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- 08/14/2014
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
An Understanding - 3. It Really Does Get Better (I Think)
"My confidence is back," I can remember saying to myself. It hit me while I was balanced on a log trying to cross a small pond. I was missing this. I had been defined by this environment my entire life, and trying to assimilate into a "big city" (as trite as that is) had taken away my life force. The aggression I felt had evaporated, the constant feeling of being... wrong, of being out of place, had vanished. Nearly overnight.
I didn't call it confidence at the time, but it's evident looking back. The first night we pulled into town, moving truck and dirty laundry and sleeping bags, I went next door and introduced myself. Something that I would never have done in Atlanta suddenly felt like the most natural thing in the world.
When I started at the second new school in two years it was a welcoming experience. I was able to start playing flute again, and the love of music filled my life. Friends happened, because when you're from the same place and the same background, there's no friction and also no reason to prove yourself. There was certainly bullying (I was still gay after all), but it was tolerable because the school staff took a stance that no way, no how, would the kids under their purview grow up to use words like "faggot."
Looking back at that time I feel as if a great breath had been exhaled. Atlanta was such a shock to my senses -- my entirety -- but I hadn't had any time to stop and process. The wide open field behind our new house gave me that: the sense of peace and the sense of belonging that I didn't even know I needed or even had to have to be happy with myself.
The years passed. Our little neighborhood became like one out of a LIFE magazine photo essay on the easy-breezy Sixties: potlucks, church gatherings, concerts in the park, and lazy summer nights laying on the trampoline, looking toward the stars.
My feelings toward John had shifted to depression and loss. One of the first things I did after moving back was to make mom drive us over to his house. He regarded me as if I had been the one to leave. It was totally true, but I never understood why he was unwilling to repair the bridge between us. It must have been the time and distance. We were never going to be friends again, because, through my leaving I had betrayed him; I had left him. I hated that I knew it to be true. Hated.
I was bitterly wishing that he and I could go back to our normal, to our easy way of being. It was during this time that we lost touch for what would be six years, and if he spared any thoughts for me during this time I only hope they were of the awesome times we had.
By this time I was embroiled in the throes of adolescence. Masturbating was my religion, Kleenex my lambs to the slaughter. I remember the pain when I was circumcised, and I remember when I rubbed my poor pecker raw and had to sit through an entire school day, my boxers being made out of what felt like the hardest material known to man. Every time I jerked off I thought of John, imagining us together. Past transgressions being put by the wayside and a restart involving us both loving each other like we did.
During this time I had honed down my group of friends to a core group. Sticking with the theme apparent of my life, the boy down the street was my best friend. Brock was his name; his dad was a preacher, his mom a school teacher. We did everything together: I showed him the log over the pond, and he showed me how to get to the lake from my back yard. We pushed each other to be adventurous and we had a blast.
And then he invited me to sleep over.
I was keeping everyone at arm's length, having been taken aback by John's total indifference to my return. Being treated as someone else's best friend was something I hadn't felt in a long time, and it scared me. But I said yes and so Friday night we played computer games until his parents said we had to go to sleep.
We got into the same bed and quickly passed out. All I remember was waking up with him being naked, his hand on my throbbing cock and saying "take off your pants." Being still emotionally fragile I initially resisted but, if you've been a teenager before, the idea of a blowjob pretty much makes every reasonable thought vanish immediately. I knew this was his first time, which is perhaps why I was so wary, but he sucked my dick with his all and lord knows I returned the favor.
In the morning we both avoided mention of what had happened, but I knew that we had crossed a boundary from which recovery wasn't possible. Later that day we gave each other a handjob and it was, for lack of a better word, awesome. Something about the flagrant arrogance towards his religious parents, the heat of the garage and the attraction I had suddenly found in him made it click.
I suppose the modern term for what we were doing, how we should ("should" being the operative word) have defined our relationship, would have been a cross between horny teenagers and fuck buddies. Had there been some blood left to process logical thoughts I would have seen that where we were going was only going to lead one place. And I proved myself right, because teenage boys are nothing if not unsure.
I hadn't officially come out at this point, so it was easy for Brock to rationalize my near-constant desire to suck his cock as a couple of horny dudes helping each other out. Except, then we met two girls.
They lived the next street over, and for the life of me I can't remember their names. They were leggy and blonde and every fifteen year old's wet dream. I immediately wanted to try my luck and lose my virginity with them. Only one problem -- so did Blake. It was during this time I formed the deep sympathy I hold as an adult towards all attractive women, because we were relentless in our pursuit of them.
