Written by avehoward
Disclaimer--If you are underaged in your community or if you object to homosexual content, then don't read this novella. You know the scoop kids.
Thanks to David, Mick, Paul, Joe, Bobby, Remmy, MK, Shash, Jack, John, Richard, ZF, Cy, Rio, Daniel, Robert, Fred, Bill, Joe, Eli, Duffy, Craig & Tim for giving me comments on the first two parts! Keep 'em coming guys...that's why I write.
Chapter Three
JD stumbled into the house, deeply shaken by what had happened that night. In more ways than one he had lost his virginity; first with the alcohol and then just moments ago in the backseat of Steve Glineberg's car. He stumbled downstairs without turning on the lights, since this was the house he had called home for all of the 18 years and 26 days of his life. He turned into his bedroom, stripping his shirt off of his six-foot frame and shook off his khaki shorts and flopped down on his bed in just his boxers, his body exhausted from his day that had brought so many new experiences; he had finally found a measure of success in his running, he had for the first time attended a party and got drunk, and pressing most on his mind, he had given a blow job to his friend/teammate. As he lay on top of the sheets on his twin bed, hand resting upon his mildly hairy chest, JD's mind turned over and over in an internal monologue as he sobered up. "What have I done? Jesus. I feel like such a fucking slut. I enjoyed that, I can't deny that. But I want to deny that pleasure. I want to so badly. That's not how I thought it would happen. Not at all. Not with the first guy who came along. I wanted to save it for THE guy. Not just a guy. Steve's nice and all but Christ, I don't want him as a boyfriend or anything. That's who I wanted to be with, that unknown figure, ill-defined, the guy I will date at some point and fall in love with."
JD Maynard's brain turned and turned but eventually his body, exhausted from the day and the alcohol, won out and he fell into a deep sleep. He had practice the next morning but his alarm was not set; fortunately he was awoken by light streaming in through his window. He looked at his clock. 7:53, good. He had plenty of time to grab a quick breakfast and to drive down to Highland Lakes High School and make practice in time.
Since it was the Saturday after a Friday meet, Coach Carlson decided to take it easy on his team; instead of the intervals that would be done on Saturdays later in the season when the meet schedule became haphazard and there would be races on any day of the week except for Friday, his team would just indulge in some LSD. Although this acronym was well-known to runners to mean Long Slow Distance, to those less in touch with the lingo of the sport, it represented something quite different. Years before when Carlson was just a novice coach, one of his younger runners who had only recently begun running had seen LSD on the weekly schedule and assumed that it referred to dropping acid. He reported this with some trepidation to his mother who, being one of the over-protective, over-involved, over-bearing types, went straight to the school principal with this news. Carlson was summoned and an explanation was demanded of him that the mother accepted with a Harrumph. After she stalked out, Carlson and the principal, who had been a runner until his knees gave out, exchanged a bemused look. Nowadays Carlson made certain to distribute a handout detailing his training strategy and with definitions of running terms, just to advert situations like that one.
It was early in the season, so the LSD would really not be all that long. Carlson picked out a nine-mile route that would take the runners out into the more rural areas around their town of 12,000. One of the shortfalls of high school cross-country, he thought to himself, was that early in the season when they should be doing miles and miles to build up a base most of the kids weren't ready for the load. So he had to make certain that the routes he selected had turnoffs or clearly distinguished turnarounds so that the runners who were not in peak shape would not find themselves bonking in the middle of nowhere. That would not be good.
Since it was only the beginning of September, the temperatures in the Upper Midwest were still quite warm and muggy, even at 9:15 in the morning. Accordingly, most of the older boys discarded their shirts near the entrance to the high school, as to avoid running in an unpleasantly damp tee shirt on such a glorious morning. That and to show off their lean bodies to whomever was interested, since young males, as a rule, are immodest about their bodies. The younger runners generally kept their shirts on and suffered the sweaty, clingy shirts and the occasional case of bloody nipples from where the wet fabric rubbed the sensitive nipple tips raw. There were the one or two young runners who would join the upperclassmen in partial nudity, but the lack of confidence and pride in their developing bodies prevented most from doffing their shirts. Thus went the pack of eighteen boys, some wearing shirts, others not; some in running shorts, others in basketball shorts. It was a raggle-taggle batch of runners heading out on this fine Saturday morning.
