A gay story: Old School New Lessons
My stomach was churning and a headache was starting to form just above my eyes. Nearly 20 years later, that building still gave me fits of trepidation:
Bradford James High School; home of the Fighting Navajos.
Of course, here’s a tip for the people that name schools and figure out the mascot names: think like a high school kid. Going to school at Bradford James and being called the Navajos is a problem when you’re always referred to as the “B J Hoes” by the other schools and kids. Oh, yeah. Talk about a way to build confidence and pride in your school and to get school spirit…
“We’re here to fight; we’ll ’cause you woes, you’re gonna succumb to the BJ Hoes!”
I graduated from the place and was back for a Parent-Teacher conference to talk about my son and how he’s getting along in class. I’d taken Scott in when he was just a few years old, when his parents — my best pal Sam and his wife, Janet, had been killed in a car crash. Now I was a 38 year old gay man with an 18 year old son.
Memories flooded my head as I remembered the times I’d had as a “B J Hoe”; the years of torment as I was slowly realizing that I was gay. I’d been one of the popular kids in school, voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Most Likely To Get the White Picket Fence”; I’d been part of the Royal Court for homecoming, but not the king. That had been my best pal, Sam, the football quarterback and nearly straight-A student.
I’d been attractive enough during high-school — I never had a problem lining up dates for the dances — but I was never going to get “Cutest Guy” or “Hottest Student” awards, either. It was through my 20s that I finally grew into my body and figured out how to make my better features — my eyes and my smile — more noticed. Now, I was tall and good looking. I never failed to get the looks when I was out and about. At 6 foot, 2 inches, I had the body of a football player — broad shoulders, thick arms and muscular legs. Working out in the gym 3 times a week and having a high school aged son to keep after helped, too.
My eyes were still the bright, startling blue that they’d always been. Think of Paul Newman and those are my eyes. And my hair was still the coppery shade of red it had been since I was a kid. But now it was shorter, straighter and worked with my face, instead of looking like the flared and flaming tip of a match, just lit.
I sat in my car, looking at the building. It hadn’t changed much in the last 20 years; the trees were taller, the paint had faded some, and the parking lots were now surrounded by block walls and wrought iron. There were still a lot of the same teachers on staff, but many had moved on, as well. I knew that Mr. Adams was still here, because that’s who I was here to see tonight.
Mr. Adams had been my English teacher when I was a junior and taught everything from basic grammar and spelling to English Lit and Creative Writing. He was a young man — maybe only in his late 20s at the time. He had been about 6 foot tall, with dark hair and green eyes. When I’d seen him sometimes, he’d been wearing shorts and a t-shirt, showing off toned and long legs and a muscular chest and arms. And all of it had a light covering of dark hair.
He had also been the advisor on the year book and had also headed up the drama club and helped out with the twice-yearly productions. And he was my first crush.
Well, my first crush on a living, breathing, real, live person. My first crush had been on a member of some music group — I couldn’t remember his name or the group’s name, either. But Mr. Adams; he was the fuel for many a late night fantasy, jerking off in my room, keeping quiet so I didn’t wake up mom or dad with my teenage lustful actions.
I’d imagine him asking me to stay late after school so we could work on some essay I was writing or I’d stay late to help him put together our yearbook; his cologne would tickle my senses and I’d lean in closer, feeling his warmth and heat, looking into his deep, Emerald green eyes; then his lips would be on mine, our bodies would intertwine and we’d make passionate love, taking turns sucking on each other’s cocks and finally, he’d plunge his cock in my ass, and I’d cum all over his desk, again and again, until he came — hot, thick and wet loads across my back; we’d collapse in sheer satisfaction on his desk. We’d clean up and he’d give me a ride home, giving me a kiss on my cheek and tell me “Until tomorrow”.
Or I would be finishing up my swimming and diving practice and heading to the locker room. Mr. Adams would have worked out in the school gym and would be showering in the locker room, his tall and muscular body, covered with dark hair, his cock and balls dangling as he soaped his body, slipping his fingers along his cock and in his ass. He’d ask me if I could wash his back and then we’d be fucking in the shower, my young and overly hard cock slipping in and out of his ass, water splashing over us, washing away the soap we used as lube and then cleaning our bodies of the juices from our cocks as we both came. And again, he’d kiss me on my cheek and tell me “Until tomorrow”.
Well, tomorrow never came. I continued going to school, he continued to teach. He continued to be the object of my youthful and lustful desires; each time I’d jerk off, he’d be in my mind, holding me, hugging me, kissing me, sucking me, fucking me. Then I graduated and went off to college.
Now, today, I was a network administrator for one of the big hotel resorts in town, pulling down a decent salary and raising a teenage son. I didn’t have a lot of time to date and even less time for sex. Instead, my lust was taken care of the same way I’d taken care of it in high school — with my own hand. I was still jacking off at least once a day, my cock slipping in and out of my hand. Sometimes, I’d be online, checking out a porn site or looking at pictures; doing cam-2-cam with some guy or even just reading hot and kinky sex stories on the web. As long as it got me up, I was able to get off.
I got out of the car and headed towards the school — my stomach still churning with apprehension and my head still aching. I walked through the front gates and stepped back into the quad of Bradford James High School. There were still people moving about — teachers, coaches and a few students heading home after a long day; janitors getting their gear together to scrub and clean the rooms again and a few parents heading out after their own Parent-Teacher conference. I would probably be the last one of the day.
I headed down the corridor and found room 212 — Mr. Adams’ class. The door was closed. I was about to knock, when a deep voice came from behind. “Mr. Marius? Bill Marius? Is that you?” I turned to see a slightly older — but still just as sexy — Mr. Adams walking up to me. He was still just as tall, dark and handsome as he’d ever been. His dark hair was now threaded through with some silver. His eyes still had the same intense green shine, and his smile was still as bright.