As They Say - (Revised) - 42. Entry 55

26th June 1991:

Why does the magazine seem so, I don't know… alluring or exciting in a sense? I'm not sure what I see in it. I know how Carl uses his mag. I mean, about ten minutes ago, I pulled myself off to the pictures in the magazine, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I thought I would have felt… well… you know, extra excited about doing it, but I didn't. Instead, I just masturbated, got sleepy and decided that was all I was going to do. I didn't even get the satisfied feeling afterwards, no guilt… or shame. Funny, right…? Why did I feel like I was all for it when I was jerking off? The lack of desire to continue such excitement dwindled, or is it the material on the page that was off-putting?

It was exciting at one point, but when I did it to Ross or Carl the other times, it felt so good nutting. Let’s hope my Mam never reads the colourful language I'm keeping locked up in this journal. It would be embarrassing for her to learn how I'm nutting and how the ejaculation was not as sensual as I was hoping for it to be. I can't figure out what is wrong with me. Can't I just like one or the other?

Is it really that hard to choose?

You'd think that such a thing would be easier to pick. However, you have no idea how wrong I am. The concept is a burden on my shoulders; I'm hauling something heavy, and the worst part is I can't figure the fuck out what the hell I'm carrying. It would be easy to say yes: a pile of rocks are sitting on a rickety board balanced on my head: that would explain the excess pressure—but no. It's invisible, and I guess that is the worst agony of all. My mind is so warped at present; I'm unsure if any of the feelings I'm experiencing about Ross are genuine. What if the girl thing and the porn magazine are not authentic either? Thirdly, if I'm not supposed to like either one or the other, then what am I? Is it possible to fancy both… hmm…? Perhaps, but wouldn’t that be weird?

Okay, let's move on before I get too caught up in observing of myself. The best part of today was that I got to spend time with Mr. Cutie… you know, Mr. Wonderful, totally adorable, exceptionally huggable, beautifully put: Ross. It was just the two of us down at the castle, and it was all I needed to do today. The world could have been falling apart like the polar ice caps unearthing and plundering to the sea. Some meteorite could have fallen thousands of miles per hour toward the earth, or the most prominent carnage since Ms. Williams’ first class: Maths period. Everything and anything could have unravelled a few clicks down the road. All I cared about was sitting on that lake bank with Ross. We had a little talk about how we would keep in touch if he were to go back to London, which I guess was better than nothing at all.

The best part of it all was that neither of us was emotional about it. There was an odd silence at the time, but the main thing is that we handled it maturely. I’m proud of that achievement. I am proud of Ross for not getting upset about it like he did the other times and me… well, I'm glad that I didn't feel so alone opening up about the possibility of him going away.

The two of us bounced around ideas from mailing each other letters to actually visiting once a month. I guess that would be kind of cool. I have never been to London before; I wonder what it would be like to see Big Ben or The House of Parliament for real. As quick as all the fun notions arose, they subsided, and we carried on talking about ways to keep in contact. Sadly, it all boiled down to the mail. When I think of it now, it is not as bad as it sounds, considering it's only England. I'd wait for a day or two, max three, for a letter to come from Ross. Yeah, it sure sucks when I write it in here. Though I think it’s marvellous considering the wait time if he lived in, say China or America.

Soon after the conversation of remaining in touch— which we have no idea when that day will be, but I'm determined to make the most of it until then— both of us ended up holding hands. Ross held mine quite tightly, actually. I took his hand as lightly as I could because I was afraid I'd squeeze his fingers too hard. But he didn’t mind squeezing mine to death.

Eventually, both of us resorted to measuring up each other’s hands. It still baffles me that my hands are slightly bigger than Ross's. Except, Ross started this playful, light teasing about what they say about big hands and big feet, and enviably the two of us entered into a spontaneous hysteria of shriek laughing. We entered a tickle war which was in my favour. Ross was giggling so frantically hard, I thought he was going to splutter up a lung, his face had turned so red. I couldn’t help myself. Ross was too vulnerable, and I tickled him until his tummy hurt. Ross is just wow...

I love Ross.

