Cupid's Big Weekend

A gay story: Cupid's Big Weekend This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult males, so if that’s not allowed where you live then you should march in the streets. I’m releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license, which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as you give me credit and don’t use it for commercial purposes of any kind. If you enjoy the story, I’d love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.

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CHAPTER ONE

Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fucking fuck. I’m a dead man.

He’s looking right at me. He knows what I’ve been doing. Now he’s going to kill me. My stomach feels like his fist is already in it. All that’s left is for him to spit on my crumpled body. I can just imagine him doing it, his lips forming into a sneering “O,” his full, pouting lips, his gorgeous, plump, soft, lips…

Fuck! I’m doing it again. I’m about to die and I’m still doing it. I am so fucked.

I didn’t come here to stare at him. I came here to get away from him, actually. I didn’t think he’d be here. In fact, given my previous observations of his schedule, this is the time that he’s normally at his team meeting in the athletic office. The one where he looks serious and engaged right up until he nods off, that cleft chin coming to rest softly on his chest, his baggy sweats tenting up as his apparently ample privates respond to something pleasant in his dreaming. At least that’s the way it looks through the window of the basement room where they have the meetings.

Not that I’m a stalker or anything.

It’s just that he’s so beautiful, so fucking beautiful, I can’t help myself. And now he’s seen me gawking at him on the bench press, and he’s going to come over here and bash my fucking brains in. I didn’t intend to stare, you know. I just glanced over–glancing is fine, right? everyone glances, happens all the time–and he was really pushing hard to thrust the bar back up, really straining, and then his legs lurched a bit, the leg of his shorts shifted a bit, and suddenly I could see straight up his leg to, well, all the way up. I was stunned, and who wouldn’t be? I think I can be forgiven for gasping. And stepping a little to the side, off the belt of the treadmill, just a touch. And sort of falling off. OK, I made a fucking fool of myself. But at least no one noticed. Or so I thought, until I saw him look over at me. Which is why I’m completely and utterly fucked.

Fuck.

He’s looking right at me. And now he’s getting up. And coming over.

You know how you learn in Biology class that humans have a “fight or flight” instinct? That when faced with imminent bodily harm we either lash out or run away, without even thinking? Well, I ‘m here to tell you that that’s bullshit. Complete bullshit. Here I am, lying on the floor of the workout room in a pool of my own sweat and mortification, with the guy I’ve practically been stalking coming right at me, having caught me staring up his shorts, and … nothing. No flight, no fight. Just lunch working its way back up my throat, half-digested burrito closing off my air. Somewhere in the distance I can hear Darwin laughing. Clearly I was not meant to survive.

He’s right here. Standing right next to me. I can only bring myself to look up as high as his kneecap for fear that I will hose him down with the remains of that ill-advised fiesta of a lunch. He’s not moving. He’s just standing there. So, the last thing I see before I die is his kneecap. His fucking beautiful kneecap. Who has beautiful kneecaps? He does, that’s who. And that is, apparently, what I will be able to tell only angels.

He’s not moving.

I swallow back the burrito, try to fix my face with a winning expression of contrition and supplication, and look up at him. I notice two things:

1. His face, which has every reason to be contorted in a grotesque mask of hate, is in fact smiling down at me. Instead of a brow furrowed with rage, I see eyebrows raised expectantly, as if waiting for me to say something.

2. From this angle, I can see directly up the leg of his shorts, which is what landed me in this sorry state in the first place. In fact, I have an even better view now of his balls, which are lightly covered with downy fur and are busily churning up and down for reasons unbeknownst to me.

And then I realize I’m staring at his crotch again. Deathwish, apparently. I look up again, to his angelic face. He’s saying something, but all I can hear is the sweet sound of his balls moving up and down in the silken confines of his baggy shorts. I try to listen to his voice.

“I said, are you okay? You took a pretty bad spill there.”

Well, yes I did. Mainly because you’re so fucking gorgeous that I cannot put one foot in front of the other when you are around.

I don’t say this.

“I guess I did. No big deal though, I’m fine.” I try to sound nonchalant, as if tumbling off treadmills is something I do daily, just for fun.

“Let me help you up,” he offers, extending a hand. Do I need to mention that the last time such a beautiful hand was extended it was captured on the Sistine ceiling? I reach up for it, take it. There is such strength in his grip, and yet such softness to his touch. He pulls, and gravity is no match for those biceps. I rise from the floor; how could I not?

“Thanks,” I manage to wheeze as I return to a full upright position. I’m now face-to-face with him, the one that I’ve seen in my every waking daydream and quite frequently at night, especially those nights when my roommate is banging away at his girlfriend and I’m trying to imagine that I’m either over there with them or somewhere far away with He Who Raises the Doomed from the Floor here. I usually awaken damp.

He’s still holding my hand. I make a tentative shaking motion with it, as if we had just been introduced, and he takes the cue. I would say I’ll never wash that hand again, but I know that that hand’s getting wrapped around my cock as soon as I’m alone tonight, where it will stay until either my wrist or my nuts give out.

“Sure you’re okay?” he asks. He’s sincere. I was totally gawking at him, and he’s concerned for my health. What did I do to deserve this? If there’s a god responsible for watching over Wayward Voyeurs, I will light a candle for him every night for the rest of my life.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just not terribly coordinated.” Self-deprecation is my preferred method for impressing guys I’m hot for. It usually doesn’t result in the casting off of clothing and the sweaty grappling of muscled flesh. Not sure why.

“Well, then. I guess I’ll see ya around.” He returns to the bench press, retrieves his workout towel, and heads off in the direction of the locker room.

I know two things now: I am the luckiest bitch in the world, and I am completely in love. Now I just need to find out his name.

CHAPTER TWO

The masturbatory performance I gave that night was epic. Luckily, my roommate was out, drilling his girlfriend into someone else’s mattress, and that left me the place to myself. I took full advantage, treating myself to great gobs of vaseline and fantasy about my dream man, the one who held my hand in the gym. The hand he held for that electric moment was, as I predicted, called into service repeatedly that evening, coaxing load after load out of my increasingly sore and purpling prick. I wasn’t done until well after 2am, when apparently I fell asleep in mid-wank. I know this because that’s how my roommate found me the next morning.

“Ugh. Can’t you control yourself at all?” he demands as he walks into the room, seeing me sprawled naked on my bed, my cock glistening with lube, my chest crusted with dried spooge. “I swear to god, you fags…”

Now, my roommate isn’t homophobic or anything. In fact, he’s quite tolerant. But he has certain ideas about The Gays that he shares with me constantly, and his most frequent outbursts have to do with how we’re all oversexed. Of course, he’s never seen me even touch another guy, but to him we’re always either doing it, about to do it, or basking in the glow of having done it. Whatever.

“Sorry, dude. Guess I fell asleep thinking about you.” I hadn’t, of course. Gross. But this approach always works with him. I don’t know if it freaks him out or flatters him, but all I need to do is insinuate that I’m all into him, and he stops with the cracks about my being gay. It’s a little warped, but it works for us. Dorm life, right?

“Gonna catch a shower,” I mumble as I slip on a pair of shorts and grab my shower kit. I’m out the door before he can say anything else I don’t want to hear.

I realize as I make my way down the hall that I have no idea what time it is. There are a few people up and around, but there’s no bustle. That means it’s either before 8 or after 11. If I had early classes today I’d be worried about the time, but on Friday mornings I can coast–no class until 2:30. I reach the shower room and walk into the steam.

Many of the residence halls at this fine university have individual stalls for showers, complete with a curtain for privacy. Mine doesn’t. It’s a leftover from the olden times, back before privacy was invented, apparently. Our shower room is a room, one big space with showerheads sprouting from the walls and from a steel column in the middle. It has all the charm and seclusion of a slaughterhouse. But, like a slaughterhouse, the setting matters less than the meat. And there is often plenty of meat on display in our shower.

Take this morning, for example. Already wet and soaping when I walk in are two guys from the other end of the floor. They are roommates, best friends, co-captains of the lacrosse team, and hung like Clydesdales. They always take showerheads next to each other at the center column, and they only have eyes for each other. Seriously, they never look anywhere else. I don’t think they’re lovers or anything, but sometimes they get so into their conversation that they don’t notice when their cocks brush up against each other. I’ve seen it. The one who always stands on the left has this floppy enormous pole of a penis that rises or falls but never gets larger or smaller, while the one on the right has a ruler-straight monster that grows from a couple of inches to 7 or more when its owner is reminiscing about how much pussy he got the night before (seriously, that’s how they talk about women–no names, just “pussy”). When they are both boned up a bit, and they lean in close to make themselves heard over the splash and chatter, I’ve seen their cocks touch. Sometimes more than once. They never seem to notice. I do.

Around the edges of the room are three or four more guys, none as muscley and sexed-up as the BFFs in the center of the room, but all nice enough to look at. Before coming to college I had no idea male bodies came in so many wondrous varieties. Setting aside the cocks for a moment (there’s something I never thought I would say!), the differences even in the balls are extensive. Some guys have a tight, tennis-ball-like scrotum, and some have floppy low-hangers; some come into the shower with a tennis ball and leave with floppers, while others remain somewhere in the middle regardless of temperature. Some nuts move up and down like elevators in a busy skyscraper, while others are almost completely hidden by thickets of hair.

I like the shower. It’s educational.

Suddenly, though, I realize that I need to focus and get on my way. Friday morning is when my dream man does stairs at the stadium. Up and down 20 times at a brisk jog; the view from under the bleachers is inspiring, particularly when it’s warm out and he’s in his little shorts and nothing else. Luckily the space under the bleachers is dark so he doesn’t know I’m there.

Now, you might be thinking at this point that I’m demented. Yes, I follow this guy around campus like a puppy. A puppy trained by the KGB. Anyway, I know it’s a little off, but you haven’t seen him. If you did, you would understand. From the moment I first saw him at freshman orientation three months ago I was obsessed. He’s just so beautiful, and every time I see him I see something more beautiful about him. He’s like a present you unwrap over and over again, and it just gets better each time. Or, more truthfully, he’s a present that you watch someone else unwrap and then you go home and jack off thinking about how awesome it would be if you got to unwrap it someday. Just once.

Okay, that’s a little pathetic.

Off to the bleachers.

CHAPTER THREE

Poetry. The man is pure poetry in motion. He’s made 17 trips up and down the stadium steps, and now he’s glistening in the morning sun. With every stair his entire frame pops up, the heavy layer of muscle bounding skyward as his foot lands lightly on the next. Some mornings I can’t decide where to look: at the fluid half-moons of his pectorals as they rise and fall, at the rock-steady 8-pack of his abs (there were 6 when I started watching him–there are definitely 8 now that he’s been training hard), or at the puppet show in his shorts. I’m not sure why he doesn’t wear a strap for doing the stadium, as I can see all parts of his crotch in motion as up and down he pounds, my heart beating in time to the rise and fall of his tackle, struggling to be free from its whisper-thin prison of nylon. Oh, how I wish for it to be free.

And that’s 20. At the bottom of the bleachers he picks up his water bottle and cools off by walking slowly up and down the lowest set of stairs as he drinks. Sometimes I think this is the best part: his muscles flushed with blood and oxygen, his ribs heaving–he pauses every few steps to shake out his taut legs, sending sweat beads flying from the sandy brown hairs that darken down toward his ankles. As he paces up and down the corded muscles begin to relax to a softer fullness; it’s at this point that, as he cools down, his nipples perk up, responding to evaporation with a fetching engorgement. I used to think that nipples on men were a pointless remnant of some earlier evolutionary turn; I see now that his are points about which the universe turns.

His cool down complete, he always does the same thing: picks up his shirt and walks back to the locker room. Except that this morning he doesn’t. Instead, he walks back up the steps, up to the level of my eyes, and then he turns and sits on the bleachers. He’s never done this before.

“That’s about the most disgusting thing I can think of,” he says quietly.

Fuckity fuck fuck fucking fuckity fuck. I’m a dead man. Again.

I pretend not to hear. How quickly can I make my way out of here? Did he see my face clearly enough to describe me to the campus police?

“I mean, someone’s got to do it, but still,” he continues, then takes another swig from his water bottle.

What? What does that mean? Does he really think that the universe requires that somebody watch him work out? This is really strange. I start backing away, retreating into the darkness of the under-bleachers, toward the loose boards that allow me into this den of voyeurism.

“You know, it’s funny,” he chuckles. I disagree. “One time my grandpa bought a Buick, and suddenly all I saw on the street were Buicks.”

Oh my god, the man is insane. Instead of worrying about escape I start wondering if I should call for help–mental help, for him.

