by Xavier Mayne
“Yes,” Sandler whispered. Though he had never had a sexual thought that wasn’t about a man—and he’d never been ashamed of them—he felt a kind of phantom shame creep over him as he made this pained utterance. This conversation was turning into a vicarious closeting.
Rauthmann leaned back in his chair, a slight smile slithering onto his face. “When did these thoughts begin?”
He was not, Sandler noted, asking him when did he first think these thoughts, but rather when did the thoughts themselves arise—like poltergeists—to trouble him.
“I… I don’t remember.”
“Think back. When were you first aware of these sexual thoughts about another male?”
This, Sandler could answer.
“Move! Move! Move! Get your suits on and get out onto the pool deck now! Now!”
No one bellows quite like a gym teacher. And this asshole had a set of lungs to make Pavarotti spit with envy. I yanked on my swim trunks, nearly crashing headlong into my own locker when my big toe caught on the elastic. I righted myself, then tied the waist string tight—wouldn’t want to have it slip off when I dove in like happened to that poor kid last year who changed schools after everyone saw his wiener.
I slammed the locker shut, and that’s when He was revealed to me.
He stood six lockers down, and he was beautiful. I’d seen him once or twice around campus, but never like this. He was just pulling his suit up over his ass, and it was like the light had gone out of the world when those brilliant globes were stifled by mundane navy-blue nylon.
I read once where they used to require you to swim naked at the Y back in the fifties. I was born too late.
He snapped his locker shut and walked away down the aisle of lockers. I watched him go.
I had sexual thoughts.
“It was in high school,” Sandler said.
“Did it trouble you?”
“Not really. I didn’t think it was anything weird because when you’re in high school you’re kind of horny all the time, so sometimes it happens in the locker room.”
Rauthmann nodded. “And were any of these thoughts manifested in reality?”
“What do you mean?” Sandler asked.
“I mean,” Rauthmann replied, leaning forward on his desk, “Did you partake in any sexual activity with other males?”
Part of Sandler’s mind was focused on trying to guess what would be the most effective answer—the one that would get Rauthmann to detail what he would do to cure him—and part was flying back a decade to that night he and Trevor did indeed partake.
“Are you sure your aunt and uncle won’t be home all weekend?” Trevor asked. Again.
“I’m sure,” I said, unlocking the door and welcoming him to my home-slash-bachelor pad. “Are you sure your parents bought the story about you hiking with the guys from your young man’s prayer circle or whatever?”
He smiled that crooked smile that made my knees get a boner. “Yes, they did, because we’ve done it the first week of summer vacation for the last three years.”
“And they’ll back you up? What if your parents ask them about whether you were there?”
“They’ll do what we always do when parents ask questions. ‘Was Jacob with you all weekend, boys?’ ‘Yes, he was, Mrs. Williams.’ ‘Did Aiden behave himself?’ ‘Yes, Mr. Johannsen, he led our big hike on Saturday.’”
I smiled. “And what were Jacob and Aiden actually up to?”
Trevor laughed. “Jacob spent the weekend boning that girl Brittany from our chemistry class, and Aiden never left the tent because he was stuck under his boyfriend the entire time. Man, that guy could just go and go—I don’t know how Aiden could even walk come Monday.”
“I like this prayer circle more and more,” I said, closing the door behind Trevor. I grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close. “Now tell me, Mr. Hendricks, and you have to be perfectly honest with me….”
“Always,” he said, kissing me on the nose. He was fucking adorable.
“How many prayer circle weekends have you spent getting boned in the pup tent?”
This stopped him cold. He looked at me as if I’d accused him of walking the streets in fishnet stockings and unfortunate eye shadow.
“None,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “Why would you even think that?”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, embarrassed to have embarrassed him. “I just figured since you were so casual about the other guys, you probably had done some of that yourself.”
He shook his head slowly. “No,” he said solemnly. “I’ve never even….” He blinked, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “You’re the first guy… the first person… I’ve ever even kissed.”
I felt like crap for even asking, and I was about to tell him so, but he continued.
“I’ve never felt like this for anyone,” he said, looking searchingly into my eyes. “I’ve never even noticed other people. I kind of see now why I haven’t had crushes on any girls, but you’re the first guy I’ve ever even thought about.” There was a sort of hopeless smile on his face now. “You’re the first… the only one.”
All I could think to do was crash my mouth into his as exuberantly as I could because he was just so sweet and so humble and so fucking sexy. We kissed for, like, ever, and then we had to stop just to be able to breathe, and he looked at me with a kind of suspicious grin on his face and said, “How about you?”
My mind was pretty scrambled with hormones by that point, so I sort of stared dumbly at him.
“How many times have you… you know… done it?”
As euphemisms for fucking go, that one’s a retro classic. He was so adorable. “Just once. And it was your fault.”
“My fault?” he cried, “How could it possibly have been my fault?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Oh, and by the way, you’re a slut.”
I would have been offended, but he said that with this growly voice he used when he was fired up, and then he kissed me, so we were good.
