The following story is an erotic work of gay fiction. If you are not of legal age to read stories of this nature or you are offended by the subject matter contained here do not read any further.
In real life, always play safe.
Comments are more than welcome at lthawk34 at xs4all dot nl
Tyler and Reese
Chapter 2
by Sandboy
Tyler rows. He rows, and jerks - but mostly he rows. If you were to drill into his head and observe the contents of his brain, both static and in flow, that's what you would see. And you would see it all in images: definitely no words, and only a few numbers - all the numbers being associated exclusively with the various physical exercises related to the rowing. That's what you'd see.
It's all very physical. That's Tyler. His thoughts are all in images. The idea that he could express them in words - even less write them down in words - would strike him as ridiculous. Why would you? Why engage in such an artificial, arbitrary exercise in translation? Life is about the body, so the images are fine. And so what you would see, if you drilled into his brain to see, is Tyler rowing: every detailed nuance of the process, every ripple and twitch of every muscle involved, close-ups of every tendon, every tension, every breath, every detail of diet and metabolism, every gymnasium stretch and exercise. Each exercise would have numbers next to it, large white numbers, counting up, always up, clocking up the pulses or weights or targets or achievements. No words anywhere. That's most of what you would see.
And what isn't rowing is jerking, which is remarkably similar in its physical detail, but mostly without the numbers, and, being less than half the whole, in less detail generally, but similar in form.
Tyler likes his rowing. He likes the discipline, the camaraderie of being part of the fleshy machine that is the coxed eight (the leading part, aka the Stroke) on the water, the anticipation during the preparation of the boat, the all-over physical buzz afterwards.
And he likes his jerking, alone in his bed, or just as often now alone in front of his PC, on X-tube. He clicks on "I am male" and "I like female", because that's what you do, but it is the men that he analyses with the expertise of a sportsman, and whose bodies, muscles and movements - observed in forensic detail - make him cum. He had once dared to click "I like both", but the two-male, one-female video that came up made him feel quite sick within the first half second, and he thought he really would gag during the five seconds it took his PC to decide to stop the stream after his panicking click on the red close-window X.
Everyone knew he was gay. Nobody ever said it. Perhaps they didn't even think it. Because it wasn't the presence of any guy that made it obvious. It was the absence of any girl.
In training and on the water, Tyler was the captain of his pack, the best by a mile. All the other rowers - all the other sportsmen - admired him, adored him, wanted to be him. He commanded them with a glance. They fawned at his every suggestion. But in the social life around all that - which the rest of them relished more than the rowing itself - he was simply absent, and they were a team with no leader, adrift. Even when he was there he was absent, shying away from the attention that all the others adored. The rowers - fine physical specimens all - had the best girl-attention in the school: pussy galore. But while the others lapped it up, Tyler just looked more and more uncomfortable. With a girl on either side, pawing at his arms, he would begin to look physically ill, and eventually depart in a panic. He came to avoid the whole process altogether except under the most extreme duress.
When he jerked in his bed, it was the other rowers in his mind, not the girls who surrounded and outnumbered them.
The college had sports scholarships, and needed rowers that year. His father called in some favours, spoke to some key movers, and both the place and the scholarship were his. Tyler was there because of his body, that's all. He was hopeless with words, poor with numbers: his body alone won him that place. His body was welcomed; the rest of him was there by mere consequence.
Physics. It was his least-bad subject in school, and his father said it was a proper subject, and would lead to a proper career, unlike four years doing "sports science", the default option for sports scholarship boys who wouldn't keep up in anything else.
He was indeed a fine physical specimen. Not pretty in the face at all - if his over-extreme romanesque nose had been broken, you'd have said he had a rugby face. But the rest of him: you'd have considered him late-20s and in his absolute physical prime, despite being only eighteen. The future potential was breath-taking, as the scholarship committee certainly knew. A fine, fine muscular ass and thighs and hams, incredible arms (though with the asymmetry typical of rowers), and the rest all thickly muscle-bound poise from the neck to the abs and the ankles. You would have assumed that hot bod had fucked every female under fifty within fifty miles - taken the virginity of half of them, and had a few guys in addition - but it had seen no flesh-on-flesh action. It was virginal. That ass had been touched by no-one but himself since he finished using diapers. That cock (only a little smaller than the national average, but most inadequate in his own mind, having only porn for comparison) had never been touched by anyone but himself at all.
He had taken to wearing only joggers and sweats. He had tried fashion, but what looked good on the manequins in the shops, and so effortless on his fellow rowers, always seemed to look ridiculous on him. So it was joggers and sweats, in a range of colours, but nothing more. It worked for him - but it was yet another source of fears for the college days that now lay ahead. He knew he wasn't going to fit in. He imagined - correctly - weathly New England types with suave clothes and accents, slacks and checks, cars and cash, effortless social graces and effortless superiority. The terror grew, like an all-consuming darkness, as the dreadful day approached.
On the day he left for college, Tyler's mind contained the usual images: training exercises with rising numbers next to them; the boat driving through the water; his own cum spurting on the fine strong muscles - any and all of the fine strong muscles - of the other young men in his eight and the men in his straight X-tubes. These were both his memory images and his current flow of images. Normally they would be his future planning images too, but where the future planning images should have been there was only a blank, all blackness, and a vague sense of foreboding, even fear: all of it felt physically, of course, as a kind of trembling, and a pit in the stomach.
Finally he stood, with his cases piled up behind him, at the door to his student room, and he turned the key.
==========
There was an invisible line across the room, from corner to corner. On one side of the line - evidently his - bare, sparse furnishings and blank, bland walls. On the other side of the line, two walls full of Star Trek posters, grey student clutter strewn around, and nerd boy: skinny, anemic, colorless nerd boy. Tyler wouldn't have put him a day over fourteen years of age.
Tyler's first response was relief. No suave New England slacks and checks. No monied elegance. Thank God. His second response was instantly protective: this poor, frightened boy! He could protect him! He wanted to embrace him in is big strong arms! Tyler's cock twitched at the sensation. (Tyler's cock twitched a lot.) He instantly dismissed such nonsense from his mind, focussing instead on the only slightly-reduced awareness of his own fears and inadequacies. He looked at nerd boy. Nerd boy looked at him.