Within the first couple miles, the team generally stuck together. It was an easy run so there really was no point in one group pushing hard during the first bit. The purpose of a good LSD run is to get some good solid miles in and to help condition the body to switching over from burning carbohydrate stores to burning fat stores. And so when an SUV with several obnoxious youths sped by with a honk and an accusatory call of "FAGGOTS!", the entire team was able to react with the universal runner's salute: an upraised middle finger and then they returned their minds to the conversation at hand, mildly perturbed by the interruption. Ethan Hauck, one of the seniors on the team was relaying a story about a rather pervy teacher at Highland Lakes to the rest of the team. Though the other older runners had heard this several times before because it was a piece of team folklore handed down from one class to next, they still listened in as if it was the first time they were hearing it. "So I went into Jake's [a well-known strip club] with my friends and man is the place dark and creepy. The lady on stage, well she wasn't as hot as we thought strippers would be but we told ourselves that it's early and maybe she's just the warmup act. We got a table over by the side and looked over at the row of guys at the bottom of the stage. All these weird old guys and guess who was in the middle of the bunch? Mr. Bass! We freaked out because this is just not cool. Fuck that we were out of there."
The team broke up laughing in disbelief at the tale. And they had some right to disbelief; it had been handed down so many generations that it could very well be the figment of some 1980s teenager's imagination. But it could be true, as the others shared anecdotes about how Mr. Bass always seated the pretty girls in the front row and magically those who wore skirts never got worse than a B-. After a couple miles the group began to fragment. The young junior high kids turned back three miles into it; most of the JV guys turned off on an alternate seven-mile route and the rest of the runner broke into groups of two or three. Steve, JD and Kent Winden formed one of the groups, but about two miles out from the school, Kent turned off into the bushes to deal with the runs that sometimes accompany long or hard runs. Sticking to pace, JD and Steve ran on alone in an awkward silence typical after a night that sees friendships move beyond just a simple friendship. Finally Steve broke the silence. "So what do you think about last night?"
"Oh the party was great. I did feel rather under things this morning," JD answered, trying to evade the blowjob.
"Oh yeah sure. But what about what happened after?"
"That. Well yeah, I dunno."
"Whaddaya mean? I didn't push too fast did I?"
"No, it's not that. Well it might be that. I don't know. Look I'm not that kind of guy."
"But you like me, right?"
"Yeah I like you, but I don't know if I like you in that way."
"You sure seemed to last night."
"But that was last night. I was drunk then."
"Drunk or not, you know you wanted it."
"Fuck, I don't know. Look, I wanted my first time to be with a boyfriend, not some drunken hookup."
"Okay fine. Will you go out with me?" Steve asked.
"Look, I said that I like you as a friend. Not boyfriend, friend," JD answered, somewhat frustrated with the hole he had dug for himself. " You want more out of it? Fine. I don't. If I was sober last night it wouldn't have happened. You know that."
"I think there was something more to it but hey I'll let you go. Try to catch me if you ever get your head straight. Or should I say 'if you ever get your head gayed up'?" Steve then tossed in an acceleration, leaving JD behind. JD mentally cursed himself for his outright truthfulness. While it was true that he wanted Steve in a sexual way, he also knew that he did not want to date him. And he did not want a reputation for being a slut. But did he just sacrifice a budding friendship because of his own insecurities? He couldn't answer this, so he ran on, alone.
Accelerating away, Steve fumed to himself. "Dammit man what the fuck was that? After last night? What does that kid want? Did I push it or what? Was last night a mistake? He wanted it as much as I did. I never forced him to blow me. Good God! Fuckit. He's going to have to come to me. Until he does, he is not going to beat me."
