You would think that finding out that I had won a scholarship to Cornell would be the highlight of my month, the most memorable moment of my senior year. But at the time, it was only the second most life-altering event within 24 hours.
Number one was losing my virginity.
By getting fucked in the ass.
Because, yeah, I'm a guy.
It all happened within a week. I didn't think of myself as gay; I still didn't, afterwards. But I had allowed myself to get into a cycle of teasing with Luke Wallace, the all-state defensive tackle who liked to make outrageous boasts about how many virgins he had deflowered, including his male rivals who he "sissified" with his big cock.
.
After he had done it to me on a futon in a darkened theater prop storage room, we never spoke of it again. The only acknowledgment was that he was now calling me "Marty," in public, a play on my last name. Or, in the private joke in my head, "Marti," with a little heart above the "i." Because he had boasted that his cock was going to turn my ass into a pussy, and me into a girl. It was bullshit, of course, but erotic bullshit.
And now everyone was calling me Marty.
I didn't expect it to ever happen again. That wasn't Luke's style, I knew now. Luke was all about the conquest, and now that I was in his trophy case, he had lost interest. And, oddly enough, that was okay with me.
The thing was, the experience was mind-blowing. After the initial pain of being stretched open, I had found the sensation of being filled up to have been overwhelming and exhilarating. I hadn't had an orgasm, but Luke's hard appendage inside me had rhythmically massaged some part of me that I didn't know existed, and made me feel like I was on the verge of one for several straight minutes.
So, yeah, I had liked it.
But the other thing was that the whole time, I felt shame and regret and humiliation. I felt used, like this object to be wrapped around a cock and thrust into and cum into, and then thrown away, like a tube sock or a pair of sister's panties. I was horrified by my visions of other people seeing me and finding out, thinking less of me, seeing me as pathetic. And all of those feelings were all jumbled up with the memory of a five-minute near-orgasm.
I wanted to do it again.
So, I started spending my last few weeks of high school imagining, contemplating how, and with whom, I might repeat the experience.
Oh, I didn't lose interest in girls. I hadn't completely changed teams. But I had already come to the conclusion that I wasn't going to get into a romantic relationship with anyone around here in the last three or four months before I left for college. And of course, for me and for the only girls I was interested in, romance or relationship was a prerequisite for sex.
But that just left more mental space for me to think about those people for whom sex had nothing to do with romance. Guys.
I took my yearbook to bed and tried to imagine which other boys might be candidates for the kind of illicit, forbidden, one-off encounter that I had had with Luke. Of course, I started with the other jocks. They would be the most likely to have that primal, hyper-masculine ethic of dominance and submission that got me on Luke Wallace's radar screen.
I recognized what traits made guys physically attractive to women, and used that as a starting point. I considered the obvious candidates. Jim, the quarterback; not tall, but with ice blue eyes and a sparkling smile. Or Monte, his lithe, sleek wide receiver. I considered other sports. I looked through the pictures of the wrestling team... short, stocky guys with menacing stares; two thirds of them, of course, carrying even less than my own 145 pounds. The idea of being dominated by a 5'4" sophomore gave me a strange quiver; but other than that, I realized that... I wasn't getting *aroused* by the notion of seeing any of these guys naked, or being naked in front of them.
I thought about what had aroused me in the days leading up to my submission to Luke.
And, shit.
I remembered how Luke had teased me about not having a prom date, and had jokingly offered to "set me up" with one of the Plug Uglies, the big lumbering dudes of the football team's offensive line. How that night, I had mentally run down the list, and with a strange, compelling pit growing in my stomach, locked in on the right tackle, Truck. Mack McGivens, but known to everyone as Mack Truck.
Truck was in a couple more of my overlapping social circles. Like Luke, he was a decent student, another one of the dozen or so of us in the few college prep classes at our high school. Like me, he played sports to be a part of the in crowd, not because he was any good. Although I'm not sure he realized it.
And because he was 6'4" and big, I think he modeled himself after Luke. But whereas Luke had kind of a good-natured self-awareness of his "act," Truck seemed deadly serious. He was loud and overbearing in groups, and insisted on trying to make jokes that didn't land, that just made me wince and look the other way.
In smaller groups we actually got along okay. Truck and my non-athlete friend Brian and I liked the same rock music, and we had gone to some concerts together. He still tried to act as if he was the leader, the alpha of our little group, and he still insisted on trying to make every line a joke, but he was okay.
The other thing we had in common was that we didn't date. I didn't date because I was too shy, afraid of being rejected even though in retrospect I shouldn't have been. Truck didn't date because he had learned about rejection the hard way.
Because Truck was the poster boy for the Plug Uglies. His 240 pounds had already started to settle around his middle. He had deep-set eyes, one of them wandering, under a vaguely Cro-Magnon brow and an unruly mop of straw-colored hair. He had the bulbous nose of a sixty-year-old drunk, and crooked lips. And he was cursed with far more than his share of acne.
And as I looked at his picture in the yearbook in my bed that night, I realized that my penis had grown almost painfully stiff. Thinking about getting fucked by Truck.
Damn it, it was all Luke's fault. He had planted this idea in my head, just as deeply and irrevocably as he had planted his cock in my rectum.
Luke had conquered me, and enslaved me. And now that he owned me, it was his right to sell or give me to someone else. And whether the guy knew it yet or not, that someone was Truck. And as a conquered, enslaved spoil of Luke's "war" on his perceived rivals, it was my obligation to submit, to Luke and to my new master. The Bible said so! Right there in Ephesians: "Slaves, obey your masters..."
I realized that Luke had not only taught me to crave the feeling of a hard cock moving in and out of body again. He had conditioned me to associate that desire with being submissive, overpowered, and humiliated. And I couldn't think of anything more humiliating than offering my ass up to Truck McGivens.
Now I just had to figure out how to make it happen.
****
It took a while. Prom came and went, and so did graduation. I went to prom with Karen Coleman, a nice girl to whom I was not particularly attracted, because she asked
me
, and I was terrible at saying no thank you. Truck didn't go the prom, of course. Unlike me, no one
asked
him.
I felt badly for him. I was afraid of rejection because I had been told I was "cute" instead of "ruggedly handsome." Truck was downright unattractive.
I overheard one of the cheerleaders calling him "pizza face," which I found cruel, and also a little repulsive. Especially since I had been fantasizing about being cheek-to-cheek with him, doing a horizontal dance in his back seat.
He was smart enough, and he could be funny if he would just stop constantly trying so hard. Eh, but who was I kidding? He was a blowhard. We shared some friends and some tastes in music, or I wouldn't spend any time around him at all. I felt like I was trying to rationalize my irrational obsession with being dominated and humiliated sexually.
After graduation, my daily opportunities to be distracted by multiple pretty girls evaporated. I knew the restaurants where some of them worked, but you can only eat so much pie. That was okay. I was heading into my last summer in this small town, perhaps ever. I was content to save some money at my part-time job, play frisbee, and hang out with my buddies. Including listening to music with Brian and Truck. Which I found myself choosing to do more and more often.
