This version is edited from the original, although there aren't loads of changes in the first couple of chapters -- mainly a little tease at the end of chap. 2.
Then: usual caveats -- everyone in this story is over 18, and it's gay romance so if m/m isn't your thing you're lost.
* * * * *
I check myself in the scratched and dim full-length mirror behind my door. Looking good, which is all I need: gotta look good for the first day back. I don't have much going for me; no money, no car, no expensive clothes, no attraction to women -- so I have to take what I can get.
I'm lucky I got my looks from my mom -- symmetrical features, thick black hair, deep blue eyes, pale skin -- my mom calls it the Irish connection, because she's second generation. Equally lucky I must have got my height from my dad, whoever he is -- mom is five foot nothing and at least I'm knocking on the door of six feet. That's the only lucky thing he ever gave me though.
I run my fingers through my hair for that mussed look, debating wax and going for it. Worth depleting my stash for the first day. I can't do regular haircuts, so I cultivate that bed-head style like it's intentional. New t-shirt's worth it too -- not even from Target today.
My style is chilled -- I realized early on that I couldn't compete with the rich kids for fashion, so I developed my own based on my love of retro tunes -- today's is a silhouette of Bowie that fits close to my lean frame. I think it impresses them when someone is above all the posturing -- even if I am faking it most of the time. That's me all over though, walking the halls of Lincoln High I want to stay an outsider, because I'm not sure I remember what it's like to be real anymore.
It's not my mom's fault, even though she's the one who insisted I went there instead of the local, much rougher high school near where we live. Lincoln High is preferable to that, but it can be difficult, knowing that you're not really one of them.
I pull on my old Converse and exit my room through the narrow door. The first thing I see is my mom, slumped on the dusty brown couch in an uncomfortable position, an ashtray on her chest and a burnt-out cigarette between her fingers. I glance at the half empty whiskey bottle on the floor and sigh. She's still wearing her scrubs and even in sleep I can see the heavy bags under her eyes.
My mom has been working herself to death as a nursing aide since I can remember and it scares me sometimes, how much pressure she puts on herself to provide. I know it eats at her that she can't give me what the other kids get: cars, and clothes, and holidays, but it makes me mad too, that she won't listen to me when I tell her I don't need that stuff, that I'd rather have her happy. She just laughs and claims that she is happy, handing me another book, or pair of sneakers, or the dues for swim team. But her laugh gets weaker by the day, and her eyes are bloodshot with the burden.
I carefully move the stinking ashtray, dropping the now-cold contents in the bin, before returning to her side. I lift her with relative ease. I'm not bulky, but she's way too light, and is wrapped in my arms like a child as we enter her room, where I deposit her gently on the bed. It's dark and musty in here -- I make a mental note to change her bedclothes tonight while she's at work, I'm due a trip to the laundromat anyway.
I'm going to be late if I don't leave now, but I take a moment to look down at my mom's sleeping form. She looks so pretty, and much younger, when she's sleeping, none of the hard lines of worry that crease her face in wakefulness, though I wonder what it is she's hiding from me in those waking hours.
"Love you Ryan," she mumbles, shifting to her side, and my heart wells, partly with love but a little bit with sadness too.
I'm often curious about what my mom would be doing if she hadn't had me at eighteen and been rejected by her hyper-conservative family -- I cast my eye around the dingy interior, mainly decorated in dull-brown fabric and plastic wood -- not this, that's for sure.
Can't be thinking of that stuff now though. I grab my backpack -- last year's model, looking tattered round the edges, but I'm hoping it can see me through this final year -- and my lunch, and fly out the door, only just remembering to turn back and lock up before running out to the street, vaulting the broken and rusting car parts and children's toys that litter almost all the space around the trailers in a tragic approximation of a track event. Luck is on my side this morning, and I skid to the bus-stop just in time to make my journey from the wrong side of the tracks to the right side.
* * * * *
Catching the right first bus means I have time to save money by walking instead of catching the second bus. It's a nice walk, 'specially on this late summer morning, along these tree-lined streets; dappled shade falling across the sidewalks, over-exuberant joggers waving good mornings -- to me, to the dog walkers, to the happy retirees mowing their emerald-green lawns. It's a little Stepford, but I can't help but like it. Or, if not exactly like it, then feel a sense of longing for it.
