The Proposal

by GMartinez

Chapter 1

Proposals

Disclaimer: The following story is a fictional work. All resemblances to real people either living or deceased are completely unintentional. This story also contains sexual conduct among boys. Please respect the laws of your area of residence regarding media of this nature.

As a teenager, when somebody gives you a proposal—say, to hang out— it's generally no big deal. You don't have to think it over too much; you can say yes or no. In middle school, it's even less of a thing to worry about because teenagers hardly have the patience to think things through, and they'll give an answer pretty much on the spot. Someone giving you a proposal is, simply put, no big deal. But one day, a boy from my class gave me a proposal that shook me to my core.

"Do you want a blowjob?"

It was a simple question, but those words changed my life.

Being fourteen means that puberty has already been making a mess out of your mind and body. But I'd like to think that I've got a pretty good handle on both already. While most kids in school are having problems coping with their newfound horniness—or unpredictable mood swings—I think I'd qualify as being rather well-adjusted in comparison. I make no fuss about anything and I'm way too smart to fall prey to the trap of confusion that most people experience at this age.

My name is Colin Cress, and I'm almost at the top of my class. Almost, because math is not my strong suit, and the know-it-all who's number one—Anthony—has all my same academic genius, except for my crippling weakness for algebra.

I have a lot of good friends. There's my classmate Espen Norton, my best friend. Then there's my crush, Jenny Weller. She's a very close friend of mine, too, so that makes it easier and less awkward to hang out and sit with her during lunch. What I'm trying to say is that . . . the world that I lived in was in harmony.

But then, the Fire Nation attacked.

Ahem, I mean, Michael happened.

It was during our basketball junior varsity training session. I'm one of the players, by the way, and every so often, I get to join inter-school matches. Michael was another member. He's also my classmate. I've known him for a long time; sometimes he's my classmate, sometimes he's not. At the very least we're acquaintances, if not sort of kinda friends. The most I know about him, though, is that he has the confidence and charisma of every Oscar Awards Night host ever. Loud, overly-enthusiastic, and even flirty.

We'd just finished with our usual training and were in the locker room tidying up when he approached me all of a sudden.

"Yo, Colin!"

"Yeah? 'Sup, Mickey?" I've been calling him that for as long as I could remember. It was my way of teasing him, because he wasn't very fond of that nickname, and it was all I could do to match his surprising friendliness and sudden attempt at conversation.

"Man, you've been calling me that since we were in fourth grade! Give it a rest!"

"At least I don't call you 'mouse' . . . 'cuz, that'll make Mickey Mouse and . . . I just explained it, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did. You're such a dork, haha!"

"W-whatever." Comedy is admittedly not among my talents. I still keep trying, though.

"Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for helping me out with that history project. I got an A+! I mean, that's like, never happened before!"

"Oh, that. It's really no big deal, dude. You're welcome."

It was such a not-big deal that I had almost forgotten about it. About a week ago, he'd asked for my help in a major history project which involved several essays.

It made sense that he'd come to me. I consistently scored the highest in history quizzes, much to the amazement of my teacher and the class—besides Anthony. Michael had failed some quizzes, and in his desperation he'd sought out the one that he'd thought was the best at history, which was currently me.

I did what any good person would do—over the course of three lunches and a couple of after-school meet-ups at the Burger King across the street, I explained to him as basically as I could the things that he didn't understand. I'd had to clarify that Jean Valjean wasn't a historical figure, and we spent more than a few arguments trying to decide if Gambit from the X-Men was French or not. As luck would have it, there was a new pseudo-historical video game loosely based around the events in the essay questions. History can be a daunting subject, but it's easy as long as you can relate with what you're reading about—and everyone could relate with assassinating corrupt monarchs in virtual 19th century France with the push of a few buttons.

"So yeah, I figured that I really need to thank you for helping me," Michael continued just as I finished remembering what he was talking about.

"I would've failed the class without you. I owe you so much, dude."

"You don't really have to, y'know? You're making me sound like I just saved your life," I replied awkwardly. It's always nice to get thanked for your help, but Michael was really going over the top with it.

"No, seriously, I gotta pay you back. But, I don't exactly have a lot of money to treat you out or something, so . . . "

"Money? Nah, man. It's okay! You don't have to do anything." I was kind of hoping he'd pick up on my desire to end the conversation.

"I still will, though," he said with a smile. "So . . . "

"So . . . ?" I asked.

Strangely, Michael trailed off and didn't continue his sentence. He was looking at a point behind me, which I then turned around to look at as well. It was just the door. And I also just noticed that the last stragglers in the locker room just left through it. Michael and I were alone.

"Michael?"

"Colin . . . ?"

"Yeah . . . ?"

"Would you like. . . a blowjob?"

My face right then was the perfect example of shock and disbelief.

"What . . . ?"

Seriously, WHAT? I thought in bewilderment. What the actual FUCK? Was that a real question? Had he really just asked me that? Why is his face so serious?

"Well, look," Michael continued nonchalantly. He sounded so unfazed that he might have been talking about the weather. "I'll tell you right now, I'm pretty good at giving head. I'm not even gonna ask you if you're gay or straight. Honestly, it doesn't matter to me if you like fucking books or whatever. Fact is, getting head is amazing, and it's the kind of amazing that I think would be a great way to pay you back for not letting me fail."

So, he's still talking about giving me a blowjob? I thought dazedly. He's serious, isn't he? IS HE? Nah, I'm hallucinating, aren't I?

"You . . . you still there, Colin?" Michael continued, followed by a nervous laugh. "You're spacing out, dude. Listen, I owe you. You have no idea how much of a big deal your help was. Heck, my mom gave me extra allowance for it 'cuz she was so sure I was gonna flunk the subject.

"Giving you head is just about the best way that I can think of to say thanks. You deserve it, dude. It doesn't have to be now. Anytime you want—just say it, and I'll blow you. No questions asked, no strings attached, no commitments. Just me, thanking you, by making you cum. That all right?"

". . ."

How can he be so calm while talking? I asked myself, while still giving no reply. Why can I hear my heartbeat all of a sudden? I'm pretty sure that if he stares at me any longer, my skin will start melting. And he's . . . smiling. An honest smile, with no sarcasm or teasing lurking behind it.

Michael giggled for some reason—are boys supposed to giggle?—as he put his hand on my shoulder and then led me out of the gym. Did he give me amnesia or something? Or maybe I was just so spaced-out? Because I swear, the next thing I knew, I was at home staring at myself in the mirror, thinking about how and why a boy would want to put my penis into his mouth.