close proximity to me at all times. That was true back then, and it's still true to this day.
I don't mind, but sometimes I wouldn't mind if he wasn't so close to me all the time, in my space sometimes. Of course, now that he's hurt, I wish he was right here beside me so close our sides were touching, and we had our arms around one another as we had in that picture when we were six years old.
We've never discussed sexuality, but I'm something like gay, but not for Chubby. When I masturbate, I have this elaborately detailed fantasy about being fucked by some mystery boy. No age, no face, no particulars at all, but he is screwing my ass hard. For the last two years, I've been using a rubber to finger my own hole while I jerk off while thinking about that hot fantasy. Thinking about that right now gets my dick stiff, and I can't wait to do it tonight or tomorrow morning, maybe both times.
I jerk off alone and have no desire to have sex with any boy or girl I've ever met. If it weren't for that one fantasy of mine about some boy fucking me, I'd call myself asexual. Neutral, or whatever, is the proper term for a sexless person. But, since I do have that fantasy, I call myself something like gay, although I don't know what the something is. I know it's not heterosexual.
Chubby's a different story. Watching TV or sleeping together, he'll hump against my leg or hump against me someplace until he cums and, after catching his breath, he says, "Dylan, that wasn't queer, ya know." I'll look surprised and mumble, "Of course it wasn't, Chub; why would you even bother to mention that?" He always says something like, "We're the closest buddies the world has ever known; we're not homos." Then he'll tell me a true but obscure factoid to change the subject. For example, "Did you know the only domestic animal not mentioned in the Bible is the cat?"
"What? A cat? Wow, that blows, Chub."
I don't get sexually stimulated by his dry-hump-fuck, or whatever it is, but I love Chubby more than a brother, and I want to help him enjoy himself. Other than his dry humping, we have no explicit sex together. We've never even jerked off together or sucked each other off or anything else. I've seen Chubby's penis a million times, just as many times as he's seen mine. We're not bashful around each other when we're peeing, changing clothes, or bathing. Neither of us are cut, and Chubby has a smaller dick than me, but it's not tiny or anything. Mine is a nice six inches, and his is somewhat this side of five inches., Both our dicks are regular width with regular nuts and regular pubic patches for our slight teen bodies.
I've never wanted to suck either of our dicks, but we do have nice-looking ones, even if I do say so myself. You know, no fat veins or bends or weird abnormalities. They look in proportion to our bodies and are fine-looking uncut dicks; what can I say? They look cool, actually. Mine's a great one to jerk off with; I can't imagine a better one.
Our bodies are both slim. Chubby is shorter at about five foot seven, and I'm five foot ten. I like to think we have runners or swimmers' bodies. Nice regular muscle definition and smooth torsos without body hair, except for a bit under our arms. Chubby has a kind of swarthy tan flesh tone and is very healthy-looking. I have more of a pale skin tone, but I get good color in the summer. I have light blond hair, and Chubby's is light brown. We both have brown eyes.
He could probably describe me better than I can because he's always staring at me. It gets on my nerves sometimes, but now I wish he was right here, healthy and fit, staring at me to his heart's content. Chubby is attractive with complimentary facial features, and, like me, he has a killer smile with sexy dimples. In some ways, we look alike in the right light. Heh-heh. Seriously, we're pretty fucking cute for seventeen-year-old guys.
Interrupting my daydreaming, there's loud talking in the emergency room again. I looked over and grinned. I thought I recognized the voices. It's the moms, Chubby's, and mine on a mission, heading for the reception desk. I get up and call out to them and get smothered in hugs. Mom has dungarees for me to change into. They both talk at once, but I get my story out about the fight, and as soon as they know I'm okay, they storm the reception desk.
Tris has tears in her eyes and curse words in her mouth. She insists on seeing a doctor about Chubby immediately. My mom chimes in, and pretty soon, there's shouting and name-calling until out comes some authority figure who, after more shouting, calms Mom and Tris down, telling me to stay put while the moms go inside to see Chubby.
I'd like to go too, but no one under eighteen is allowed for some stupid reason. I put the dungarees on in the lavatory and then, to hell with staying put. I go outside to smoke. I'm scared for Chubby if you want to know the truth. He's been in there almost an hour and a half, and I wonder what all the shouting was about, so I'm worried. Who wouldn't be worried?
I wander around in the waiting room, wondering what they could be doing. Not knowing, my mind comes up with the worst scenarios. Waiting and not knowing is brutal. Outside for another smoke, back inside again, thinking about the odd things Chubby and I do.
