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Rock and a Hard Place

Chapter 1

You Don't Know Me

By and © Hans Schrieber

Warning! This story is a work of fiction written by a legal age adult. Any similarity between the fictional characters and any live persons is purely coincidental. This story contains fictional descriptions of sexual activity between consenting minor youth. If you are under the age of 18, and/or if you are offended by this content, and/or if it is illegal in your jurisdiction to possess or read such material, please leave now and do not read this story as neither the internet host nor the author can be responsible for your actions. Please, always practice safe sex; no momentary thrill is worth your life.

This work is copyrighted © by Hans Schreiber. You may not reproduce this story in whole or in part without the express written consent of Hans Schreiber.

"Dude, you're brilliant, but if we're gonna stay partners, you gotta at least try to be a little more normal." I told William Henry David Thames III.

He smiled at me with his unnerving smile. It holds just enough mixture of acknowledgement and patronization to make you completely uncertain of his intent. "I'm truly sorrowful, Kyle, I will make a serious attempt at rectifying my approach."

"Gahh, that's exactly what I mean." I scolded. "Who the fuck talks like that when they're fifteen? Nobody. It's just freaky. Stop it!"

"Well, okay pardner," he started, in a pathetic, old west accent, "I'll jest talk down ta' yer level, then."

I just buried my face in my left hand and shook my head slowly. Maybe taking forensics was a mistake. I don't really belong with this group. It's tough being both bright and a jock. I get crap from the guys on the wrestling team for it and the kids in forensics either try way too hard to be my friend, or they patronize me like William Henry does. Still, like my dad says, it's a great resume stuffer for college and eventually law school, so I better just suck it up and endure.

William Henry is my second partner so far this semester. The first one was an insufferable, religious fruitcake, Jonah. He embarrassed me so badly during the first debate against West High, I went straight to our coach and demanded a new partner. The topic was, "Resolved: Federal funding of education should be eliminated in favor of state funding." He actually stood up in rebuttal to West High's argument, that student test scores in poor states were inferior to test scores in wealthier states, and claimed that it didn't really matter, because if God wanted someone to be smart, he would have born them that way. I wanted to crawl into my index file box. The judge actually snickered.

Now, I'm thinking I may have made a mistake and should try to get Jonah back.

"Okay, look," I compromised, "We're stuck together for now. Why don't we just try to make the best of it."

"I can heartily accept that proposition." William Henry said. "I will not overtly attempt to demean your barbaric and mindless sport, and you will accept my superior and eloquent vocabulary."

"Yeah, whatever." I said. "Just, for God's sake, stop trying to overdo it so fucking much."

"Deal. But do try and curb your contemptible blaspheming a bit as well." William Henry thrust his hand out to shake on our little deal. I couldn't resist. I spit in my palm and grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously before he could pull it free with a look of absolute disgust on his pale, narrow face. The look on his face when I grabbed his hand was priceless, and I was quite pleased with myself.

"Oh, God, you truly are intractable." He said, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. A handkerchief, for God's sake. My dad doesn't even use a handkerchief, only my grandpa does.

"Okay, well then, are you coming over to my house tonight so we can research the topic?" I asked.

"That is indeed a suitable proposition, yes." He replied. "Where exactly is the cave that you inhabit for a domocile?" He reached up and pushed his heavy, black rimmed glasses back up onto the bridge of his bony nose, and peered at me with his dark, close set eyes under a set of bushy, black eyebrows.

"2859 Oak. It's a blue and white house, two up from the corner of Redwood Road. Tell the guard you're coming to study with Rock and he'll let you in. If he's not there, the code to get in is 28591" I said. "Write it down, so you don't forget it. I hate getting stood up."

"My, what an original passcode. Surely, no criminal mind would ever deduce that one. I can imagine you do hate being stood up, given the frequency with which that likely occurs." He said back. "What time would you prefer for my arrival?"

"Like 6:00, so I can get home from wrestling practice and eat something." I said.

I headed for the lunchroom, he headed for the library. I watched him walk off. Everything about him annoys me, right down to the perfectly trimmed, jet black hair that he combs backward with a high part. He plays chess during his lunch hour. I've got no problem with that, really. I like a good chess game. But, why wouldn't you want to go hang with your posse and chill a little at lunch?

I picked my fat free cottage cheese and fruit from the end of the lunch line. The lunch lady wasn't paying attention to me and I grabbed a Snickers bar that was calling my name and stuffed it in my pocket. I got my ticket punched and joined the wrestlers at the side table by the windows. I sat on the north side with the JV guys. Varsity sits on the south side. High school has lots of unwritten rules like that. A varsity grappler can sit down with a JV friend, but the same friends would never sit together on the varsity side.