“It was after that time at your house. I was a little frazzled after fleeing from that harpy you use for a mother—”
“Understandable.”
“Thank you. So when you kissed me, you sent me into blue-balled permaboner hell, and running six blocks from your house didn’t help things a bit. So I brainstormed all of the things I could do to alleviate my… condition—”
He snickered at that—he clearly understood the compliment I and my unflaggingly erect penis had paid him.
“And I basically came up with two things: duck into a public bathroom and wank until only dust came out, or hit up the only person who had ever expressed an interest in me sexually.”
“I’d like the record to reflect that I had also expressed interest in you sexually.”
“So stipulated. But this other expression of interest didn’t come with the added bonus of a mother who can summon the demons of hell with a single shriek of her infernal voice, so you have to kind of give me the benefit of the doubt on that.”
“Granted. Proceed.”
“So I called him—”
“Who him?” Trevor demanded.
“No one you know. The guy who played Barnaby in Hello, Dolly!”
“That skank?” Trevor shrieked, sounding uncomfortably like his mother.
“You know him?”
“No, of course not. But he got his hands on you when I couldn’t, so I hate him.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet.” I kissed him, which led to another kiss, and suddenly it was a half hour later.
“So,” he said, wiping his amazing lips, “you were telling me about your first time. And I was being gracious and listening, no matter how much it pains me to hear about you in the arms of that horrible skank.”
“Do you want me to gloss over the details?”
“Of course not! I want to hear every sweaty, disgusting, amazing moment. Go!” He plopped down on the sofa in my living room and leaned forward attentively.
“Okay,
so I called him and asked him if he wanted to hang out, and he said yeah.”
“‘Hang out’? Did he know you were asking him for buttsex?”
“Well, he had practically come right out and asked me for exactly that a couple of weeks ago at the cast party, so he caught on pretty quick, especially once I got there and we went to his room and I asked if anyone could hear us. He asked if I came to make some noise, and I said hell yeah, so he locked the door of his room and we got to it.”
Trevor stared at me, waiting for more.
“I was so boned up after kissing you that even a half hour later I was still rock hard, and he jumped right on it. He grabbed a condom out of his dresser, rolled it on, and mounted up.”
“How did you know what to do?”
“I didn’t have to. He basically took care of everything. Given the hair trigger I was on, I came in like twenty seconds but didn’t even let him know. He kept riding, and I just held on the best I could. The second time I came, I kind of shook and thrusted, so he knew what was happening. And oh man did his ass clamp down on me. He jerked himself for like three strokes and then just busted all over the place. He hopped up and smiled at me as he cleaned us both up, then he gave my cock a squeeze and said ‘Good to go again?’ and I just nodded, and we were off to the races one more time. After that time, I had to get out of there before he came at me again. I mean, I guess you could say he came at me a second time—dude shot far enough for it to land in my hair—but it was three times for me, and I needed to stop. So I pulled my pants up and said thanks. He said it was his pleasure, and that was the last time I saw him. The end.”
Trevor sat silent.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him after about a few seconds went by.
“Promise not to be mad?” he asked softly.
“Of course,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. I mean, I wouldn’t have been mad at him no matter what, but I figured he was building up to telling me that he didn’t want to be with me since I clearly made poor choices under the influence of an erection lasting longer than an hour. He was going to tell me he was leaving.
“I don’t want you to put it in my butt.”
And just like that, the angels were smiling on me again. “I don’t want to put it in your butt,” I said, sitting next to him on the sofa. He looked at me with an awkward combination of relief and indignation on his face. “I mean, I totally want to put it in your butt someday,” I stumbled, “and I totally want you in my butt. Honest.” His expression now morphed into one of alarm. “I mean, I want us to do everything together. But we don’t have to do anything right now. We can just do what we’re comfortable with, and what we want, and we’ll see about the other stuff.”
He smiled shyly. “What do you want to do? With me, I mean?”
“This,” I said and leaned forward to kiss him softly. “If this is all we do, I’m good with that.”
He kissed me back. “I don’t think I’ll be good with that,” he said, that little growl back in his voice.
“Then you tell me. What do you want to do?”
“I want to see your bedroom.”
I stood up and reached back to take his hand. He looked at me, and then at my hand, and then back at me. Looking back on it, it was a kind of silly romantic gesture—I mean, he didn’t really need my help to get up off the sofa—but he took my hand with a little grin that let me know he was okay with it. I led him down the hall to my room. I was a little nervous about opening the door, honestly. We’d been planning this day for a week, so I’d cleaned up and vacuumed and put new sheets on the bed (my heart was pounding as I did so, contemplating the use we would make of those!). But my room just wasn’t nearly as nice as his. Then again, mine didn’t come with a banshee ready to break the door down because her son might actually be kissing somebody, so I think I got the better deal.
I opened the door, and though I’d painstakingly dusted every surface, Trevor only had eyes for the bed. He sat down on the edge of it and held out his arms for me. I sat next to him and pulled him to me. We sat there in silence for a while.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this,” he said softly.
