The Squire's Tale - 5. Chapter 5

KEIRAN’S DREAM

AN EARLIER SATURDAY, MAY 15th, 4:00 PM
SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA

“Hey, K, let’s go kick some Blakeley ass!”

I raise my head with a grin. My teammate, who goes by “Stick,” grins back at me. The pregame banter in the locker room is upbeat and profane, and I love that shit.

I peek around the bank of lockers to see where Coach Sanders is. The door to his office is closed, so I figure he’s reviewing his game plans or taking a piss in his private bathroom.

Goddamn! I wonder if he’s praying! I guess we could use all the help we can get. Whatever, I have just enough time.

I quickly shed my jockstrap and pull my shorts back on. A lot of us guys like to play “commando,” the way some of the FIFA greats on TV do. The sensation of running, jumping, and twisting with your cock and balls flopping around, and occasionally popping out, adds to the rush of playing South Coast soccer in Santa Barbara.

My team, Colegio de San Guillermo de la Santa Cruz, home of the Crusaders, is leading the prep league this year, and we are well on our way to making Division and going on to State.

The last opponent standing in our way is The Walter S. Blakeley College Preparatory School, home of the Preppies (I’m not shitting you!).

I remind myself for the hundredth time, Today’s game is a semi-final, and Blakeley is undefeated, like us.

All our energy has be focused on winning, or as Stick likes to say, to kick their fuckin asses all the way back to Santa Ynez, where their big honking campus takes up 20 acres, nestled against Lake Cachuma and the San Pedro Forest Reserve.

“San G,” as we call our school, is in the affluent community of Isla Buena, about ten minutes from the beach.

After divorcing my dad, my mom Natalie moved my twin sister Karen and me to California to be closer to my grandfather and his husband, Beau, who live in L.A. Granddad convinced Mom that Santa Barbara was a hell of a lot better place to raise kids than L.A., so he bought us a house here.

But I need to focus. We’re here to kick ass and beat these motherfuckers at their own game.

All week, we reviewed films of Blakeley Prep’s recent games. To throw them off, Coach decided to use the 5-3-2 formation Italy used to their advantage in the World Cup last year. I play center midfielder and right striker.

We worked hard at learning the plays, and I think it’ll be the perfect offense to fuck with Blakeley’s defense.

Suited up, except for the jockstrap I left behind, I join the other guys on the benches and grunt my cheers to Coach’s pep talk. We’re hot to win, and damn do we know it!

Looking around the locker room, I am proud to be here with the other players.

Being the only gay dude on the team, the other guys sometimes rag on me about which of them I’d rather have sex with, but the truth is I only look at them as teammates, and teammates don’t fuck each other, on or off the field.

Fired up and ready to kick ass, we hustle out onto the pitch.

The game is physical, as we expected. At half-time, one of the team managers puts some iodine and Band-Aids on a couple of my scrapes, but I’m in great shape, and a few cuts and bruises won’t knock me out of commission.

After a piss and a few gulps of Gatorade, I am all set for the second half. As we are heading out, Coach beckons to me.

“Keiran, have you noticed Blakeley’s number 16?”

“Sure, Coach.”

“He’s got our offense figured out. I want you to start in midfield, and then go Dutch. I’ve told Petey to expect it.”

Petey DeWine is team captain and goal defender, and he controls our positions on the field. Going “Dutch” means I’m allowed to forget about formal plays and follow the ball closely, taking every chance to score.

“OK, Coach. That’ll sure fuck with their minds!”

He frowns and furrows his brow. Our coach is actually a Catholic priest, but he’s damn good at soccer, which our success in the league proves. He’s aware of the kind of language teenage boys use, especially in sports. After all, San G is a Catholic school, so he has to show a modicum of disapproval when one of us cusses.

I hurry to add, “Uh, sorry Father—”

“Enough said. Go out there and make me proud, K.”

Everybody on the team has a nickname, Stick is Roland Fitzpatrick Strickland the Third, and I am called “K” for Keiran Thomas Bronson.