We can't eat the greasy crap they feed the average slugs, so the coach arranged for nutritious options for us. I love Snickers bars, though, and couldn't resist. The wrestling diet was killing me. As I sat down, I pulled the candy bar from my pocket to transfer it to my backpack and immediately felt a firm grip on my shoulder. I looked up to see the lunchroom proctor glaring at me and holding his hand out. I smirked, winked and dropped the illicit candy bar into his palm. "Sorry," was all I said.

With significant disappointment evident in his voice, he said, "I would not expect that from someone of your normal high character." Goob and the others snickered. Goob is a big, dumb, straw headed goofball who wrestles one of the larger classes, 215.

"Dumbass." Goob said to me, "You can't eat that shit and make weight today. What were you thinking?" I just shrugged.

There was a brief argument between Mike and Goober. Goob wasn't eating anything, because he was trying to get down to 186 and take Mike's spot for the opening meet against Jefferson High. After lunch, Goob and I headed for English. Right after lunch was the worst time of the day for English. Goob and I usually slept through it in the back. I could just study the book and pass the tests and I wrote better than 90% of my classmates, so getting A's on essays was easy too.

Today, Mr. Cramer was droning on about dangling participles. I was just thinking that sounded kinda dirty, when Goob passed me a note. He was a fairly decent cartoonist and he drew a picture of Mr. Cramer with his dick hanging out his fly and a super long foreskin dangling off the end of it. There was a word balloon that said, "And that students, is what a dingaling participal looks like." Goob's grammar and spelling sucked.

I burst out in stifled laughter. Goob looked away, held his large hands over his big mouth and convulsed with silent laughter. Everyone turned to look at us. Mr. Cramer started walking my way. "Oh, dear God," I thought, "He cannot see this."

In a panic, I tore the bottom half of it off and stuffed Mr. Cramer's dick in my mouth; I chewed, swallowed, and gagged. But, I saved Goob's life, since the minute I swallowed, Mr. Cramer snatched the top half showing his upper body and the word balloon. He demanded to know what was on the part I ate and I said, "Nothing much, sir." Goob snorted out another laugh.

"See me after class, Mr. Davis." Mr. Cramer said, stuffing the paper into the pocket of his ill-fitting suit coat. I looked toward Goob and held up my hands, to which Mr. Cramer added, "Oh, yes, I know, Mr. Goodbody was the author, but he's beyond salvation." Goob started snickering again, and I flipped him off under my desk where Mr. Cramer couldn't see it.

I remained sitting when the class ended, until everyone else had left. Slowly, I stood, slung my backpack over my shoulder and made my way to Mr. Cramer's desk. "Yes sir. You wanted to talk to me."

Mr. Cramer looked up from his papers and directed me to sit down in the front row. "That, Mr. Davis, is your new seat for the remainder of the term in my class. You have exceptional talent and ability. I will not be a party to you wasting it. You're dismissed." He looked back at his papers.

"Shit," I thought, "I can't sleep in here if I'm on the front row." I walked out and stopped to allow some of the next period's students to come in. I turned, looked at Mr. Cramer, and said, "Hey, Mr. Cramer?"

"Yes." He looked up at me, fearing a smart ass remark; I could tell.

"Thanks and I'm sorry." I said sincerely, turned and left. I was always torn these days. I wanted to be the good kid people expected, but sometimes I just wanted to be a little wild and carefree like Goob.

Last period was science. It was cool. Biology was interesting to me and I didn't have any crew to screw around with. Dig and Bodie, my two best friends, and I called ourselves the "Screw Crew" because we were always screwing around together. We played off each other and what would start out as harmless fun would almost always end up as an imbecilic, but totally awesome, exploit. They called me Rock, because of my abs. They'd take turns punching me in them as hard as they could, but they could never hurt me.

We even had t-shirts made with a "Screw Crew" logo silkscreened on them. They were pretty sick, actually. Our parents hated the "Screw Crew" moniker, thinking the dirty aspect of it. We never really intended it to be dirty minded, but we actually didn't mind peeps thinking that about us. All three of us were pretty popular with the ladies and that made our parents all the more nervous. All three of our fathers had the "big talk" with us, just before school started this year, and supplied us with condoms. My dad told me he didn't want me having sex, but if I was going to, I should be damn sure I used a condom. Being a doctor, he then launched into an endless, disgusting lecture on the many forms of STD's out there. Of course, I already knew everything my dad talked about. I acted all interested, though, for his sake. It was all pretty funny, really.