Some of them are so bizarre I have to laugh out loud. Entering puberty, Chubby grew barely noticeable hair on his legs, and I didn't have any. That wouldn't do, so he started shaving his legs. He rationalized, "Dylan, this is what the guys on the swim team do." I say, "Oh. I didn't know that, but we're not on the swim team." Sidestepping that detail, Chubby had a factoid, like, "Did you know that the 'dot' over the small letter 'i' is called a tittle?" He's dead serious.
Chubby has a real fetish, too. It's the foot fetish, which I've Googled and found isn't all that rare, although it's pretty weird! Chubby loves my feet. When I'm on my computer, he'll pull off my sneakers and socks, saying, "You need a foot massage. Who else but me would do this for you, Dylan?"
"No one but you, Chubby," he starts rubbing one foot, then the other, muttering, "You've got long, thin feet," massaging them for a while, which feels great, but he'll lick them too. He hasn't messed around with my feet in months. He used to, though.
Then, I see the three of them inside at the reception desk. I go past the 'DO NOT ENTER' sign, and Chubby and I are hugging. We stepped back, Chubby smiling his smile, and I got a tear in my eye, not realizing until this second until right how afraid I was that he was seriously hurt and how much I love him. I'm wiping my eyes with the heel of my hands, and Chubby tells me, "Everything's going to be alright, Dylan. Don't worry, I'm okay".
We hugged again like we used to do on the beach as little boys so many years ago. Tris says, "Come on, you two. You're both alright, thank God! Let's get the hell out of here. The car is around the corner in a no-parking zone. "What a surprise," piped up Chubby.
We went directly to the police station, Chubby and me smirking at one another because the Moms were pissed off at the way the police treated us. Side by side, they stormed into the station with Chubby muttering to me, "Oh fuck, I'm glad they're not pissed at us." Our Moms are the sweetest ladies, but they don't take shit from anybody. They ranted at the desk and raised all kinds of hell about how the two cops handled things. It took some doing, but our Moms were finally pacified when a detective was assigned to investigate, and a report was filed about the patrolmen's handling of the situation.
The four of us went back to our place for brunch. The hell with school today. The talk at brunch was about getting even with the Chavez brothers, but that petered out with a silly suggestion of mayhem on Circle Avenue. Mayhem, my ass; we knew goddamn well we couldn't pull any of that shit off.
The next day, the police got our dungarees back, Chubby's with rips in the knees. He got his wallet and picture of him and his Dad back, too, but the four dollars were missing. Later that week, a judge issued a restraining order stating that no member of the Chavez family could come within fifty feet of Chubby or me. Chubby mumbled, "Oh fuck, I feel so safe now, except for the minor detail that I'm pretty sure the Chavez boys can shoot somebody in the nuts from fifty feet away, never mind the head." We decided not to take the Circle Ave shortcut ever again.
That was the last time anybody hurt Chubby or me, and we didn't exact serious revenge, but that happened later.
All the next week, Chubby played up the head injury/concussion angle to get me to sleep with him upstairs in their place. The days passed with us more or less maintaining our routine. Chubby making me laugh was often unintentional on his part, which makes it even funnier. The two of us spent an hour on the school newspaper most days after school, and not surprisingly, the newspaper was a cliquey operation, as many school activities are. Of course, Chub and I were on the outside of that clique, as we were on the outside of all cliques in school, but so were most kids. When I think about it, we belong to the biggest clique of all... the one where members don't belong to any clique.
Anyway, I work on the newspaper because my English teacher pushed me onto the staff of reporters. Chubby isn't on the staff; he's the supplies and advertisements coordinator for different clubs, including the school newspaper. He mostly hangs out at the newspaper because I'm there.
The editor of the paper is a mean-spirited, senior-class guy who I'm sure is gay. His name is Carl Denton. He heard about our fight with the Chavez brothers, and for some reason, his interest in me intensified, and he assigned me to write a story about the incident, which I didn't want to do. I'm all about letting sleeping dogs lie, so I do not want to stir those Chavez assholes up. Today, however, Carl called me into his office and asked me to read what I had done on that assignment. Part of my English grade is the mark he gives me, so I can't just say, go fuck yourself, which I'd like to do.
Carl's a heavy; well, let's be honest and make that fat boy, about six foot, four inches tall. His most noticeable characteristic would have to be his halitosis because it can make you lose your lunch if you aren't careful. He says, "Newman, don't tell me you don't have some story for me today. Don't tell me that, okay?" I told him I was sorry, but I couldn't get started on it because, "Carl, I swear to God, I've got writer's block where that mugging is concerned."
