Tyler and Reese - 4. Chapter 4

There are no real words in Tyler's head, just those images (all very physical), and the numbers that count the magnitudes and repetitions. He struggles even to think in sentences, let alone

speak or write. So the reports from inside his head are going to be reports of those images. This is not a boy who is going to say much. He is certainly not keeping any diary or log.

 

Tyler stood awkwardly in the doorway. He looked at Reese. To Tyler, Reese didn't look a day over 14 years old, this skinny little school boy. Reece had only mixed with (that is to say rowed with

and jerked over) big muscle guys like himself for the past several years, all 18-going-on-28 like himself. He felt protective. His cock twitched. That seemed bizarre, even inappropriate. He blushed

red and felt himself flooded with new insecurities. He tried to think of muscle guys instead. His cock swelled reassuringly at the thought. He looked at Reece. His cock swelled a little more. He

felt a panic. Tyler was not a guy to think much, to try to make sense, so he dismissed this sequence of images from his mind, and just enjoyed the feeling of his semi rubbing softly against the

inside of his jogging pants. He looked at Reese. Reese looked at him. There was quite a long pause, but Tyler did not mind pauses at all. It was the words he struggled with.

 

Reese stumbled towards him, giving the impression that he was virtually crawling along the floor. Tyler looked down at him. Finally he arrived in position, more or less upright, skinny as a

bunch of twigs, only a little shorter than Tyler, offering his hand with what was, thankfully, an easily comprehensible formality. Tyler felt relief again: relief at the simplicity of this, compared

to the bewildering social graces of the New England slacks-and-checks set. He shook the offered hand. It made strange cracking and crunching noises as he cautiously shook it. The warmth of the physical touch and the smile shot straight to his cock, which twitched.

 

"Hi. I'm Reese. Reese Bartowski."

 

Tyler echoed it inside his head - 'Bartowski' - and let go. His hand fell to his side.

 

"Reese. Nice to meet ya," said Tyler.

 

It didn't occur to him to say his own name. Or anything, in fact. He smiled an awkward, artificial smile, baring his teeth; this was the closest to social graces his poor parents had managed to drill

him.

 

Reese didn't seem so short now they were close, and he was standing upright. They were virtually eye-to-eye. But such a kid! So skinny, so small, so schoolboy.

 

Reese spoke again. "Uhm.. I seem to have basically taken half already. Eh..." (pause, no problem with that) ... "Welcome. I hope we'll be great room mates."

 

Tyler relaxed his artificial toothy leer into what was, at last, a fairly natural and contented smile. He rearranged his semi in his jogging pants - that felt good - and let out a sort of friendly

huff or sigh, and turned to start bringing in his cases. He lugged them effortlessly, one by one, from being a pile outside to being a pile inside, on his side of the invisible line, then sat heavily on

the thread-bare sofa, knees wide apart, semi still intact, and huffed again, contentedly.

 

He felt so relieved to be here with this kid. Before he arrived, everything about collegetown felt dangerous and bewildering, the idea of a room-mate perhaps the worst of all. But this room with

Reese in it felt safe. Suddenly Tyler felt 18yo again - which is to say young, and boyish, rather than the usual all-muscled 18-going-on-30. He looked at geek boy Reese, and Reese finally looked like he might pass for 18 too, instead of 14. Reese clearly wasn't going to hack it with the New England set either. Suddenly it was Reese and Tyler against the world, safe in their lair, their base, a team. His semi was getting properly hard now, and as he looked at Reese, for the tiniest fraction of a second the image of Reese naked and hard flashed into his mind. Tyler felt his biceps and his cock both twitch, and felt a flush of panic again. He tried to think of rowing and rowers instead. That worked just fine. He eyed the bedroom door without the Star Trek poster, and wondered how soon the etiquette of the moment would allow him to get in there for a fine and mighty jerk. The image of semen spurting from his own cock, in his own hand, filled his mind, and he was fully hard in his joggers. He shifted awkwardly on the sofa, adjusted himself, and realised that even with Reese, there should be an etiquette, and he had no idea what it might be.