Summer Nights like Lighter Fluid Stupid Teenaged Dreams
These stupid sweaty summer nights; I feel like I should be making something out of them, especially as my teen years are dwindling (youth is wasted on the young, isn't it?), but I just can't think of anything to do. As I walk home maybe a little too early from that house party, I think that maybe I should call Eric. I mean, ya, okay, it was fun, in that `let's get wasted' sort of way, but I'm so not really into that shit. I'd really like nothing more than to be walking home with him right now, hand in hand maybe, and then he could come in, and down into my basement, and then we could watch a movie and, you know. make out. But I'm just being silly.
Eric's my best friend. Or, really, I suppose I should be honest and say that he's the closest thing I have to a best friend I'm really being too generous with the term: he's a friend who gives me that titular allowance because he knows I have no one else to bestow said designation upon. We've been tight for more than a few months now, and I'm closer with him than anyone else, but if I were to be honest I'd have to say that we certainly don't know each other in that `best friends' sort of way.
We became close in a strange way. Well, honestly, I'm not sure if it's that strange, but I definitely wasn't expecting it, and no one's caught me by surprise more than he did.
I've always been a loner. I was the weirdo in elementary school, the kid in the same pair of too-short faded black sweatpants everyday, normally with either a red or a white turtleneck, both equally unfortunate, and topped with a rattail haircut that I, at least, thought was way cool. My questionable taste in fashion, coupled with a ridiculous obsession with geography and an open fandom of the Power Rangers while the other kids played with POGs and trading cards and watched Star Wars, marked me as a social outcast from the get-go.
When I got to middle school, I faded into a sea of anonymity, and I've been stuck drowning there ever since. I've since traded in the sweatpants for jeans, the turtlenecks for dully cleaver t-shirts, and the rattail for a head of shaggy hair useful for hiding behind, but I'm still the guy who's picture incites a `who the hell is that?' when stumbled upon in the yearbook.
I don't really mind though. No one's ever been rude to me or picked on me, and I did have a few people throughout the years who I could eat lunch with or smoke joints with, so it's not all that bad. I've mostly been invisible, and for the most part that suits me. It's left me a lot of time to read. High school's such a small part of your life, and I'm mostly finished with it now, anyway.
I started talking to Eric at the beginning of this year when we ended up sitting next to each other in our World History class. I'd been barely aware of his existence, and he'd been entirely oblivious to mine (he asked me if I was new the first time we talked) but we eventually started chatting, first about assignments, and then about other things, and soon we were friends, at least of sorts.
What I mean by that is I think we're at least a little bit more than friends. We've never done anything, acted upon it, or even acknowledged, but there are little things that make my stupid brain think that maybe one day we might. We flirt sometimes, in unobvious ways, and touch each other a lot, and once and a while do nice little things for each other like, `oh, I saw this and thought you might like it,' or whatever. But Eric still thinks he's straight, and I've never told him I'm gay, and there we are.
I've been attracted to him from the very beginning. He's tall, not as tall as me, but then, most people aren't, and has longish sandy-brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an odd, knobby nose. And he has a great smile, one that warms me up and makes me feel more wanted than I ever have before. He's not unpopular, either, not like me. He's not king-shit by any means, and mostly hangs on the sidelines, but he has a lot of friends - by my standards, anyway - and at least takes part the proverbial game. I'm not in his circle of friends, I just know him, but I'm okay with that, too.
In fact, I've been more okay with a lot of things since I became friends with him. I've never really cared about how I look, but once and a while I get doubts, if only because I don't have anyone to reassure me. You're not ugly, he's told me many times when he catches me standing in front of a mirror brooding over myself. He can be really sweet sometimes. I never even noticed that I did that before I met him - brood, I mean. I always thought I was the picture of studied nonchalance. But since I've known him, I've developed a standard answer to his not-ugly statement: how so? That generally provokes a sideways laugh from him, because over the months it's become a game that we play. I make faces at my gawkiness, my tall, thin frame, my pointy nose, and it provides an excuse for him to complement me and for us to flirt. He tells me that he likes my brown eyes, when he can see them, and that I have a nice bod, underneath it all, and that I'm smart, and clever, and that that goes a long way.