Squinting at me, he said something about my problem being closer to a laziness issue than a writer's block one. Carl was talking and acting especially weird today. Instead of being behind his little desk, he was standing in front of it, with me between him and the desk. He's an overly dramatic person who considers himself a talented mimic, and I think he was impersonating someone famous that he assumed I'd recognize. I had no clue.
He towered over me and leaned the roll of fat around his waist against my skinny stomach, up near my nipples. Just leaning on me slightly, he said, "Tell me about it." I took a deep breath and looked away, saying, "The fight was a highly traumatic experience, and writing about it is scary for me." He said, "Have you ever seen the movie, " Beautiful Thing?"
What that had to do with anything was a mystery to me, although I had seen it on cable with Chubby. It's a coming-of-age, coming-out gay movie involving two English teenagers. I said, "No, I don't believe I have."
Carl turned his head to the side a little and leaned into me harder; I could feel the tip of his hard cock poking out under that roll of fat. He said, "You should rent it. It might give you an idea of how to proceed with what you need to do." I looked even more puzzled than before.
It's difficult for me to think of something to say to bizarre comments like that. Chubby would have immediately come up with some smart-ass comment. Instead, I said, "Okay, I will, Carl." He made some kind of theatrical move with his large head and fat hand and said, "Better idea. Why don't you come over to my house and you can watch it with me in my bedroom on high-definition TV. I've got the CD. Let's say seven tonight. We can also work together on that mugging story you're experiencing writer's block with."
I was frowning, trying to think up why I couldn't do that, when he casually cupped the back of my head, rubbed his hand up from my neck, and muss my hair, saying, "Nice hair, Dylan." I was so taken aback that I remained speechless. Today, his breath smelled like spoiled cheese. He leaned his head down towards me, and I looked up, wondering what the fuck was going on now, as he did something geeky with his eyes that got my skin crawling. Looking at him directly, he had a big, sore-looking, ingrown pimple on the edge of his nose and lots of nose hairs, too.
I said, "Ah, tonight, you say? I can't tonight." He rested his hand half on my neck and half on my shoulder and did little squeezes. "Change your plans, dude! I need to get to know you better. I've got to figure out what grade to give you this semester and things like that."
I gulped and squinted back at him as if I was considering his great idea while trying not to gag at the smell of his breath.
Carl waited patiently for some reply from me. A lot of his significant weight was pressing against me now, and my ass was squished against the edge of the desk. His boner was poking me in the chest as sweat broke out on my forehead. I was wiping at that with the back of my wrist when the office door opened, and Chubby brazenly came in and said, "What the fuck ya doing, Carl? You know very well I've been waiting out there for you to sign off on this ad from Fong's Foods so I can call the printer."
With both Chubby and me in there, the room was packed. Carl let out a pissed-off exhale and said gruffly to me, "What night then, Newman?" I said, "Can ya let me check with my Mom on that?" I was squeezing along the edge of his desk and finally escaped his bulk and followed Chubby out of the office.
Carl followed, too, and signed Chubby's reacquisition. Then he grabbed the back of my neck, saying, "Where do you think you're going?" His fingers felt like fat sausages. Holding out his cell phone, he said, "Here, call your mother."
Gawking at Chubby, Carl asked, "Is there something else, Jeffrey?" Chubby mutters, "I guess not, and walked away. I hemmed and hawed but finally called. The cell phone mouthpiece smelled like cheese, too. I pretended to ask permission to work at Carl's house tomorrow night. Mom said, "Dylan darling, I trust you to do your school work wherever you want to. You don't need to ask me." I held my hand over the receiver and said, "She says not tomorrow either." Carl curtly says, "Ask about Wednesday, then."
I saw the futility of this charade, so I finally agreed to meet him Wednesday night at his house. He smiled at that and actually rubbed down my back and squeezed my right butt cheek, saying, "Bring everything you think you'll need if you know what I mean. We can have a little fun mixed in with work."
The second Carl was back in his cubical, Chubby was all over me, wanting to know what was happening. When I told him, he was like, "Carl Denton? You're going to allow yourself to be in that homo's bedroom alone? Are you out of your fucking mind? Dylan, he's queer for you, man. Can't you see that?" Then his face got red, and a vein pulsed at the side of his forehead when he said through his teeth, "If he pulls anything on you, I'll push that blue-cheese-breathing motherfucker down the steps."
Chubby gets wicked protective of me sometimes, and it's so sweet, but it can make a bad situation worse at times, too. Like this situation right here. It's a no-win deal for me. So what if I let Carl feel me up a bit? We do the story, and I'm done with it. And maybe I get a good grade, too. If Chubby gets involved, who knows where the fuck it ends up?