I hustle my ass out for the kick-off.

Coach’s strategy works like a charm, and we beat Blakeley 6 to 4, cinching our spot in Division Finals.

After the game, I head out the back door of the gym and give a wide grin to Hank O’Meara, my pal since childhood and now my boyfriend, who greets me with a high five.

“Way to kick ass, K!”

We chest-bump and slap each other on the butt. He follows the smack with a sexy squeeze of my cheek, and I give him a peck on the ear.

He laughs, “Not now, horn-dog. We’ve got some fuckin partying to do first!”

We jump into my brand-new canary yellow Audi Spyder rs8. The car is a graduation gift from my parents, which makes it special because my dad, who lives in Philly, rarely participates in my life since the divorce three years ago.

I fire up the twin-turbo V-8 and Hank and I leave the school in the dust. We head to Montecito, to the home of Allison Carter, who is head cheerleader and number-one party girl at San G.

After I park, we circle around the spacious house and strut into the pool area.

As all heads turn in our direction, I smile proudly. We are a hot-looking couple.

I’m six-two, 175, with blue eyes and sun-bleached blond hair. I work out every day during soccer season, and my body is strong and powerful, as my scoring four goals today proved.

Hank is a little under six feet tall, skinny at 160. He doesn’t play a team sport, but he works out every day and it shows. His green eyes, shock of ginger hair, and freckles attest to his pure Irish family background. His grandparents came to California in 1940, and everyone since them made a point of only marrying other Irish.

I wonder if they are worried Hank and I might hook up for the long haul—hell, maybe get married like my granddad and Beau. My name might be Irish, but Mom only picked “Keiran” because she was having twins and wanted to name my sister Karen.

My family comes from Denver, and we’re descended from some cowpoke who made his way there from Kansas after the Civil War—before then, who the fuck knows? If I have a drop of Irish blood in me, I have no idea where the hell it came from.

I’ve been wondering about taking one of those DNA tests that tell you where you come from, but I don’t really give a shit. I am who I am: gay, out, proud, and ready to rock and roll!

The fun is in full swing, so we separate and make the rounds.

I take a swig of pretty nearly everybody’s drink and a few hits of marijuana from a couple of stoners. Traces will appear in my piss for three days, but we have a long weekend ahead, followed by a bye week, so I won’t be tested again for ten days.

The affair is typical Allison: loud music, plenty of booze, a few soft drugs, and the pool house has two bedrooms, which are more or less in constant use.

I high-five a few of my teammates as they come out of the little building with shit-eating grins. Their girlfriends or hook-ups du jour often come out dazed and a little embarrassed. Being fucked by an athlete in his prime after a hard-fought win can be a lot for a girl to take.

Hank and I never disappear into a bedroom at parties. Our sex life is private, and we don’t flaunt what we do.

I figure most of the dudes who fuck girls in such a public way are doing it for attention or to score some points with their buds. We don’t need that shit. We’ll do our celebrating in private back at home.

Somebody hands me a cold beer and I join a small group of guys off to the side.

“Jenny Carter is so fuckin hot!” Billy Henderson pants.

“She’s way outta your league, asshole,” Kurt Smythe teases.

“Fuck you. I don’t see you scoring with any chicks,” Billy shoots back.

“I’m still shopping, dick-head. You watch me when I find one I like.”

“You mean one you haven’t already fucked!” This is from another team-mate, Shorty Palmerson. In reality, “Shorty” is six feet eight inches tall. We all bust our laughing their asses off.

I think it might be time to change the subject. “Anybody heading for Leadbetter tomorrow?” Leadbetter Beach is “the spot” for teens and college kids. The surfing is awesome, and the partying starts as soon as a crowd assembles and lasts until the cops kick us out around midnight or later. My question is answered by enthusiastic agreement.

Hank and I shoot the shit with the guys for a couple of hours. Whenever they talk about girls, we laugh with them and nod approval of their exploits.

After I came out, I noticed the jokes and stories changed their tone. Nobody ever asks me who I’m fuckin, or if I’m getting any.

