A new adventure with some recurring and favorite themes. This project began during the pandemic as a collaboration with a friend so it comes from two different and overlapping points of view of the story line. I'm Grady and my cohort writes the part of Hollywood icon Ryan Phillipé as we navigate through prep school and are reunited about a dozen years later. While some of the places depicted are very real, it goes without saying that this work is pure fiction and not meant to project, construe or support any assertion about the private lives of any of the characters portrayed within the story. Outside of the public figures, all of the characters in this story are fictional and resemblance to any one person whether dead or alive is purely coincidental. If you are offended by intimate male on male emotional and physical relationships, you should be asking yourself why you are here in the first place. Lastly, please consider making a donation to Nifty to maintain this website. Feedback is welcome.
Grady -- Prologue
It was always the biggest game of the lacrosse season in high school; the uber-traditional, uber-preppy Baltimore lacrosse powerhouse Gilman School versus my own high school alma mater, Mayo Academy. The Mayo Academy was born on the grounds of the once prestigious Forrest School for Boys where Maryland's landed gentry once boarded their sons for the proper education, grooming and networking necessary for life until the institution's board mismanaged the school's finances into an uncorrectable nose dive. Through the determined efforts of some of the school's wealthy alumni and dedicated faculty members, the Mayo Academy was conceived and brought forth on the grounds of the former Forrest School along Mayo Creek, not too far from Annapolis.
Though I lived just an hour away in Washington, DC, this game always brought me back to Mayo, not so much for the game itself but for the hope that he would be here, that he too would come back for Spring Alumni Weekend, always the weekend before graduation. He was Matthew Ryan Phillips, known across the world as the always boyish looking actor, Ryan Phillippé. Matthew was a junior when I showed up at Mayo as a freshman and I instantly crushed on him and his blond, blue-eyed lean muscled perfection. He had an easy, artsy sort of way about him while I was the hammerhead soccer and lacrosse jock with a brain for the hard math and sciences.
Most of the Mayo alumni went on to Ivy League and other big name schools, graduating with degrees in business, economics and other worldly endeavors. Me, not so much. I attended the nearby University of Maryland at College Park on partial scholarships for academics and lacrosse. Luckily for me, Maryland is the only school in the United States offering a genuine engineering degree that focuses on fire protection. You see, I always wanted to be a firefighter and while that traditional blue collar endeavor evaporated from the minds of most young men by the time they figured out sports, cars and women, it definitely stuck with me.
Immediately, I made the connection between lacrosse and firefighting; there was something about pushing into a burning building, taking the beating from the flames, heat and smoke that was identical to taking the punishment from the opposing team's defenders. Just like I lived to excel at being on the attack with a lacrosse stick, I wanted to excel at being on the attack at a building fire. It was all about giving your best each time to the team each time the bells hit to defeat the enemy. For me, it was a slam dunk; the engineering degree would just be something to fall back on should some sort of disabling injury not allow me to pursue my career to its logical conclusion.
Matt Phillips was the captain of the soccer team during his senior year at Mayo Academy when I played as a somewhat decent utility player, able to fill-in at any position on the field. His distinct voice commanded attention with little effort on his part and that easy smile paired with those piercing blue eyes would make anybody do just about anything for him. I crushed on him; hard, almost like he was some sort of a big brother figure. And because he was a senior and I was two years behind, he sat with the seniors at meal time and moved in, through and around his senior circle of friends and athletes. My only interactions with him were on the soccer pitch or passing in and on the school's corridors and pathways.
Except for that one fall afternoon at the boathouse along Mayo Creek where the rowing shells were kept along with other athletic and ground maintenance equipment. I saw him heading down that way after soccer practice and he kept looking over his shoulder to see if anybody was following. No one was following him, just my eyes tracking him and I swear I saw a "yeah, you, come here" sort of nod of his head. I looked around to see that the rest of the guys were heading towards the field house to shower and get ready for dinner but I chose differently. I eased into a slow jog and kept my eyes on Matt as he partially opened the shoreside garage door of the boathouse used to allow the in and out movement of the crew team's racing shells.
As soon as I crossed the threshold of the garage door, Matt pulled me into himself and I froze as I stared into those stunning blue eyes. The man who was the subject of so many of my nightly personal releases had just snagged me and was holding me. I could feel his raw strength clutching me and his almost sweet post-soccer practice scent filled my nose as both of us looked at each other with our "what do we do next?" faces.
I could feel Matt push up on his toes and begin to bring his lips closer to mine just as another door silently opened and closed with a deafening slam, scaring both of us to unlock from each other. I swallowed hard as we heard the foreman from the grounds crew beginning to rant out loud to anybody listening about having to fire one of his helpers for drinking on the job. As soon as we realized we had not been detected, we slipped away through a side door much more silently than our unplanned intruder entered.
We parted quickly and ran back up the lush green grass to the field house and our own showers and evening meals before settling in for homework and lights out at 11:00 pm. To this day, whenever the dream revisits me, the vision of his lips coming towards mine and that epic door slam always waken me from my sleep. I can never get past that part in my subconscious REM sleep mind but consciously, I follow it through to the way I would have wanted it to end when I pleasure myself alone.
Old Mother Crenshaw and I chatted briefly as the second half commenced. She was one of the driving forces that helped raise the Mayo Academy out the ashes from the financial implosion of its predecessor. As she moved on to glom onto some other alumni, I refocused on the game, mentally breaking down each play and wondering to myself if Mayo could hold on to their lead. As the fourth quarter began to wind down with Mayo two goals ahead, I felt a strong hand on my left shoulder, instantly followed by "Grady. Fucking. McBride." in a voice that I instantly recognized from my past, a voice that spoke volumes with how it uttered those three words.
I turned and smiled, recognizing the facial features in spite of the pulled down Hurley baseball hat, big black Ray-Ban sunglasses and the clean-shaven face sitting on top of a one-size too large navy blue Dewey Beach Beach Patrol hoodie, khaki shorts and preppy Sperry boat shoes. "Mr. Hollywood," I answered, "how nice to see you again."