My dream is to go to an Ivy League university, and I need the grades to do that. This is just one tiny step toward my goal. If Chubby messes with Carl, Carl will take it out on me by giving me a bad grade. I talked to Chubby all the way home, and he promised not to do or say anything to Carl until after Wednesday night.
When we got home, we talked about it with our Moms, even mentioning that Carl was probably a homo. My Mom said, "Dylan can take care of himself. You both can. My God, you're eighteen year old, and soon you'll be voting. You can't let anyone push you around, Dylan, and I don't think you will. I'm always here for you, sweetheart! You know that."
The moms left for work around three-thirty. Chubby and I did our four-mile run, homework and then ate our dinner. Then, downstairs to watch an early season Red Sox game on TV. It was the top half of the third inning by the time Chubby was cuming in his pants, making little groans as he humped my leg. I used to have a dog who did basically the same thing. He did it to your calf if you let him. Trooper was his name. A little mutt we adopted from the SPCA pound who died of old age in his sleep one night. Chubby and I cried for a week after he died. We were ten- years-old at the time.
No way I would do anything to screw up our friendship, but it's weird Chubby is still getting his rocks off humping my leg. Maybe I'd like to get mine off as well. This was a recent recurring theme of mine. Not with Chubby, of course, as that would upset everything between us, and he's never even hinted he wants anything more from me than for me to stay still while he fucks my leg, and he used to do the foot fetish thing, too. So, no, not Chubby, but who then? I mean, I need to explore my sexuality sometime, don't I? Why not do it where I can also get a side benefit? As revolting as he is, maybe Carl has experience with gay sex. I can at least learn something and experiment to see if anything turns me on. Jerking off and fantasizing is fine, but why not try for something different? Carl isn't bad-looking, just fat, but I'm not looking for a date, just some sexual experimenting. Maybe I'll hate it, but I won't know if I don't try it. I'm going to think about this some more without, needless to say, mentioning a word to Chubby.
When a commercial came on between innings, Chubby says, "It's hard to believe, but your ears secrete more earwax when you're afraid than when you aren't. Did you notice any extra earwax when we were getting the shit kicked out of us by the Chavez brothers?" I say, "Well, no, I didn't, Chub. How bout you?"
He shrugs, "Fuck if I know." I grunt, "Huh!" and squeeze his arm, chuckling, and Chubby twist his head around to look at me. With his cute face scrunched up, he asks, "What the fuck are you always laughing about?"
After school the next day, Carl was friendly to me, and then on Wednesday, he let me go home early from newspaper duties, saying, "See you at seven o'clock, Dylan, okay?"
"Yeah, I'll be there," and he had this strange look on his face, like he'd just been goosed or something. It gave me the creeps. Chubby babbled all the way home about the gym teacher and what a dumb fuck the man was for thinking every boy was capable of the same physical activities, and blah, blah, blah... "Doesn't that moron know they've done studies on the stress level of human limbs and found out..."
He always has the strongest opinions and the most bizarre facts, or factoids, as he calls them. He's saying, "Of course, the human thighbone is stronger than concrete, but it depends on the torque..." I tuned him out on our walk home because I wanted to think about tonight in Carl's bedroom. How should I handle this? Play it cautiously, of course, but keep an open mind and learn something. I didn't think it would be dangerous, but Carl's size and breath were getting to be a concern. Maybe it's cruel of me, but that is becoming a major problem the closer I am to actually doing something with him. Why can't it be Robby Dickers instead of Carl, for example."
Then, I spent some time wondering why I thought of Dickers. He's a good-looking kid in my Chemistry and History classes. Well, yeah, but fuck, how shallow am I, anyway? Gawd! After dinner, before heading out to see Carl, Chubby gave me a little lecture and a factoid for tonight. "Dylan, listen to me. An average man's penis is three times the length of his thumb, so check out Carl's thumb, and that should give you something to think about."
Instead, I looked down at his stubby thumb. Chubby didn't notice. He told me to be careful with Carl and, most importantly, "Remember everything so you can tell me afterward." I thought he was going to kiss me goodbye there for a second. That would be okay, heh heh, just kidding.
I had to walk to Carl's house because our moms were sorry, but they couldn't afford car insurance for us, and that meant we had no driver's license. Chubby and I are probably the only seventeen-year-old guys in the entire town of Framingham who don't have driver's licenses. We refuse to ride our bikes in protest against our Moms' position on the insurance issue, so I gotta walk.
The walk to Carl's house took about a half hour, and I got there early, at five minutes to seven. He lives in a nice eight-room house in a good, but not especially upscale, neighborhood. A fat, young teenaged girl, who looked just like Carl, answered the door. She squealed, "Oooooh, you're soooo cute! Oh my God!"