“I saw you at the gym yesterday, and now you’re here this morning. Funny.” I am still not laughing. “How much do they pay you?”

I’m rarely at a loss for words. Ask anyone. But I had no idea how to respond to this query. Did he think I was in the employ of Campus Stalker magazine, tasked with tracking him? I am completely at sea.

“Those Thursday night game crowds are the worst. I see the crap they throw down there. Last week, some girl drank too much vodka at halftime and during the third quarter she horked up everything she’d eaten all week. Then the chick next to her lost it, and then the next. I think all six of them must have puked a gallon and a half, and it all ended up down there. You must have pissed someone off pretty bad to draw that job, cleaning up under the bleachers on Friday mornings.” He turns now, and looks sympathetically at me with eyes the color of a summer twilight.

“Uhhh, yeah,” I struggle to grunt. “It’s a disgusting job, but someone’s got to do it.” Nice conversation, huh? All I can think to do is give him back his own words while I try to think of some way out of this.

“Well, I gotta get cleaned up for class. You about done?”

Now, this is a tough one. If I tell him that I’ve still got cleaning to do, I’ll have to keep up this charade for a while–he’ll pass by here again on his way to class, and if I’m not here that will seem strange. But if I leave now, he’ll see that I don’t have any cleaning supplies with me. And why is he asking me if I’m done? Think! What am I going to say?

“Ummm, actually, I don’t clean under the bleachers. I mean, anymore. I mean, I got a new job. But I came back, this morning. To, uhhh, look for something. My, uhhh, watch, yeah that’s what I was looking for. I must have dropped it down here last week.” I point at my wrist without thinking, as if this makes my lie more believable.

“Looks like you found it,” he says, nodding at my watch. Which is on my wrist. The wrist I just pointed at.

“Errr, yeah, I did! Got lucky. No one puked on it or anything!” Oh god why can’t I say something suave and winning instead of blurting toilet words like a flustered eighth-grader?

“So, you gonna stay down there like the troll under the bridge, or what?” he asks, as he tips his water bottle all the way up. My heart leaps–a literary man! Okay, so “Three Billy Goats Gruff” isn’t Hemingway, but it’s in a book. A literary allusion is a good sign.

“Yeah, I’m about done here.” Duh. Maybe I should just grunt and slobber. That would give a more intellectual tone to my small talk. He gets up, and I bolt for the way out. If I’m quick about it I can make it out before he sees me crawling through the boards. Almost there, back into daylight, and …

The sound of clothes being ripped off is always exhilarating when you hear it in movies. It means that passion has overtaken the lovers on the screen, and they cannot get to flesh-on-flesh quickly enough. However, the sound of a shirt ripping because it has caught on a rough board as one makes one’s way out from a trash-filled bleacher cave where one has been discovered lusting after a clueless athlete is far less erotic. It’s actually kind of a blow. Fuck. The collar of my shirt is now in two pieces, and the split runs all the way down to the middle of my back, maybe further–can’t really tell. There goes $36 at Hollister–and my dignity.

But I make it out from under the bleachers before he comes around the side, and so it isn’t as bad as all that. Except that he notices the shirt, which is now hanging off one shoulder in shreds. I try to put it back, but it’s no use. I look like an idiot. Like an idiot’s idiot brother. Why can the ground never swallow you up when you need it to?

“Dude, what happened to your shirt?” he asks, though it seems to me pretty clear what happened. I ripped it.

“I ripped it. Coming out from under the bleachers. Sucks, huh? Oh well, never really liked this one anyway.” Which of course was a lie, since I had bought it last month just so that I could wear it on Friday mornings under the bleachers. I figured if I never wore it anywhere else it would be harder to identify me if there was ever a complaint about a peeping tom under the bleachers. Brilliant criminal mind.

“I’ve got one you can use. It might be a bit big on you, but…” Was there no end to this guy’s goodness?

“Oh, no worries. I’ll just head back to my room and pick up another shirt.”

“Dude, you look ridiculous with that. Come on, the shirt’s in my locker. I keep an extra just in case. Mom always said it would come in handy.” He turns toward the locker room, then stops, and turns back.

“And Mom would want me to remember my manners.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Calvin.”

I take his hand. Again. This time, though, I am already upright, and just slightly less embarrassed than yesterday.

“Josh.”

“Nice to meet you, Josh. Funny how we’ve run into each other lately, isn’t it?” He turns and walks away again. I’m frozen to the spot, unable to believe my luck. This is luck, isn’t it? Not being killed in a homophobic rage by the object of my stud-lust? Yeah, that sounds like luck.

“You coming,” he turns back to ask, not really in a questioning way, but more like a statement of what’s about to happen, whether I want it to or not. I do, of course. I come.

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the offer.” I practically skip to catch up, then realize that if I catch up too quickly I’ll miss the chance to watch his lovely ass, those two perfect globes of muscle that I’ve felt thrusting in my dreams just about every night.

Great. Now I have to try to walk normally with a boner. Can this day get any weirder?

The answer, if you haven’t yet guessed, is yes.

CHAPTER FOUR

The locker room is empty at this hour, after morning practice but before afternoon drills. I can hear my own footsteps echoing across the banks of lockers, but Calvin’s can’t be heard at all–it’s like he’s walking just above the ground, rather than on it. There’s nothing about his body that isn’t in absolute harmony, all the parts conspiring to make him somehow superhuman. And fucking gorgeous.

He turns at the end of an aisle of lockers, and sets his water bottle and shirt down on the end of the bench that runs down the middle of the next row. We’re right in front of the shower room, and looking at it I suddenly realize I’m staring at the design inspiration for the big stupid shower on my floor; I’ve been showering in a locker room shower all along. Did they all used to be that way? I turn, wondering if I should pose this question to my new friend, and suddenly I’m face to face with my most humid wet dream: Calvin, smiling that boyish, dimply grin at me, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his running shorts, clearly about to pull them off. I hope I can withstand the rush of blood to my already aching cock.

“Mind if I take a quick rinse?” he asks, hesitating a moment as if worried that he’s going to inconvenience me.

“Oh, no prob. I can wait over there,” I offer, nodding toward somewhere in the distance, not sure where. I’ve never been here before.

“Oh, just hang out here. I won’t take long, promise,” he nods and grins at me like a kid who wants a puppy. I’d give him the puppy. I’d give him anything. He then whips his hands downward, flings the shorts into the open locker, and bolts past me. I’m so shocked I don’t even have a chance to look at his now nude body as he zips past. Damn.

As the water starts running, I’m not sure where to look. I decide that I’ll study the lockers for a while. Perhaps I can make some kind of pattern out of the numbers on them that will take my mind off the fact that the object of my every waking lustful thought, and most of my sleeping ones as well, is right now wet and naked not ten feet from me. La la la, looking at numbers, la la la.

“Josh? I said what’s your major.” Oh, so apparently I’m not supposed to pretend that he’s not showering? I’m supposed to carry on conversation? All right then. I sit on the edge of the bench and face the shower, but look at the floor. I’m not sure I’m ready for this, even though I’ve dreamed of it for months. I suck in a deep breath. I look up. And the air is immediately knocked out of me. Holy fucking fuck.

Calvin is standing under the closest showerhead, the one on the central column that points out to the lockers. He’s facing away from me, with his chest to the water. What I see is his perfect back, his perfect legs, and in between his perfect ass. It’s all perfect, it’s all tan, and it’s all wet. And it’s all right in front of me. I try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a sort of gasping squeak that even I can barely hear. I can’t speak.

Calvin, probably noticing that I’m not saying anything, turns around to see if I’m still here. Now, I’ve seen Calvin shirtless. I’ve seen Calvin in a nylon short shorts. I’ve seen all but about 2-6 inches of him, the part that his red Speedo covers when he swims laps for cross-training. You would think that the unveiling of that last little bit would not be such a big deal. But it is. And it’s not just that for the first time I get to see his privates, though that’s of course part of it. What really strikes me is that until now I’ve only appreciated parts of him–his full pectoral muscles, his softball-like calves, the cut below his waist that disappears into his shorts–but now I see how it all works together. And the whole is epic, it’s sculptural, it’s a symphony of line and curve and motion. He’s a perfectly balanced machine crafted by the devil to lead me astray.

Oh, but that cock. And oh, those balls. They are a wonder to behold, and their image is seared into my brain. People who have seen the space shuttle launch know what I’m talking about–the beauty, the power, the achievement can only be appreciated in person. That’s how it is with Calvin’s boy parts. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect set of genitalia if I had spent months poring over all of the porn on the net. And I have.

His cock forms a graceful arc out and down from his groin. Perfectly proportioned and richly veined, it tapers only slightly as it curved down to the head, which mushrooms out from the shaft so that the rivulets of water cascading down from his rippled abs break out in all directions as they wash over it. It is a cock shaped ideally to fit the throat of someone kneeling before it, looking up. I hope that would be me, someday.

And his balls? Well, I’ve always been attracted by a well-filled ball sack, and Calvin’s are the gonads of my dreams. Either he’s taking a nice hot shower or he has the most beautiful low-hangers I’ve ever seen. No wonder those boys strain against his jogging shorts, bouncing up and down as he bounds up the stairs. I had caught a glimpse of them at the gym yesterday, but to see them in their entirety is a complete revelation. My mouth falls open as I try to imagine fitting just one of those lovely orbs in it. It would take some work, but I’ve never shied away from hard work. Damn.

Oh, shit, I’ve done it again. Calvin’s looking at me, eyebrows up. Why is he looking at me that way? Oh, right, what’s my major? Come to think of it, am I majoring in anything? I go to college? I think the steam is getting to me.

“I’m undeclared right now,” I manage to squeak out.

“Oh, gotcha,” Calvin nods, approvingly, I think. And then he takes a big pull on the soap dispenser and starts washing. Oh my god he’s rubbing the soap all over that amazing body. He smooths suds over his chest, and under his arms, and across that washboard stomach (the irony!). He swabs down his legs and feet, and then pauses for a moment. Is he going to ask me to wash his back? Will I suddenly find myself in a porn story like the ones I’m always reading and wanking off to on Nifty? It always seems like guys have trouble washing their backs, and I would gladly pitch in if assistance is required.

But no, he was just regaining his balance after washing his feet so that he can lean over to get another squirt of soap. Then he washes his back. There’s only one area left, and I stop breathing while I wait for the scrubbing to start. He turns around to get one more dollop of soap, and then he stays facing away from me. Damn, the best part of the show and I’m on the wrong side!

However, Calvin first soaps up his ass. And he’s determined to do a thorough job of it, apparently, because there’s soap everywhere as he lathers his cheeks vigorously. Then I see him work his fingers briefly and lightly into the cleft, scrubbing gently but purposefully in the valley where my dreams come true. It’s an awesome performance.

And it’s only half over. Now he turns back around, grabs a last bit of soap, and gets to work. He caresses his cock and balls in a way that I can only describe as lovingly, perhaps a little playfully. I wonder if his cock is plumping up a bit. Then he grips his balls, one in each hand, and rolls them gently around, squeezing and massaging them carefully.

“Gotta check for nut cancer,” he says, and he seems to be perfectly at ease with me watching him do so. “Forgot to do it last week. My uncle lost his left one because he didn’t feel the lump until it was too late. So, undeclared, huh? Any ideas so far?”

Was he really talking about testicular self-exams and my academic career in the same breath? Who is this guy?

“Well, I might try Math, or Psychology. Maybe English. I guess I’m more undecided than undeclared.” I’m trying to make sense and watch him rinse his amazing body at the same time. Multitasking was never my strong suit.

“Funny. I’ve known what I want to study since I was 8.” He turns off the water, and stands there dripping, naked, still grinning at me. Pinch me, I have to be dreaming. “Can you toss me my towel?”

I toss him the towel that I see hanging in his locker. He catches it, and a whole new vista of bodily delights unfolds before me, as he rubs every bit of his hard and flushed body with his soft, thick towel. I think my dick went into shock 5 minutes ago, as I can feel nothing in my crotch but rock-solid weight.

“And what is that?” I finally think to ask. “That you want to study?”

“Kinesiology. Sports medicine. It’s always just seemed like my thing.” Hehe. His thing. His thing is currently right about mouth level with me, happily bobbing up and down a bit, smelling like soap and making my mouth simultaneously water and go dry. Calvin is standing next to me, rubbing the towel on his hair, making Little Calvin (who is not so little) wave at me like it wants to shake my hand. No, no, the pleasure is mine, dear sir.

Calvin gets dressed in a flash, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head and slipping board shorts on smoothly up his legs. Whoops, there goes that beautiful cock, swallowed up by the waistband of his shorts. I hate those shorts for stealing it from my view. No underwear, I notice. I guess Calvin takes casual Friday pretty seriously.