This saga ended the only way possible: two horny dudes sucking each other off, both trying to go for the same woman, and something had to give. Thank god we were both too weak to hit each other, else I would have not nearly such a nice nose. What's worth reflecting on, however, is what I did next.
As soon as I realized what I did I punched my own nose. I took what was such a wonderful, desirable, amazing friendship and I torpedoed it by -- I shit you not -- going to Blake's parents and saying he had sucked my dick.
I'd like to pause now to say one quick thing: GOOD GOD I was a moron.
This fractured our friendship for the next year. During this time I came out to my mom and my school friends, won the state championship in color guard, lost some of the Georgia humidity stuck to my thighs, became president of the state's only GSA and then dealt with some asshole telling us we were going to hell (Fred Phelps, you poor bastard). During all of this I was still playing flute and had taken first band, first chair in Band Camp (keep your filthy flute jokes to yourself). All in all a busy-ass year. And he should have been there with me. I needed my best friend. And I had fucked it up.
I apologized. I'm not good at humility, but I missed him so much I made an exception. Which is unfair to say, because it was my fault and solely my fault and I had to eat, like, seventeen crows. But miracle of miracles, he forgave me. And then we began the slow uphill slog to remembering how to be friends.
But always Blake was on the fringe, just out of my reach and I was replacing him with a dozen other friends of whose names I'll never remember, trying to find him through an amalgamation.
And then it was my senior year. I was so ready to leave everything behind and sleep as late as I wanted and do absolutely nothing. But I still missed Blake. And he missed me. So we began repairing what we had, slowly but surely.
I woke up from a wet dream during the winter and decided I was going to get Blake and I back to the kind of relationship we had, today-god-dammit. So I called him and he came over. We were sitting at the computer when I suddenly put on lesbian porn. And the next thing I put on was his dick on the back of my throat.
And that was that. We started up again like we had missed each other ferociously and like we didn't give a flying, flaming fuck who knew. (I hadn't had road head before but my god I almost crashed the goddamn car this fucker was so good.)
And then I organized a sailing trip on a Sunday.
Now, his family was rabid about Sundays. Something about his dad being a preacher or something. Anyway, the point of the day was that I would pick him up after main mass and then we would drive an hour to a lake where there was a sailboat.
Fortunately for me, the weather was crap. But I still picked him up anyway. We went back to my house, empty for once because my mom was part of the sailing crew and had stayed by the lake. We had several hours to kill to will the weather away.
As if.
We got to my house and I had him out of his clothes faster than a cheetah choking a centipede. I wanted him. I wanted him inside of me. Badly. So I took his clothes off and immediately he got hard. Then I told him what I wanted to do. He was a bit freaked out at first but manned up, so we got into the shower, lubed up, and I lost my virginity. He fucked me like a pro, especially considering it was his first time. I came in a record zero-point-two-four seconds without even touching myself.
He wouldn't finish inside of me because he wanted to maintain the boundary of being straight, because jacking off to lesbian porn while another guy is holding your balls is straight. I let him have that argument that day, mostly because I was too blissed-out to roll my eyes at him.
That day was awesome.
Everything sort of leveled out after that. I went back to school and got involved in everything but I still wanted him to fuck me again. He made it pretty clear it wasn't going to happen. But we kept sucking each other off and hanging out like it was no big deal, and I guess I was okay with it.
The last time I saw him was the night of a meteor shower. He lived outside of town where the sky was clear, so the plan was I would come over and hang out with him and his sisters.
At this point I was a senior in high school, and about to turn eighteen.
We did the whole thing, watching the bursts against the atmosphere and making furious wish after furious wish. And then we sucked each other off.
I'm not sure what happened after that. I'm not sure if one of his sisters saw us balls-deep in each others' throats, or if the oldest sister finally heard about my being gay through the school's gossip. Either way a couple weeks after turning 18 (and a few weeks without seeing him) I called to see if I could come over. His dad answered, and said I was no longer welcome at their house.
I didn't even bother to fight. I was so shocked. But I took the news and said, "Well, alright sir." And then I hung up.
Thirty seconds later, and after nearly punching a hole through the wall, I had the phone back up to my face, dialing a number so familiar to me but one I would never dial again. I very cordially asked for Blake after his dad answered. I told Blake, my heart breaking, that he needed to do what his dad had said to do. That it was the right thing to do, and that family came first. I told him I loved him and that he was one of the best friends I had ever had in my life.
And then I told him goodbye.
Thank you so much for reading.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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