In a fit of insomnia, this story was born. It contains only sex between consenting adults and the main characters are both male. If this is not what you were looking for, I suggest a different story. There is no sex in this chapter but there will be wild, torrid sex in subsequent chapters. Comments are welcome and encouraged: How else will I know if this is working? I have no doubt that there are some errors in grammar as I wrote this in one sleep deprived shot, forgive me.
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In years past, the first day of school would have elicited joy from me; meeting my new teacher, getting to see all of my friends again, even just a break from the monotony of summer break would have had me ready and out the door early. Times change as you grow up. Middle school is hell on everyone, surges of hormones causing zits and random boners at the most inconvenient times. And boy were they at the most awkward times, sweaty locker rooms filled with other guys became my nightmare. I tried to conceal my reaction, play them off or quickly adjust so that it wasn't noticeable.
For a while it seemed to work. I was quietly closeted with no one the wiser. I had girlfriends, luckily in middle school none of the girls really wanted to do more than hold hands and talk. As far as I was concerned, that was as far as I ever wanted to go. They were my beard on a face that wouldn't be able to support one for many years.
It didn't work. As far as I know, there was no catalyst. One day the popular group decided that I was a fag and that was all it took. Before the week was out, it was as if a banner had been posted "Jake Summers is gay". I don't know if it would have been worse if they were wrong. It really did piss me off that they were right, but I wasn't about to confirm their suspicions. I took the near daily abuse, the swatted textbooks, being shoved against lockers, even the punches that came. I maintained my innocence. Definitely not gay I claimed. Of course, they didn't take me at my word.
I became obsessed with being the least gay person, at least stereotypically. I, of course, knew that gay people look and act in various ways and that the stereotypes that the troglodytes expected were not every gay person. I didn't take the time to explain this to them. I wore exactly what the other boys wore, evolving at a frankly painful pace from the baggy cargo shorts to still baggy jeans of high school. I played sports; my admittedly lanky body wasn't going to get me on the hockey team but I ran cross country and swam. I went to states in both.
I shunned all effeminate pastimes. I'd like to say that my efforts derived some tangible result—nada. So on the morning of my senior year. I was filled with the dull anxiety that gnaws at your gut. Standing shirtless in front of the mirror, I scrutinized my appearance trying to discern any possible gay vibes I was giving off. Light brown hair cut into the same haircut every other kid had, my face wasn't overtly feminine despite my high cheekbones and full lips. I kept my face shaven, mostly because the few scraggly hairs were disgusting.
My whole body was mostly hairless. Swimming had required us to shave for states, which had only added to the ridicule but even when my hair grew back it was light, nearly transparent. My body itself was lithe; running and swimming didn't focus on bulking so my muscles were small but defined. I had started lifting over the summer, in an attempt to up my masculinity, so I looked a little bigger. I had been diminutive when the rumors had begun but puberty was kind to me; I now stood at 6-2.
Not that being 6-2 would help me when I'm up against six people. With this dreary thought, I swiped on a t-shirt. Luckily, the guys had become slightly more stylish over the years so the shirt wasn't as ill-fitting as they once were and thank the Lord they had moved on from shopping at Hollister. I couldn't stand the seagull embossed designs.
Spending the drive to school psyching myself up, I almost had myself convinced that this year was going to be different. I reasoned that everyone grows up, they would be focused on getting into college, or at least that there may be some new target to pick on. Not a very charitable thought, but I would take good fortune where I could get it.
Growing up in Buffalo, students tended to stay outside as much as possible during the months when it was not cold enough to freeze off your nuts. So the front lawn was filled with my fellow students milling around, a buzz in the air. They were all thrilled to be back at school to gossip about who looked better with the summer months past and who looked decidedly worse. All around me groups huddled together, not necessarily cliques but the social groups all bore out.
Dominating the main staircase were the upper echelons of the school, comprised of the richest kids and the athletes. Now sure, I was an athlete but I didn't play the right sport to be a candidate for entry into their squad. In Buffalo, you played football and hockey. Football was one thing, their team was big and but my opinion as long as you were over 200 pounds you could be on the team. All of their games seemed like a battle of brute force against brute force. The football players were popular, but the hockey players were gods.
Hockey was a religion in Buffalo, the cool arena was church and each goal communion. With an NHL team in the city, the school lived and died by first the Sabres and then by our own team: the Cougars. I grew up a die-hard Sabres fan but my school spirit was sorely lacking. It's hard to cheer for the guys who had just kicked the shit out of you.
They were there holding court, girls hanging off every word. I walked faster, trying to appear smaller hoping to escape their notice. At least this time I succeeded and ran over to the cross country team. It was a good mix of guys, some like me that really did enjoy running. Our school had a policy that you either had to play a sport or have gym class. For the stoners this was an easy choice. As long as they could run into the woods where we mainly practiced, they could wander off the course and toke. Our coach recognized this and frankly didn't care. As long as they didn't hurt anyone, the extra members just got him more funding to assist the people who were competing.
I wasn't necessarily close with them, but at least they hadn't also cast me out. My only true friend on team was Matt Carter, a super stoner. True to his nature, his eyes were glazed over but it didn't detract from the wide, happy smile plastered on his face, "Hey Jake!" He greeted me with a joy that can only come with sativa. The rest of the group grunted their greetings before returning to their conversation.
Matt sidled up to me, wafting the scent of weed past me. "You really should Febreeze yourself down before school starts," I cautioned him.
He chuckled, "What, are they going to expel me on the first day of school?" He had a point, and the school was unlikely to expel him at all so close to getting rid of him and keeping him meant they wouldn't have to compromise the school's 100% graduation rate.
The first bell rang and we parted ways, him ambling off calling out hellos to various people in the crowds. He was popular, but a floater. It's hard not to like the funny stoner kid. He was the only person who dared really befriend the social pariah. Not even having me as a friend could shake his esteemed place in the school.
I don't know if anyone can truly understand how much effort I put into flying under the radar. Walking into my first period English class, I selected a seat in the middle on the far side from the door. The smart, driven kids would sit in the first two rows, and the jocks and other popular kids would sit in the back; the middle was designated for the floaters of the school. By siting near the window, hopefully enough bodies would shield me from any unwanted scrutiny as the popular kids filed through the door. With any luck I wouldn't be noticed at all, I certainly wasn't going to be one to raise his hand.
The classroom was only half full when someone sat down next to me. I tensed slightly expecting some girl hoping to make herself a gay best friend but a low dulcet voice murmured, "Hey, is this English with Campbell?"