“Here, take this one,” he says, tossing me a shirt. I had forgotten I was still wearing that rag of a shirt in tatters around my neck. I slip it off over my head, and I’m suddenly aware of how slack my body seems in comparison to the stacked muscle of my new friend. I’m not in terrible shape, but I’m not in his league by any stretch. I have a 4-pack, tops. I pull on his shirt. It smells like grass and meadows and, what’s that? Ahh, testosterone. Intoxicating.

“Thanks again,” I manage to say, meaning it. He’s given me the shirt off his back, sort of, and enough masturbation material to last me until I wear all the skin off my dick with rubbing. It’s been a good day, and it’s not even noon yet.

“Hey, you had breakfast? I’m starving.”

What did I do to deserve this? I want to know so that I can go back and do it again and again and again.

“You know, I missed breakfast this morning.” This is a lie.

“I think I’m going to grab a Jamba. Wanna get one?”

“Sure. Sounds good.” This is another lie. I hate Jamba Juice. But I would drink radioactive monkey piss if he asked me to. So Jamba it is.

“Awesome.” He grabs his pack, turns, and heads for the door. I follow, because he asked me to come along, and I will do whatever he asks. I hope he will return the favor.

CHAPTER FIVE

We’re walking through lower campus, on the way back to the dorms with our Jamba Juice. I am struggling to choke down some vile mixture with guava or some shit in it, along with a clot of gritty nutrient powder that will probably make my hair fall out. Calvin, meanwhile, is sucking vigorously at the straw of his ridiculously huge tub of juice smoothie. He clearly loves the stuff; I can tell by the way his cheeks are sunk in as he pulls on that straw. Good god he can suck. This is very promising.

I have no idea how we got to his residence hall, nor what we were talking about as we walked here. I’ve been focusing mostly on the fact that this man I’ve been lusting after from afar is now less than a foot from me. And, having spent an hour with him, I have to say that my suspicion that his beauty was only skin-deep is sadly mistaken. See, I have always had this theory that the more beautiful a person is, the shallower he or she is. By this reckoning, Calvin should have been about a quarter-inch deep. But instead, I have found him to be funny, generous, and luckily completely clueless about the fact that I’ve been stalking him for months. This is going pretty well.

“Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Calvin.” I stop and point vaguely in the direction of my dorm, on the opposite end of the quad from his. “I’m over there.”

“But don’t you want to come up for a minute? I don’t have class until 2:30, and you’re fun to talk to.” No one’s ever said that to me before, at least in such a sincere way, and I’m completely charmed. This boy could be The One.

“Yeah, I’ve got class at 2:30 too. Might as well.” I hardly know what to think. Why is he doing this? How does this play out? Whatever. I don’t care. I just want to spend more time with him, and he’s on board with that, so let’s go.

He swipes his ID at the door, pulls it open, and up the stairs we go. He’s on third floor, like me, but his room is much nicer than mine; it appears to have been remodeled more recently than the Eisenhower administration. He tosses his stuff on the dresser and flops down on the futon. Do I sit next to him, or across from him? I decide to take my chances and sit next to him. This is going so well, we may be making out in a few minutes. I hope this guava crap hasn’t given me bad breath.

“So, now that we’ve covered school,” he says. So that’s what we’ve been talking about. Good to know. “What about you. Who is Josh?” Oh my god do they teach jocks to talk like this at team-building camp or something? I have no idea how to answer this.

“Uh, I’m just a guy, I guess.” And now I’m talking like a third grader again. Shit.

“Have a girlfriend?” He asks, and again with the grin and the dimples. He’s so genuine, and adorable, and everything. And I do mean everything.

“No, actually.” Okay, big moment. Do I tell him, or let it come out gradually? On the one hand, I don’t want to get thrown out of his room for coming out too abruptly. But on the other hand I want to be honest with him, and he’s been so nice so far. What to do?

“I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’m gay.” That’s what, apparently. I surprise myself by laying it out there just like that. I don’t have much experience coming out to people; though I’ve known that I’m attracted to men all my life, I’ve really only been “out” for about a year. I’ve had a couple of people react badly to it, though (I’m looking at you, Uncle Phil), so I’m usually pretty cautious. Not today though. I look at him, right into his eyes, to try to figure out how that went over. You can always see violence coming if you look into their eyes. I hate that I have to know that, but I do, so there you go. I cannot tell what he’s going to do. He seems a bit flummoxed.

“Yeah, right. Good one. Hah!” He laughs, as if I’ve made a great joke. I haven’t, of course, unless he thinks that my sexuality itself is a joke.

“No, seriously. I’m gay.”

He stops laughing. He tenses. He stops sucking at his straw. He seems completely dumbfounded. I have no idea what he’s going to do next.

“What are you talking about? You can’t be gay.” He seems so certain. I guess the guys whose dicks I sucked in senior year were wrong about me. I’m not gay, because Calvin says I can’t be!

“Well, I am. I hope that’s not a problem for you?”

“Look, I don’t get this. You seem like a nice guy. I don’t understand why someone like you would say you’re into messed-up shit like that.” Whoa, there. What’s that about?

“Messed-up shit like what?”

“You know, what gays do. The gerbils and the leather and the little boys and stuff.”

“Calvin, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, I know about gay stuff. We had this health teacher at my school that told us all about it. He knows, because he used to live the gay lifestyle. But then he found religion and he was cured. He told us about how gay people put gerbils in their asses for fun, and how they all like to wear leather and beat each other, and about how they do perverted shit with little boys.” Calvin’s getting a little uncomfortable now, I can tell. He’s shifting a bit on the futon, and he’s put his drink down.

“I see,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster. “Just because you had a sick fuck for a health teacher doesn’t mean that gay people stick rodents up their asses. Gay people are just like you and me. There’s nothing perverted about it.” It’s taken me a couple of years to get to the point that I can just lay it all out like that. Damn, I sound like a Gay Crusader. In spite of my shock that Calvin has suddenly turned into some right-wing zombie, I’m kind of proud.

He looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head. His brow is furrowed.

“But gays are that way because they’ve been smothered by their moms, or molested by a priest or something. They’re sick, and they take their sickness out on kids. It’s a cycle of self-destructive self-loathing.”

That’s got to be from an evil pamphlet of some kind.

“That’s what he told you? He’s the sick one.” I get up to leave. “Look, I’m going now. This is too much for me.”

He sits there, watching me get up. He seems stricken somehow. He’s still trying to figure this all out.

“No, wait,” he blurts, getting up from the futon and coming over to me. “Wait. I need a minute to get this straight.” Ha ha. Good one. “You’re telling me that you are seriously, 100%, no-shit gay?”

“Yes, I am seriously, 100%, no-shit gay. Or 99%, because I kinda got wood for Katy Perry once. But other than that, yes, that’s me, gay gay gay. Now that you know, I’m going, because you’re scaring me a little with your gerbils and your pedo stories. That’s some sick stuff there, dude. You should be mad at him.”

I’m out his door and down the hall before I realize I’m still wearing his shirt. I turn around and go back. He’s still standing there, looking overwhelmed. God, he’s beautiful, even when he’s acting like a messed up homophobe.

“Look, uh, thanks for the shirt. I’ll wash it and get it back to you tomorrow.” That done, I’m on my way again.

“No! Josh, wait. Come back. I want to talk to you.” He’s looking at me with those puppy eyes again, but this time no grin, just that stricken, shocked expression. How can I leave him now?

“OK, but only if you stop it with the sicko gay stuff. I don’t want to hear any more about that, all right?”

“Deal. Just don’t go. I need to talk with you.”

I go in. He shuts the door. And then it gets weirder.

CHAPTER SIX

He gestures toward the futon, and I sit down. He doesn’t, though; he’s pacing up and down the middle of the room, clearly working over our conversation of the last few minutes. I’m intrigued. I wait. I mean, I wait and watch. He’s beautiful even when he paces. Now that I know what’s in those shorts, I can’t help picturing him without them on. Is it wrong to get boned up when your friend is having a crisis like this? Fuck it. I’ll just enjoy the view.

Finally, he stops pacing. He turns to face me, and I see him struggling to come up with words. The suspense is killing me.

“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. You seem like a really nice guy, and I didn’t mean to come off sounding like a jerk. I’ve just never met anyone who thought he was gay before.”

That seems unlikely. And a little insulting.

“Calvin, I don’t think I’m gay. I know I’m gay.”

Again with the furrowed brow. But he’s clearly working hard to grasp this, so I continue.

“I don’t get why this is so hard for you to understand. There are gay people everywhere. You see them every day. There are gay people on your football team.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. I know a guy who’s proven himself to be quite an athletic supporter in that area. He’s been with at least three players already this semester.”

This puzzles him. I can see the gears working in his head, trying to figure out which of the hulking manly men he’s been showering with daily I’m referring to. Then he suddenly snaps back to me.

“Wait, is this one of those deals where you say you have ‘a friend’ who does something, but it’s really you who does it?” He seems genuinely afraid that I might be the guy whose been getting into the tight, padded pants of his teammates.

“No, Calvin. It’s not me. Unlike you, I actually am aware that I have gay friends, and we talk sometimes. About, you know, gay things.” I’ve been trying to keep my native sarcasm in check, but this is really too much.

He decides to leave aside the mystery of the man-loving football squad and pursue a different line of questioning.

“So, what makes you think you’re gay?”

“Well, what makes me gay is that I am attracted to men. You know, in a sexual way. I like the way men look, I like the way they feel, I like kissing them. It’s pretty much the same deal that you have with women.”

“But you’ve tried it, right?”

“Tried what?”

“Having sex with a chick.”

This is getting interesting.

“Um, no. Never had sex with a ‘chick.'”

“Then how do you know for sure?”

Ahh, so that’s where this is going. I decide to go on the offensive.

“When did you decide that you’re straight?” I ask.

It’s an old trick, but it works.

“What do you mean? Straight is normal. I didn’t choose it.”

Bingo.

“And it never occurred to you even once to try it with a guy so that you would be absolutely certain that you’re attracted to women only?”

“Dude, sick!”

“Okay, then, it’s the same with me. I’ve always been attracted to men. That’s my normal.”

He ponders this for a moment.

“I’m trying to get this,” he says, and I believe him. He’s working hard on getting his mind around it.

“When you say you’re attracted to men, what does that mean? I don’t get that part.”

“It means that I find men more attractive than women.”

“But why? I mean, you have everything that every guy has, right? What do you see in other guys that you don’t already have? Why not just stay home and look in the mirror if that’s what you’re attracted to?”

I’ve never heard this one before. Hmmm.

“I mean, your junk is the same as every other guys’ junk.”

“OK, first, let’s not call it junk. That creeps me out. Second, if you really believe that every guy’s … stuff … is the same as everyone else’s, then you haven’t been looking closely enough. Third, it’s not just about the sex parts. I am attracted to the whole package: body, personality, sense of humor, the whole deal.”

Again, this sets him back a bit. He’s not sure where to go next. He paces some more, then turns back to me.

“Are you attracted to me?”

Oh shit. I didn’t see that one coming. I can feel myself blushing, the heat rising from my cheeks. I’m a little dizzy, in fact.

Keep it together, Josh. Keep it together.

Suddenly, a kind of calm comes over me. I’m not sure where it comes from, but I take a deep breath, and I just sort of know I’m going to be OK.

“Yes, I am.” If he’s going to beat me to death with his desk chair, it’ll be right now.

“Oh.”

I’m not sure what that means, exactly.

“Oh,” he says again, and blinks a few times. Then he looks right at me, into my eyes.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why are you attracted to me? Do you think I’m gay?”

“Well, no, I assumed you weren’t. It’s just that…” I’m not sure how to explain this, or even if I should.

“What? It’s just that what?” He really seems to want to know. I take a breath, and try to tell him.

“It’s that you’re the most beautiful man I think I’ve ever seen.” When I woke up this morning, I had just dreamed that I had said this to him. And now, I’ve just said it to him, for real. I guess dreams come true. Of course, in my dream he responded by kissing me. All over.

“You think I’m … beautiful? That’s what you call a chick. Eww.” His nose wrinkles and he shakes his head.

“OK, so maybe I used the wrong word. I think you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Is that better?”

“Yes. I mean, no, it’s not. I mean, it’s a better word, but I still don’t get why you say that.”

“Dude, do you own a mirror? You are fucking gorgeous.” I decide to throw caution to the wind. I’m in this now, might as well own it all.

“What?” He seems genuinely at a loss now. I appreciate that he’s trying to figure it out though, so I’m going to help him. Time to stop dancing around this.