It goes both ways, too. We're both always giving each other reasons to pay complements. It's not that either one of us suffer from bad self-esteem, or anything. It's just an inside joke, an intimate one, and it makes me feel like I won't ever need anyone else as long as I have him to hang with.
When we're bored, we need nothing more than a car and the occasional spliff to have a good time. We drive around and point out people, talking about how Eric's like so much better at walking than that person, or how this person's breathing skills pale in comparison to my own, or how he's way better at wearing black than that lady trying to hide a huge ass with night-coloured pants. Again, just stupid little ways to let each other know how great we think the other one is.
Doing nothing with him is fun. I never knew it could be, but it is. Sometimes we just lie on the floor in his bedroom and listen to music for hours, or sit in my basement and read, me something like Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and him something like Ulysses, or hang in the kitchen and cook a meal, or wear shabby slippers and his Gramps' hats and play Scrabble or cribbage or chess like we're eighty. I suppose we're both sort of barmy old men in many ways, but we enjoy each other's company, so it doesn't really matter.
There has always been a degree of distance between us, though. It goes back to that ever-present sexual tension that I'm sure I'm not imagining. There are times where we'll share a moment, and then, with brusqueness that always startles me, he'll back off and remain distant for hours. He keeps me at an arm's length, and I expect that I sometimes do the same to him, if only in apprehension of what his reaction might be if I didn't.
I'm in a constant state of confusion over him, because I genuinely don't know where this is going, if it is even going anywhere or if I'm just inventing it all. I mean, it's June already, and we've been friends for eight months, and still nothing. Maybe I'm just so horny that I've been misinterpreting everything, every little touch, and quite frankly, I'm the first to admit that possibility.
I'll readily acknowledge that I badly need to get laid. One of the disadvantages of being a loner is that there's a horrible shortage of people to fool around with. When I was in grade 10 I drunkenly made out with some dude in a dirty bathroom at a party I never should have been at in the first place, but that's basically the long and short of my sexual history, besides, of course, my daily desperate and frequently depressing jack-off sessions. These days, I can't help but think of Eric when I do it, of his pink, inviting smile, and his solid, sinewy forearms, his dark nipples, his perfect, hard dick, and I always end up feeling guilty afterwards because I don't have his consent to use him that way.
But life goes on, and for the most part I'm glad he's in mine, and that's where I'm at.
It's warm even for mid-June as I longingly walk down the looping streets of my neighbourhood, trying to get home or trying to trip over something better to do. I don't know why I went to this party tonight. It was so unlike me. This girl Karen was playing host, and I sort of know her, if only because she's very friendly and nerdy enough to be in a lot of the same advanced classes as I am. But she's pretty and popular enough, and the party was fairly big and mostly full of the cool kids, so I'm sure she only invited me because she felt obliged to as I heard her talking about it with her friend outside of our English final.
Normally, I never would have shown. I wasn't even thinking about going until my slutty friend Stef told me she wanted to so she could get with some guy, and since it was only a convenient three streets down from me and I was secretly hoping to see Eric, I found myself there, surrounded with 200 people I don't know and don't care to know. My usual scene, when I have one, is 5 or 7 high people who mostly don't go to my school in a dark basement, so of course, despite the big turn out, I ended up feeling awkward and leaving early, and mostly sober at that.
Longing as I am for something more than a boring party to come out of this warm, early-summer night, I can't help but wonder where the fuck Eric is. I'd half expected to see him tonight, but I didn't. Granted, I spent most of the night in the same back corner stuck listening to this dude Carl talk about his take on the neo-con conspiracy because I didn't know anyone else who was around, and for all I know he was there and I just missed him entirely, but I still feel disappointed. It's a dumb concept, this disappointment, because we never go partying together and I don't even know what we would have done together in such a social situation, but I still wish I could have seen him, anyway. I figure we could have smoked a joint, and then, later, since my house is on the way to his, walked home together. Maybe he could have even come in for a while, and we could've gone down to my basement, and I could have played my cards right. and I'm back to that, again.
Deciding that I should call him, I stop and sit on the curb in the darkness and pull out my cell-phone. No answer. I should have guessed. Bummed, I light a cigarette and appreciate the fact that there are no streetlights in my hood. The darkness, at least, is good company. I don't get more than five steps in after I toss my butt before my phone starts vibrating in my pants pocket. I get a twitch in my cock and I answer. In front of a backdrop of laughing, shouting, and music, I hear Eric's voice.