Carl storms over from someplace to yell, "You make me sick, Dee. Get back! Get away from him! Mother, tell Dee to return to her cage!" That was awkward! Then Carl looked at me and, in a regular voice, said, "Come in, Dylan, she's boy crazy., Follow me." Dee rubbed my hair as I passed by her. I tried to smile and act like a good sport, but I really wanted to say, "Yuck! Keep your paws to yourself, fatso."
Upstairs, in Carl's room, it was quiet, and both of us were acting uncomfortable. There was a double bed that Carl's feet surely must hang off the end. Also, there's a big desk with an excellent computer and flat-screen monitor, two armless swivel chairs, and a double chest of drawers with a high-definition TV on top of it. Wall-to-wall carpeting, and wow, it was a helluva nice room for a kid. Posters of the Patriots and Red Sox Championships adorned the walls.
Carl started by formally telling me where to sit, asking if I'd like a soda or something, and then asking if I'd come up with the story's beginning yet. I told him I thought I could do a conciliatory tale instead. Maybe bring together the various communities, that type of thing. The Hispanics, African Americans, and the Whites. Carl said he'd think about that. He made no mention of the movie, "Beautiful Thing," but instead asked me if I was on Social Media. I told him, "Ah, Chubby, and I think all of it is dumb and a waste of time.
He looked annoyed and said, "Look at mine and tell me what stands out to you, Dylan."
Looking at his computer screen meant I was forced to sit close to him because he hadn't moved. I looked at the screen for a while, reminding myself to be friendly. Then, thinking I'd discovered what he meant, I exclaimed, "You like only sixties music! Wow, that's unusual cause there are some awesome bands out now. Oh my God, look how ugly and old Mick Jagger is, all of the Rolling Stones. So old!" I chuckled a little, looking up at Carl, who was not amused.
He said, "Forget the fucking music, look at my profile. What stands out to you?" Now, I saw immediately what he was referring to. Next to Orientation, he'd indicated gay. I stupidly muttered, "You're gay? Is that what you mean?"
That started him pompously emphasizing how much courage it takes to be who you are and that people with the same orientation should stick together. "Homosexuality, Dylan, isn't a choice we make. It's hard-wired into our brains."
I shrug, "I've read it's part Nature and part nurturing, but whatever. Why are you talking about this?"
Carl says, "Don't be obtuse! If you were setting up a profile for yourself, what would you designate as your orientation?" Man, I had to give him props for being direct. I thought about it briefly and said, "Question mark because I don't know." He said I could take his word for it, that I was definitely a candidate for a gay orientation, and he had the gaydar to back up that assumption. I said, "Gaydar? What's that?" and he explained that.
It was all expressed in such a matter-of-fact manner that it put me somewhat at ease, and his breath smelled like a Peppermint Pattie. Not that I had a clue what to say or do next, so I sat there nodding. That cleared it all up for me.
He said, "As the current senior editor, I'm considering recommending you as my replacement senior editor for next year, Dylan. What do you think about that?"
Holy shit, he had my attention now because that extracurricular title would serve me well when applying for colleges. I nodded for him to continue, and he smirked and muttered, "Now I've got your attention. Even as newspapers lose ground to the Internet, the senior editor of our popular school newspaper will make you part of Dr. Calvin's superintendent staff. You suck up with him just a little bit, and he'll send a glowing letter of recommendation to assist you in getting into the university of your choice. That recommendation, my friend, carries some weight."
Impressed, I sincerely said, "Thank you, Carl. It would be wonderful if you made me next year's senior editor. I'd love that!"
Then, we talked about my college choices, and Carl told me he was going to Brown University, an Ivy League school but not my top choice. I was excited about all this Ivy League talk and talk of me being senior editor next year. The surprising thing was that Carl was actually very helpful, and he was full of interesting information I didn't know about. "It makes all the difference, Dyan, having someone like me in your corner, taking you under my wing, so to speak."
"Yes, thank you, Carl. This is, um, I'm grateful." After a while, Carl brought the conversation back to sex. "I can be helpful in this area as well. What kind of sex have you experienced, Dylan, and don't give me that private, personal information bullshit. We're a couple of gay guys shooting the breeze as I try mentoring you by sharing my advanced experience. What you say in this room stays in this room."
I noticed he'd assigned me the gay orientation already, and if I don't object to it, he wins that point. But I sort of have to agree with him. If I'm not gay, I'm closer to gay than anything else. It comes out kind of like a whine when I say, "No sex at all, Carl. Um, it's an awkward thing to talk about."
