This story may contain explicit descriptions of sexual acts between the characters in it. Although the characters are teenagers who may be below the age of consent in the country or state where this is read, nothing written here should be taken as approval of, or encouragement for, sexual liaisons between people where such liaisons are either illegal, or objectionable for moral reasons. Although this story does not include safe sex practices, it is everyone's own responsibility to themselves and to each other to engage only in PROTECTED SEX. It is a story. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Nothing represented here is based on any fact known to the author.

The story is copyright 2000 by "It's Only Me from Across the Sea". If you copy the story, please leave the credits, and the web address of http://iomfats.org present, and also the email address of its_onlyme@iomfats.org. I'd love to receive feedback.

I hadn't seen him in chapel that morning. We have chapel each morning. The school is one of those muscular Christian places that put you off having faith. And he wasn't in chapel. I looked out for him each morning. Not to talk to. Just to see. To look at. Gradually I'd worked out what his name was.

Well, I'd had to work it out. The school's divided into houses. Three day houses, eight boarding houses. Token house of girls in the sixth form. And we were encouraged not to mix between the houses. And his house was almost half a mile, maybe more, from mine. Both day houses. But separated by a huge gulf. And there was a second gulf, too. Two years. It was barely possible to talk to someone from another house even a year below. Talking to someone two years below was impossible.

Summer term. Warm weather. Senior boys allowed to wear boaters and blazers, and open necked shirts. Junior boys wearing the same as normal. Blazers, sure. But not the finery.

Actually the finery is laughable stuff. But it sets us apart. The seniors. As well as being allowed to have our hands in our pockets and to walk across the grass. My last year at the place. My last term. And I wanted to talk to him.

Not that I'm gay. But his beauty was startling. Everyone looked at him. Everyone. Oddly everyone except Ricky. And Ricky is gay. Well he says he is. And we believe him. Poor Ricky. I suppose it must be torture being gay in a school were ninety percent of the kids are boys. Like being in a sweet shop and not being allowed to buy anything. Because everyone sort of tolerates Ricky. But no-one admits to being his friend, far less his special friend. And Ricky doesn't look at him.

I was standing in the prefects' study. Looking out of the window at the Tuck Shop. It was break. We'd had three lessons. Break meant coffee and toast, made for us by our fags. Not the American word. The English one. Junior boys who acted as servants and were paid money for it. And enjoyed doing it. Not short for 'faggot' at all. Just kids in their first year who wanted extra pocket money. There were half a dozen of us there as prefects. Our job was to keep house discipline.

He usually went to the Tuck Shop in break. His house was too far away to go back to between lessons. He wasn't there though. Nowhere to be seen.

Not mouse blond. Ash blond. I think that's what Mum would call it. Striking. Not all one colour. Several shades of brilliant, soft blond. Not albino blond. But towards it. Right hand side parting, with the hair swept across his forehead, but strong enough to stand out from his face as a sort of sun-visor. Not out of place, somehow. Not really ever out of place.

It stood out. Only one other boy had hair that colour, and his was cobwebby, not smooth and sleek.

I knew where he lived. The school address list showed that. And how old he was. An April birthday. And mine was July. I was heading for eighteen. He was already sixteen. He looked so fragile and so strong, too.

When I say I wanted to talk to him, I knew what his voice sounded like. I mean I'd spoken to him. But 'spoken' is not the same as 'talked'.

It was a soft voice, with a teasing edge to it. I first heard it before it broke. I'd been watching out for him since the first day I'd seen him. Since the first day he'd been in chapel, and I'd spotted that hair. Not just the hair. His face was lovely. Oval. Well long.

Shaded under that hair fringe were the most piercing eyes Blue. Piercing blue. Sapphires. Blond eyebrows. Pink cheeks. And his lips were always smiling. But his mouth was never still, either. Which is how I knew what his voice sounded like.

At lunch we sat in houses. I used to find an excuse to go and talk to some mates in his house. At their tables. And his eyes almost always met mine. And he smiled when they did. A knowing smile. In those days I just knew him as Metcalf. His surname. Fascinated by him. In awe of a boy two years my junior.

We had to wear white shirts. Compulsory. But his looked orange, or pink, or green. But they were white. He was a rebel, even at thirteen.

Metcalf. Blond hair, sapphire eyes and coloured shirts. Sounds a pretty feeble reason for noticing him. Only it wasn't.