I haven't got far to go, but I'm still happy when the cherry-red Mercedes Cabriolet pulls up alongside and the beautiful brunette offers me a lift. I jump in enthusiastically and she laughingly rebukes me.
"Hey buddy, feet off the upholstery!"
I laugh and plant a kiss on her perfectly made-up cheek.
"Hey Mad, how did your last few weeks of vacation go?"
"Oh you know, the islands are the islands," then she looks at me guiltily, knowing full well I have no idea what makes them so.
She doesn't really know what she feels guilty about. I've been to her palatial stucco mansion often, but she's never seen my place, and I suspect she imagines some nice working-class cottage with a painted veranda and roses round the doorway. We established early on in our friendship that it's the one thing I don't want to open up about and she's never pushed it, which just helps me love her more. I don't feel like an alien with her.
"Anyway," she's eager to change the subject from this one piece of awkwardness between us, her brown eyes cheeky, "don't you have some news for me? I want to hear every detail."
"Every detail? I'm not sure you know what you're asking for," I casually flutter my fingers over the side of the door, feeling the coolness of the breeze whipping through them as I shoot her a cheeky smile.
We laugh, comfortable again, and I tell her about my last few weeks.
* * * * *
I'd made the decision at the beginning of the break. I was going to get my v-card punched. Sorry for the crudeness, but it's a fairly crude topic so I guess there's no point holding back. Plus, last year, Mad told me every detail of her 'ascent into womanhood' in jaw-dropping nauseating detail so it's the least she deserves.
It wasn't ideal. I wished there was someone I could develop a bond with first, before sex. It's not because I have some antiquated idea that my virginity is precious -- I'm not some eighteenth-century maiden -- but because I have a feeling sex would be a much more satisfying thing if you have a connection first. But you know what they say, or my mom says, at least (if not about this topic), beggars can't be choosers...
Guys from school are out of the question. Sure, there were a couple of seniors last year who I wouldn't have said no to if they'd have shown an interest, but during vacation they were all off doing their rich-boy thing and I didn't feel like waiting for the new school year to see if anyone had glowed up and come out.
You might wonder why I have this apparent plethora of potential choices at school -- high school not exactly being known for its acceptance of guy-on-guy -- but Lincoln High is a progressive school in a wealthy neighborhood in a left-leaning state. It's not perfect, but I certainly have it better than most and it's one of the reasons my mom insisted on me coming here. I've been out since I arrived, and I don't have to put up with more than some minor shit from the usual suspects.
So, after I'd lost Mad to her cruise, I joined Grindr, obvs -- stick with the tried and true. It was actually unnerving how many matches I got -- not because I'm all that, just because there really is that much thirst out there.
I was picky that first time. I met a couple of guys (public places, of course) who I walked away from: one because he'd clearly used a photo from at least ten years earlier and I don't like manipulators, and the other because, regardless of how hot he was, he was a pushy creep from the get-go. I might not have been looking for a love connection, but I wouldn't mind if my first time didn't make my stomach turn.
Alister was different. He's a sophomore at college and was kind of sweet that first time we met, in a coffee shop near the university. He has soft brown eyes and hair that matches, plus deliciously broad shoulders and strong arms. I'm a sucker for strong, toned arms.
We chatted slightly awkwardly at first, but he soon put me at ease, so when he asked if I wanted to go watch a movie with him in his dorm I was more excited than nervous. My mind, and body, was telling me that I was ready for this, and he was looking like a great option.
His picture had been a recent one; I wasn't complaining about the addition of some sexy facial hair, and he didn't greet me by grabbing my junk, so I was onto a winner. Okay, my expectations weren't massively high by that point.
We watched a movie for a while, our knees pressed together, his fingers lightly stroking my arm from its position over my shoulder, until he got rid of his roommate with some pointed coughing and eyebrow-raising. The door had barely closed behind him before Alister was on me, his mouth crashing passionately with mine, his body leaning over me, pushing me into the couch as his hands caressed my hair. I've kissed guys before, so it felt good to lean into it, to show him I could be just as passionate.
He shucked off his shirt and I enjoyed those well-defined shoulder and arm muscles, stroking my hands along, tracing the curves while I nuzzled into his warm neck. He wasn't wasting any time -- I could feel his fingers at my belt, fumbling it open while he nibbled my earlobe, and soon his warm hand was on my cock, already filled and twitching against his touch.