“You are what every Abercrombie model wishes he was. Your muscles have muscles. You eyes have a blue fire in them that makes my knees buckle. You are the whole package, and just being close to you makes me hard.” There. Might as well have it all out in the open.

“But, but…” He pauses, trying to make sense of this.”I’m just a guy. I can’t help how I look. I don’t get all dressed up or put stuff in my hair or anything. I look like everyone else.”

“OK, no, you don’t, first off. There’s no one in the world who looks like you.”

“Come on, man, you’re not making sense. Every guy looks like me.”

What am I going to do with him? He is both the sweetest and the most clueless guy I have ever met.

“Let’s do this. Who is the handsomest guy you know?” I challenge him. This should be interesting.

“How should I know? I don’t know what a makes a guy handsome!” He’s getting exasperated with this. That’s what I was counting on.

“Okay, so you don’t know what makes a man handsome. Tell me, then, why do you work out so much?”

“Because I have to, for the team.”

“I didn’t see any of your teammates out there running stairs today.”

He pauses.

“Well, I was doing an extra workout. I need to work on my calves.”

“Why? And why were you at the gym yesterday? Doesn’t the team have their own workout room?”

“Yeah, but I like to lift after my classes some days so I can get some better definition.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s the purpose of this ‘better definition’?”

A trace of a grin plays around his mouth. God he’s the sexiest thing ever.

“Well, the chicks kind of dig it,” he admits, sheepishly.

“So, would you say that working out makes you more attractive?”

“No!”

“But you just said that chicks like it.”

“But they’re chicks! I don’t know why they like what they like, they just do.”

Time to go in for the kill.

“So you work out so that you’re more attractive to the ladies. I can’t help but notice that your get your hair cut every two weeks, that your shelf over there contains a number of skin-care products that I’ve seen advertised on TV, and that your closet looks like you just rolled a rack out of A&F. Why go through all that trouble, if you’re just a guy and have no idea what makes a guy handsome?”

Boom.

“But.” That’s about all he’s got right now. He looks around his room, accused and convicted by everything he sees.

“So, I would humbly submit to the jury that you know exactly what makes a man attractive, and that you work hard to be as handsome as you can be. I rest my case.”

“But I do it to get chicks, not dudes.”

“I guess I’m collateral damage in your campaign to impress the ladies.”

He considers this for a moment. Then an idea comes to him.

“All right, my turn. You say you’re gay, but you don’t look like any fag I know of.”

I let the “fag” thing pass.

“You said you don’t know any gay people.”

“Yeah, but I know about gay people.”

“From Mr. Self-Loathing Ex-Gay Health Teacher?”

“His name is Mr. Peterson.”

“Whatever. Nothing that guy told you is true, just so you know.”

“So you’re telling me that you’ve never wanted to be a woman?”

“What, now?” I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

“Gay men feel like they’re women inside, which is why they want to have sex with men.” He states this as if he had just played a trump card.

“Um, no. I like being a man.”

“It’s not manly to have another guy’s dick up your butt.”

See? I told you it was going to get weirder.

“Actually, I’ve never had another guy’s dick up my butt. Not sure I ever want to have another guy’s dick up my butt. I may someday, but for right now, thanks, but no.”

“Then you’re not gay.”

“That’s a pretty limited definition of being gay.”

“Well there are other things that go with the buttsex. Like the gerbil thing. And having a guy stick his fist up your butt. That’s just gross.”

“I agree. But being gay is not just about finding things to go up your butt.”

He looks at me as if I were the naive, deluded one.

“What else is there?”

Again, if he weren’t genuine, I wouldn’t be having this conversation. But he’s so earnest in his delusion that I feel like I have to go on.

“Well, there’s going to movies, and kissing, and dancing, and talking about books, and eventually settling down and having kids and growing old together.”

“Dude, that’s what you’re not going to be doing. Because you’re gay, right? Remember?”

Sigh.

“Look, there’s no reason why I can’t do all of that just because I want to do it with another guy.”

“So what you want is what normal people want, but with buttsex?”

“Ugh. Enough with the buttsex. But your general point is pretty much right. I just want what a lot of people want: someone to love. Just with a penis. And better music. That’s about it.”

“So, you’re gay, but you want love? I had no idea that was possible.” He pauses, thinking. “Are there other gays like you?”

“I sure hope so. It’s going to be pretty lonely for me if there aren’t. I don’t want to go through life alone. I know there’s someone out there who’s perfect for me. With any luck, he looks a lot like you. Of course I want love. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He’s silent for a long while.

“Can I show you something?”

This is getting even more interesting.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Calvin gets to his feet–apparently at some point he had squatted down next to the futon in order to look me in the face without actually sitting next to me. I hadn’t even noticed. He walks over to his bookshelf, and picks up an old-looking book. He flips through the pages, and pulls out a piece of folded paper. He holds it for a moment, and I can tell he’s trying to decide something. Finally he nods to himself, takes a deep breath, and closes the book. He steps over to the futon, and hands me the paper.

“What you just said make something click in my mind,” he explains. “Will you take a look at this?”

“What is it?” I ask, unfolding the paper slowly. I have no idea what I’m about to find.

“I’ll tell you once you read it.” he murmurs, almost in a whisper.

I open the paper fully, and smooth it on my leg. It’s a note, written in a block script that looks kind of architectural. I read it to myself, slowly.

“Cal–

“I’m leaving in a couple of hours. I don’t want to go. I don’t know how I’m going to make it without you. I’m sorry I pushed you so hard that I pushed you away. I really wish we were playing for the same team, but since we aren’t I just can’t see you again. Everything I’ve ever wanted is in this car that you’re about to drive out of my life. I will always be here, if you decide things can be different between us.

“Love, Reese.”

I read the note twice, and then again. It’s about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. I look up at Calvin, and he’s leaning against his desk, with the strangest look on his face. Something’s really not right. And then I realize there’s a tear at the starting to make its way down his cheek. I look down, certain that we wouldn’t want me to stare, and I notice that his legs are shaking. He’s in a bad way about this note. But why?

“Calvin, who’s Reese?”

He takes a shaky breath, as if there’s suddenly not enough air in the room. He lets out the breath, wipes his cheek, and inhales again. He puffs out his cheeks, shakes his head slowly back and forth, and tries again. This time he finds his voice,

“He’s my best friend from home. He was, anyway.”

I try to arrange my features into an expression of supportive expectation. That’s not easy under the circumstances, let me tell you. This has suddenly turned very serious. I wait. He takes a couple of deep breaths and continues.

“He left that note on the windshield of my car the morning we left for college. I came here, and he want to State. I haven’t seen him since. Haven’t talked to him. We’re not even Facebook friends anymore.” At this a sob catches in his throat.

“Why?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I mean, it’s all right in the note.

“Because I chose football over lacrosse.” He chokes back another sob, closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his hand.

This is not the answer I was expecting, and he sees my confused expression once he opens his tear-filled eyes.

“It’s right there in the note: ‘I really wish we were playing for the same team.’ See?” he points.

“Calvin, I don’t think that’s what he meant by that.”

“Yes he did. And look here,” he says, taking the note from my hand. ” ‘I will always be here, if you decide things can be different between us.’ See, he’s saying that if I transfer to State we can be friends again because the U is their rival.”

Oh. My. God. Can he really be that clueless?

“He signed it ‘Love, Reese.’ Is that normal for guys to write to each other?” I’m trying to steer him to see what I see.

“Well, yeah. We were members of this church youth group for years, and one of the things they taught is to tell the people who are important in your life that you love them. We did that all the time–we all did. It’s not gay, or anything.” He seems less certain about that than his words would indicate.

“So, since you have this note all figured out, why show it to me? Why are you so upset?”

“Because of what you just said. You said that love is all you’ve ever wanted. It made me think of Reese’s note, when he says, ‘Everything I’ve ever wanted is in this car that you’re about to drive out of my life.’ I’ve never really known what to make of that–all I had in the car was my clothes and computer and stuff. None of it was his.”

He stops again, and the tears start again. He’s shaking his head and trying to blink them back. It’s not working.

“Calvin, what do you think he meant?” I ask, knowing my answer, wanting to hear his.

“I think he meant me,” he whispers, barely audible. The tears flow freely now, and he crumples onto the futon next to me. “Oh, fuck, Josh, what have I done?” He draws his knees up to his chest, folds his arms around them, and buries his head. I can hear his ragged breathing, and I sit there, watching his shoulders shudder.

Not knowing what else to do, I put my arm around him. He tips toward me, his head coming to rest on my shoulder. I can feel his hot tears spread through my shirt. His shirt. Is this really happening?

“I’m so sorry, Calvin.” It’s all I can think of to say.

He mumbles something in response, something I cannot understand.

“What? I didn’t hear that. What did you say?”

“He. Loved. Me.” His voice is hoarse but deliberate, as if he’s a jury foreman delivering a painful verdict. “He loved me. And I didn’t know. I hurt him, and I didn’t even know it.”

More sobs. I wait for him to calm a bit.

“Calvin, why did you say you hurt him? What happened?”

“He told me, the night before we left for college. He just came right out with it. He told me he thought he had fallen in love with me, and that he may have turned gay for me. He told me that.”

“Wow. That’s huge. What did you do?”

“I slugged him in the arm, and told him it was a good joke. He tried to keep talking about it, but I ended up kind of yelling at him that he was no faggot and he should shut up. I left, and I may have broken some stuff on the way out. That was the end of it.”

I wait. He looks up at me, his face streaked with tears.

“I thought he was putting me on. I really did! It wasn’t until I met you today that it even occurred to me that he could be telling the truth. I hurt him, and I didn’t even know I was doing it. I’m scum.” His head sags back down onto my shoulder. More sobs.

Now, imagine the scene. Here’s the man of my dreams, whom I’ve already seen naked and soaped up this morning, and who now is crying–crying!–because he’s just realized that he hurt his friend who had fallen in love with him. This is the guy I feared was likely to beat me senseless because I was looking at him in the gym, sobbing because he didn’t understand what his friend was telling him.

“Calvin, it’s okay. Seriously, it’s okay. You can fix this. You can.”

He sniffles a bit, and then meekly asks, “How?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You just call him, and explain what happened. You tell him that you didn’t get what he was saying, and you apologize, and you talk. That’s it.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t it?”

“Because he’s probably totally forgotten about it by now. He probably doesn’t care anymore.”

“Bullshit. No one writes a note like this and then just moves on.”

“But what would I say to him?” He trains those piercing periwinkle eyes on me, and we’re about 4 inches apart. Oh god, even his breath is delicious.

“Just tell him you understand now what he was trying to say, and that you’re not upset with him, and that you want to still be friends like you were before. Simple, right?” I smile, hoping that it’s contagious. It seems to be. That grin, that killer grin, sidles back into view.

“You really think that would work?”

“Yes. We gay folks have a sense about this. He will forgive you.” Mainly so that he can see your killer body again, I don’t say. I’m not proud to admit that my mind immediately jumps to what Reese will do when he sees the 8-pack. I suddenly hate that bitch and his long friendship with Calvin. They probably grew up skinny dipping. And having circle jerks. Damn him. Anyone would end up gay going through that.

“OK. I’m going to call him.” He gets up to retrieve his phone from his bag.

“Well, good luck with that,” I say, getting to my feet and heading for the door.

“Wait, Josh! You have to stay. What if I need help? What if I don’t know what to say?”

“Calvin, you’ll do fine. You don’t need me to translate Gay for you. We’ve been talking this whole time, right?”

“I need you to stay.” He is definite about this, and he deploys his dimples as his enforcers. Again, what can I do? I turn and sit back down. I’m a fucking puppet because of those dimples.

“OK, I’m dialing,” he narrates, needlessly. I know what dialing looks like. “It’s ringing.”

I suddenly feel tight in the chest. It’s like I’ve been plopped into the middle of a movie. A romance. Well, an independent-film kind of romance. A gay, somewhat porny, independent-film kind of romance. My mind is revving a bit here–it does that when I’m nervous.

He blinks when the call connects. He darts a look at me, and then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, softly, into the phone. Into Reese’s ear.

I realize there’s a tear making its way down my cheek.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” he says, after a brief pause. “I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t know what to…”

He stops, listening hard.

“Yeah, I got it. I tried to call you, but your phone wasn’t working.”

He looks at me, hope in his eyes. He seems to want me to confirm that this is going well. I give him a quick nod and a thumbs-up.

“Yeah, well, I guess I wouldn’t really want to talk to me either, after that night. I’m really sorry about that whole thing. I just didn’t know what was going on.”

He listens again, nodding.

“But I have a new friend who cleared it all up for me. Helped me see what you really meant.”