I think guys in my school are cool with the facts that gay people exist, they’re entitled to the same respect as straights, and joking about them is inappropriate. Besides, I would beat the shit outta anybody who hassled me about it. We’ve gone from “I hate faggots” to “don’t ask, don’t tell” to finally “accept everybody just as they are.” Although San G is a Catholic school in name, the students and faculty are all liberal, and nobody bothers us for being gay.

My mom and sis accepted me as gay right away. I wasn’t sure what my dad was gonna think, but when I told him, he said he’d always kinda known.

Around 11 PM, Hank and I say our good-byes and jump into the Spyder, heading home. I went over my limit of two beers, while he only nursed a single glass of wine all evening, so he is driving.

We reach my house uneventfully, park the Audi, and head around behind the main house.

When I came out to Mom, I told her I intended to have all the sex I could. I suggested that if she didn’t want me doing it under her roof (she never said so, but I was using the thought as leverage), I would be glad to vacate my bedroom and take over the pool house.

As we enter, a couple of lamps come on, triggered by sensing the arrival of our Apple watches. I am no geek, but I like high-tech toys, and so does Hank.

We outfitted the little apartment with a lot of conveniences, so lights that sense our presence in the room and turn themselves on and off are no challenge for us.

Hell, I’m learning how to fly a goddamn airplane, so making a few appliances go on and off is child’s play.

Hank goes to the fridge and grabs two beers. He held back at Allison’s, but now he wants one, and I wouldn’t mind another.

We settle on the leather couch and I tell the TV to play a recorded FIFA game from earlier in the day.

We sip our drinks and snuggle together. Hank, seated to my left, puts his arm over the back of the sofa and plays with my right ear. I drape my leg over his.

We’re comfortable with PDA in front of schoolmates and friends, but we limit ourselves to holding hands and the occasional hug—not that we’re embarrassed or any shit like that. We realize drawing attention to our sexuality can make some people uncomfortable or hostile, and we want to get along with everybody, if possible.

*****

Earlier this school year, when I turned eighteen two months after Hank did, he led me into the pool house after my birthday bash was over and we had sex for the first time.

We were like a couple of idiots, trying to figure out what went where, which is surprising, given the amount of gay porn we watched together while we jacked off. Somehow, the actual physical act of having sex required more arranging than it looked like on the computer screen. Needless to say, we caught on damn fast.

We always take turns when we fuck, but I think I prefer being the bottom, and Hank would rather be nailing my ass. I guess that makes us “versatile,” but neither of us gives a shit about labels.

A few months ago, some asshole who was drunk at a party asked him if he was a top or a bottom. Hank had had a few, too, so he decked the guy.

“How about I demonstrate on you, motherfucker?” he had shouted.

Nobody has had the balls to ask us any questions about our sex life since.

Alone at home, we do whatever the hell we feel like, when and wherever we feel like doing it.

*****

After about half an hour, I stretch and turn to my boyfriend.

“I’ve had all the TV I can take. You ready for bed?” Hank’s parents are cool with his being gay, and they allow him to spend the weekend with me any time he wants, which is most of the time.

Hank gives me his best “come-hither, I want you” smile, so I lean in and bring my mouth to his, and he opens his lips to welcome my tongue inside.

I put both hands on his head and draw him close. He responds by pulling me into a bear hug.

I cross over him and sit on his lap with my knees bent facing him. His warm hands slide under my shirt and work their way up and down my back.

Breaking the kiss, I say, “I like when you do that.”

Hank chuckles, “And how about when I do this?” He moves his hands inside my shorts and down below my belt to squeeze my cheeks.

I lift my ass off his lap and say, “Mmm. I fuckin love that, baby!” I rise up a little further and soon his fingertip reaches my hole and begins to massage it.

I pull his face to mine, kiss him passionately, and arch my back, pressing down on his invading finger.

“I want your dick inside me—right now!” I tell him, breathing hard.

“Your wish is my command,” he smiles and gives me a peck on the lips.