I worked the shirts out. Coloured vests. So what did I do? Got Mum to buy me a set of coloured vests. Tee-shirts, really, only 'grandpa's vests' were fashionable then. So I wore grandpa's vests under my shirt, too. I don't know why.

I was walking towards him across the quad one break. That's when I heard his voice first. "Wotcha Bennett!"

I took no notice. My name isn't Bennett. I looked behind to see if Bennett was there. No-one was there. Odd

"I'm not Bennett," I said. I felt a little weird. This hugely gorgeous kid was talking to me.

"You look like a 'Bennett' to me," he said. "Bennett's a poof. With coloured vests. You're a coloured vest poof too."

He was gone before I could even reply. The injustice! The incongruity! Dammit, Metcalf was wearing a bright orange vest under his nylon shirt. It was almost incandescent, it showed through so well. And he was calling me a poof. And calling me Bennett. The little shit had the upper hand all right. He was walking with a group of kids from his house. There was no way I could even follow and talk to him.

It had been 'Wotcha Bennett' ever since. Every time we met. I'm not Bennett. Turner. That's me. Geoff Turner. The only Bennett I know is a dork in my house with dandruff.

I never put two and two together to make five. Metcalf wore coloured vests too. Was he a poof?

"Are. Poof. Coloured vest means you're a poof." His was bright green that day. He didn't seem to be talking about himself.

And the look in his eyes. He knew he was affecting me. They gleamed. And he saw through to my soul. To the blackest parts.

Today he wasn't anywhere to be seen. Not in chapel. Not in the Tuck Shop. He wasn't away from school often. I wished he cycled the same way I did each day. But he went the opposite way. I could have come past his house each day. Maybe even talked to him on the trip. Private. Away from his mates. From my mates.

He wasn't at lunch. I went over to chat to Pete at lunch. Pete's head of his house. We chatted about stuff for a while. "He's off sick today, Geoff."

"Because that's why you come over each lunch time. To talk to me, and to look at Paul Metcalf."

"Mind you, Bennett, you're the only one he teases about it. Maybe you're in with a chance?"

"Listen, I have to say grace." Heads of houses had to say grace each day at lunch. The only thing was, Pete was Jewish. Orthodox Jewish. Which made the next bit very odd. "Benedictus, benedicat, per Jesum Christum Dominum Nostrum. Amen." We'd talked about it, too. He was having to say something he had no chance of believing in, wasn't even allowed to believe in.

I went back to my table and ate. But I thought about what he'd said, too. I hadn't realised how obvious I'd been. Odd. It didn't seem to matter.

And now I knew his name was Paul. I didn't know if it suited him. But I liked it. Odd. I'd thought of him as a 'Philip'."

He wasn't at school all that week. I looked out for him. Each day. I wanted to send him a card to say 'get well soon, I miss you.' But I didn't. But I wanted to. Stupid fool. I ran it round my mouth, trying it out. Paul Metcalf. Paul. Paul Metcalf. And I could see him in my mind as I did it.

Chapel. Watching them file in. My day for duty, keeping them all quiet. My house, anyway. Watching them all file in.

But he'd passed by. Gone. Sitting in his pew. Talking to the boy next to him. Did he know? And come to that did I? But I wanted to be near him. My heart was doing star jumps. And he'd asked me if I'd missed him. He knew. The little sod knew.

I found he was taking up all my mind during lessons. 'I love Paul Metcalf'. It escaped from my pen onto the desk. I hadn't even noticed I'd done it. It just escaped. On the right hand side.

Slim. Grey trousers, blue blazer. Blazer too short. Very slim, almost painfully so. Erotic? To me, certainly. Wondering. Naked. What would he look like naked? His legs? His back? Yeah, and the rest? An inny or an outy? What would it be like to touch him? Would he let me touch him? Did I want to touch him??

Break. Back to the house. On the way back. "You always at that window, Bennett?"

It was orange today. "No... " He'd gone. It was like herding cats, trying to talk to him. Paul. Nice name. Suited him. Those eyes. Twinkling. It was too hot for a vest. He was right, damn him.

I didn't go to 'talk to Pete' at lunch. Didn't dare. I felt I'd fling myself on him, if he talked to me. Paul Metcalf. Felt I'd take him in my arms and press his lips to mine, his body to mine. Out of control.