He put his arm around my shoulders and leaned his head down to almost touch mine, "It's all right, Dylan, but you're worse off than I thought. You also need a mentor even more than I thought you would. As busy as I am, I will be your mentor because I admire your writing, and you're our high school's cutest kid. That carries weight with me.".
When he said the cutest kid, he said it in a fast, humorous voice, impersonating another famous person I didn't recognize, and then he chuckled and hugged my shoulders and said, "Come on, Dylan, lighten up. Most people get hysterical at my Jerry Lewis impersonation. I asked, "Who's that?"
I seriously had never heard of that guy, but I tried to chuckle to keep a friendly vibe going, and Carl's chin touched the top of my head. "We'll start by just getting used to the feel of each other. I don't want to go too fast, especially in light of the fact you've never had any sexual experience at all. Wow, that's so uncommon for someone who's seventeen, right?"
It wasn't clear if that was a statement or a question. I waited a second and then said, "Yeah! Huh!" figuring that sort of covered both yes and no. He went on, "First thing you've got to accept is that I have a lot more experience in everything than you. That certainly is true where sexual matters are concerned. Secondly, I'm fond of you and want to help you. Okay?"
When I didn't say anything this time, he shook me gently and said, "I asked you if what I said is okay with you, Dylan." I said, "Yes, Carl, I'm sure it is, except I'm not sure what you mean." Standing, he said, "Get up with me. Now turn around and lean back on me, Dylan. You must learn to trust me." I leaned back against him stiffly. His big bulging stomach made it even more weird than it had to be. He loosely put his arms around me and hugged me into him, saying, "Just enjoy the feel of another male body." He swayed us back and forth a little, then rested the side of his face on the top of my head, saying softly, "You have the most beautiful shade of blond hair I've ever seen. By any chance, do you have it highlighted?"
I was breathing in little gasps because this was seriously weirding me out. I managed to say, "No, Carl. It's just my hair." Then nervously, I added, "Heh-heh, but thanks for the compliment." He has me off balance and nervous. I'm in way over my head with him. That's unexpected.
It's uncertain if any of this sex stuff would help me, but I remembered Carl saying he was going to nominate me to be senior editor next year, and that is a big deal. Christ! I hadn't been at all confident that they'd even be asking me back as a reporter. Carl had just said something that I missed. "I'm sorry, Carl, what was that?"
He gives me the short version of whatever he'd said, "I'm going to brush the front of your pants, and I want you to be still. I stood still, thinking, what'd he say? Brush my pants?" and he repeated, "Okay, Newman?" Shrugging, I mumbled, "Um, I guess. Sure, Carl." His big hand lightly brushed against my crotch, then again and again a little firmer. He left his hand there, right against my cock. It didn't move, my cock didn't do anything, and neither did I, and neither did his hand.
"You feel that, right, Dylan?" I mutter, "Un huh," and he takes hold of my whole package in his large hand and squeezes it. My nuts moved around in their scrotum sack, and my soft cock molded to the curvature of Carl's hand. "Feel good, Dylan?"
In a trance, I mutter, "Un-huh," and he does a light massage and then a little tighter massage and keeps it up for two minutes until my dick starts to stiffen noticeably. That's when Carl, from the outside of my pants, begins to stroke the uncut skin of my penis up and down using only two fingers and his thumb. Neither of us spoke, and as my dick got harder and harder, I realized I was lying fully back against Carl now and concentrating on my boner. No one has ever touched it except me, so this was a new sensation. I took a deep breath, and Carl whispered, "Nice and easy, Dylan. You're doing fine. Undo your pants now, and I'll stroke you off on your bare skin."
Once again, the matter-of-fact way all this was happening went a long way toward making it seem all right. I'm aware young teens often jerk each other off, or at least I've read that. Chubby and I never did it, and I never did it with anyone else. Carl and I are a little too old for this, but it felt good, so I undid my pants, and they caught at my knees. Through just my boxer shorts now, he groped my cock and balls some before starting up with more stroking, and my dick was really getting hard now.
Stopping again, he says, "Get your boxers down, Dylan! I told you I want to do you bare down there," and he smacked the back of my head. It was not hard, but I whined, "Ow! Sorry." not recognizing my voice. I immediately pulled my underwear down, and that first feel of someone's bare hand, other than mine, on my bare cock, had me moaning, "Ahh Ah. Oh, Carl!" with short, fast breaths.
He had his head bent down, nuzzling the side of his face against the side of mine. Shortly, he was doing full-length strokes on my fully erect boner. The uncut foreskin went up and over the head of my cock and then pulled down and off the head and back up on the head. It was pretty much the way it went when I stroked it. I was leaning back into Carl harder the faster he stroked me, my hand lightly on his wrist, moving up and back with his stroking. I knew I was way past the point of no return, and I was tremendously anxious to climax.
