Oscar 30
I should have told him the truth. I should have told him I loved him.
Explained to Tim, the first man to make my heart soar inside my chest like a caged bird set free, that there was no wonder he didn't "get me".
The kind of person who does what I'd done isn't reasonable. Or understandable. Or normal. That Oscar was fucked-up. Poisoned and lost.
But for good reason.
I should have explained, begged him to forgive me, that since my mum had left and my dad had rotted away from loneliness, I didn't know how to be good or kind or honest. I didn't know how to love. Didn't know how to express it or feel it.
Worst of all, I didn't know how to recognise it. Love wasn't on my radar anymore.
Now, many years later, I know love. I see it. Feel it. And, most importantly, understand why I hadn't. Why at seventeen I was unwilling to accept how afraid and alone I was because I'd been abandoned. Tossed aside and forgotten by the people who were supposed to love me the most.
They had, for a while. I'd tasted a good life. A normal life. I knew about love. I knew it existed. But then they'd left and my world hadn't just flipped, it had flipped, fissured and imploded until only tiny chunks of ripped apart memories were left, spinning and spiralling in the gaping, icy void left inside my head and chest.
My mother gone without a goodbye. My father distorted beyond recognition. My parents snuffing out the embers of happiness in a cruel, cold, selfish instant.
Everybody leaves.
But that's the so-called beauty of hindsight, isn't it? Only knowing which path to walk thanks to the clarity of the future. It all seems so clear looking to the past. So easy and obvious away from the storm of confusion raging and thrashing around the present.
I should have told him. Told him everything. But I didn't. Because I didn't know any better. And, in sad fact, I would only learn the importance and power of honesty four-and-a-half years after that fateful afternoon sitting in Mr. Price's dining room, dumbstruck and unable to convince him to let me stay.
It turned out Tim was just the beginning. The beginning of my descent into depravity.
Not that I had the faintest idea at the time.
`I'm waiting for your answer,' he said, still standing over me; still staring me down; still furious.
I'd only seen him like this once before. At school that time he'd flipped out. Lost his mind in the courtyard.
Usually he'd been such a calm and laidback guy – a huge part of his appeal. Cool, collected and cock-hardening. Now, while the outside was still perfect, he was broken inside. Wounded.
Tim. The man. Not the teacher. Human and real. No longer the Mr. Price from my fantasies.
I wanted to speak. Say something. Anything. But I was still lost for words. Still stuck somewhere between panicked and gutted and embarrassed. Unable to make up an excuse or a lie quick enough. Something that would solve it all. Make everything go back to how it was. Back to just the two of us.
Just me and him, in his car and out of town. Far away from his ex-wife and my nightmares. Far away from my stupid lies. Far away from all this shit.
`All I can say is I'm sorry,' I said, finally accepting the truth that there was no way out. No lie big enough or clever enough. No excuse good enough. `Please Tim, I swear. It won't happen again. I promise.'
`It won't happen again?'
`Never.'
`You don't get it, do you?' he said.
`I do!'
`No, you don't. You're just like a kid in the classroom. Apologising for the sake of it. Saying you won't do it again because that's what you think you're meant to say. But you don't even know what you did or why it hurts, do you?'
`I do, I do. I lied to you.'
`And?'
And? And what?
I had no idea. I was blank. Blank face, blank mind. I'd admitted I'd lied and now I'd apologised. What more was there?
`I don't know,' I said.
`You see, Oscar. This is what I'm talking about. You knew my story. You knew my wife left me because of Adam. You must have known, or at least realised how confusing and fucked up a situation that was for me. But you used it. Used it for your own gain.'
`No I didn't.'
`Yes, you did.'
`How?'
Shaking his head, he took another swig of beer. But this time he slammed the bottle down on the dining table. Glass collided loudly against wood, clapping into the air and making me jump in my seat; amber liquid fizzing white and foaming out down the bottle neck and over his knuckles.
He didn't even move. Didn't flinch. Didn't look down. Just let the beer run over him and onto the table as his piercing blue eyes punctured through me. Seeing me for exactly what and who I was.
A liar.
`You think I wanted to tell you that story?' he said, barely able to control the fury in his voice. `You think I wanted to remember? Dredge up the past? Parade my skeletons for your amusement?'
`No,' I muttered.
`So what do you think I would have liked?'
`I don't know,' I said again, looking down at my hands, locked tight together in my lap.
For a moment, there was silence. So I looked up. Into his eyes. He looked away. Then, letting out a deep breath through his mouth, his thick lips pursing momentarily as air rushed between them, he hung his shaved head and rubbed his crown.
Fingernails gently scratched against stubble. Once, twice, three times. Then wooden chair legs screeched against floorboards as he took a seat; the long, hard table-top between us.
Separated.
`I would have liked to have the chance to be me, without being the guy who cheated on his wife with an underage boy. I would have liked to meet a cute guy and start a future together, or at least something real. The last thing I wanted to do was rehash my sordid past.'