We're all virgins still. At least, I am. Dig claims he did it over the summer with Rochelle, but Bodie and I don't really believe him. He didn't sound too clear on details when we challenged him on it. Dig wrestles on JV with me, one class up, but Bodie plays baseball. I actually met Bodie playing little league. His dad was one of my coaches and my dad volunteered to be the assistant. We were like eight at the time and we've been friends ever since.

Dig never played baseball. His dad is a wrestling maniac and put Dig in junior wrestling when he was six. His dad was a two time state champion. Dig got his nickname from his dad cheering him on from the side of the mat. He always yells "Dig, Dig, Dig" whenever Dig gets in a tight spot. He always tells him to dig deep into himself and find the strength and the will to overcome. It works too. I hate wrestling against Dig. Just when you think you've got him pinned, he gets this contorted look on his face and grunts and before you know what's happened, he has an escape or a reversal.

Because we're both pretty good, I moved down to 125 and he wrestles at 130. I have to really watch my weight to stay down. Dig could have moved up to varsity this year, but he chose to stay down in JV with me. Plus, he didn't want to steal the spot away from the senior in his weight class. He's pretty nice like that. His dad argued with him over it, but Dig refused to change his mind.

Dig is 5'3" and I'm 5' dead on. But we're both strong as oxen with under 10% body fat. Bodie's tall and not as strong as us, but he knocks the cover off a baseball. Bodie's not going to live past age 21, though. Not because of some terminal disease or anything, just because he's crazy. One of these days, he's gonna pull some stupid stunt that's gonna kill him, I just know it. He was born without a brain. He might have a brain stem, but that's even questionable. He's a helluva lot of fun to hang with, though. His dad's a farmer and it's fun to visit there, unless it's harvest or planting time; then they put you to work.

I blew through the quiz on the reproductive system and was daydreaming about who to ask out for the fall formal coming up. In spite of the attention and flirting from lots of girls, I was really very unsure of myself around them. I had a difficult time, one on one, and usually said stupid shit, embarrassing myself. I really wasn't all that interested in having a girlfriend right now and definitely preferred hanging with my "Screw Crew" posse.

"Mr. Davis, are you finished?" The teacher asked.

I looked up, cleared my head and responded, "Oh, yeah, a while ago. I was just daydreaming. Sorry."

"Certainly, may I have your paper?"

I handed him the quiz and he perused it. He smiled and said, "I think you might have actually missed one on the male reproductive system, but you certainly seem to have a lock on the female anatomy."

"What? No. Which one?" I asked. "Damn." I cussed myself for daydreaming and not triple checking my answers like I normally do.

"No, I'm just teasing with you. I'm sure you'll get your 100% like always." He chuckled and walked down the aisle. Kids around me snickered. I blushed and retrieved my backpack.

"Sir, can I be excused? I need to use the restroom before wrestling practice." I asked.

"Certainly. In fact everyone that is finished with the quiz may leave now."

I joined the crowd that jumped up and made for the door. I ducked into the first boy's restroom and pulled out the Tupperware cup with my elixir in it. I knew I really shouldn't be doing this and it was unhealthy for me, but I had to make weight today. Otherwise, I'd have to do a wrestle-off against Dig for the 130 weight class to determine who would go against Jefferson High this Thursday. I opened the lid and stared at the mixture of warm water and hydrogen peroxide. One positive of it was that it also gave me a little energy buzz from the oxygenation in my blood. My physician father and my coach would kill me if they knew I was using it, though. I learned this trick after my dog ate some rat poison and we had to feed him this solution to make him throw it back up.

I held my nose and guzzled. I sat on the toilet with my pants down in case someone walked by the stall while I waited for the desired effect. For lack of anything better to do, I started stroking my four inch dick. It hung limply against my drooping ball sac, beneath a tangle of light brown pubes. Slowly, it thickened and lifted upward. It didn't spring into action, though, since it knew, somehow, I wasn't really planning to jack it all the way off. "It's funny how guys ascribe cognitive abilities to their penis," I thought to myself. I let go and played with my balls for a while, rolling them around in their silky, smooth, mostly hairless pouch. I felt them up carefully, like my father had taught me to do when I was about twelve, to check for testicular cancer. He was an oncologist and was freaked out by three teenage boys he'd treated with that disease. Every now and then, he'd ask to check me out himself.