You at Karen's? I ask him, like a fool. Of course he is. I'm not surprised when he tells me so.
Where are you? he asks, in turn.
I check the street signs and I tell him - On Maple, just past Woodglen - and that I'd just left, that I was bored, that I was going home. He tells me to wait, so I do, hacking two more butts in the process.
A few hours later, we're sitting in my basement, watching TV, just like I wanted. We're cuddled together, like we always are, in simple intimacy, his head on my shoulder, me absent-mindedly fingering his hair, but I can already tell that, like always, this is going nowhere. I wonder if he's even aware of the places we could go or that I want to go to them. He's not an idiot, or all that na‹ve, but I often think that the thought probably hasn't even crossed his mind.
We're watching Cheaters on Fox, and I'm only entertained because he's here with me. It just feels so right, so comfortable to be sprawled out on my couch with Eric by my side. I feel warm inside, and I'm not hard, but slightly chubby in my underwear. I think he is, too, because his hand is resting on his lap and he keeps idly grazing past his crotch. Out of nowhere, I'm struck with the simultaneous thoughts that if I did want something to happen, I would eventually have to do something to force it, and that he has really flawless ears.
You have cute ears, I tell him, and I give his outward one a squeeze. But all that succeeds in doing is making him back up off of me and retreat to the far end of the chesterfield. I feel stupid and slighted like I always do when he pulls these moves. I also feel annoyed with him, so I turn away focus all of my attention on the suddenly asinine and intolerable television show.
But I can't stand doing that for long, so I instead turn my attention toward him and study his person and his body language. He's trying to relax, I can tell, but one hand is still resting on his lap, and his other his clenched in a tight fist, and he's biting his lip. I stare at him so hard, trying to understand what goes through his head at times like. He eventually feels my eyes on him, and turns toward me, staring back.
What? he asks me, defensively, and I can't deal with his self-induced obliviousness for a another second. I can't even endure being near him, so I abruptly stand up and walk into the bathroom, slamming the door closed on my way. I'm in a mean rage, and I'm honestly surprised by the sudden violence of my emotions. I don't know what or why I'm doing. I feel the sickness of our dishonest relationship seep into my head and my gut, and I can't shake it off.
But I try to, anyway. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away my rage and my muddled over-reaction. In standing back up, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Water dripping down my face, cheeks flushed, wet hair, I hardly recognize myself. I feel so divided from myself by my emotions, like I'm calmly and rational watching this insane person be upset. I don't know what the hell has come over me, what I'm doing, or where this angry impulsion has come from, but in a moment of out-of-body clarity I know that I'll be fucked up until I'm honest with him, until I know one way or another. Then I hear the door open.
Eric lets himself in. The basement bathroom is tiny, and in standing face to face, me half-leaning against the sink's counter, him pressed against the back wall, papered in an ugly, peeling, pink print that's at least as old as I am, we're mere inches from each other. His presence draws me back into my body, and I'm acutely aware of his proximity.
What's this all about? he demands, when he sees me flushed and wet and upset, a smile on his lips, but concern in his eyes. He passes me a hand-towel so I can dry my face, and for the thousandth time I'm struck in the pit of my stomach with an all-consuming want for him. I can't stand it anymore.
Eric, I begin, and then I falter over my words because I don't know how to say all the things I never thought I would say. I stop, rewind, and take a deep breath.
What are we doing?
Watching tv, I thought, he says, chuckling. But I can only stare at him, shoot him an incredulous look, and when he gets caught in my eyes, I think he finally realizes what I'm getting at. Maybe he already knew. I must be on his mind, too.
I- he starts, and then chokes up, and I can tell that he doesn't know what to say, either.
Eric, I say again. Eric, pleading this time. Eric.I keep staring him right in the eye, the entire time, and I can feel his warm panting breath on my face. I put my hands on his sides and begin lightly tracing them up and down. Eric, please.
What do you want from me, Collin? he asks, his voice dripping with nerves and want and fear. Stupid question.