Luckily he doesn’t look over to see my furious blushing.

“His name’s Josh. I just met him today. Or, actually, yesterday, at the gym.”

He looks over, and grins. My cheeks are on fire. Seriously, I think my eyelashes are getting singed.

“Is he what? Cute? Uh, I guess so. Yeah, I’d have to say he is.”

His playful eyes twinkle like every star in the sky. I wait for my heart to beat again. It may be a while.

“Look, Reese, I just wanted to tell you that I was a complete shithead that night, and now I know what you were trying to tell me. And I’m okay with it. I mean… I … uhh…”

He looks at me as if he’s forgotten his line and I’m the prompter.

“Tell him that you are secure in your sexuality and you’re fine with him being gay,” I offer in a stage whisper. That’s what I would want to hear if I were Reese. Of course, if I were Reese I would do everything I could to undermine the “security” of Calvin’s sexuality.

“What I’m trying to say is,” he looks at me, right at me, his eyes drilling into mine, and then he turns and walks over to the window. “What I’m trying to say is that I miss you every single day. What I’m trying to say is I miss you so much it hurts.” He breathes, twice, quickly, as if he’s trying not to throw up. “What I’m trying to say is that I love you. Not in the youth group way, but really love you. I love you.” He sounds surprised, and then more certain. “I love you.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. It’s all I can think to myself. The shock of what he has just said into the phone takes my breath away (and a year off my life, I think). I am stunned. And proud. And happy (for Calvin, for Reese) and sad (for me). This is all too too much.

He is silent. He is listening. Then, all at once, he sinks slowly to the floor, and he comes to rest kneeling in the middle of the room. He turns to face me, and his face is one of stunned hurt.

“But,” is all he can muster. He shakes his head slowly.

“Reese, I know I was stupid … but I’m past that now … listen to me,” he begs. This is suddenly not going well.

“No! You can’t do that! Reese, why? I…” he looks completely lost, adrift. I can’t even imagine what’s going on. His expression twists from one of loss to one of anger. Something else has happened now.

“Well, fuck you too, buddy. Yeah, you try that. See how that works out for you. I’ll fucking kill you. I will!” He angrily mashes the End button on his phone, then looks down at it as if it had betrayed him. He is still for a moment, then he throws the phone against the wall. Hard. It shatters.

I just about jump out of my skin. The violence scares the hell out of me.

He remains kneeling in the middle of the room, looking down at his now empty hands. I see his breathing slowly return to normal. I wait.

“Can we take a walk?” he says, dully. “I don’t want to be here right now.”

“Yeah, of course, whatever,” I reply, getting up. He rises, graceful even in his emotional shambles. We stand there. I have to say something.

“Calvin, this is all my fault. I am so sorry. I really thought that calling him would help–would help you both.”

He looks at me, hard.

“No,” he says, finally. “It was the right thing to do. I just don’t know what to do now.”

He walks to the door, holds it open for me. We’re going for a walk.

CHAPTER NINE

We walk across the quad, heading I don’t know where. Calvin’s not said a word since we left his room, but he seems to know where he’s heading. I hear the clock chime a half hour, but what it’s half past I have no idea. Then I remember I’m wearing a watch. It’s 2:30. My class is starting. As is Calvin’s. I don’t mention this to him.

We seem to be heading to the edge of campus, by the lake. I’ve been on this trail before, but only to run on it; I haven’t ever bothered to look at the scenery. It’s beautiful, with trees arching over the path and the waves gently lapping the shore. Suddenly, Calvin heads off the trail, through the undergrowth and out of sight. I follow.

When I catch up to him, he’s standing on a secluded point overlooking the lake. There’s a bench here, one that seems not to get much use. No wonder–there doesn’t seem to be a path that leads here. Calvin sits on the bench and stares out at the lake. I sit next to him, and take in the view as well. I wait for him to speak.

I wait for five long minutes, maybe more. Finally, he starts to speak, mostly to the lake.

“You ever have one of those days when everything changes? All at once? Like, when you look back at the person you were in the morning you hardly recognize him? You ever have a day like that?”

I’m kind of having one right now, but I’m not sure that’s what he wants to hear. I just nod.

“This morning I knew who I was, what I wanted. Now, everything is different. Nothing is what I thought it was, including me. And Reese. Reese.” He snorts, shakes his head. “He’s not what I thought he was, and now he’s not what I thought he was after that either. Nothing is what I thought it was.”

I’m not sure I’m following this. but I keep nodding.

“And you. I just met you and now you’ve seen the most thrashed day of my life. I feel closer to you than I am to most of the people I’ve known for years. How does that happen? How did any of this happen?”

“Calvin, sometimes shit happens. It just does. And, if it helps at all, I feel like we’ve known each other for years already too.”

He looks at me and nods. He seems relieved that he’s not the only one feeling this way.

“So, what happened with Reese?”

He sighs, turns back to face the lake. I’m not sure he’s ready to talk about it, but I feel like he needs to. I wait.

“Well, it didn’t go well.”

“Yeah, I could kind of tell that.”

More silence. Perhaps he needs a nudge.

“What you told him was beautiful. It was about the most heartfelt thing I can imagine. I would love to hear that from you.”

He looks at me, raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, if I were Reese, I would love to hear that from you.”

The grin plays at the edges of his mouth for the first time since the call.

“I was just kind of surprised to hear you say what you did. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Neither was Reese, apparently. God, I feel like such a fucking idiot.”

“So, what did he say?”

“Well, first he told me that he blocked my phone calls after leaving that note on my car. He said he decided he couldn’t talk to me anymore. I told him I didn’t blame him for that, because I was a jerk that night.”

“Uh-huh,” I intone, encouragingly.

“And then when I told him about the note, and about how you helped me to understand what it meant, he immediately started asking about you, like he thought we were, you know…”

“Lovers?” I suggest, knowing that the word would likely bring a flinch. I am not disappointed.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” It’s Calvin’s turn to blush. “He sounded so strange–I couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad or what, but I knew right then what I needed to say to him. So I did.”

“I was pretty stunned when all of that came flowing out. I had no idea you were going to tell him that.”

“It surprised the hell out of me, too. But it all just fell into place once I started. Saying it out loud made me realize how I really feel about him.”

He turns to face me, and he takes my hand in his. On cue, my heart begins to race.

“That’s what I mean about how this day has changed me. You made me see that what Reese felt for me was real. And that what I feel for him is real too.”

“How did I do that?” I’m confused by this whole thing, but as long as he’s holding my hand I’ll go with it.

“By making me see that two guys can be in love. Not the sick stuff that Mr. Peterson talked about, but real love. I had no idea. It never occurred to me that Reese could be gay, because gays were perverts. Reese isn’t a pervert.” He stops, takes a deep breath. “And neither am I.”

Whoa. Dude.

“What are you saying, Calvin? Do you think you might be gay?”

He bites his lip, looks puzzled. And gorgeous, oh god he’s gorgeous.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. I do know that I love Reese, and I have for a long time. I just didn’t have a word for it, or a way to think about it, until today. You gave me that, Josh. You made me see myself in a whole new way. Thank you.” He squeezes my hand. I’m going to die.

Stay focused, man.

“Okay, so, you told Reese that you love him. What happened then? It all seemed to go bad after that.”

He looks down, at our hands clasped together.

“Yeah. He just went off. He said that he never said anything about being in love with me, and that he has a girlfriend, and that I was making the whole thing up. I thought he was just mad at me, and I tried to apologize and explain that I’ve changed, and then he started yelling that I was a faggot and that was going to tell everyone back home that I have a boyfriend and am a huge cocksucker.”

“Oh, fuck, Calvin, I’m so sorry. Where did all of that come from?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Here I thought that we were finally going to be friends again, and then he does this.”

“I’m not sure how to ask this, so I’ll just go ahead. Do you really want to be friends with him again? Just friends?”

His hand squeezes mine harder now, and he’s tearing up again. This is so hard for him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”

He stares out at the lake again, as if there’s an answer out there somewhere.

“I think I want more than that,” he whispers. “Does that make me a fag?”

He has the anguished look of someone who has just received a cancer diagnosis.

“Calvin, you are the same person right now that you were this morning, and the morning before that, and the year before that. Recognizing that you love Reese makes you a better person, because you’re being honest with yourself. Forget about what society calls it. Just take it for what it is, and let it be.”

“Josh,” he turns back to face me. “How is it possible that you walked into my life right when I needed you? You’re kind of a miracle.”

“Um, about that. Let’s discuss that later. Right now we need to figure out what to do about Reese.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything I can do. Or that I want to do. He was really pissed–I’ve never heard him like that. He sounded like he wanted to hurt me, bad.”

“Well, you had hurt him pretty bad. Maybe he just needed to score some points on you, and he’ll calm down now that he’s done that.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want to try again? Call him, or text him, or something?”

“I don’t know, Josh. What would I say?”

“Tell him the truth. Tell him you want to be close to him again. Tell him that you want to be more than friends.”

“But what if I don’t? I mean, I’ve never done anything with a dude. Never even thought about it. What if Reese and I are together and the whole thing grosses me out? What if it turns out I’m not really into … it?”

“This is going to sound cheesy, but what does your heart tell you?”

He chuckles.

“My heart tells me that I miss the hell out of Reese and I want him back in my life. But what if my dick thinks otherwise? It’s not really fair to Reese if I say that I’m into him and it turns out I’m not. And anyway, he has a girlfriend. Maybe he’s right and I’m wrong about the whole thing.”

“There’s only one way to find out. You need to see him.”

“Okay, that’ll solve one problem. But what about the other one, about me? About whether I’m … you know.”

Now there’s a question I can help with. But should I? Do I come clean about my crush? I try to weigh the pros and cons of full disclosure, but it’s a foregone conclusion–it always is with him. Something about him just inspires honesty. I have to tell him.

“Calvin, you know how you were saying that it’s kind of amazing that we met today?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Well, um, here’s the thing. I’ve kind of been watching you since orientation.”

He thinks about this for a minute.

“What do you mean, watching?”

“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. I watched you the entire day as we went through orientation, and just about every day since. I know where your classes are, I’ve seen you at practice, and I was under the bleachers this morning because I’ve been under the bleachers every Friday morning so that I can see you do stairs.”

He is silent, pondering this revelation.

“Why?” he asks, simply.

“Because I have this completely obsessive crush on you. Because I would watch you do anything, anywhere. I’m not like this; I’ve never done this before. But there is something about you that just makes me do it.”

“Wow,” he murmurs. “That’s kind of strange.”

“Yeah, I know. And now that I know you, I feel awful about it”

He’s quiet as he looks at me sort of quizzically, like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s freaked out or flattered.

“So, I’m sorry for perving on you, I hope you don’t mind too much.”

“Josh, I think it’s sweet. How could I be mad at you? You have helped me so much today.”

Whew. But there’s more.

“I just have a question for you. What did you think would happen? I mean, weren’t you hoping that we’d meet at some point? Is there something about me that made you think I was gay?”

“No! No, I never for a minute thought you were gay. I just couldn’t stop looking at you. And then the more I saw you, the more I saw what a great guy you are. How you always hold the door open for people, and how you hug people rather than shaking hands, and how you never even seemed aware of the fact that you look like a Greek god. I just liked watching you because you are a nice person. And a gorgeous one.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but his eyes don’t leave mine. I continue.

“But now I see how amazing you are, how sensitive and genuine, and you are so much more than a beautiful body. You are a beautiful person, all the way through.”

He blushes. I’ve not seen him do that, ever–and I’ve been watching. His eyes dart back and forth between mine, as if he’s trying to see something inside me. I have no idea what he’s looking for, but that he’s looking is deeply thrilling. This is the best day ever.

Then I feel his hands leave mine. The moment is over, apparently. Except that it’s not. His hands move up, up, and then I feel them on my jaw, on both sides. He’s cradling my face in those strong hands of his. His thumb traces the hollow of my left cheek, brushing the stubble with a whisper-soft touch. Then I feel his weight shift on the bench, feel him leaning into me.

As many times as I’ve imagined this moment, it’s never felt like this. I sense his heat first, the sun radiating from his skin. Then I feel his breath, soft on my face, sweet and warm. And then, with an aching slowness, his hands pull me closer, closer, until my lips touch his. He’s tentative at first, and I revel in the simple contact between our mouths. Then all of a sudden, his grip tightens, his lips open, and he’s on me, in me, all over me. I close my eyes and try to kiss him back, but all I can really do is hold on and try not to collapse under the force of him on my lips. It’s like he’s been holding back all his life and now he can’t control it.