I realised how I must have fallen for him that day, that first day, when I saw him, all fresh and new and uncertain. Uncertain? Hesitant, at least. Finding his way around. No uncertain. Not he.

His sapphire eyes, they know everything. Everything. They mean he can see into my soul.

Grace. English this time. "For what we are about to receive, may The Lord make us truly thankful." Jim Rogers. Our head of house. 'For what we are about to receive... ' Was I about to receive a blessing, or a curse?

I imagined it at home. 'Mum, this is Paul. Paul Metcalf. We're at school together, and I'm in love with him.' Couldn't work. 'Mum, I think I'm attracted to a boy.' No! I can't. I can't tell her.

No. Dad hates poofs. Says so each time Kenny Everett comes on the television. Not possible to tell him.

Anyway, Metcalf. He was teasing me, surely? I mean he must have been. Ready to deride me again. Lunch passed.

It was muck anyway. I suppose someone in a famine would have been glad of it, but I couldn't quite see how. It was bulk, not nutrition.

After lunch I filed out. Well in a file of others. Lessons. The cricket. I hate cricket. It's so slow. So I keep score instead of play.

The day passed. The rest of it was Paul Metcalf free. He was in his house side. I was scoring for mine.

Tuesday I knew I'd been dreaming about him. Woodlands. Him and me. Holding him. Kissing his neck. The back of his neck. Fully clothed, but somehow making love to him. Somehow. And he wanted to. Asked me to. Smiled at me. Asked me.

This was a lovely dream. Beautiful eyes, smile. Brushing his hair out of his eyes.

I stayed dreaming it as I cycled to school. I wanted to hear him call me Bennett. Fantasy.

I didn't trust myself to look for him in chapel. Nor at break. But I saw him anyway.

I did go and 'talk to Pete' at lunch. He met my eyes. Pete noticed. "Play your cards right, Geoff, and you're in, there!" Pete was laughing.

"Brat!" Wow! I'd called him a brat. But my eyes were smiling. I was sending a huge wave of, what? Love? Lust? Sending it to him.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee-oooooooooh!" That noise that signifies that someone's said a sharp thing, a witty, yet sharp retort. And he was talking to the boy next to him, not looking at me, almost at once.

What? Did I hear that right? Pete. Deciding that the Jews could get their own back. Oh the look on Mr Wilkinson's face. Murderous. Pete was in for it. But I doubt he cared. His last term, too. Just A-Levels to go. Then he and I were out of there.

I'd be at university. I was expected to get good grades. Not good enough for Oxford. But good. He'd be at school.

I was terrified all through lunch. Terrified I'd never actually talk to him. As in talk. Find out about him. Be at least his friend.

Tuesday. No lessons, just sport. Tuesday was sailing. A bus ride away. We went by bus to a reservoir. I like sailing. I'm good at it. Much better than cricket. So I went to the lockers for my kit, and waited at the back of the bus. I was looking forward to sailing. There was enough wind to make it worthwhile. Mind you I was in a world of my own.

I'd sat on the lower deck of the bus, thinking about what was going in inside my brain. Paul Metcalf was going on inside my brain. I'd put 'I love Paul Metcalf' on every desk I sat at. I did. Except I didn't know him. So I couldn't have loved him? Could I? Or did I just fancy him?

Funny word, that. Fancy. Not strong enough to express what I was feeling. Trivial. I didn't fancy him. I needed him. Something I'd never felt before about anyone.

A 'clump' on the bench as someone sat down behind me. "Didn't know you sailed, Bennett?"

Odd. His eyes were downcast. "I, er, wanted to try." Then they flashed at me. "Gonna teach me? Got your coloured vest?"

"Me? Er, yes. OK. Sure." Mind racing. Heart pounding. "Let's get a lifejacket for you. Are you changed?"

"A bit. I borrowed a Topper last Summer for a bit. I got wet a lot." He paused. "You're good, then?"

So we got a boat. Nothing special. A GP14. Shaped like a coffin, with too little sail area. Unresponsive, heavy, and built like a brick shithouse. Extra heavy duty for the sailing school we used. Got the boat in the water, pulled it along the jetty and got the sails up.

Hmm. Either he was a natural at balance, or he'd done more than he said. He took the jibsheet, backed the jib to port, paid us off towards the open water and sheeted home correctly. "You've done this before." Almost accusingly.