I said nothing, even though I still wanted to speak. Tell him we could have a future together; that I could be that guy. But it dawned on me; memories of sitting in Adam's house flashing through my head. Recollections of when I'd heard the ball-tingling tale of Mr. Price, driving the rugby captain out of school after practice so he could feed him his load, only to end up divorced and jobless.
I'd seen this coming.
That's why I'd hidden my identity in the park. Why I'd taken off my school blazer and put on my jumper. I hadn't wanted to scare him away. Remind him of his mistakes.
Sitting there in his house it was now more evident than ever that his wounds were still too fresh. His pain still too raw. I could have avoided this all along.
You brought this on yourself.
`You used me,' he said.
I still said nothing. Just shuffled in my chair as the painful realisation hit. My cheeks burning red as my options were black and white. My palms wet with sweat. My future barren.
`And then,' he continued. `You lied about it. Over and over again. Even when I gave you a chance to come clean ... I'm sorry but I can't have lies in my life anymore. I can't deal with you or Adam or any of this. Please, Oscar, just go.'
His anger was gone. In its place was sadness. And, for a moment, I felt it too. I knew it. It was the sadness of loneliness; the grief of having no one. But I couldn't empathise. Not properly.
Empathy needs love, like a car needs fuel. There was just enough left inside of me, like fumes in an engine, to spark a reaction. But that was it. A spark. A lightning fast blip.
Then I did something I'd done and would do many more times. I took his pain and my mistakes, his anger and my lies, everything that had gone so royally wrong and I swallowed it. Forced it down deep and ignored it. Pushed it away. Refused to accept it. Denied it had ever happened.
At that moment, I knew we were over. Whatever idea or hope he'd had of me and us was dead. There would be nothing more. Nothing more than my memories.
The crunch of his trainers against gravel and his sexy, inquisitive eyes. His rough but gentle hands massaging my thigh. Following him through the darkness of the forest. The snap of twigs and the crunch of leaves. The rich smell of wet earth.
His lips against mine. His huge hands running through my hair. His trainer laces digging into my wrists. His cock stretching my jaw and slamming into the back of my throat. His deep grunts and manly groans as he choked me. His hot, salty load streaming into my stomach.
Following him home. Walking into his house. The refreshing tingle of cold beer against my friction-burnt throat. His fingers playing with my tongue and mouth. Feeling them slide between my arse cheeks and inside my hole. The sting, the burn and the rush. The rush of dreams becoming vivid reality.
The soft fibres of his carpet under my bare feet and then stomach. His tongue against my hole. The heat. The wetness. The impressive sight of his bedroom. The cloudlike plushness of his bedsheets. The power of his body on mine. The eye-rolling intensity of him inside me. His manhood. My boy hole. Joined together for what seemed like an eternity and no time at all.
A spark in the darkness.
Then I killed him. Not literally, of course, but I buried him. I stood and turned and left his dining room without looking back. I didn't want to remember him like this. I didn't want to mourn.
The next two days were a blur. All I remember was getting home and raiding my dad's alcohol stash. Drinking myself stupid and smoking joint after joint in my bedroom as he snored, drooling down himself on the sofa. Then waking hungover and more tired than I'd ever felt but repeating my new diet regime until I passed out again.
The weekend over, school rolled around. I thought about ditching. No one would say anything. Especially not my dad. But I forced myself to go in. Forced myself to focus on the lessons; to keep my mind busy. After all, I was in my last year, so A-levels and university was on the horizon. And university meant escape.
But then, three days later, gossip starting circulating. About Adam. That him and that "little ginger faggot" James were dating.
That afternoon, I skipped out on my last lesson. Numb, I walked the route I'd been avoiding. Down Overslade Lane and through the mundane part of town. To Mr. Price's.
His house was empty. Gutted. A SOLD sign out front.
I came close to breaking down that day. Closer than ever to letting go of all the pain and hurt I'd been holding inside. Surrendering to the agony in my heart and the darkness in my head. Doing something really stupid.
Something I wouldn't have had a chance to regret.
But then something amazing happened. Something I would never have seen coming in a million years. I received an email from the gay supplies store in the city I'd bought lubricant from. It was an advert. Spam advertising about a new app for the iPhone.
A revolutionary gay dating app that would show me how far away the nearest guy was. An online interface that would let me send and receive chat and photos from my phone. An orange faceless mask with empty eyes and untold possibilities.
Grindr.
From then on, after a trip into town, sat in my room and watching my new toy load into life, I didn't care about the boys at school messaging me on MSN. I had no time for the men on Gaydar who would take hours or days or even weeks to reply. Even the pain of Adam and James and Mr. Price was dulled and dimmed by the growing excitement inside my stomach and groin and cock.
My life almost ended that day. But, as a multitude of thumbnails, tiny squares of skin and muscles and faces burst into life on the screen in my hands, it didn't.
As far as I was concerned, life was just beginning.
THE END.
Head over to my website to learn more about Oscar, including exclusive content on my upcoming eBook series Oscar Down Under.
And, stay tuned for my next Nifty series, Oscar, Bachelor of Arts, coming soon!
Copyright Jack Ladd 2016
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