I reach up and wrap my hands around his neck, that strong tan neck I’ve yearned for so long to touch, with its close-cropped hair and smooth skin. And now I am touching it, I’m running my fingers over it, feeling the little hairs stand up.

Suddenly, he breaks the kiss.

“Stop that!”

My heart stops beating, as ordered. What the hell does this mean?

“I’m ticklish there!” he giggles, and I laugh too, as relief sweeps over me.

And then he leans in again. This time I feel his tongue as he thrusts it into my mouth. I lash back, which surprises him, I think. Then he pulls back a bit, his hands gripping my neck and mine on his, and looks at me, our noses touching.

“So that’s what it’s like,” he notes, as if he’s finally seen a movie people have been talking about and wasn’t sure he’d like.

“It’s almost never like that,” I reply. “That was amazing.”

“I just didn’t know what to expect, you know, kissing a dude. It’s different,” he muses, “But nice.”

“I’ve kissed a few ‘dudes,’ and that was way beyond nice.” He blushes again. And then he kisses me again. And I see stars again.

“Thank you,” he finally sighs.

“No, thank you,” I reply. “This is what I’ve been dreaming of for three months.”

“And this is what I didn’t even know I wanted three hours ago.” He’s so fucking cute.

“What do we do now?” I ask. I have some ideas, but most of them are not appropriate for a bench out by the lake shore.

“Well, let’s look at this situation objectively. You’ve been, as you say, ‘perving’ on me for months. I, on the other hand, need to find out if I can handle being with a guy. Do you think there’s a way we could both get what we want?”

He accompanies this sledgehammer of a sentence with a triple threat: a raised eyebrow, devilishly twinkling eyes, and a smouldering smirk. I’m powerless.

“What are you suggesting?” I need to hear him say it.

“That we go back to my room, and see if we can’t both get what we want.”

“Calvin, I don’t mean to be dense, but I want to be sure that we’re talking about the same thing here.”

“What I’m talking about is going back to my room and having you show me just what you had in mind all of those months that you spent watching me. And I’ll show you what I think two guys might get up to if they ‘forget about what society calls it and just let it be.'”

Holy fucking shit. You know how earlier I said that sometimes dreams come true? Turns out that was only the beginning. I try to keep my composure.

“You make a compelling argument. Shall we?”

We rise, and walk back to the trail, shoulders touching. I can barely breathe, and the path is spinning a little. I take deep breaths, and the world smells like soap, and love.

CHAPTER TEN

I float down the lakeside path, trembling inside at what we’re doing. We don’t talk at all as we walk, though we bump shoulders about every five steps–it’s like Calvin doesn’t want to be more than 2 inches from me. Which is more than fine with me. Every time someone jogs by we break into giggles, because we have a Secret. Yes, it’s kind of eighth grade, but I’ve always thought that most of what we need to know about love we learn in eighth grade.

The trees are greener now, the breeze fresher. I can hear more sharply–there are ducks at the edge of the water nibbling in the mud. The world is beautiful, and he is beautiful. I could die right now and miss nothing that I need in life.

Instantly, there’s a huge clap of thunder, as if the gods themselves are fixing to smite me for my self-satisfaction. The reason we have such a green and lush path to walk together is that it rains here, a lot. And it is starting to rain now, a lot.

Calvin looks at me, and tosses his head in the direction of the dorm. We take off at a run, the brisk raindrops spattering us as we dash. No doubt he could far outpace me, but he doesn’t, staying right at my side instead. There’s not a hint of impatience as he matches my pace perfectly, and we run in lockstep up to the door of his hall. Swipe, stairs, door, and we’re in. Drip drip drip.

I start to shiver; it’s a combination of being soaking wet on the outside and flushed with adrenaline on the inside. Suddenly I’m shaking all over, my hair flopping into my eyes.

He takes one look at my doused-rat look and starts to laugh. His laugh fills the room with a music that church bells aspire to.

“You’re soaked,” he manages to utter between fits of laughter.

“So are you. We’re making puddles, and I’m f-f-freezing.”

“Then we go warm up. Come on,” he calls out as he grabs his shower kit, and two towels, and heads down the hall.

On a Friday afternoon the hall is deserted. Everyone is either home for the weekend or already out making the rounds of house parties scattered around town. This being an athletic floor, it’s even more unlikely that we’ll run into anyone, as they tend to party harder than most. Ar the end of the hall, Calvin turns into the shower room.

As I figured, it is far nicer than the dilapidated old hose room in my dorm. Here, there are individual stalls with curtains for privacy. Calvin makes a beeline for the stall on the end, which bears a blue sign of a wheelchair. I look at him, puzzled.

“The handicapped stall is twice as big as the regular ones. And there’s no one on this floor who uses it, so it’s the cleanest one. Come on,” he beckons to me.

I follow, into the first of two little rooms; this one has a bench, and a couple of hooks, and a curtain that Calvin pulls shut behind me. He then reaches into the inner room, and I hear the water start to run.

He looks at me. “Well?” he asks. “Are you going to get in? You need to take your clothes off first,” he reminds me, like I’m a kindergartner.

“I’m not wearing my clothes,” I remind him. “At least not the shirt.” I whip it off over my head, and toss it at him. “Here, I might have gotten some water on it.”

The shirt smacks him wetly on the chest, then slides to the floor. He glares at me, pretended to be affronted, and then he laughs. He takes his shirt off and throws it at me.

He reaches in and checks the water as he heel-toes his shoes off. “It’s warm, come on.”

For the second time today I see him hook his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and pull them off in one fluid motion. This will never get old, I decide. He jumps into the shower, and I hear him calling, “Josh, come on, the water’s fine,” in a sing-song voice.

Still unable to believe that this is happening, I pull off my shoes and shorts and then my underwear. Thank god I chose a pair that I don’t mind him seeing! I’ve been meaning to get some new ones. I stand for a second, realizing suddenly that he’s about to see me naked for the first time. I hesitate knowing how gangly and awkward I’m going to look next to him. I summon up my courage, and step in.

He’s standing under the showerhead, eyes closed, enjoying the warm water running over him. I enjoy watching the warm water running over him. It’s only been a few hours since I saw him do this after his workout, and now, this time, not only do I get to watch him, I don’t even have to pretend that I’m not watching him. In fact, I get to be in the shower with him. Best day ever.

He opens his eyes, and sees me standing there, still shivering, naked as the day I was born. I’m expecting him to step aside and let me under the water, but instead he just opens his arms wide and motions for me to come to him. I do, of course I do. I stand in front of him, almost touching him, and his eyes never leave mine. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him, and for the first time I realize that we are exactly the same height. I guess I had put him on such a pedestal in my mind that I had made him taller than he actually is. But here we are, nose to nose, nipples to nipples, and cock to cock. I feel the contact all the way up and down my body.

I’m not shivering anymore. I tilt my head slightly to one side and kiss him, kiss him as he has kissed me, with the power and hunger of months passed in yearning. There has been a space in my life that I didn’t know needed filling, and suddenly he’s here to fill it. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him even tighter to me, and time stops as the water pounds down on us and the kiss goes on forever.

Finally our lips break their clinch, and Calvin smiles broadly at me. For the first time today he seems genuinely happy.

“Feeling better?” he asks, sweetly.

“All warmed up,” I reply. Warm indeed–I feel my penis rising steadily, pressing against him. Kissing does that to me, and this was nuclear-strength smooching.

He looks down at my erection, and seems surprised by his own. His thick cock is growing against me, pushing against my balls, lifting them as it rises. He pushes me gently away, letting our cocks spring free. He looks me up and down.

“You’re …” he pauses. Finally, he finishes: “Beautiful.”

I blush, it feels like over my entire body. I’ve never considered myself particularly handsome, though I do work out and I spent my high school summers lifeguarding at the town pool. But I’m nothing compared to him. I stand in awe of his body, again, but this time I can touch it. I do. I reach out and touch my hands to his nipples, stroke them, brush my wet fingers over them. He rolls his eyes back in his head and sighs. His nipples stiffen, reaching out to me in return. I see goosebumps spread across those meaty pecs.

“You’re going too fast!” he says as he snaps his eyes open. “Everything you do feels so good. Let’s get scrubbing so we can get out of here.”

Actually, I would be perfectly content to stay here all night. But he grabs the soap out of his shower kit, clearly intent on getting back to his room. I snatch the body wash from him and squeeze a big blop of it into my hand.

“All right, if you’re in such a rush, let’s get you nice and clean,” I tell him. I rub the soap between my palms to build up some lather. I hope I don’t come all over him as I do this. I don’t think my dick has ever been this hard.

I start with his chest, smoothing the soap all over the mounds of muscle. It’s firm, only slightly yielding to my ministrations, but I can tell that he’s getting chills from being touched this way. I soap up his arms, and then I turn him around to work on his back. His broad, smooth, ridiculously muscled back is my canvas, and on it I paint a romantic scene in suds. I know he’s waiting for me to stray into the Speedo zone, and so I skip over his perfectly rounded buttocks and soap up his legs instead. That done, I finally turn to his ass. I rub the soap over the lightly furred cheeks, feeling the power in those lovely globes of pure muscle. I venture into the cleft, soaping up his most hidden place, and when my fingers find his anus I lean forward to whisper in his ear.

“I think I found where to stick the gerbil.”

He laughs and spins around and before me now dances the Holy Grail, the organ of my devotion. His prick is up and reaching for me, there must be 8 inches of it or more; it’s no longer gracefully arched but now pointed like a missile at my face. Soon enough, my darling, soon enough.

I reach down and touch it, and its heat shocks me. He’s burning up! The skin of his prick is smooth and soft, and is getting very clean as a result of my repeated strokes up and down its length. Then I reach one hand further down to his balls, and I clasp them in my palm–or try to, anyway, they are so large–and rub them gently. He’s breathing somewhat raggedly now, and he’s started chewing on my shoulder. I take this as a good sign.

“My turn!” he suddenly announces, and he grabs the body wash and squirts an enormous glob into his hand. He starts, as I did, with the chest, but his strong hands are instantly everywhere on my body. It’s like he can’t decide what to wash first, or perhaps he’s just curious about what everything feels like.

“Oh my god, you’re right. I had no idea another guy’s body could be so different from mine,” he marvels, shaking his head as he strokes me all over. He turns me around to wash my back, but his hands drop immediately to my ass, and then right up against my asshole. He fingers around it gently, as if worried that he might hurt me, but then gets a little bolder and rubs directly on the opening (which is closed tightly, as I’ve never been fucked and, as I told Calvin earlier, I’m not at all sure I ever want to be). He then spins me back around and pounces on my groin like an eagle on a chipmunk. I’m still painfully hard, but when he grips my cock for the first time I feel myself harden even more. He strokes up and down, touching for the first time a penis not his own. He looks up at me, his eyes wild with discovery.

“Dude, you didn’t tell me that you’re uncut!”

“That fact rarely comes up in conversation, particularly when I’ve just met someone.”

“Awesome! What’s it like to have that extra skin?”

“I don’t know what it’s like not to have it, so I can’t really tell you. But you’re welcome to explore it all you want.”

And he does. He actually kneels in front of me to get a better view of how the skin moves up and down the shaft, covering the head of my cock even when I’m more boned up than I’ve ever been before. And then, without warning, he grabs my balls, with both hands. A little too energetically.

“Ooof,” I say, bending over a bit. “Go easy there, big fella.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” He is clearly surprised by my reaction. “I’ll try to control myself.”

“I hope you don’t mean that,” I wink at him as I turn off the shower. “Let’s get back to your room.”

He tosses me a towel and we dry off quickly. I’m wishing my boner away, as I don’t want to be seen in the hallway wagging a stiffy around, but Calvin doesn’t seem to care at all. He just gathers up his shower kit and his wet clothes, and throws the towel over his shoulder. I wrap my towel around my waist and follow. He walks right out into the hallway, his cock still at half-mast, bobbing freely in the open.

“Um, Calvin, you realize you’re naked right?”

“Uh, yeah. We do it all the time here, because this is an all-male floor.”

“But what if one of your hallmates has a female guest? Couldn’t that get awkward if you ran into her in the hallway like this?”

“Awkward for the guy she’s seeing, yeah, because once she lays her eyes on this she’s not going to be happy with whatever he’s packin’.” He turns to me and waves his half-hardon at me.

I laugh at his goofy machismo. I haven’t seen this side of him, the cocky jock, before. I guess it means he’s getting more comfortable with me. With us. Are we an us?

We’re back at his room, and he shuts the door behind us. He dumps his shower kit and towel in the corner, and then walks over to the futon and flips up the front, flattening it into a double bed. Plenty of room for us to, well, what are we going to do, exactly? I’m not at all sure, once I think about it.