I was a bit busy. The wind was gusty. We were sitting out hard, toes under toestraps, the unresponsive pig of a boat misbehaving. "More than the Topper."

"Then - " I was confused. Really confused. Why would he come sailing? No, why would he ask to be taught? But this was real life. that couldn't be the reason.

So I did. We did. Sail. I bore away onto a beam reach, and we actually got the thing planing. He knew what to do all right. Tweaked the sheets, moved astern, and we were actually, well not flying exactly, but we got the old bitch up on the plane. And then the tiller snapped. Which was not altogether helpful.

At which point an extra gust hit, the hard chines of the hull bit into the water, we rounded up too fast into the wind, and the whole thing fell over and capsized.

Wet, too. We both ended up in the water, all mixed up with jibsheet, mainsheet, boom and such. Both looking at each other. "Why'd you do that, er, Bennett?"

"Are we going to get these sails down and work out what to do next? You're Paul, yes?"

Anyway we'd muddled the wet mess down, and righted the boat. Which wasn't the brightest thing in the circumstances. We were immediately blown onto the shore of the reservoir. Unprofessional. We'd have been better leaving it on its side to wait for the rescue boat. Ah well. Some you win.

"Well, I suppose so," he said. His hair still looked lovely, even soaking wet. But his eyes. Bright. Cheeky.

"Ah?" I was wondering what was coming next. Was he going to tease me again? Make me squirm.

But the rescue boat arrived. And we got involved in explaining broken tillers and why we'd been blown ashore and all the palaver that goes with being towed back. We had to be towed alongside the inflatable since we had no steering.

After a bit, when we'd put the boat away, and sorted the wet sails out to dry, I asked him, "Paul, what were you about to say?"

"It's nothing." There was a long pause. "Except... No. Nothing." And that was it. Nothing.

Not for ages, at least. I was lost. In the water I'd been close enough to lean forwards and kiss him. Physically. Not mentally. Now I was as far away as ever. Maybe.

I did sneak a look at him while we changed. He wasn't unduly modest, not trying to display himself, either. I'd never checked out another boy before. Never. It was embarrassing. Bewildering, too. I looked, saw not much. Just a slim, gently muscled body, nicely proportioned. He was a boy. A boy. And yet I felt the feelings from the dream. Tingly. Breathless. Weird.

"Well, yes. I suppose." I'd never been so nervous in my life. I had no idea where it might lead. No idea where I wanted it to lead.

And I had no idea what to read into what he said. He stood after a while. There was no-one else in the changing room. He walked over to me. "Paul?" He looked me in the eyes. "I feel very odd when I'm near you. But I'm not a poof, Paul. I'm not. Not gay. Not a poof."

"You mean you feel it too?" He was running his hands through his hair, still wet. Looking petrified. "I'm not gay either. I'm sick of people making jokes about me."

I wanted to hold him in my arms. I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I think. "Does 'feel it too' mean you feel that about me, or that you feel that I feel it?"

"I... Oh I don't know. Geoff people tell me I'm good looking. I know that some of them fancy me. The boys. They make jokes about me. About wanting to fuck me, have me suck them. About me being their lover. I'm not like that, Geoff. I'm not gay. And I even found 'I love Paul Metcalf' on some desks."

"Love you. Paul I do love you. But I don't know what I want to do. Except to be with you. Be close to you."

"I did the desks. I'm sorry, Paul. I think I wanted to get caught. I didn't think. I'm sorry."

"I didn't know how to meet you. To talk to you. Get to know you." I looked at him. "You're crying!"

He was. "Sorry. I feel very confused. He was wiping the tears with his fingers. "Is this love? This odd feeling, this weird feeling, needing to be with you? Fascinated by you?"

"I feel like that when I'm with you, Paul. I want to take you in my arms. Stop you from feeling bad. Just hold you."

"I don't know! That's the problem. I don't know. Maybe. I dreamt about you. But it was a dream. Not if it doesn't feel right. No."

"In case you'd either despise me and call me a poof, or you'd try and do things, and I don't want to do things. I don't think I do, anyway."

"I had to get your attention. I liked being looked at, looked for, by you. Wanted to get to know you. I didn't know how. It sounds so silly."

"Sorry." I had no idea what to do. To say. I touched him on the shoulder. "I'll never hurt you. Never."

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Wotcha Bennett!

By It's Only Me from Across the Sea