No further words are necessary as we hustle into the bedroom. Undressing in a hurry, we climb into our king-sized bed and slip between the soft, cool linens.

I don’t have a goddamn clue what “Egyptian cotton” is, or why it’s better than American cotton, but I love the sheets Mom picked for my bed. I kind of think it’s her way of telling Hank and me she wants us to be comfortable in this bed, though she made it clear she doesn’t want to know what we do.

What follows is the perfect end to a perfect day.

We stretch out on the bed, head to toe and begin 69-ing. Sucking each other’s cocks was the way our sex life began, if you don’t count jacking off together. We were so tentative at first. I mean, we knew what we wanted, but we felt weird actually doing it. Fortunately, we quickly got over that hurdle and became experts at giving and receiving knock-your-socks-off blowjobs.

Hank moves up on the bed slightly, so his tongue can reach my hole. As soon as the hot wetness bathes my pucker, my cock gets harder and I press back to help him go as deep as he can. He spreads my cheeks with both hands while I moan with pleasure.

He can tell when I’m ready, so he wastes no time putting on the rubber and lubing us up.

I lie on my belly, legs spread-eagle, and Hank kneels between them. He inches forward and slides his hard-on up and down my crack. He’s teasing me, making me beg, so I give him what he wants.

“Come on, asshole, fuck me, for shit’s sake.”

He leans down and kisses the back of my ear and whispers, “I’m gonna fuck your brains out.”

“So shut up and fuckin do it.”

He enters me gently and slides in as deep as he can and stops to let me squirm my ass around a little to find the best position.

When I lie still, Hank begins pumping, slowly at first, then building up speed. Soon the bed is shaking with the force of his penetrations.

I arch my back and lift my ass to take him into me. The intensity is almost too much for me.

“Hey, slow the fuck down, or I’m gonna come on these goddamn sheets.”

“Roll over, and you can come on your belly.”

We adjust our positions and he resumes pounding me, and soon I reach the point of no return. My cum shoots up and hits my chin as his cock swells and his hot semen fills the condom deep inside me.

For a few minutes, our bodies are locked together in rock-hard tension. Neither of us breathes or moves—we want the afterglow to last as long possible.

After a while, Hank inhales a long breath and pulls out of me, pinching the base of the rubber as he does so.

When he withdraws, I immediately miss his manhood filling me, and I hate to let him go.

Sensing what I am feeling, Hank leans forward and lies on top of me.

He takes both my hands and entwines our fingers, stretching my arms upward and open. He wraps his feet under mine, and lets the full weight of his body rest on me.

I turn my head and gaze sideways into Hank’s eyes, smiling. He kisses my cheek and makes his way to my hungry mouth.

We kiss as if to reward each other for doing a bang-up job of getting the other one off.

Hank lifts his head and smiles at me with affection. “I love fuckin you, K.”

“I love you fuckin me.”

He takes a deep breath and sighs. I can tell what he’s thinking, because the same thought is on my mind. We always say, ‘I love fuckin you,’ but we’ve never said ‘I fuckin love you.’ I wonder when, if ever, we’ll be ready to say those goddamn words. After all, we have been best friends since seventh grade. We were constantly getting into trouble, jacking off together, making out, and doing everything except actually fucking.

The next day, after our “morning wood” sex, we make our way into the kitchen, where Mom is making Belgian waffles and warming maple syrup.

We smelled them when we woke up, and the enticing scent flavored our love-making, which took considerably less time than we might have liked.

“Good morning, boys.” My mother insists on calling us that, which is hilarious because we’re both several inches taller than her and haven’t shaved this morning.

“Morning, Mrs Bronson.”

“Morning, Mom.”

“I saw on the eleven o’clock news last night that your team won your game and are headed to the Division championship in two weeks.” She beamed at me as she spoke.

“It was close, but Coach put me into a Dutch offense and—”

“Sweetheart, I’m glad you won, but I wouldn’t understand the details.” She turned to Hank with a warm smile, “I’m sure you were there.”

“Yes, ma’am. I almost never miss one of K’s games.”