He plops his fine, naked ass on the futon and looks at me, appraisingly.

“You’re overdressed,” he says, with a sly wink. God he is so sexy.

I stand before him, with the towel still around my waist. I’m everything at once: thrilled, nervous, turned on, scared to death. I am frozen before him, not sure what to do or how to do it. He sees my deer-in-the-headlights look and gets up from the futon. He comes to me, and his hands go to my waist. As he works his hands under the towel, he leans in close to my ear, and in a hot whisper he says, “Before today I never even thought about another guy. Now it’s all I want.”

I grab his shoulders to keep my knees from buckling under me. I lean against him, feeling the solidity and warmth of his body. My towel falls, and his hands are again all over me. We kiss, and kiss. Then he moves backward to the futon, and we fall back onto it. I’m on top of him, with my legs astride him, by cock pointing into his navel, my lips all over his. My cock is grinding into his washboard stomach, and the friction of my foreskin sliding up and down that furrowed expanse of muscle is going to make me blow in about 10 seconds. I break our kiss, and sit up. This has two immediate effects; first, I can take in the amazing sight of my idol, my god, lying before me with lust in his eyes; second, his huge, bone-hard cock nestles into the crack of my ass, and throbs there impatiently.

Wanting to make this last a bit, I brush my fingers across his chest; his nipples spring to attention, ever the good soldiers, and goosebumps radiate out from them across his entire torso. His head tips back, his mouth opens, his back arches, his eyes close. His hands grip my thighs as if he’s afraid he’s about to float away and he’s holding on to save his life. I raise my hips to lift myself over his insistent prick, and slide down his body onto his legs. I’m now straddling his powerful thighs, feeling them thrum with energy. I lean back down and take his right nipple in my mouth. He gasps, and I nibble. He cries out, and I suck that nub of flesh into my mouth. He’s shaking as I suck in more of his beautiful pectoral, and his nipple is unbelievably hard in my mouth. I switch to his other nipple, and bring my hand up to tweak the one that’s still wet from my spit. He moans like a demented man, his head thrashing back and forth.

“Unnhhh! No one’s ever … done that … to me! You’re fucking … fucking … amazing!” he huffs out in gasps. I can feel his cock nudging me in the belly, and I want to get there. I move slowly down, kissing my way down his abs, kissing each peak and each valley, stopping to french-kiss his cute innie belly button. This makes him buck and start moaning again, so I continue down, following the trail of deep golden hair that starts just below his navel and guides me down to his groin. I don’t get far, though, as his cock reaches nearly all the way to his belly button. It’s the largest I’ve ever laid my hands on. I grasp it with my left hand, and he breathes in sharply. I look up at him, and he’s looking down at me, with the strangest look on his face. His breath is coming in little gasping wheezes. I’m afraid he’s going to hyperventilate.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“It’s just that, well, we’re about to … I mean you’re going to … aren’t you?” he stammers.

“If you mean I’m about to suck your dick, then, yes, you’re right.” I wonder if he’s prompting me to talk dirty to him a little. I could be up for that.

“But … but once you do that then … I mean, I’ll be a …” He stutters along. “I mean, there’ll be no going back,” he finally manages to get out.

“Calvin, if you’re afraid that my giving you a blowjob will make you gay, you don’t have to worry.” He takes a breath, not quite a sigh. “You became completely gay back in the shower.”

His eyes bug out a bit, and then he sees that I’m grinning at him, still holding his rock-hard cock in my hand. He gets the joke.

“So basically, I’m done as a straight guy, is what you’re saying.”

“I don’t care what you call it. I just want to do this, and if you want to do it too, then let’s forget about finding a name for it and just fucking do it.”

His lips purse. He’s really thinking about this.

“So, you in, or you out?” I ask, giving his prick a squeeze.

“Ahhhh, fuck, I’m in!” His head flops back to the mattress, and his hands cover his face.

That’s all I need to hear. I lift that beautiful slab of meat up to my lips and open wide. Really wide. As it enters my mouth, Calvin arches his back and his dick starts to pulse. I half expect him to come right then. But he calms down, and I wrap my lips around it and run my tongue over its hot surface. His moaning, like his laughter, is music to me.

I’ve only been sucking cock for about a year now, but I’ve learned a few things. I press a bit with my tongue here, suck a little harder there. I take big all-day lollipop licks, and plant little kisses all up and down. This isn’t sex, it’s worship.

“Oh god oh god oh god oh god,” Calvin whispers over and over again. I take a little detour down to those enormous, churning balls of his, and his breath shortens into tight, hiccuping bursts. I keep working his cock with one hand while with the other I reach under his balls and lift them to my lips. I give each a lick, and then I take the right one into my mouth. Calvin arches, and sucks in a huge breath. I worry that he’s about to yank his ball back out of my mouth, but, as I noted earlier, his sac has a lot of give to it, and I hold tight. I consider for a moment trying to get both orbs in my mouth at once, but my mouth is nearly full as it is; there’s no way another nut is going to fit. So I tug at the other ball a bit, and swab my tongue over the one in my mouth. Then I switch it up. I don’t think Calvin’s taken a full breath since I started down here, so in the interest of him not asphyxiating I decide to move back up to the main attraction. I kiss his inner thighs all the way back up, loving the clean smell that is now mixing with … sweat? No, that can’t be it. It’s a kind of musky smell that drives me wild. He’s releasing some sort of hormone that is like heroine to me. Dizzy, I grab his cock again and stuff it back into my mouth.

“Dude, you’re killing me!” he gasps. He grabs me by the shoulders, pulls me off his prick with a squishy, suctioning noise, and hoists me smoothly up to face level. “How did I not know about this?” he demands, his face flushed, his forehead dewy.

“About what?” I ask, not sure what he means.

“About how good this is! It’s like I’ve never had sex before–the way you make me feel.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Can I finish now?” I ask, jerking my head in the direction of his spit-slicked dick below me.

“Oh hell no,” he replies, effortlessly lifting me off of him and rolling us over. Now I get the value of all of that bench pressing. Totally worth it.

He is now astride me, in precisely the same position I was moments ago, and all I can hope is that he’s got the same general plan in mind. But where I kissed my way down his body, he’s all business. He does a sort of cat-like leap and is suddenly at my crotch, pulling my legs apart so that he can kneel between them. He leans forward, and studies my cock and balls for a moment, and then seems to decide that he’s going for it. He reaches for my cock, my achingly hard cock, and grips it in his strong hand. He lowers his face down to my boner, his lips a fraction of an inch from making contact. He freezes, and looks up at me.

“Hey Josh,” he says, with a mischievous grin, “Does this make me look gay?”

In spite of myself, I laugh at this, hard. He has come so far in a day, hell, in the last two hours. That he can make this joke makes me adore him all the more.

“No, Calvin. You are clearly completely hetero. Now, suck my dick.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies smartly. And then he gets to it.

Now, I don’t know if you remember what it was like to suck your first dick, but I remember quite well the first blowjob I ever gave. Perhaps it was because I’d never had one myself that I thought the procedure was all about maximum suction and friction. Oh, and moaning. The people in porn always moaned. But it turns out that an energetic vacuuming and scraping effect with a moaning soundtrack doesn’t make for a great blowjob. I got better, though my first blowjob recipient never came back for another one.

But I digress. Calvin clearly has had a good number of good blowjobs in his life, because about 12 seconds after he starts on me I am ready to shoot. His mouth is wet, his tongue is everywhere, and his teeth seem to have disappeared. Luckily he pulls off my cock to watch, fascinated, as his fist moves my foreskin up and down. On the upstroke, he kisses the hood as it gathers at the tip of my prick. One the downstroke he licks all around the exposed head. This drives me wild.

All of a sudden, he rears up, grabs my ankles, and pushes my legs up into the air. I tense instantly, as he has clearly forgotten that I don’t want to be fucked, but I’m not sure I can stop him if that’s what he wants to do. I’m about to tell him to back off when I feel his breath on the sensitive skin between my balls and my hole. Oh my god, he’s going to rim me.

First he kisses all along my taint, taking big mouthfuls of my most private skin on the way. Then he reaches my hole, and kisses it. He kisses my ass! Then he looses an all-out tongue attack: he nips and licks and probes and finally pushes his tongue right inside. My eyes are clenched so tight I see stars. He works my hole for what seems like 10 minutes, as if he’s dreamed of eating asshole for his whole life. Where did this come from?

Just when I’m starting to wonder whether I can come simply from his rimming me (I think I’m pretty close), he releases my legs and returns to my cock. By this point pre-cum is dripping from the tip of my dick, and he licks it all up. Dirty boy! Then he starts bobbing up and down on my cock, and his intent is clear: he wants me to cum. Hard. Now.

“Oh my god, Cal–” is all I can get out before it happens. The cum just flows out of me, not even in spurts, but in one huge gush. He pulls his mouth off of me just in time, but he keeps pumping me with his fist and I drench myself with cum. I have never come this hard in my life, and still he’s pumping. He doesn’t stop until the last drop has oozed out, and then he rubs his thumb over my dickhead, massaging it in. Having just come, I’m kind of sensitive, but I think he knows that. He’s just pushing me a bit.

I pull on his shoulders to bring him back up, eye to eye. I can smell me on his breath: my sweat, my precum, my ass. And then he kisses me, and I taste me and him together and I suddenly want to taste me and him together forever.

He is pressed tightly to me, and my cum slips and pools between our bodies.

“So, um, rimming, huh? Pretty advanced for a straight boy,” I tease.

“Well, I’ve been with a few chicks who like anal, and it always seemed to me the polite thing to do if I’m going to fuck them there.”

“And how does my ass stack up against the ones you’ve been in before?”

“Yours is stronger. I could barely get my tongue in there! But hotter, too. You have a nice ass.” He grins.

“And you have a nice mouth,” I counter, and kiss him again.

Suddenly, I shove him to the side, and use the momentum of that push to roll him over. I’m on top again.

“And now, I have some unfinished business,” I scold, moving downward.

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that,” he scolds back.

In a matter of seconds I have him moaning and arching again, his hardness filling my mouth. He is so ready for this, and it takes only a dozen or so strokes before I feel his balls rise up against my hand. I look up and see the sinews in his chest cording up across his muscles as he tenses, his orgasm approaching.

It’s decision time, and I decide to keep going.

“I’m gonna…” he calls out, but he knows I know. I keep sucking, keep pumping, and then it happens.

Like everything else about him, his ejaculation is bigger than life. My mouth is suddenly filled with cum as his hands grasp my hair and he cries out. I swallow as fast as I can, but there’s so much of it.

“Oh god, oh god,” he calls out. “Oh god, Reese, oh god, unnnnhhh!”

That name hits me like a hammer between the eyes. My throat closes, and I think for a moment that I’m going to choke. It’s too much for me to process right now, so I push it out of my mind and continue my ministrations to his cock. And then I’m licking up the spilled droplets of his sweet cum, kissing him all over.

The quivering in his legs slows, and then fades. His balls ease slowly back down from where they had bunched up tight at the base of his cock. His breathing returns to an easy rhythm. I kiss my way up his torso, stopping to greet each nipple, and then I’m face to face again with him. He has the open, untroubled look of someone who has just cast off a great weight, like he’s seeing the world anew through those crystalline, glinting blue eyes. He is happy.

He kisses me, tasting the last bit of his own seed on my lips.

“Hmm, salty, ” he opines. “Not terrible.” He winks at me. “But you, sir, are amazing. No one has ever made me feel that way. No one.”

“Not even Reese?” I can’t keep myself from saying. So, yeah, it stung a little. Shoot me.

He startles, like I’ve flicked him in the balls.

“What? Why would you say that?” He is confused, and, somewhat to my satisfaction, a bit hurt.

“You called his name out when you came just now.”

“What? No, I did not. No way. No.”

I look at him, my eyebrows raised in challenge.

“Oh.” He has played in back in his mind now, realizing. “Oh, oh, fuck, Josh, I am so sorry. I can’t believe I did that.” He bites his lip. “It’s just been such an amazing day, I don’t know what I’m saying.” And suddenly he turns on the basket-of-puppies cuteness, and I’m done. My anger and hurt, such as it was, evaporate.

“It’s okay,” I grudgingly offer. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“How about this–do that again, and this time I’ll call out your name. As loud as you want. Just please do it again, okay?”

I laugh. He laughs. We lie on his big bed and laugh together. He wraps his arms around me and I lie, pillowed on his firm, smooth chest, watching his breath rise and fall, feeling his hand in my hair.

I want to lie here forever. I, like Calvin, never imagined it could be like this. I’m not talking about the sex; I knew the sex could be like this (though it never has been before, I’ll be honest). But this part: the lying here, listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beat, shivering when his fingers brush the back of my neck. I never want this moment to end.

