“Call me,” he said, ducking into his car. He flashed his headlights at me before pulling away.
I walked from the parking lot to the football field. The second half had just started and South’s cheerleaders had pretty much given up. We were down by 36, and Bink’s only completed passes of the game had been interceptions. I dodged the halogens, ducked under the bleachers, and stuck a hand through my fly. After four pumps, I was tucked back in and grinding boy syrup into the dirt with the bottom of my Chuck Taylors. Since then, I’ve tenderized my meat twice while thinking about Rob. If I don’t do it again, I’ll never get to sleep.
Monday, September 3
This weekend with Rob—awesome. I think the Ps only let me spend the weekend with him ’cuz it meant not having to deal with me for two days.
Did I say how awesome this weekend was? Rob and I sooo did the nasty—like total contortionist-on-a-trapeze, porn-star-mattress-surfing, screeching monkey love.
Yeah, right. Like that happened. With his dad and mom around all the time, there wasn’t much we could do without getting caught. But we did enough.
When Rob picked me up on Saturday, he was way nervous and talking so fast I could barely understand him. Charlie, my mom’s got Lou Gehrig’s disease. She’s in a wheelchair, okay? It’s not contagious, and don’t freak, she’ll see it. It’s kind of like she’s paralyzed. And God, if she says something—her speech isn’t great. She’s almost locked in.
It kind of bugged me that Rob was worried about how I’d act around his mom. Did he think I got my jollies pulling the wings off butterflies or dragging my foot across lightning bugs so I could make a glowing line with their ass juice? What did he think I’d do to her? Throw rocks?
Rob must’ve seen I was ticked, ’cuz he apologized for acting stupid and dropped his fist on my thigh.
“You mind me just driving for a bit?” he asked. I shook my head. He pressed a button and all the car’s power windows went down. Rob punched a few buttons on the MP3 wired to the stereo.
“We’re gonna kick it old school,” Rob joked.
The car zipped past newly emptied cornfields. My shoulders rolled with the doooo-rooo doooo-rooo bass groove. Rob bobbed his head and let his left hand air surf outside the window as he lip-synched. We had to look ridiculous—two goofy boys acting all straight gangsta mack.
Being with him felt good. I wanted us to kiss.
“I’m glad you’re coming over,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I guess I’m, you know, nervous about people coming over and getting scared by my mom.”
“Well, Shannon was over, right?”
Rob nodded, then clammed up. Leave it to me to say the stupid thing. Did I mention my mouth perfectly fits a size sixteen shoe?
“She’s totally hot for you.”
“I’m not into her like that,” Rob said. He turned left on Huntley Road and headed to Turnberry.
“Everyone thinks she’s cute.”
“Well, everyone else can date her.”
“Everyone else has.”
Rob’s house was big, but nowhere near as confusing as Dana’s next door. We went upstairs and I dumped my bag in his room—unmade queen-sized bed, a desk, bureau with a TV and DVD player on top, posters of soccer players, a bookcase filled with CDs and a couple of trophies. The floor was covered with sheet music, tennis shoes, soccer cleats, and dirty clothes. Rob scurried around, picking stuff up and shoving it into a walk-in closet. I started helping, grabbing a stray sock that was damp and sticky. I didn’t say anything, just kicked it under his bed. As he led the way downstairs, I put my palm to my nose and wondered whom Rob’d been thinking about when he’d taken care of things.
“We’re out back, guys,” Mr. Hunt called as we stepped into the kitchen.
They were on the deck. Rob opened the screen door and Mr. Hunt stood, setting a hairbrush on the patio table. Rob’s mom was facing away from us, an oxygen tank strapped to the back of her wheelchair. Mr. Hunt had been combing her black hair. I freaked a little. More of a silent gasp than anything. Rob didn’t hear me and Mrs. Hunt didn’t see it, so it wasn’t too bad. Still, would it have killed Rob to say, “Oh, and gee, before I forget, Mom’s wearing an oxygen mask”?
We said our hellos. Mr. Hunt looked tired, dark bags under his eyes. Rob seemed worried.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s okay now. We had some trouble at lunch. I called the nursing service. Julie came over to help,” Mr. Hunt said, massaging a kink from his neck. “She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got to run into the city to look at a new campaign.”
“It’s Sunday. Who works on Sunday?” Rob asked.