Carl's cock was at least as hard as mine, poking my buttocks. Within seconds of blowing my wad, I got up on my toes, grunting, "Aggg, agg, oh! I'm cumming. Carl! I'm cumming!!" Five short strings of cum splattered against the side of his desk as I struggled and leaned harder back against Carl, shaking as shivers ran over me. Fabulous sensations. He continued stroking but slowed down and turned me slowly around.
His face was a dark pink as he undid his pants, saying, "Now you do me, Dylan." I was still snorting out breaths from my own climax, but I nodded. Fair is fair...
He pulled out his average size, cut boner, and I jerked him off, standing at his side. That wasn't as good a position as standing behind him, as he'd done me, but I wouldn't be able to reach around to stroke his cock standing behind his fat ass and reaching around his fat stomach. Anyway, he got off good the way I stroked him off. A lot more cum shot out of Carl's cock against the side of that desk than had shot out of mine. He grunted with each shot, and his massive body shuddered like mad when he blew off. "Oh fuck!" he said, "I've got to sit down," and sat on his desk chair, his dick going soft.
Then, after thirty seconds of heavy breathing, he motioned with his fingers for me to step over to him. In a trance, I did, and he pulled me onto his bare lap with my bare ass sitting on his huge thighs. This was too weird, and I tried to wiggle off, but he held me on. "No, Dylan. I need you to get used to this. Believe me, I understand it's freaky to you at first, but you'll get used to it soon enough, and you'll wind up craving sex with me. I see it in you; you're going to love gay sex."
I'll give him this much: he had me interested in gay sex, but not with him. He sternly said, " Come on, lay back against me," and he smacked the side of my face. I was surprised that I accepted the smack, and after a few minutes, I was comfortable on his lap. I think the differences in our sizes helped me accept him as my leader, mentor, or whatever. I soon felt fine sitting on his lap.
After a while, I started to say something, and Carl said, "Shhh, Dylan. Let's just get used to the way we feel to each other. Learn to do what I say, okay?" I nodded because it was so very, very odd, and this experience had taken a lot out of me. Frankly, Carl had worn me out, and I was tired. After a few more minutes, I lulled my head against Carl's shoulder, and he put his arms around me. The top of my head reached to just under his nose, and I felt like a little child.
Carl gently rubbed my chest and belly, and after a while, he began whispering how wonderful he thought I was. He knew much more about me, about my grades, and generally about me being kind of a dweeb in High School, about me living with a single mom, and all sorts of things. He told me I needed to change that dweeb image and I needed to get closer to the mainstream of High School life. That's if I wanted to get into an Ivy League University.
"They cared about extracurricular activities, clubs, team participation, and that sort of thing, Dylan. I'll mentor you with advice you desperately need. You need to appreciate it, too." He made sense, and we stayed this way, me bare-assed naked on his bare-ass junk for at least a half hour, and I was sleepy/relaxed when he said, "One more time, Dylan, and then you'll have to head on home. For now, sit up!"
I did, and he jerked me off as I sat on his lap. I got harder quicker this time, and before I shot the small second load, I felt his rock-hard cock against my buttock again, and it made me think, for the first time tonight, about my fantasy mystery boy fucking me while I jerk off. That thought got me to fire off a little bit harder, squirming on Carl's lap, and I moaned as my head pressed back against his shoulder. Carl jerked on my cock for over a minute after I climaxed and then said, "Finish me off kneeling between my legs. You need to get used to being in that position anyway," and he was slipping me off his lap as he said it.
I knelt there between his large legs and jerked his cock for two minutes, tops, and he fired off a nice second load of cum. It splattered on his desk, and some of it got on me. Ick! Carl rested his head against his chair and breathed deeply for a minute, me still trapped between his legs. "Okay, Dylan, let's go. I'll help you," and he stood up and took my hands to help pull me up.
He said, "Well done, Newman! We'll end this first session with a hug," he wrapped me up in his arms, saying, "Hold me around my waist tightly!" When I did what I was told, my arms wouldn't reach all the way around him. He kissed the side of my forehead at least five times, and I stood still for the kisses, feeling creepy. With each kiss, he held for a few seconds against my forehead. If it was somebody else, it might have felt okay to be adored or whatever. Still, even though it was Carl, I think my dick still moved a little by the time he was giving me the last couple of longish, wet kisses.
We pulled our underwear and pants on and then went into Carl's small bathroom to neaten up. Carl said off-handedly, "We'll do this once a week for starters and see if we develop chemistry together. If something special happens between us, we'll do it more often as boyfriends. For starters, though, make it every Wednesday at seven."