But there’s something I have to do, and I know I cannot completely give myself to this moment until I do it. I take a deep breath.

“You need to go see him,” I say, in the softest tone I can muster.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He is silent for a moment, two. I wonder if he heard me, but then I realize that the hand that had been stroking my neck has stopped its gentle movement. He heard me.

“Why?” he murmurs, almost under his breath.

“I think you know why,” I reply, continuing to speak mostly to his nipple, as if it were a microphone wired directly to his brain.

“But Josh, I said I was sorry. I don’t know why I said his name, but he doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

I lift my head off his chest, reluctant to leave that perfect place but needing to look into his eyes.

“I know you don’t mean that. You know you don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it,” he replies, adamant. “One, he hates me. Two, the feeling is now mutual. Three, after what you and I just did, how can I even think of him?”

“Hmm. Okay, let’s take those one at a time. One, he is pissed at you, and he lashed out. Perfectly understandable. It doesn’t mean he hates you. Two, what he said made you crazy, the kind of crazy that only love can make. You don’t hate him. Three, what we just did was incredible for me too. But as close as that makes us, it’s nothing to what you have with Reese.”

“Bullshit. That’s just bullshit. How do you know we’re not the ones who are meant to be together? We seem to be doing pretty well, right?”

“I’ll be honest. I have no idea what we have, or where it’s going.”

“Then,” he states, in his closing-argument-to-the-jury tone of voice, “we shouldn’t be talking about Reese, we should be talking about us.”

“Calvin, what’s my favorite color?”

“Blue?” he offers.

The color of his eyes. Oh yes.

“Lucky guess. Where do I live? Do I wear boxers or briefs? Who did I take to my senior prom?”

He looks at me helplessly.

“Calvin, what’s my last name?”

Silence.

He’s devastated, I can see that. But I press on.

“Now, tell me you don’t know the answers to all of those questions, and a thousand more, about Reese.”

He closes his eyes and turns his head away.

“Calvin, don’t. Don’t turn away. Just listen to me. You need to see him. I know so little about you, but I know that you love him. Maybe not in the way that you and I have just demonstrated, but it’s love. You know that.”

He shrugs his shoulder, and remains staring at the wall.

“There are three people in this bed right now, Calvin. You and me–and Reese. There is nothing I want more than to curl up here with you and pretend the whole rest of the world doesn’t exist, to keep rolling around this bed until we ejaculate ourselves into dehydration. But I would still know, in the back of my mind, every minute, that Reese is out there, unfinished business. Now, maybe you will find that he’s really changed and doesn’t want to see you anymore. Fine. I’ll gladly take his place. But you might also find that your best friend is the one who is meant to be the love of your life, and I wouldn’t deny you that. A chance like that comes around not very often, and you need to take it when it does.”

I stop to catch my breath. This is hard.

His head slowly turns back to me. There are tears in his eyes, down his cheek.

“Why are you doing this?” he struggles to say, his voice thick.

“Because I don’t want to be the runner-up. I love you too much for that.”

My words shock him.

“Did you just say you love me?” he asks, in that sweet little boy way of his.

“Yes, I did,” I nod. “And not in the church youth-group way, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“But you just got through telling me that we hardly know each other.”

“You forget, I have three months on you. I’ve seen how you act, I know who you are. And today has only confirmed it. I love you. And because I love you, I need you to see him. So your mind is settled, and you know what you really want.”

“Oh my god, Josh. This is all so much.”

“Yeah, it’s been quite a day.”

He is silent, for what seems like 5 minutes. Finally, he speaks.

“Okay, let’s go.”

“What, now?” Does this guy have any other setting than “Balls Out”?

“Yes, now. If I need to see him before you and I can figure out what we are together, what this is,” and here he gestures to our sweaty and cum-slicked bodies, “then I want to see him now.”

He has a point. If it’s really over with Reese, better to know right away, right?

“Okay, I’m in.”

“Great. First, we need to get cleaned up again. Then we need to creep him on Facebook to find out what dorm he’s in. Then we can get on the road.” He’s taking charge now, acting like the football captain.

Then he stops, and he looks at me, deep into my eyes.

“I just want you to know, Josh, that I can’t imagine anything Reese could do or say that would make me not want to come right home and get back into this bed with you.”

My heart races at his impetuous, romantic gesture. That’s my hope too.

“Well, then, we should get moving,” I say, slapping him playfully on the chest. “We have some driving ahead of us.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

State College is about 6 hours away, so we go through the drive-through to get dinner for the road. Calvin drives, too fast, while stuffing french fries into that gorgeous mouth of his. I sip my soda and watch the muscles of his arms gently twitch as he steers down the interstate. I wish I had thought to grab my iPod or at least some discs, but I was only back in my room long enough to pick up some clothes and my bathroom kit. We drive in silence for a while.

“So, how did you and Reese meet?” I ask, not knowing why. I’m not sure how much I really want to know about this guy.

“In preschool, if you can believe it,” he replies, chuckling. “Our parents have been friends forever, and they put us in the same classes, and on the same teams, that kind of thing. Now that I look back on it, it was like an arranged marriage or something.”

“And the whole night-before-college thing came completely out of the blue? He never gave you any sign that he might be feeling that way about you?”

He ponders this for a moment, silhouetted by the sun setting behind him.

“No, I don’t think so.” He squints a bit, as if trying to see back into memories for things he might have missed–or misinterpreted.

“You know,” he says brightly, “We lost our virginity together.”

“And that wasn’t a sign that there might be something gay between you?”

“Not to each other, stupid,” he laughs, punching my shoulder. “But in the same room. At the same time. Actually on the same bed.”

“Now, this is a story I have to hear.”

“Well, there were these twins that we dated a couple of times. This was junior year. And one night their parents were out of town, and they invited us to party with them. So, we’d been drinking a bit, and at some point they took us both by the hand into their parents’ bedroom. Turns out their parents had a bit of a kinky side, because the place was covered in mirrors. Walls, ceiling, everywhere. Next thing I know we’re all four on the bed, Reese and I on top of one twin each, and we’re all naked. I remember thrusting away at this girl, and looking over and seeing Reese doing the same. I looked away, like it wasn’t something I should see, but remember, there are these mirrors everywhere. Everywhere I look, there’s Reese, bucking and sweating. And he’s looking right at me. I don’t even remember what the girls looked like–I just remember seeing Reese’s face get red and squinched up, like he’s trying to shit or something, and then it happens. He starts gasping out these kind of soft cries, like a dove, and his eyes open, and he looks right at me as he cums. And suddenly I’m coming too, and our eyes never left each other. It was kind of intense, now that I think about it.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound gay,” I tell him, in the most deadpan voice I can muster.

“But there were girls there! It’s not like we were having sex with each other!”

“Yeah not like that at all.”

He’s quiet for a bit.

“Okay, I guess it does sound a little gay now.” He giggles.

“Just a bit. But it’s not like you went skinny dipping all the time or something.”

He suddenly focuses more intently on his driving.

“Hold on there, big boy. Seriously? Skinny dipping? How much more cliche can you get? It’s like you were living a gay romance novel and you two were the only ones who didn’t know it!”

“We only did it once!” he protests.

I cock an eyebrow at him.

“A week. Once a week. During the summer. Okay, sometimes twice a week. Except when were were at the cabin, and we did it every day. But that’s all!”

He looks at me, hoping his denial is working.

“I could suck a dozen dicks a day for the rest of my life and still never be as gay as you two were.”

He bursts out laughing, and I join him.

And we continue, laughing, into the twilight.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We arrive at State just before midnight. We roll into the half-deserted parking lot near the dorms, and check the campus map that I printed out before we left. Reese’s room is on the ground floor of the hall in front of us. We won’t be able to get in without an ID card, so we walk up to the building to see if we can tell which room is his. We walk down one side of the building, and none of the four rooms with lights on seem to be Reese’s. We walk back up the other side, and at the second lighted window Calvin stops dead.

“That’s it,” he whispers, jerking his head toward the window.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“The poster. He always had it on the wall of his room. I hated that thing–the band was awful, but he liked the way the poster looked, so he kept it up for years. I used to think he knew I hated it, so he kept it to bug me. I guess he really liked it.”

Suddenly, a form pops into view. Apparently someone had been sitting at the desk, and is now standing.

“That’s him,” Calvin whispers, and I try to tell whether the strain in his voice is excitement or anger or what.

“Well, now what?” I inquire, not sure what comes next.

“Give me your phone,” he orders, his hand outstretched, his eyes still on Reese’s shadowy form.

I do, because that’s what I do–whatever Calvin wants.

He dials. Through the window I see Reese reach into his pocket. He has no idea that it’s Calvin calling, because he’s using my phone. He brings his phone up to his ear.

“Hey, Reese, it’s Calvin.”

I see Reese look at his phone, apparently trying to figure out how he missed the Caller ID that should have warned him not to pick up. He gives up and brings the phone back to his ear.

“Yeah, I know. But I wanted to try to talk with you about it, see if we can’t clear the air.”

He listens. Through the window I see Reese gesturing animatedly.

“Oh, I see,” Calvin says into the phone, and then he motions for me to do … something. I’m not sure what it is, at first. It looks like he wants me to cut his throat and then poke him in the ear or … oh, the mute button! Right, I show him where the mute button is on my phone.

“He says that he can’t talk right now because he’s out with his girlfriend at a party,” he whispers to me.

He takes his finger off the button.

“Yeah, that’s too bad, Reese. I’m sorry I caught you at a bad time.”

Reese is pacing back and forth, clearly agitated.

“Can we at least talk sometime?”

More listening, then the mute button again.

“He says he’s at his girlfriend’s house, and he won’t be able to get away all weekend,” he whispers again.

“That’s too bad, Reese. I guess I have just one more question. Why do you insist on wearing that stupid Phish shirt? I always hated that thing.”

Reese stops cold. He spins around, trying to figure out where Calvin is hiding. Only once he has spun around three times does he come to the window. Calvin steps under the glare of a streetlight and waves to him.

“Can we talk now? Now that you’re back from your girlfriend’s house?” he asks into the phone.

Reese hangs up without answering. He stands in the window, looking at Calvin. Then, finally, his shoulders droop and he motions for us to come to the side door of the hall.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask as we walk to the door.

“Yep. As long as you’re here with me,” he replies, and takes my hand. At this point I think we’re both pulling for Reese to be a complete asshole.

We get to the door, and Reese is standing there holding it open. I surprise him, as I was standing in the shadow when he looked out and saw Calvin. But he opens the door wider, and we go in. We walk in silence back to his room.

We stand there, in the middle of the room, nobody wanting to say the first word. Finally, Reese speaks.

“So this must be Josh,” he says, a little snidely, jerking his head in my direction. “The boyfriend?”

“Yep,” Calvin answers, taking my hand once again. What the hell is he doing? “I’d like to introduce him to your girlfriend. Tell me,” he says, as he looks around the room, “Where is she?”

Reese is silent, clearly wounded by this.

“Cal, look. I don’t want this to go any further, and I don’t think you do either.”

“Reese, I apologized for what happened. If I could take it back I would. I was a complete jerk, and you have every reason to be pissed at me. But let’s not let it end our friendship. We can still be friends, right?”

And here he turns on the full puppy dog look. I wonder if Reese is as susceptible to it as I am.

“No.”

I guess not.

I stand there, looking from one to the other. They are perfectly matched in many ways, in terms of height and musculature (I can see under that Phish shirt that Reese is in fine shape indeed, though he’s clearly built for speed, not sheer power). The major differences are in coloring: where Calvin is tan, Reese is porcelain; where Calvin is sandy blond, Reese is dark, almost raven haired. But their eyes–the ones that are right now boring into each other across the three feet that separate them–are precisely the same color: of blue fireworks in a twilight sky, of an angry winter ocean, of a sapphire in a burning jewelry store. They are stunning.

Suddenly, Calvin throws himself at Reese, tackling him to the floor. A blow like that would put me in traction, but Reese just grabs Calvin by the shoulders and pushes him off. Then it’s his turn to lunge, and he barrels into Calvin’s chest and send him bouncing off the desk on the other side of the room. Calvin pushes him off, gets back up on his knees, and grabs Reese by the legs. Reese kicks and squirms and throws Calvin off of him, but Calvin comes right back at him. This goes on for several minutes, with neither gaining the upper hand, until finally Calvin shoves Reese down onto the lower bunk and then lands on top of him. They are panting heavily now, and their tired fists slow in their struggle to find vulnerable openings to strike. Finally they grow still, and their eyes meet again.