“It’s a big project, Rob. Charlie, you haven’t met Rob’s mom yet.”
Mr. Hunt turned the wheelchair. Even with an oxygen mask, she looked like Rob. They had the same white skin and cheekbones, even the same blue eyes.
“Charlie, this is Kathy. Kathy, Charlie.”
“Hi, Mrs. Hunt,” I said, offering a clumsy wave. Her eyes widened and—this sounds stupid—it seemed like she smiled.
“Charlie’s the guy I’ve been telling you about,” Rob said.
“Don’t listen to him,” I said, socking Rob on the arm. “I’m way better at soccer. Yeah, he scored four goals last night, but I was the one who kept Woodstock to nothing.”
Talking to Rob’s mom was easy, which kind of surprised me. Rob smiled and his retainer glinted in the sunlight.
“Of course, Rob didn’t tell you that, ’cuz that’d mean admitting I’m better.”
“In your dreams, Stewart,” Rob said. He faked a jab to my gut. I flinched, tucking my arms to my chest. “We both know I’m better. I’ll prove it.”
He bounded to the corner of the deck, hefted a soccer ball into the air with his insole, trapped it with his stomach, juggled it, and then grabbed it mid-flight with his hands.
“Okay, punk. Someone needs to teach you some respect.”
Mrs. Hunt looked at me like we were sharing a joke. I smiled and raced Rob to the backyard.
Rob grabbed two Frisbees and marked off a makeshift goal. I grabbed one of the Frisbees and tossed it in about four feet.
“What?” Rob asked, like he hadn’t deliberately made the goal too wide.
“Putz. Like I don’t know what twenty-four feet looks like?”
“I had to try.” He launched a kick at me and I batted it away.
We played for hours, pretty much holding each other to even. At one point, I’d punted the ball a good thirty yards out. Rob dribbled it in a full-on charge. I dropped into my stance—knees bent slightly, arched on the balls of my feet, arms loose and ready. Instead of shooting, Rob stepped over the ball and dove forward, tackling me.
“Penalty, penalty! Flag on the play,” I said. We rolled around, laughing, hands fumbling everywhere, until it was something more than roughhousing. I wriggled from under him, the grass staining my T-shirt, and grabbed Rob by his wrists, hoisting them above his head. I swung a knee across his waist, pinning him beneath me, trapping his hands. I tickled him and he squirmed, hips arching, ribcage brushing against the insides of my legs. It felt amazing. I wanted to lean down and plant one on his lips. He might’ve let me, too, but Mr. Hunt popped outside and shouted that we needed to come inside because it was getting late.
I beat Rob to the deck and raced him up the steps, blocking him with my hip whenever he tried passing. He swatted my ass and we ducked inside.
When Mr. Hunt saw us, he shook his head. “The two of you are filthy. Get cleaned up and then go get something to eat.” He reached into his wallet and slipped Rob a hundred-dollar bill. Rob took it like it was no big deal. First’d give up a lung before he’d fork over that kinda dough to me.
“Pretend it’s a date,” Mr. Hunt grinned.
I couldn’t tell if Mr. Hunt was kidding or if he actually was serious. Rob smiled back, but I couldn’t tell anything from his expression. It was just a smile—the stupid, meaningless
kind you’d expect to see in a yearbook photo.
We went upstairs and I grabbed my backpack for a change of clothes. Rob kicked open a door near the end of his bed and flicked the light switch. The bathroom. He snagged a couple of towels and tossed them to me.
“Your dad’s okay with you…like….”
I didn’t finish what I was saying. I wanted Rob to fill in the rest to give me a better handle on the situation. Dad’s okay with me like what? Taking a hundred bucks? Yeah, he gives me cash all the time. Or My dad’s okay with me like what? Like liking guys? Christ, he was totally kidding about that homo stuff. He’d flip if I liked guys, Charlie. That gay stuff is sick.
“Okay with me going on a date? Why wouldn’t he be?” Rob asked. He grabbed a shirt from the floor and sniffed it to see if it smelled clean. He alley-ooped it into an open hamper. It must’ve been too bad for a white trash dry-cleaning—ten minutes in a dryer with two sheets of fabric softener.
“You’re cool with it, right?” Rob bit his lower lip.
“It’s cool,” I said. My heart climbed into my throat and throbbed so hard it probably looked like it was humping my Adam’s apple.