I wrapped my hand back around my semi-stiff dick, about to jack full speed to a happy ending, when the first wave of nausea hit me. I spun around and knelt down and heaved into the bowl. Five or six convulsions later, my stomach was completely voided and I sat back on my haunches. I wiped my mouth on my t-shirt sleeve and caught my breath. I examined the little white cottage cheese chunks in the pale orange bile and was relieved I hadn't eaten the Snickers after all. I stood and forced myself to piss and then headed for the gym.

"Hey, Dig." I called and held the team locker door open for him. He was jogging across the gym floor, worried he was late. "No rush, we still got time."

"Thanks, man." Dig said, short of breath. I followed him through the door and sat next to him on the wooden bench in front of our lockers. I shoved my backpack under the bench, pulled my shoes and socks off, and drug my Hurley t-shirt over my head. I rubbed my hand over my well defined pecs and rock hard abs. He dialed his combination and popped the lock open, tossing his backpack into his locker. Dig has this amusing habit of undressing, like if it's a race to see how fast he can do it. Everything to him is a competition and a challenge.

He kicked his shoes off by the heels. Then, he pulled his socks off by pushing his big toe of the opposite foot between his big and second toe of the other foot, pinning the sock against the floor and then dragged his foot free of the sock. He repeated the procedure on the opposite foot all the while pulling his shirt over his head with one hand and unsnapping and unzipping his jeans with the other. The final motion was to drag his jeans and boxer briefs off together in one fluid motion, bending over and holding them on the floor to step out of. He turned sideways to do that part, sticking his ass in my face, for a bird's eye view of his little, brown pucker and long, dangling ball sac. In three or four seconds he went from fully clothed to fully naked. No one could ever beat him at it.

"Let's see, it's weigh-in today, right?" He said turning to face me and stooping to pick up the clothing heap at his feet.

"Yeah," I answered, "Some of us have to worry about that."

He smiled, understandingly. He stuffed his clothes, in no particular order, into the locker and slammed it shut. I was eye level with his abnormally long balls and average 4 ½ inch dick. The shaft of his dick is average thickness, but the head is huge and looks out of place at the end of his fleshy tube. It gives the perception of a man sized dickhead stuck on a little kid's wiener. I've always been curious what it would look like boned. I've seen him bone up inside his singlet a couple times before, but you can't really tell from that what a dick would look like exposed. Boners happen sometimes to all wrestlers, at least, high school wrestlers. I mean, you're only wearing a tight Lycra suit and getting grabbed and rubbed on your sensitive parts, so it happens. Besides, there's the whole spontaneous erection issue for teenage guys anyway.

I stood and pulled off my white nylon, Nike shorts followed by my boxers and hung them neatly in the locker and closed it. We pulled on our thin running shorts everyone used to weigh in with and we walked over together and stood in the line of almost naked guys waiting our turn on the scale. You can easily tell the wrestlers in our school. We all have broad shoulders, thick legs and necks, and stubble for hair. Hair is excess weight, so we all shave it off at the start of the season. Even the guys who don't need to worry about making weight shave their heads. It's sort of a mark of being a member of the wrestler pack.

My stubble is light brown to match my pubes. Dig's is tow-head blond, but his pubes are a little darker in color than the almost white fuzz on his head. Even still, his pubes are really blond. It gives the impression, he has fewer than he really does. I'm fascinated by the naked guys on my team; it kind of bothers me that I am and I try to pretend I'm not, but I'm just lying to myself, really. We have everything from tiny to massive in the dick department. The biggest dick, ironically, is on our smallest weight class wrestler and the smallest package belongs to one of our heavyweights. I'm not sure why it intrigues me so much to check out the other guys, but I can't resist. Maybe everyone does that, I tell myself. Personally, I'm totally content with what I've been endowed with, not too big, not too small, it's just right.

I stepped on the scale and blew out my breath. "124.65" the trainer called out. I stepped off, relieved. Dig smiled, equally relieved to not have to worry about a challenge from his best friend. That would've sucked. Now, I just had to maintain until Thursday.

We headed back to the lockers and pulled on our practice singlets. Mine is from my freshman year and is definitely too tight. There's no sag room in the crotch and hurts my nads sometimes when I'm wrestling. Our new ones for the meets are totally sick. They're blaze orange and black and have a snarling cougar on the front. Some of the guys wear compression shorts or jock straps under their singlets, but most, like Dig and I, don't wear anything at all. Dig's dad is completely against wearing anything underneath. He claims it gives an advantage to the opponent to have a break in the smooth contour of the singlet and causes limited leg mobility. Personally, I go commando just because I enjoy showing off my jewels. The ladies like it; I can tell from their less than casual glances at my bulges.

