This story is a work of erotic fiction involving teenage boys partially based on real people and recent events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty as well as the innocent. All the usual rules apply. If you're under 18, live in a country that doesn't know anything about curiosity, free distribution of knowledge, or is simply ignorant, ect, then you shouldn't be reading this now.
Copyright Notice - Copyright March 12, 2001 by the author.
This story is copyrighted by the author and the author retains all rights. This work may not be duplicated in any form, physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise without the author's expressed permission. All applicable copyright laws apply worldwide.
To the families, friends and especially the teenage friends of the gentle boys that were laid to rest in California this past weekend; who are asking why and aren't answers, keep your head up and your eyes focused on the sky. They are there looking down on you. And we are down here trying to make damn sure it won't happen again.
Like Any Other Day. Chapter Three.
Quick, fast. Staccato. The way I have always thought and reacted. Quick first impressions, answers and precise meanings.
I mean, why waste time?
"You love him, don't you dude", James asked?
I remember that night as if it were yesterday.
"You're just a dream. You're not real, and yet I feel I should know you. You come in the night, treat me right. Say you want me to love you? But through the years, and, tears I've shed, seems I can't forgot you. Now awake. It's my mistake."
"You're just a dream"
I had taken a nap before James came over. When I awoke, I had a pad laying next to me. Where the hell did that come from? English is my worst subject, and I certainly can't write poetry.
Am I now awake for the first time?
Funny, as teenagers are always reminded, we think of ourselves as immortal and have no concept of time, reality or life. And at 13, I stood accused of possibly feeling something that I had no experience to handle. And yet, I instinctively knew the answer.
James snapped me back to reality with a slight touch.
"I see the world in his eyes. I feel so much in his touch. I ... "
"Dude, you're avoiding the question", James said.
"Yeah, I know and I do. And I don't want to love him as much as I do", I admitted. I started crying. Damn these friggin' hormones. At the very least, that was a convient excuse.
"He loves you too, but he just doesn't know it yet", James said, while he sat there hugging me.
Half laughing and half resentful, I pulled away, looked at James and asked "When the hell did you get so wise?" How could James see what I couldn't. I mean, he's as straight as they come. Always with a "pussy" joke here or a "tit" joke there; how could he possible know about a boy in love with another boy and what they was feeling?
"Not that hard to see", he continued as if to answer my thoughts. "But he's got so many "macho" issues to overcome".
I knew this to be true. After Adam's and Bryan's dad had a stroke years ago, their mom had become an alcoholic. And, without making judgments, a bit of a slut as well. Adam took it upon himself to look after the household.
When his dad was released from the hospital, he was confined to a wheelchair. A paraplegic. The family had to build an extention to the house, equipped with a hospital bed to accommodate him. After some therapy, he had limited mobility. Walking with the help of a quad-cane. Enough movement for him to barely make it to the porta-pottie to take care of his needs, or to the kitchen table to eat. Just enough to be a burden.
His mom spent more and more time away, leaving Adam and Bryan to deal with their father's maladies.
Adam was a trooper from what I've heard. He cooked, cleaned, emptied his dad's "shit-pot", cleaned up nightly "accidents", changing and washing bedding and bed clothes; all the while conforting his mom when she came home drunk and smelling of sex and his little brother, when he lay crying in his bed.
Did his schoolwork, maintained his grades if not surpassing expectations. Was awarded a academic scholarship to a prestigious prep school out of state, but turned it down; electing to stay home for his parents and little brother.
"So, talk to me", James said.
"I'm not strong enough", I said.
"Strong enough for what", James asked.
"To accept my own feelings", I replied.
Silence. There it is again. Damnit. Why is it that silence can speak volumes?
I could see James muse over what I had just said. Muse, an interesting word. I could have acknowledged he was thinking it over. I could have thought he was trying to put it into perspective. But I chose "mused". How strange is that? Damnit, was I growing up in spite of myself? And what is "it"?
Was easier when we were just boys, playing boy's games. Laughing and wrestling. Boys being boys.
And then a strange thought infected me. Is this why teenagers kill themselves? The overwhelming misunderstandings or misinterruptations?
"I think you think too much", James said laughing. I reflected on that statement and realized what I was doing. Suddenly, I started laughing as well.