Rob’s teeth let go of his bottom lip and he exhaled. I think he’d been just as nervous as I was.
Sure, I’m into guys and all, but going on a one-milkshaketwo-straws-Archie-and-Veronica-only-with-Jughead-instead date with a boy wasn’t something I’d thought about. I just never figured I’d meet a guy who’d wanna go on one.
“I’ll show you the guest bathroom,” Rob said.
Okay, I’ll admit I wanted to shower with him, get all sudsy, and, oops, butterfingers, drop the soap. But that stuff only happens in Penthouse Forum letters, and then only in prisons or military barracks.
After we’d showered and dressed, we thundered downstairs, hopped into Rob’s car, and headed to the Village Squire. Rob’d driven past it once and thought it looked cool. I’d always thought it was hokey. Outside, it looks like an English cottage—all stone, wood, and ivy. Inside, it’s pretty much like any other restaurant except for coats of arms on the walls and the two suits of armor flanking a soundstage for musicians.
Our waitress asked what we wanted to drink and I tried scoring us a couple of Mai Tais. I don’t know what they taste like, I just like that they come in these Easter Island statue glasses. I got a nice-try-kid scowl, menus, and Cokes instead. (Diet for Rob, regular tasted too sugary, he said. “Yeah, but not metallic and artificial tasting,” I said.) Rob’s lips moved as he read the menu, and when he saw I’d noticed, he acted all shy, and asked me not to tell anyone. He was dyslexic and had learning disabilities, which was part of the reason his Ps’d sent him to Phelps.
The rest of dinner’s a blur. Saganaki—opa!—with a squeeze of lemon juice, a pizza, another round of Cokes. The singer on break and Bowie over the speakers. Not “Heroes,” but still, a total sign! Rob, total southpaw, eating left-handed. Grease mopped from chins. Playing footsie under the table. Rob, surprised I hadn’t figured out he was gay sooner. Sheesh, pup, the locker room? Yeah, but that coulda been anything. Well, what about Dana’s? Truth or dare? Me trying to french you? I thought you were making fun of me. More Coke. We’ll float out of here if we have any more. Me hard and hardly breathing. The Thin White Duke returning. An eyelash on Rob’s cheek. Me brushing it to my fingertip, not caring who saw. Him wishing on it and blowing it away. Squeezing hands under the table, fingers intertwined. The bill paid, tip left, his hand in the small of my back as we left. Then to Julianne’s across the street for frozen custard, eating our cones in the car. And at a stoplight, a kiss almost, almost my first, my nose Eskimo-ing his as he leaned in. The light changed and Rob sighed, slipping the car into gear.
Back in Rob’s room, we both acted awkward and skittish. It was the bed. The thing was there, smack in the middle of the room, but we both acted like if we went near it, things’d get snack-time-in-the-Garden-of-Eden messy.
I was terrified that as soon as we started making out, he’d figure out I was a virgin, and he’d laugh ’cuz it was so pathetic. Overreact much, Charlie? Nah.
Finally, Rob asked if I wanted to watch a movie. I didn’t, but I figured a movie’d keep him from seeing how much of a dork I was. Rob popped in a DVD—Labyrinth—’cuz he noticed at the Village Squire that I liked Bowie, and ’cuz he liked it when he was a kid—and kicked off his shoes. I toe-to-heeled out of mine and nudged them under the bed, afraid they might stink. Rob turned off the light and we climbed on the bed, staying as far apart as we could—me at the foot, lying on my stomach, Rob at the head, knees tucked to his chest.
We must’ve both dozed off, ’cuz when Mr. Hunt rapped on the door, saying we needed to hit the hay, we jumped. The movie was over. Rob found the remote and clicked off the DVD player, leaving the room lit by the TV’s blue haze. He hopped off the bed, pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it to the floor, and shimmied down to his boxers. Rob sailed into the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush. I dug through my bag for mine and stripped down to my Jockeys, worried I might get hard.
I joined Rob in the bathroom. He smiled at me in the mirror. His retainer was in a yellow case on the counter. He gargled, spit, and then slipped behind me so I could have the sink. I fumbled to squeeze a glob of Crest onto my brush as Rob wrapped his arms around my waist and stood on his toes. He pressed against me and his nipples grazed the skin of my back. It tickled.
