by Willard, Guy
It felt good. Nothing had ever felt this good. I knew he was poised on the verge of coming because I myself was.
His hands gripped the sides of my head and his pelvis pumped his dick into my mouth hard, two, three, four times. And then he stopped and held still; I felt his whole body tremble as his dick twitched spasmodically and sudden warmth filled my mouth.
And I was coming, too.
*
“Oh!”
I was coming, awake now, into my pants as I popped my eyes open in the dark.
My heart hammering, and still trying to figure out what had happened, I lay still and felt the uncomfortable clamminess in my briefs, the tacky trickle of warm semen creeping into my pubic bush.
I was in my own room. It had been a wet dream. I looked at the clock and saw it was two o’clock in the morning. The house was dark and quiet.
I lay there for a long while before finally mustering the energy to get up and change out of my soiled underwear. In the dark, I cleaned myself up with some tissues and got out another pair of briefs from the dresser. The new pair felt refreshing.
Silently I crept out into the hallway and deposited the soiled pair in the hamper by the bathroom, then returned to my bed. I still couldn’t shake the incredible disappointment of waking up to reality. The dream had been so real that my regret was poignant; I felt all the anguish of an actual forced parting.
I turned on the lamp and reached down between the mattress and bedsprings to pull out the photo. I’d sneaked into Sean’s room and stolen it from the bundle of photos in his dresser while Wendy was in the bathroom. From the moment I’d seen it, I knew I’d end up stealing it. After that, it was all I could do to give a convincing performance of reluctantly parting from Wendy….
And coming home tonight, before going to sleep, I’d masturbated twice to the picture. But even that hadn’t been enough. My sleeping mind had returned to the image of my desire, to tease me with it, to give me the fuller satisfaction I craved.
I felt now as if I’d eaten the rotten fruit which has fallen off a forbidden tree. But I’d had no compunctions about eating it, knowing that its very sweetness came from its forbiddenness. Why did it have to taste so delicious if it was rotten? Why did our poisons have to be so seductive?
I pulled the photo closer, and then put my lips to Sean’s face, his chest, then closed my eyes. If Sean had wanted it, I would have gladly done the same thing in real life. But of course it could never happen.
…Could it?
I thought of Mark, and what we’d done in his bedroom. It had been good. I couldn’t deny it. As I remembered all the details of what we’d done, I felt a hard knot settle in my stomach. I suddenly knew I would do it again sometime, if not with Mark, then with someone else very much like him. Another faggot.
I thought of all the faggots in school, of all the faggots in the world.
I remembered that morning long ago when I’d first heard the word. It had sounded so innocuous. In fact, it still did; the dictionary on my desk defined faggot as “a bundle of sticks or twigs, esp. for use as fuel.” I knew: I’d looked it up so many times.
Some boys go through a phase…which they outgrow in time…those who don’t are called…from the Greek word….
I thought of Mark Warren, and how it must feel to be a faggot.
I thought of Jack as he’d looked at his peak, his beautiful peak, and of the sad new Jack.
I thought of Sean.
I thought of Bobby and our little games, our innocent games.
I thought of Mark again, and of how his dick had looked as I was fucking him in the ass.
I thought of Bobby’s dick, the first hard-on I’d seen on another boy.
I thought of all the boys in the shower room, moving slowly in a mist of desire.
I thought of Sean again.
I thought of how his dick had looked in my dream.
“Kind of salty…like a warm, salty gob in your mouth.”
The hard knot in my stomach wouldn’t go away. I felt all weak inside.
I got up from the bed and walked over to my desk and sat down. From the top drawer I pulled out a packet of notebook paper, bought so eagerly in the fall of my first year of high school along with notebooks and color-coded subject dividers. After three years’ use, the plastic-wrapped packet of ruled sheets looked shabby and bedraggled, but many fresh, unused sheets still remained at the bottom, perhaps fifty of them.
I slipped one out and laid it flat upon my desk top. I stared at its cool clean whiteness for a long, long time. Then, taking up a pencil, I printed carefully upon it in even block letters, with cruel precision: GUY WILLARD IS A FAGGOT.
I tried to imagine it scrawled upon the boys’ room walls where I’d seen so many similar accusations inscribed (with only the name—the many names!—different.) Suddenly I began trembling like a leaf, violently, as if I were in the clutches of a fever, but there was no fever. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably; I closed my eyes. When it finally subsided, I began to feel a satisfying glow of pain gradually welling up inside me.
So that’s what it felt like. It wasn’t so bad.
I took another look at what I’d written, then crumpled it up and threw it away. I drew out another sheet and wrote upon it again: GUY WILLARD IS A FAGGOT.
I stared at it for a long, long time, then crumpled it up, too.
As if pressed onward by urgent warnings, I wrote the same message on all the remaining sheets, until I had no more left, until the floor around my desk was littered with piles of crumpled-up paper balls.
*