Even at 13, he was my friend of 7 years. And he was wise beyond his age. And I loved him for that. He saw the sides I didn't see, or didn't want to see and with no regard for himself - took a chance to enlightenment me.
If he could, why couldn't I?
Was Adam really a "authority" figure? Did he give me what I didn't get at home? Hell, he was only 4 years older than me; but he was so strong. Four years in a teenagers mind is a long time.
"Dude"? "Er, DUDE!"?
"What"? Oh James. "Sorry". "Whatsup"?
"Hell if I know", I said. "Jimbob (my favorite nickname for him ... he hates it, which makes me love it even more) ... er, do you think your parents love you?" "What," he said?
"Do you think they love you", I calmly ask again?
"Well, they provide for me. And they talk with me when they think its appropriate", he answered.
"But do you think they love you", I asked again?
He thought for a minute, flashed a half smile and said, "As much as they can love or understand a 13 year old".
I laughed.
But understood.
Have you ever gone to sleep confused. I don't mean sexually frustrated, or unaware; but truly confused? And deep sleep won't come. Damnit, I had to make a decision. And in making that decision, I had to expose myself.
Did I love Adam? Yes, No? I don't know. More appropriately, did I want to tell him? Was he ready? Could he handle this 13 year old kid admitting his feelings to him? Adding to the problems he had to face each day at home?
Now at 17, I had worked hard to improve myself. Weight-trained day after day in my basement. Had convinced Dad to get me a few machines and some free weights. Lied, telling him that the school's equipment was in bad shape and, even then, always in use. Since he or mom never came to any school functions, he'd never know. Truth be known, we had a brand new universe gym set, but, I was too shy and embarrassed to work out at school.
Joined as many pick-up basketball games as I could play. Soccer for endurance and tennis for upper body strenght. Stripped off the baby fat; tightened here and there hoping someone would notice. Anyone.
That's not true. Did it for Adam. Damn him for being.
Brown hair that never did what I wanted. I could spend hours combing, brushing, moussing and spiking, but never looked any better than when I started. Brown eyes, that most said they found attractive; but I wanted blue like my mom's.
But if I had learned anything from the feelings that I hidden deep inside, it was how to put on a good game face. I may have low self-esteem, but I'll be damn if I would let anyone know that. Especially Adam.
James spent that night four years ago, just ago holding me. As I poured my soul out to him, I laughed, cried and finally cowered in a fetal position.
"I hate being this way", I said. He simply replied, "Never hate yourself".
So easy for him. He was staight. He never had to worry about anything. Or so I thought.
"You know", I said. " I need a miracle". He looked at me and I saw him get pissed. He grabbed me, pulled me into the bathroom, turned on the light, grabbed my head and pushed it almost into the mirror.
"Look, damn you. LOOK', he shouted. "See that? See you? That face? There is your friggin' miracle. YOU are that miracle. You and all that makes you. Your compassion, your knowledge, your essence ... you damnit". I looked in the mirror. Not at me, but at him. He was beet red from anger.
His last words, "Don't you get it you asshole? You are special"?
With that he left me to slide down on the bathroom floor.
After sitting there, crying, I went back into my bedroom. Yeah, my sanctuary. Suddenly, it didn't feel like it was mine. Like I didn't belong or deserve it. James had made a point. Had been real, coming from his very soul. Trying to deal with me in my realm, spending the night in this house that I am sure he considered a "pompous estate".
I sat on the floor and looked around for the first time.
My parents were designer coffee guzzling, prepaid yuppies. They had no idea what I saw, felt or was feeling; choosing instead to placate me with "stuph". That added to my confusion.
A big screen tv. The latest video equipment. The most prestigous posters. The latest computer. The best desk, bed ... "bedclothes"; not sheets and covers, but "bedclothes".
"GAWD", had I been reduced to a throwaway? "Entertain yourself" and maybe, just maybe when the parents did get home from their various business trips, they might actually appreciate me?
James was right. I was hiding from myself.
I crawled over to the bed, propping myself up against the headboard, but never got to sleep. I watched James. He got up that morning, saw me sitting there; but never said a word. He got dressed and went home.
I ... I ... just sat there ...
------------------------- Know where to find me :). Peace.