“Quit it.”
“No, I want to,” Rob said.
His fingertips slid past the elastic band of my underwear. My dick jerked up and Rob snapped the waistband against Mr. Five-Incher’s head. I winced and tucked him back into my Jockeys, and then went back to brushing my teeth. Mr. Five-Incher wasn’t having any of it. A wet spot formed on the cotton fabric and Rob traced it with his index finger. My face went red. I stopped breathing and it felt like the bones in my legs had dissolved. Rob pressed his lips along my shoulder blade, kissing my skin, then he darted back to the bedroom and dove into bed. I followed, leaping after him as my toothbrush clattered into the sink.
How was I? More self-evaluation:
Compared to driving, I think I’m not all that bad with the making-out-with-guys thing. But that’s not saying a lot.
I was really nervous the whole time. I kept thinking Mr. Hunt’d walk in on us going at it, our dicks rubbing together like we were a couple of Boy Scouts starting campfires in our underwear. Half the time we tried kissing our teeth would clink together or I’d jab him in the eye with my nose or bump his forehead with my chin. Or we’d roll over and our knees would knock. I’d grab him and he’d flinch ’cuz I was holding him too hard. I kept saying “I’m sorry,” “oops,” “so sorry,” until Rob stuck his tongue down my throat to make me shut up.
So there. I’m no James Brown sex machine or Rick James superfreak. Rob’s a lot more experienced. I can tell. I’ve got the marks to prove it—whisker burn along my jaw and hickeys down my ribcage. When was he down there? Oh, and he bites. Hard. Not that that’s a bad thing. I’m just surprised I have ears left. My nipples are still pretty sore, too. They’re all swollen and it almost hurts to wear a shirt. Actually, it feels kind of cool, like he’s given me love tattoos. That should be the name of a lounge singer’s band. And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s my great pleasure to present to you the incomparable song stylings of Charlie Stewart and his Love Tattoos. He’s here ’til Thursday. Try the veal.
Still, I’m good at spooning. Even though Rob’s dick poked my butt, I didn’t reach around to play with it. I didn’t even play with mine.
I woke up way before Rob with a major case of morning wood. I thought about humping his hand until he woke up, but I really needed to take a leak in the worst way. I untangled myself from Rob, tiptoed to the bathroom, and tried to pee without making a mess of everything.
Girls have it easy. Sure, they have periods and babies and menopause and all. Big deal. Try pissing through a hard-on. Waiting for it to go away doesn’t work. It’s a proven fact
that a teenaged boy can’t lose wood if he’s gotta piss. He can pound one off and then try peeing when it’s back at half-staff, but sometimes he can’t bust a nut if he’s gotta go. He can try the cold shower routine, where he prays the freezing water will make him lose it before he sprays his chest. There’s the screw-it-piss-through-it option. No guy’ll admit doing it, but sometimes it’s the only way to get the job done. You stand over the bathroom sink (or any sink for that matter) on your tippytoes, point Mr. Happy at the drain, and let it rip. Sure, it sounds gross, but it’s just another one of those things guys don’t talk about—like farmer blows in the shower or seeing if they can suck themselves off. I can’t; I nearly sprained my neck trying.
I did a variation of the screw-it-piss-through-it method, ’cuz if a guy shoots in his shorts and lets it dry, things down there get stuck. He’s gotta go slow with the undressing. If he’s glued to his underwear, he can’t do the Band-Aid thing—the fast tug so the scab doesn’t come off—because that’d hurt way too much. So, I uncemented my underwear with a few drops of water from the faucet and then managed to shimmy into the toilet sandwich position—my butt cheeks on the seat like the top slice of bread, the seat where the meat would be, and Mr. Five-Incher hooked under it like he was the bottom slice. I pushed him down at his base so he wouldn’t spray the bathroom floor and soak my shorts.
When I finished, Rob was still asleep and drooling a little on his pillowcase, so I grabbed a pair of baggy basketball shorts and an oversized T-shirt, put them on, and went downstairs. I heard Mr. Hunt arguing with Nurse Julie.
The gist of the fight was that Mrs. Hunt would need a ventilator soon, maybe a feeding tube. According to Julie, she wouldn’t last long without either. She said it’d be cruel if he didn’t do something now. Mr. Hunt said he’d decide what was best for his family.
The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second Page 6