“Well, we’re quite proud of Keiran,” she emphasized my proper name, “and I’m happy he has a loyal friend like you.”

I add to myself, Who fucked the shit out of me three times last night and again this morning!

Hank reads my mind and grins mischievously. “I’m glad, too, Mrs B.” He winks at her as he teases her with his use of initials.

“Well, waffles are ready, so dig in, boys.”

We do as she instructs, and make short order of the breakfast goodies.

Later, we change into our swimsuits and dive into the pool. We swim laps, followed by a water battle.

Relaxing in the beach chairs, I remember something. “My uncle was a state champion swimmer when he was in high school.”

“Yeah, I heard about him. I think your mom told me.” He thought a moment. “He’s gay, too, isn’t he?”

“Yep. Uncle Bruce, my mom’s brother. He’s married to a guy named Miles who’s handicapped, and they live up outside Seattle.”

“So gay runs in your family...and gay marriage.”

I turn to Hank, who is smiling with encouragement. “I guess so, ‘cause my granddad is also gay and married. But both of them did it when they were middle-aged.”

“Is that what you’re planning to do?”

“Shit. I’m young and having fun, so I’m not even thinking about fuckin getting married. Are you?”

“Not at the moment—maybe something to keep in mind for the future, though.”

We fall silent. Neither of us wants to talk about it, so we drop the subject.

The next couple of weeks are a blur of soccer games and victories. San G wins Division and earns a place in the State finals. I am scoring four or five goals a night, which is a real high.

Hank already has a summer job, so he drives himself to each game.

I take the team bus and share a hotel room with a teammate, while Hank is all by himself in a single room so he doesn’t disturb a roommate when he comes in from work after lights-out.

We try to steal as much time together as possible, and we fuck at least once every night in his bed, no matter how late he gets in.

I am rooming with Stick, which is always a hoot. The dude has an endless repertoire of dirty jokes. He has the whole team in stitches before and after every game, except when Coach comes into the locker room.

One night as I come back into the room I share with Stitch, he is in his twin bed playing some dumbass game on his cell phone. He looks up as I undress.

“Been with Hank again?”

I turn, shocked he would bring up something so personal. My face clouds and I start to say something like “none of your goddamn business.”

But before I can say anything, Stick continues, “The rest of us are so fuckin jealous of you guys.”

“Hunh?”

“I mean, our girlfriends come along and cheer at the games, but they’re chaperoned and we’re not allowed to be alone with them or go anywhere near their rooms. You two can do whatever the hell you want, every night if you want to, and we’re all stuck in the goddamn bathroom, jacking off a coupla times.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize we were in your face like that. I guess you’re right, Hank and I have a bit more freedom than you other guys do.”

“Well, I’m damn glad for you, is all. I didn’t mean to give you any shit.”

“No problem. Hell, we try to be discreet.”

“Yeah, I get it. You dudes are pros at keeping things casual-looking.”

I drop into my bed, reminded of the rushed sex Hank and I just had.

I turn toward Stitch. “Shit man, I’m fuckin sorry. It’s one thing to be gay and out, but there’s a line you don’t cross, like reminding other people what you’re doing when you’re alone together.”

“I hear you, but having blue balls every night is a real shit-fest.”

We both laugh, roll over in opposite directions and go to sleep.

BACK TO THE PRESENT

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20th, 2:00 PM
LIMATAMBO DISTRICT

Keiran stirred in his sleep.

Remembering his dream, he thought, And now I’m lying in a goddamn dark shed on a blanket that smells like shit, waiting and hoping my grandfather will be able to get me out of this hell-hole alive.

His thoughts returned sadly to how he and Hank had gone to the Senior Prom together and afterward had spectacular sex back home in the pool house. He also remembered the day after graduation two weeks later, when they had decided to date other people.

Maybe we had too much, too fast. I have no fuckin idea, but I’m sure it was right for us to break up. I hope he’s happy now, but I wish I was back in Santa Barbara waking up bare-assed and hard in bed with him.