I can't believe how natural that sounded and without contemplation. I wrote: I love him. It's weird reading back the words to myself. It's almost as if they were written by someone else. I know they are mine because I witnessed my hand with my eyes write them. Love—the word hasn't got the same meaning as it used to have. Love always seemed like a warm thing when I said it before. Yeah, that's it; anytime I heard what love is, it was just a warm gut feeling I received. However, now when I say it, it feels like someone has blown a balloon up in my chest. The sensation of it is so pleasant that it makes me feel like I want to keep taking a fresh breath because it is there in abundance.

Though yeah, I tickled Ross. He was squirming around until I dropped my weight down on top of him to get better leverage over him. I tell you this; for as small as Ross is, he is incredibly stronger than he looks. I dug my fingers under his armpits and traced them over his stomach, and he kicked, giving guttural groans when he tried to heave himself up off the ground, but I still had him pinned. The brown hair on his head flopped to the grass and compacted. Ross wasn't getting away from me that easy. Ultimately, the two of us did a complete barrel roll, and I ended up on top of him. I could feel myself becoming aroused, but I don't think it mattered because the moment was so intense.

After a second of struggling, the two of us came to a complete stop. I was on top of Ross, my face only centimetres from his, my heart hammering in my chest so hard that I thought I was going to throw up. Then I did it, I swooped my head low and kissed him on the lips. He smiled back bashfully, but he continued to look up at me. Ross was half-blinded by the sun; with one eye open, the other closed, he grinned up at me.

Trying to favour him, I shifted some of my body weight so that my head would naturally act as a sun shield; that's when I felt his dick protruding. Even though I was semi-erect, I could feel his spike poking into my groin region. It felt like a good idea to grind against him for some unknown reason, and I did. I'm unsure if I did it right, but I rubbed myself against him, and his head just tilted back toward the castle.

Ross closed his eyes, and I pushed against him again. The only sounds in the vicinity were the buzz from close by bluebottles, grasshoppers, and other such wildlife. The swoosh of water that trailed up on the bank from the lake added to the serene moment. I closed my eyes, nervous and unsure if I was taking things too far. It felt terrific to be grinding against him. It felt like magic almost; it was like I was on the verge of cumming, but yet at the same time, I wasn't even close. Everything around me fast-forwarded the unrelenting release. The only thing I focused on was Ross solely; my dick pulsed in my shorts. The silky material of my shorts added to the sensation. The entire moment intensified; I was getting somewhere. I became so fixated on Ross's soft expression and soft sighs as I slowly dragged myself into him. The excitement was rising downstairs. I was enjoying what I was doing; he seemed to be too. Ross's eyes would flutter every so often to signal his pleasure, then he ground against me.

I was instantly terrified, petrified. I hope I didn't do anything wrong; jeez, why did I do it? I should have stopped the minute the two of us ended up on top of each other. I couldn’t even do that right. Instead, I probably made things worse because when I panicked, I got uncomfortable.

So, I rolled over and got off of Ross.

What did that mean when Ross pushed back? Did he like it? Did he want me to keep doing it? What would have happened if I carried on with the grinding motion?

I'm so stupid; I can't determine whether what I have done was right or wrong. I hope he doesn’t hate me for doing it tomorrow. What I did after I got off Ross sounds even more pathetic when I write it like this, but… I sat on the edge of the banking, playing with blades of grass.

Until eventually, Ross said, "It's getting late… You think we should go home to get dinner now?"

The creeping signs of hunger grew, along with gurgles. I just nodded in agreement, and the two of us cycled home. If you guessed it, the bike ride was unbearable. It was too quiet for me; I was going crazy, just peddling beside Ross. I was disappointed; I should have done more or at least asked something. Though how do you ask if someone likes what you’re doing? Then again, I don’t want to think of it if I was terrible at doing what I was doing.

Dinner was just some spuds and ham. Ross went his own way, and I settled in for the evening. I spent a few hours at my desk painting some of the locomotive carriages for my miniature in the garage. I'm probably going to turn in for the night. Plus, I must remind Mam to get more green acrylic paint.

Well, night, I guess,

Adam