Now he's eliminated the questioning-for-approval 'okay' at the end of his statements. Now, I need to do what my mentor tells me to do. He's helping me, so I need to be grateful. That's what I think he thinks, but he constantly catches me off guard with the business-as-usual way of talking when, in fact, he's talking about the most unusual things ever in my life. Be that as it may, I replied, "Okay, Carl, whatever you say. I appreciate your help." Carl said, again in a pompous manner, "Well, I'll mentor you using all my knowledge and experience, but it's up to you how much you apply yourself, how much you get out of it."
I wasn't sure if he was referring to helping me get into an Ivy League college or teaching me about gay sex. I started heading for the door when he said, to himself, it seemed, "Why not try one last thing," and he turned me around, leaned down, and kissed me on my lips. That kiss was a shock! I never expected him to do it again, but he did, and this time, he ran his tongue all along under my lips. I gagged, and he put his tongue in my mouth and moved it around. That was gross, and I never wanted it to happen again, but for now, I didn't want to make a point of it because up until that disgusting kiss, it was going okay.
Without complaining, I pulled my head away and said, "That's enough, Carl. I'm not used to that." "That's enough for now, but making out with you is going to be so hot for both of us! You'll wind up loving all these things I'm teaching you." Trying to keep it friendly, I again nod as if I agree with it all. With his Mom and Dad there, I said a quick goodbye to them and hustled out the door, Carl right behind me. Outside, on the front step of his house, Carl quietly said, "I knew you were quality people, Dylan. Tonight went excellently, and I'm determined to mentor you to the extent you deserve." I wondered what that meant.
He affectionately put his arms around me, asking, "What special area would you like to explore next time?" Honest to God, I still can't believe it, but I mumble out, "Would you be willing to try to, you know, anal, um, you know, fucking me?
He moved his head and hand like a girl. Very effeminate-like, then took a deep breath and said, "You bring good condoms, not some cheapies, and I'll do you up really well. I'll probably have you suck my dick first, though..."
Again, I nod, and then, God damn if I didn't say, "Thanks, Carl. Thanks for everything!" He took his arms away and patted my cheek like I was a good boy, and off I went. Walking home slowly gave me time to try to make sense of tonight. It wasn't that I was freaked out. I was rational, thinking we hadn't done anything outrageous or forbidden for gay teens to do, except until tonight, I didn't know I was a full-blown gay teen. Also, doing all that stuff with overweight Carl Denton was a bit shocking.
Yeah, for sure, that was strange, but I had learned some things. For one, it feels good having someone jerk you off, even if you don't like the person doing it. Another thing I learned is it didn't do anything for me sexually to jerk off Carl. And, absolutely positively, kissing is NOT going to make it with me, and, lastly, I found out I have more guts than I thought I had.
I'm not sorry I went to Carl's tonight, and I'm not sorry I asked him to fuck me either, although, like I said, I'm shocked I had the guts to ask for it. All these years, I've been fantasizing about it in exquisite detail, about a boy fucking me, and now I'll find out what it's all about for real. Sure, I wish it were a boy other than Carl, but there's that shallow part of my personality showing through again. What, I'm too special for Carl? Are 'looks' all that matter? He's got a dick, doesn't he?
At ten o'clock that night, Chubby and I were getting ready for bed. He's taking a leek, and I'm brushing my teeth when Chubby says, "The human bladder is roughly the size of a softball, right?" With a mouthful of toothpaste, I mutter, "Soft ball?" and he says, "Yeah. So, where's all this piss coming from. A softball couldn't hold all this."
I spat after gargling and said, "Fuck if I know," and then I hopped in Chubby's bed, asking, "How long do you think I'm going to have to keep you company sleeping?" He growls, "You'll be the first to know, Dylan. When I don't want you to sleep with me, you'll be the first person I tell."
I hurt his feelings. Goddammit, I don't want to do that! Then, after ten seconds, in a meeker manner, he asked, "You don't want to, Dylan? We used to sleep together all the time." Then, he was really still and quiet. I didn't let the silence build because Chubby easily gets his feelings hurt. I said, "Oh no, Chubby, don't think that, bro. I like sleeping with you; it's just that we haven't done much of it since we were ten years old, you know? Come on over here, though; I need a hug from the best friend I'll ever have."
He rolled right over, and we hugged with both arms. "I'm no pussy, Dylan. I just need you close by me for a little while longer." I mumbled, "That's what I want, too." Chubby quietly says, "Thanks for sticking with me, Dylan."
To be continued..