I watched Dig step into and slide his practice singlet up over his thick, muscular calves and thighs and then tug it up snugly into his crotch before maneuvering his arms into the shoulder straps. The last step for Dig, like the rest of us, is to grab a handful of singlet with each hand on the inner thighs and tug down enough to make some room for the jewels. Dig's parents bought him a brand new singlet to practice in for this year. I was impressed with the significant bulge his hulking big balls created in the Lycra suit even after he adjusted the crotch area. I could also make out the outline of his supersized dickhead pressed along the crease of his leg and lower abdomen.

"You gonna dress out or sit there and daydream all day?" Dig asked. "I can't figure out how you ever get good grades as much as you daydream."

"Oh, yeah, I know, huh?" I jumped up and tugged my own singlet on, laced up my wrestling shoes, and headed to the mats. Half of us went to the weight room and half of us worked on reversal techniques. Coach paired us up, had us get in a cradle lock, and then showed us different ways to escape. Getting put in the cradle over and over again, and then just holding it there, got me and my training mate boned up. Looking around the circle, we weren't the only ones.

Usually during a match, things happen fast and you're focused on wrestling, so you rarely get boned up, but practicing like this is more awkward. No one, and I mean no one, ever teases another wrestler about it. It's a taboo subject and is rarely, if ever, spoken of.

The only time I really felt uncomfortable about sporting wood during the practice was when the coach used me to demonstrate with. I knew he felt my boner when he slipped his arm through my crotch and put me in the cradle. He had to have. I suppose he's gotta be used to it, though, as long as he's been coaching the sport. I kept stealing glances at Dig's crotch. He apparently curves to the left when he bones up, same as I do.

When it was time to go workout on the weights, Dig and I walked over together. Both our dicks had subsided by then. We spotted for each other and I couldn't help looking at the bumps protruding from his crotch as I stood over him on the bench press. We lift hard and both of us are among the strongest wrestlers. I have more upper body strength and he has more lower body strength. We both put a lot of effort into whatever we do. Dig is just so darn competitive and I'm so anal about doing everything just right that it results in us being the natural team leaders. We expected to get named as team co-captains. It was being announced after practice.

"Gather up." Coach said. "Take a knee." We all knelt on the mats, wiping sweat with the small, white hand towels they provided us.

"I'm pleased with the progress you're all showing." Coach said. "I've posted the wrestlers for this week's meet against Jefferson on the board. I also want to announce our team captains." I inwardly smiled.

"First, is Cody Michaels."

I thought to myself, "Who?" Then, as Dig stood up, I remembered, "Oh, yeah, Cody's his real name."

"The other captain is Scott Simons." I stood up before it registered he hadn't said my name. I faked a cramp in the back of my thigh and started rubbing it vigorously.

"Sorry, cramp," I said, gritting my teeth. I knelt back down as Scotty moved up front next to Dig. I could feel the heat pulsating in my face and was flushed with embarrassment. I felt the blood pulsating through the veins in my thick neck.

"Scotty?" I thought, "How the fuck did he get chosen? He's gay. He gets a fuckin' boner before he even wrestles and practically daily in the showers. Privately, guys laugh behind his back. Shit, I've seen him weigh in tenting up his shorts. Nobody looks up to him. I'm stronger, quicker, and I've won more. Plus, I'm more respected by the group and put in extra effort all during pre-season." I really didn't hear anything else coach said after that and was startled from my mental complaining by everyone else standing up. I jumped up and joined the group by putting my hand in for the cheer. "Cougars!" we shouted and tossed our hands upward.

I moped back to the locker and plopped onto the hard, wooden bench. I pulled my shoulder straps off, but didn't make an effort to undress any further. Finally, when the crowd moved away, I got up and walked over to the board to see what slots everyone got put into for Thursday's meet. Willy, the little guy with the big dick, earned the lightweight 103 slot. He's only 98 pounds, but he's no weakling. I think it's pretty funny that he's called "Little Willy" since he's actually got a giant "willy."

I read through the 112, 119, 125, classes. I saw Dig's name on 130. "WAIT!!! What the hell?" I read it again, closely. "Kirk Phillips." I traced my finger from the 125 line across and verified again, "Kirk Phillips." I wasn't on the roster. I'd been bumped without even a wrestle off. Tears burned in my eyes and I began pulling at my eyebrows, the way I always did when I got mad as a little kid. I rushed to the toilets and hid in a stall. I pushed the door shut and fumbled with the lock. I sat on the john and reeled off a wad of t.p. and blew my nose and wiped my stinging eyes.