“Hug someone? Scandalous.”
He pulled back to look me in the eye. “No, this,” he said. “I never thought I’d have someone to just hold.”
“Why would you say that?” I can’t imagine someone as sweet as Trevor going through life alone.
“My parents have drummed it into my head that you’re supposed to save yourself for marriage and not have any physical contact at all with anyone until then. It makes even hugging someone seem so far away, like something you can’t even consider until you’re married.”
“It sounds so lonely.”
“I was. Until you.” That shy smile came back.
“But the guys in your oversexed prayer circle weren’t waiting for marriage. Why did you think you had to?”
He thought about this for a moment. “I guess being an only child I feel kind of responsible for my parents’ hopes and dreams, you know? Like if I can’t do what they expect, no one else is going to.”
“That’s a lot of weight to be carrying around.”
He nodded and gave a helpless shrug. “We all have our baggage, I guess.”
I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, feeling the strong sinews that held up that lovely head. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
He blinked hard and brought those beautiful eyes up to mine. “You’re the dream I’d given up on coming true,” he said softly.
“I could say the same of you,” I replied. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I can’t believe I’m here either. I’m in the bedroom of a notorious slut, and he hasn’t even ripped my clothes off yet.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” I warned him.
He closed his eyes. “I wish for a dick. Full-size, low mileage, handles well. Reliable starter, likes to be driven hard.”
“Fuck me, the way you talk.”
“It’s more than talk,” he said, then started to unbutton his shirt.
This. This was the moment I’d dreamed of all through sophomore year while I watched him undress and then—alas—get dressed again in the locker room; my daily dose of yearning and boners. Which meant I was always late for class because I had to wait for my dick to deflate before I could finish getting changed.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked, folding his shirt neatly and setting it on top of my dresser.
“Because I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Oh, this is happening,” he replied with a laugh, then unzipped his pants.
All I could do was sit and watch as he reenacted my daily torture. He slid his jeans down and whipped his socks off, then stood there in just his blindingly white briefs.
“I hate these things,” he said, looking down. “My mom actually bleaches, starches, and irons my underwear. She says that morality starts with not giving in to our body.”
I gave in to his body long ago. “I love those things,” I replied. “Seeing those luminescent tighty-whities in the locker room was the highlight of every fucking day for me.”
“Why?” he asked, brow crinkled in adorable confusion.
“Because when I saw them, it meant I was about to see what’s under them.”
“People teased me for changing into a jockstrap for gym. They obviously don’t have a mom who complains about sweat stains in their drawers.”
“Teasing you? I seriously considered sending you flowers. I thought that once swim season ended, I’d never get another chance to see that amazing ass.”
“Amazing?” he asked, turning to the side and looking in my full-length mirror. “Really?”
“Really,” I said, getting to my feet—I didn’t want to be even two steps away from him for another second. I pulled him to me, wrapped my arms around him. He smiled, but his eyes widened when I slipped my hands under the waistband of those virginal briefs.
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Had I harbored any lingering doubt about my sexual identity, it would have evaporated under the heat of that first touch of what had been, until that moment, forbidden. I had spent an entire school year terrified that someone would catch me gawping at the fulsome muscularity of Trevor’s buttocks. Now I had them in my hands. From a distance of six locker-widths, they had looked smooth, round, and firm. From a distance of zero millimeters, they were all of that, and hot. They were like sculpture come to life, burning in my hands.
“Sandler,” he whispered, the shock of violation tinging his voice.
“If you’re going to ask me to let go, I’m just going to tell you now that’s not going to happen. They will pry your asscheeks from my cold, dead hands.”
He laughed, still apparently unable to believe that these muscular wonders—clearly stolen from a sculpture of Apollo somewhere—were anything special.
Right now, they were everything special in the world to me.
I grabbed meaty handfuls of his ass, causing him to pitch forward into me and emit a squeaking noise that made me laugh for weeks after. He shook and shivered as I ran my hands in giddy circles, raising goose bumps and causing him to grind into me in a way I found most pleasant.
Soon enough, though, he let go of my shoulders and fell to the task of ripping my clothes off. And I mean ripping. I’ll admit my T-shirt was a little tight—I’d wanted to give him a preview of coming attractions today—so I wasn’t that surprised when the seams gave way. I was surprised by the way the sound of shredding fabric made my knees weak. He yanked the remains of it off my shoulders, then started on my pants. These, luckily, held together, but were soon pooled at my ankles. I kicked them off.
I caught sight of us in the mirror, and we made quite a pair. Him in his starched and ironed tighty-whities and me in my brand-new boxer briefs. Was it creepy of me to have chosen the color to match his eyes? Maybe. But now that his eyes were glued to them, mission accomplished.
“Look at us,” I whispered, tipping my head toward the mirror.
He turned and looked us over top to bottom. “We’re like some archbishop’s wet dream,” he muttered, with a grin that would certainly have made his mother clutch her pearls.