The team trickled in by twos and threes. Those who showered at the school did so and those who did not went home to enjoy the rest of the weekend and for the most part they did not see each other until Tuesday because of the Labor Day holiday. Tuesday was the first day of classes and so when JD and Steve came upon each other in the two classes that they had together (Calculus and Political Science) they were cordial but there was a coolness that existed there. The friendship that had been in bloom before the weekend had now been pruned severely. It was not dead but it certainly was not verdant and growing wildly. As the week progressed, the boys each channeled his own frustration at this chasm into their workouts. All the tension could have been spared if one had shown some humility and blinked first in this stare down, but they were each well-schooled in the art of masculinity, especially in never admitting fault. And while there was palpable tension between them, the team did not notice much out of the ordinary, but Mr. Carlson did. He noted the ferocity that each runner was displaying in their workouts and was quite pleased. At last Steve was cashing in on his natural talent and even better, JD was now reaping the fruits of all of his struggles.
With the progression of days came a progression in temperatures as Mother Nature decided to give summer one last hurrah before unleashing the inevitable cool weather. By the meet on Friday the temperatures were an unseasonably warm 92 degrees Fahrenheit. The meet itself was an important early-season one that took them to Fairfield to face competition that was from out of their typical competition pool. The course at Fairfield was a regulation 5 kilometer setup, though because it incorporated the county fairground and neighboring park, it was a very fast course, with nothing to speak of in hills. There were a few bottlenecks in the course where a wooded area crowded in along a baseball stadium but generally it was wide open which made for some very good times.
Earlier in the JV race, some fairly impressive times were posted. Marc had finished in the lead pack with a time of 18:43, a very enviable time for a mere eighth grader. Also setting a PR was Adam, who ground out a 19:21 in the heat, although the effort and conditions took so much out of him that he nearly blacked out in the chute after he had finished. And then it was time for the varsity race. The course was ideal for a coach because it was in a fairly confined area and so Carlson could see each of his runners three or four times during their races. He neglected to catch much of the start except for the gun itself so that he could have accurate split times for the runners at his position at the first mile.
The first Highland Lakes runner through the mile was Steve Glineberg. There was nothing surprising there because this is where he should be. But what was surprising was that Steve had separated himself from the chase group twenty feet behind him. This was unlike Steve who in the past had allowed himself to be pulled along by his competitors. Now it looked like he had something to prove. Fifteen seconds behind Steve was the next pair of Highland Lakes harriers, Ethan Hauck and Kent Winden tucked into a group of about ten runners that formed the second chase group. This was a little quick for them but nothing too far out of the ordinary. What was out of the ordinary was JD Maynard sticking behind these two by only a couple of seconds. He also looked as if he had something to prove, though he looked as if he was laboring a bit. Carlson shouted at him to loosen up and relax. The final three runners on Carlson's squad in this varsity race, Greg Hansen, Scott Amundson and Andy Mueller were all fairly close together at 5:24, twenty seconds behind JD. Carlson was pleased by this aggressive pack mentality of his runners and giving some words of encouragement, he cantered off to the two-mile mark.
When Steve came through the two-mile, he had widened his lead to about fifteen seconds over his nearest competitors. This was superb. Glineberg's face was set in a determined half-grimace but he was not showing any signs of slowing down. In the afternoon sun, Steve's yellow-and-black jersey had a sheen of sweat over it and with each arm swing, a shower of sweat droplets flew off of his hands. Twenty seconds behind Steve were Kent and Ethan, still working in tandem to hold their position. And the big surprise of the year, JD, was still the number four runner on the team, though he had lost some ground to Steve and Kent, but still his 10:56 split was his best two-mile split ever. Still, he was not looking good, even if he gave a difficult-to-perceive headshake when asked if he was feeling ill. Still, his skin was a somewhat unnatural pale. But Carlson paid little mind to this as JD sped by because he was looking for the final three Highland Lakes runners who were still running together at 11:28, leading a small pack of two dozen runners clad in varying colors of jersey.