"What the fuck?" I said out loud. "That's bullshit." The longer I sat there, the madder I got. "It's just a steaming pile of fucking bullshit."

I wiped my eyes a final time, set my jaw, pulled on my shoulder straps, burst out of the stall and marched over to Coach Tyler's office. The door was open, so I just walked in and shut the door. "Can we talk?" I said. It wasn't really a question, more of a demand.

Coach looked up, hitched one side of his face into a half smile like he often did and nodded toward a chair without speaking.

"Why?" I demanded.

"Why what?" Coach replied, refusing to make it easy on me.

"Why did you pass me over for captain and why did you bump me from the 125 spot against Jefferson High. I've beaten Kirk three times, twice with pins. I made weight today." I blurted.

"Well, first of all, you're making a pretty big assumption that you were 'passed over' for captain. I select who I think best for captains." He emotionally sucker-punched me right off the bat.

"Secondly," he continued, "I'm a little concerned that you made weight after being overweight up until today. Suddenly, you drop almost three pounds."

"I've been working hard on it like you said to." I complained bitterly.

"Really?" Coach slid open his desk drawer and set a Tupperware cup with a turquoise cap on it in the middle of his desk. "This was in your open backpack that you left under the bench by your locker. It smells suspicious. It tastes incriminating. You've been using hp to induce vomiting. Do you know how dangerous that is? Oxygen bubbles can form in your blood and burst in your heart and you're dead! Consider yourself lucky that you're not completely off the team."

He picked up the cup and threw it at me. I caught and held it for a minute, staring at it. I felt sick. I feared I might throw up again right there in the office. If there had been anything left in my stomach, I probably would have. I stood up without looking at Coach and shuffled to the door. Before I opened it, I turned around, looked him in the eye and said. "I'm sorry. What can I do to get my spot back?"

"Just be honest. If you followed a legitimate diet and you didn't lose, you needed to tell me. Dig can wrestle up a weight, and you can take that slot, IF you earn it."

"Okay. I'm really sorry."

"I guess we'll see if you're sorry for doing it, or just sorry for your consequences by what you do from here on out. Go on now." He returned to the papers he was reading. I opened the door and shuffled out. Dig saw me coming. He was just tying his street shoes.

"What's going on?" He asked, sitting up.

I handed him the cup and said, "Coach caught me using hp to vomit for weight loss. I thought I had to in order to stay down out of your class. Dieting wasn't working. Hell, I was barely over 7% body fat to begin with. It was stupid and I got caught."


"FUCK!" I said dropping onto the bench. "FUCK! FUCK! And DOUBLE FUCK!"

I pulled my straps off, unlaced my shoes and tugged them off, then stood and maneuvered out of my singlet. I didn't bother showering. Most the guys showered after practice, Dig and I included, and only a very few didn't. Coach kinda scared us into it by talking about all the skin diseases you can get from the sweat stained wrestling mats. The problem got so bad some places they shut the whole wrestling program down.

I heard the last shower shut off and Scott Simons walked past us dripping wet and, as usual, fully boned. His boner was unique. It bent downward instead of upward. It was like an upside down banana poking out from his body. Also, he must have gotten a real hack job on his circumcision, because the skin pulled back so tightly on his smaller than average tip, it almost looked painful. I looked up and unable to help myself, said, "Hey Scotty, you gotta lay off that Viagra dude, it's bad on your eyesight."

"Fuck you, loser." He said without even glancing at me.

"Great comeback captain. Way to build that team unity." I said as he paraded off to his locker across the aisle.

I dressed slowly. Dig sat there and watched me, not knowing what to say. What was there to say? Nothing, that's what. So that's what he said, nothing. It was his mom's turn to pick us up and I was glad. I didn't want to answer all my mom's stupid questions about my day.

When they dropped me off, I thanked Mrs. Michaels and walked in the house. I went straight up to my room, kicked my shoes into my closet, tossed my backpack onto my bed and pulled out the evidence cup. I took it down to the kitchen and rinsed it out and stuck it in the dishwasher.

"Hi sweetie." Mom called cheerfully, entering the kitchen. I was surprised she was home. I had hoped she wouldn't be.

"Hmm." I mumbled.

"Want something to eat?"

