DISCLAIMER: This story contains descriptions of sexual encounters between minors that are homosexual in nature. If offended by such things or if you are not of legal age in the country where you live, then read no further. The characters and events depicted in this story are completely fictional and any resemblance to any real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the expressed written consent of the author. Comments or questions regarding this story may be addressed to e and sent via email to firstname.lastname@example.org.
He was doing it again. God it was creepy. Weird, even. Everyday the dude creeped me out. He just stared at me. His face was blank. I wondered if he even knew he was staring. If he knew that I knew. If he even cared whether I knew or not. Why me? I'm not even good looking. Maybe that's it. Inside he's secretly laughing at me. Making fun of my ugliness, my old tattered clothing, my unkempt appearance. I bet that after class he has a good laugh with his friends at my expense. What other reason could there be?
I tried to ignore him. To pretend he wasn't there. To pretend he wasn't staring at me. But always, I could feel those eyes burning into my body. Ripping holes in my flesh. It was distracting. I wanted to yell at him. "STOP STARING AT ME!" I wanted to embarrass him in front of the class. But I never did.
I wanted to call him a "fag." But to do that would be to insult and ridicule myself as well. I couldn't do that. I wondered if he could be gay. If he could be attracted to me. If he could want me. If I turned him on. No, that couldn't be it. I wasn't attractive. No boy as good looking as Brian could possibly be attracted to me. Yeah, I learned his name as time went on.
But what if he was attracted to me? What would I do? How would I react if suddenly he walked up to me after class and told me? Would we kiss? Would we make love? Would he become my boyfriend? Would I accept his advance or would I turn and run? I'd turn and run. I couldn't possibly allow another soul to know that I am gay. It would be much too threatening.
I couldn't possibly allow another soul to even see me naked. I avoided gym class whenever I could. If I had to go, I always found a locker away from the other boys. I always kept a towel wrapped around my body whenever I changed my pants. And I NEVER showered. My skinny, scrawny little body was a cruel joke that proved that God indeed, does have a sense of humor, perverse as it may be.
The teacher, Ms. Bored we called her, would call on him to answer questions. He was smart. I was glad she didn't call on me much. I just wasn't any good at English or much else for that matter. I wanted to be. I tried to be. I just wasn't. I tried to convince myself that it was her fault that I just couldn't learn this stuff. If Ms. Bored was interesting, if she could just relate to her students, if she was just good-looking. No. I didn't want her to be good-looking. She was the only one in class who was uglier than me. Her eyes were sinister and that nose. Oh gawd, that thing was plastered onto her face, making it look as though God, when creating her, had a leftover lump of clay and decided to mock her with it. And those horn-rimmed glasses that dangled from a chain around her neck made her even more hideous when she would sit at her desk and set them upon her nose while grading papers.
He sat across the room and just behind me so it was difficult to look at him without drawing attention. But I could sneak peeks as Ms. Bored walked around the room droning on about some construct of language that was well beyond my ability to understand. Each time I looked he would be staring in my direction as though he were in some sort of daze or stupor. He wasn't the type to use drugs. I couldn't imagine him being high. No. He would be the kind found in Sunday school every Sunday, never missing, and capable of quoting verse after verse of the Bible without missing a word.
He dressed each day in a button down shirt neatly tucked into the waistband of his knit pants, held up by a thin leather belt. He even wore dark socks and dress shoes, perfectly shined. One thing, though, was out of place. He had long dark hair. Boys as straight-laced as Brian didn't have long hair that covered their ears and fell over the collar in back. Boys like Brian had short hair, parted on the side and cut around the ear and tapered to the neck in back.
His hair was the one thing that could allow my daydreams to exist. It was my one ray of hope that maybe; just maybe he wasn't so straight-laced. It was the one thing that allowed me to dream that maybe, just maybe he was gay like me.
In my dreams I would approach him and ask for help on an assignment. I would tell him I thought him to be the smartest boy in class. He would invite me home and homework would be the last thing on his mind. He would ravage me in wild and animalistic passion. It would be rough, yet gentle. It would be hard and fast, but not at all painful. We would drive each other to the heights of ecstasy until we would finally collapse from exhaustion with him still buried deep inside of me, holding me in a tight embrace, allowing me to feel safe and satisfied. In the morning I would kiss him until he wakes and it would begin again.
In my dreams the bell ending third period English class would never ring.
To think that I now wake up next to him. To think that still he stares at my body and believes it to be beautiful. To think that we make wild, passionate love whenever the mood strikes. To think that he enjoys it. To think that the beautiful boy whose stare used to drive me crazy, belongs to me, now and forever. To think these things is to know that my reality has proven better than any dream.
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