You could kiss me. I say it gently, but I feel giddy as my nerves tighten around my stomach. I'm still rubbing his sides, still looking him in the eye, and his face is even closer than it was before.
I.No, Col, I.But he doesn't sound very convinced, and he gives up too easily.
Ya, I say it firmly, and move my left hand up to his neck and pull his face towards me. His lips briefly graze my lips, still afraid, and he leans his forehead against mine, looking down through thick eyelashes. I feel his fear, like a scared little boy, and he lets me put my arms around him and rub his back.
I can't- he begins to say, but I cut him off by putting my lips against his. He goes rigid for a moment, and then finally relents, relaxes, and kisses me back. He puts his arms around me like I have mine around him, and everything just feels so right. He hesitantly opens his mouth and lets my tongue inside. I kiss him with smiling lips. It's funny, because here I am again making out in a bathroom. It's funny, because I never thought I'd be the aggressor in our relationship. It's funny, because I'm so happy just to finally be here with Eric, and now that I have him in my arms I can't stop myself, and I let my hands run all over his body.
It's hot. I'm sweaty and flushed, and so, so hard. I can't get enough of him, of his firm body, his soft skin, his tender lips. This is what I've wanted. This is better than what I've wanted.
We kiss for a faultless eternity. Our breathing becomes ragged and desperate as we kiss each other everywhere, nose, cheeks, chins, necks, and lips, always lips, caving in to a pressure that's been building for months. He pushes me insistently against the counter and I lean against it for support, all the while keeping him wrapped in my arms and my lips locked on his. I feel us melting together, and I grasp hungrily at every part of him I can. I know I'll never be the one to stop this.
And I'm right. Without warning, he goes tense again in my arms and pulls back, head down, standing away from me now.
I need to go, he stammers, and just like that he turns and leaves, out of my bathroom, out of my basement, out of my house. I'm alone and bewildered, standing in my dingy basement bathroom with a raging boner and no Eric.
I can't really figure out what's happened, and I can't really think of anything else to do but go to sleep. It's late, anyway, so after the lonely shock wears off, I brush my teeth, take off my shirt, throw on a pair of sweatpants and get into bed. I do it all mechanically. I feel emotionally drained, empty, out of my body again, and the dampness of my basement bedroom settles around me like a thick, mood-trapping miasma. I'm so out of it that I can't even jack off, despite the fact that a mere 20 odd minutes ago I had been more turned on than I ever was before. But I just don't have the heart for it, so instead I curl up in a ball on my side and try to pass out.
Some time later, I slip out of my state of semi-sleep at a stirring in my room. Before I can manage to make sense of it, Eric is laying behind me in my bed, spooning me, his arm around my body, holding me close.
I'm sorry, he whispers in my ear, and then he tentatively kisses the back of my neck. At that, I roll over and face him, entwining our legs in the process. He looks at me for long moments in the gentle grey light of the very early morning, contemplating.
I couldn't go home, he tells me at last, shaking his head. I never wanted to let myself do this, but the more I thought about how I left you alone like that, the more I couldn't explain to myself why. He takes my fingers in his, playing with them, and we say nothing for while. Then he kisses me. I feel his tongue on my lips, in my mouth, all over my face, and I do the same for him.
We make out for hours. Eventually, he kicks his jeans and his t-shirt off, but keeps his boxers on. We do little more than kiss, but we kiss until our jaws are sore, and then keep kissing. He sucks on my neck while he rubs himself against me and I play with his hair. I kiss and bite on his ear while thigh touches thigh. We kiss and kiss until all I can taste is his spit and his skin, and all I'm aware of are his shins, his thighs, his hands, his clavicle, his shoulders, his neck, his lips, his tongue, as if his body and this bed were my entire world. I forget that anything else exists, and when we finally fall asleep in the bright sunlight to a chorus and chirping birds, I feel satiated and completely content.
Long morning hours later, I wake up, and he's still in my arms. I'm glad that it's summer, and that I'm young, and that I'm no longer waiting for something more to happen. We were finally honest, and I finally have him, he's finally mine. At least for a little while.
I've posted another story before, Matt, last updated Dec. 5, 2004, but I wouldn't recommend looking it up because I never finished it. But I will one day, eventually.
Comments are always welcome, though, at blue_steele82@hotmail.com.