"Yes. I want tons to eat. I'm starved. I wanna eat a horse and then an elephant for dessert."

Mom looked at me, shocked. "But, what about your wrestling weight?"

"Fu...Forget it." I said, catching myself, barely in time. "I don't care anymore."

"That's not like you, sweetie." Mom said. "You don't give up on things."

"Shows how much you really know about me." I growled.

Mom recognized my obvious bad mood and didn't try to pry any further. I knew the questions and scolding would come, though, as soon as dad was around to back her up. She pulled out some tubs of leftovers and microwaved a plate full of chicken casserole, green beans and rice for me. I wolfed it down, chasing down the very last grain of rice on my plate. I ate in complete silence, scowling. When I was finished, I headed up to my room, shut the door and powered up my laptop. I needed to escape this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. "Arthur's got nothing on me today." I thought. "Arthur's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" was one of my favorite books as a kid. It's still on my bookshelf.

I decided to indulge myself in my guiltiest of pleasures since I was already on a self abuse, collision course anyway. I navigated to one of the barely legal, gay male teen sites and started surfing through the sample pics and vids. Of course, I couldn't join any of the groups without a credit card, so I just settled for the teasers. Some of them were pretty good, though. I came across one of this blond kid who looked more like sixteen than eighteen with a downward curved banana dick just like Scotts. I started fantasizing about abusing him. I imagined super-gluing a banana peel to his dick and locking him the gorilla exhibit at the zoo.

As my mind was dwelling on the image of the gorilla sitting on Scotty's chest trying to peel the banana, I felt a huge wave of guilt wash over me and I flushed the daydream. It really isn't in my nature to be so jealous or mean spirited. I suddenly felt really bad for what I said to him in the locker room. It wasn't his fault the coach chose him over me. It was my fault. I wondered, if it hadn't been for the hp incident, if I would have been named as a captain.

I found a suitable video of a young looking, blond guy with an abnormally large dickhead so I could pretend he was Dig. It was a pretty hot video and showed the Dig look alike all boned up and sucking the huge dick of some headless young torso with pretty solid abs and not too big a pubic bush. It was ideal for my purposes and I replayed it over and over. Initially, I pulled off my socks and shirt and was playing with my nipples and tickling the bottoms of my feet while I watched it. By the third viewing, I stripped off my pants and boxers, drenched my tool in lube, and started happily jacking away. "Oh, yeah, Dig," I moaned, "Suck my dick." I'd fantasized about doing shit like this with Dig before, and I knew it would eventually end in massive amounts of guilt and self loathing, but after today's events, I didn't give a damn.

I decided on doing something I saw in one of the earlier gay videos. I unplugged the earphones and adjusted down the speakers so it wasn't too loud, but I could still hear it okay. Although I doubted mom would come up to my room with the mood I was in without dad home, I still didn't want to take the chance. The porn actors were moaning and groaning a little bit exaggerated on the video. Audio makes porn so much better for me.

I stood up and walked over facing the full length mirror on the back of my bedroom door without letting go of my pulsating dick. I hadn't shot my wad for a couple days and when that was the case, my first two shots were huge and shot way far. I stood a couple feet from the door and watched myself jack in the mirror while listening for the Dig character to start groaning while he cums in the video. I planned on shooting my load onto the mirror in time with him cumming and groaning and pretending it was Dig doing it. I was so on the edge.

I looked at my powerful, strong muscles from my neck to my feet. Every part of me was sculpted from years of wrestling and weight lifting. What I lacked in height, I made up for in breadth. I had wide shoulders, a narrow waist and massive, strong butt muscles leading to thick thighs and calves. But I had a soft, almost boyish face and shallow set, brown eyes. I am cute, but not the drop dead, gorgeous type of handsome like Dig is, nor am I the rugged dashing outdoorsy looking guy that Bodie is.

I was getting close as the Dig character intensified his moaning. I slipped my left hand down and cupped my nuts while I pumped furiously on my raging boner with my right. I bit down on the inside of my cheeks and started reacting to the cresting sensations with small, full body twitches. I jerked at the waist and buckled slightly at the knees as the sensual shocks burst from my brain. My dickhead was swollen and purple. I kept my frantic pace going on my dick and squeezed my balls a bit harder just as the Dig character started groaning and cumming. I bit down harder on the insides of my cheeks and shut my eyes as the first expulsion of cum propelled out my dick and splashed onto the mirror. I opened my eyes to witness the second shot hit the target when the bedroom door flung open.