Carlson had to put a bit of effort into his run to make the finish, but his work was quickly rewarded when he saw Steve come into the final stretch on the grassy mall that divided the livestock barns from the dirt track that hosted demolition derbies. There was nobody in sight behind him. Steve powered through the finish line a good fifty yards ahead of his nearest rival, finishing with a time of 15:41, a very impressive time for so early in the season on so hot a day. Only after exiting the chute did Steve allow himself to bend over and grab his knees and admit how much the race had taken out of him. Finishing over half a minute behind him in a pack of four other runners were Kent and Ethan, placing 9th and 12th, respectively. A minute and twenty seconds went by before the next Highland Lakes runner crossed the line and he was followed by another and another, all within seven places and five seconds of each other.
But none of them was JD Maynard. Carlson scanned the line of runners in the chute in hopes that he missed JD. To no avail. And then a race volunteer tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Are you the coach of Highland Lakes."
Brow knitting in consternation, he replied, "Yes I am."
"One of your runners ran off the course and went down about a half mile back."
"Shit."
"We have a medic out there looking at him right now."
Carlson took off in a run, weaving through the spectators watching the last runners come in. He found JD sitting upright on the ground with a small group of medical attendees and spectators around the fallen athlete. JD was looking pale and somewhat disoriented. The heat and the effort he had been putting forth had sapped a great deal of energy out of him but with the ingestion of fluids he was beginning to come around. He could not bring himself to make eye contact with Carlson. He mumbled, "Sorry coach."
Carlson immediately corrected him, "JD, there is nothing to be sorry for. You were running your hardest for the team--maybe too hard--and there is nothing to apologize for."
"But I did not finish the race."
"It's early in the season. What counts is that you're recovering and you're going to use this as a learning experience. Now come on, let me help you back to camp."
The coach helped the athlete up and walked him slowly back to the team camp. Upon returning, JD was subjected to the concerned solicitations of his teammates (and their rather concerned parents). He soon wearied of telling about how he just started feeling woozy and somehow left the trail and how he was okay now, just a little out of things. Only Steve remained aloof from this scene, hovering around the outsides of the concerned persons but never actually enquiring upon JD's health. After a while the attentions were turned to the announcement of placings. While the loss of JD as the #4 runner on the squad was damaging and the Highland Lakes squad would have been very close to first had he finished, if they were not the winners, the team still placed third behind two teams in the class above them. A marked improvement from years previous.
On the bus ride home, JD sat alone with his thoughts. While his race this afternoon had ended quite badly, he was not obsessed over it. He had run a good race up to that point and then it was just the heat that struck him down. It surely would not be 93 degrees in late October. No, his thoughts turned inward to the past week. Things had been quite rocky for him. At one moment he would be rampantly horny and he would settle for any one. Yet without warning, his mood would shift 180 degrees and the thought of sexual contact repulsed him. It infuriated him being unable to find a measure of control of his body.
His mind was still clouded when he drove Marc home as always. And he was consciously aware that his sex drive was kicking in when he looked at the younger runner. Shorter in stature but with the perfect toned runner's look, neatly mussed blondish hair, a face that was both innocent and sensual and an openness about his body around the team--this kid was perfect. JD so very much wanted to just kiss him and surreptitiously slide his hand down Marc's khaki shorts right there, but no. He couldn't do that. He shook his head to clear those lustful thoughts from his brain. Marc was four years younger than he was. There was no way that he was going to go that far. He wouldn't let himself. But still, that luscious body...
He stopped his car in front of Marc's house and as the younger runner gathered his belongings from the back seat, JD said, "Hey Marc--"
"Yeah?"
"Um, I just wanted to say that, uh, you had a great race today. And I'm happy you did so well."
"Thanks JD. Can you get me down to practice tomorrow?"
"Well, coach says that I shouldn't run and just take the weekend to recover, but I was thinking I was going to show up anyhow. And if you need a ride, I'll get you there."
"Thanks."
As JD drove home, he was mentally flagellating himself both for being attracted to a kid that much younger than himself...but also for not acting on his desires.
Okay, that was my third installment. No sex but honestly, sex is secondary to a good homoerotic running story. Like it? Hate it? Email me at avehoward@yahoo.com
I love getting feedback...the only reason I'm writing this stuff is because of the feedback that I get.