I gasped as a stream of cum flew, in what seemed like slow motion, through the air and splattered just below the right knee on the starched, beige chinos of my debate partner, William Henry David Thames, III. We both stood gaping at each other for what was certainly only seconds, but felt like hours, completely speechless. I stopped jacking, but my dick didn't get the memo and kept spilling out its load onto the carpet at our feet. Breaking the silence, the headless torso on the video called out, "I'm gonna cum. Take my load."

I started my retreat as William looked down at his stained trousers and declared, "A simple hello with a handshake would have sufficed for a greeting, I think. But, then again, I'm sort of a neophyte on the whole jock ritual process."

"Why the fuck are you barging into my room like that?" I demanded, as I pulled my boxers and shorts on. The video had ended and was paused on the final scene of the Dig-like character showing the pool of cum on his tongue. I laid the screen flat against the keyboard and fumbled with my t-shirt.

"Your mother directed me towards your cave. I did not anticipate being shot for entering a gay brothel." William said, starting to sense the power over me he'd just gained. I saw it in his unnerving smile. "Perhaps," he continued, "It would be best that I inquire of your mother the preferred method to remove semen stains from my pants and excuse myself for the evening."

"Shut the fuck up and let me think a minute." I said, sitting in my chair. "First of all, I'm not gay, alright. So get that shit out of your head. It was a onetime thing you happened to walk in on." He rolled his eyes but didn't say anything for a change. "Step in and shut the door."

I reached under my bed and pulled one of several old hand towels mom kept stashed for me there and tossed it to him. It was just a silent understanding between mom and me. I'd started putting them there and she'd started replacing them. "I'm so fuckin' embarrassed." I said.

"I should think you would be, yes." William chided as he bent down and began wiping at the slimy ooze on his pants.

He was wearing beige chinos, a blue and white pinstripe dress shirt, and a blue, argyle sweater vest. He looked like how I pictured an English schoolboy. "What's in the big case?" I asked.

"Documentation and my laptop. I took the liberty to print a voluminous quantity of supporting and refuting evidence on our debate topic, and I thought we could parse through it and transfer the propitious data onto index cards." He said proudly, and clearly expecting praise for his extra effort. I didn't reward him with any.

"I see that you have been making equally constructive use of your time on the internet. Unfortunately, gay marriage is not the debate topic." He sneered.

I stepped up close to him, took a fistful of argyle and pulled him down eight inches to be nose to nose with me. "Look, you fucking, pompous, little bastard, I've had a really bad day, and it just got impossibly worse. I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, okay? Either you're gonna talk to me like a normal fucking human being and give me some respect, or I'm gonna rip your goddamn arm off and beat you about the head and shoulders with the bloody end of it. Got it?" I let go and stepped back surveying his response.

His lip was quivering. He swallowed hard. "Sorry." He squeaked.

"Okay. Me too. Shit, I'm always sorry, it seems. I'm just one big huge sorry sonofabitch lately. Let's just pretend this didn't happen and go ahead and study. Can we?"

"Why?" He asked.

"Why do you fucking think? We're partners and we have a debate meet coming up."

"No, I meant, why did you have a bad day and why are you so sorry?" he said cautiously.

"Oh, I don't want to talk about it."


"Because it will just get me all fucking pissed off again, alright?

"Okay. But can you please just stop using that abominable language?" He asked, somewhat boldly, given his recent experience with me.

"What language?" I shot back.

"The "F" word and especially, the Lord's name in vain, in practically every sentence you utter. You're brighter than that and have no need to employ such deplorable vulgarity to express yourself."

"Look!! I've about had all the people telling me what I am and who I'm not that I can take for one day. Mr. Cramer, the lunch proctor, Coach Tyler, mom and now you. Well maybe, none of you really know who or what I am. Maybe I'm tired of being the guy everybody expects to be Mr. Perfect all the time. 'F' you all." I was mad and I was shouting.

"Maybe, I really should leave. I'll call for my father to retrieve me." William said, backing away toward the door. When he reached it, he turned, set down his briefcase and stood back up to open the door. Mom, having heard me yelling at him, came bursting in to see what was going on. The door handle was the perfect height and smashed him square in the nuts really, really hard. It dropped him, as if he'd been shot in the head. I rushed over and dragged him away from the door and mom came in, freaking out.

"Oh dear. Oh dear." She kept saying, wringing her hands and staring at the groaning William Henry balled up on the floor.

"Good lord, could things possibly get any worse?" I asked of whatever Gods were out there intent on punishing me for breathing.

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