Note to the reader: This story features a fair amount of gay sex, strictly between the narrator, Josh, and his friend David. This was necessary due to the plot of this story. It is not actually about a gay boy at all, but about uniquely fortunate Josh (or unfortunate, as the case may be), who falls in love with David and, over the course of two nights spent with David in his basement bedroom, discovers how cruelly miserable life can be—and how wonderful. Neither is ready for what happens to Josh in the aftermath of those two nights.
Those of you who love a good romance will enjoy this story despite its gay elements. Josh is as likeable a person as can be. I won't give away the ending; I'll only tell you that it's worth enduring the gay subject matter if you are heterosexual. (As I am, more or less.) The key is in the title of the story.
This story starts in the basement of my friend David's house. It's where I was born. In truth, it started a bit before that, so I'll regress, just enough to fill in the blanks a little for you, make it less confusing.
David, Jack, Jerry and I were all 15. We all lived on the same street, all attended the same school, all hung out to the exclusion of anyone else. Jack was my best friend; Jerry lived next door to me; David lived across the court from Jack. We walked to school in the morning and walked home in the afternoon. We mostly hung out at Jack's house as a group, in his bedroom, or down in David's basement, which doubled as his bedroom. When we weren't together as a group, I was usually with Jack. It had always been that way.
"We doing it then?" Jack asked. It was Friday afternoon; we were on the way home from school. None of us drove, none of us were old enough yet. Within the next six months, three of us would have our licenses. One of us wouldn't, though. One of us wouldn't exist.
David nodded. "Dad said no, but Mom had already said yes, so he was shit outta luck. We gotta worry about him pissing all over our parade though. You know what a grouch he can be. I'll be lucky if he doesn't—"
At that moment, we were walking alongside the creek. Where the creek ran under Jeremy Road, the road was buttressed either side by a concrete arch, with concrete wings running away at 450 angles. David had climbed onto the top of the wing our side of the creek to walk along its spine, and not paying attention the way he should, his foot slipped and he lost his balance. Before any of us could react, he was teetering on the edge, wind-milling his arms, crying "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" and trying not to fall the ten feet into the water and the dangerous rocks. He'd already lost his backpack to the creek; he was in danger of following it in.
Just as he started to topple I grabbed him by his shirt-sleeve, and nearly went over myself. Jerry and Jack grabbed us both, probably saving one or the other of our lives; but when David came down atop me next to the wing, he jammed his foot into an erosion hole and broke his leg. He screamed so loud, people a block away ran out of their houses.
"You sure you want to do this?" I asked. It was a week later, and David had his foot up on a plastic milk crate. His leg was in a thick cast up to the knee; he had broken it in two places. He was lucky it hadn't been a compound fracture.
"Yeah, man, I want to do it," he said. We were all in his basement. It was quarter to five and me and Jerry and Jack were ready to head home. The previous weekend had been a bust, but Saturday night we planned to camp out in David's basement bedroom.
Jack asked doubtfully: "Are you planning on coming?"
David shook his head, repositioned his leg, which he said still hurt like a bitch if he didn't get it just right. I'd broken my arm once, had it in a cast for six weeks, but, other than itch, it hadn't bothered me after the first day. I guess it's a lot different when you have to walk on the break, or in David's case, hobble around on crutches. He couldn't go anyway, except in a car or with two of us helping him up and down steps. I was surprised, then, that he wanted to do the sleepover anyway.
"No reason you guys can't have fun," he muttered. I could see he was in pain, wanted to do something to make it better for him, but also didn't want to because that would look queer. Not looking queer is more important to a guy than not being a good friend sometimes. Besides, I didn't even like David that much.
The way it worked, Jack and I were best friends. We hung out with David and Jerry because we were the only four guys our age on the block. And because Jerry lived next to me, and because David was our age and lived right across the street from Jack. I liked Jerry better than I did David, who was something of a stuck-up-convinced that he was better than us prick; but I hung out with Jack more than I hung out with anyone else. I never hung out with David by myself. I sometimes hung out with Jerry, because he lived next to me. It sounds pretty stupid, but there you go.
Jack leaned back in the chair, put his leg over one of the arms. "I'm not crazy about leaving you here. It's not fair. But I want to get out tomorrow night," he said.
We all knew there was a sleepover at Sheila Nelson's house. She didn't live that far away, and Jack wanted to try and crash the party because he was hot for Kristen Burke, one of the girl's sleeping over. I knew David liked Beth Anderson, but there was no way he was going anywhere tomorrow night. Jerry could care less. Jerry was no more interested in girls—that we could tell, anyway—than he was in algebra. Not that he was queer. He was no more queer than Jack was. He just didn't show any interest in girls. Maybe because he was Jewish.
The problem was, I was scared shitless of girls. I'd never been on a date, and I'd only kissed two girls in my life. One of those was a girl I had met at a dance; the other was Sheila Nelson's friend, Katie. I'd heard Katie hadn't cared for kissing me. I wasn't surprised by that. I'd been very intimidated. So the idea of crashing a sleepover at Sheila Nelson's house, being around all those girls, many of whom would welcome the distraction of guys crashing their sleepover, made my palms itch and my underarms sweat. I cringed, just thinking about it. Jack was gung ho to go; Jerry was dispassionate; David would be angry not to go.
David, grumpy and obviously unhappy with what he had to say next, said, "I need one of you here to stay with me tomorrow night. I know, I know," he said, raising his hand defensively. "I know my mom. She's going to pester me all damned night about my leg." The last time we'd done this, back during the summer, we'd been out for six hours without getting caught. We'd been counting on that tomorrow night. At least, Jack had. David went on. "Mom will get up and check on me two or three times during the night. She won't come down, not after ten o'clock or so when she knows were dug in and maybe doing guy shit—" David grinned. He liked doing guy shit ... But once we're asleep, she'll come down to check on me. I know she will." He rearranged his foot again. "In a way, it's good. It means two of you can get away before we could have earlier. Like as early as eleven, maybe. Me and whoever it is will stay up as long as we can to give you guys time to get into the party and have a good time and then get back. Mom won't come down as long as we're awake. But one of you has to be here with me, for Mom to hear and to help pretend all of us are here. Otherwise, we're gonna get busted, man."
Logic like that couldn't be argued with. Jack did anyway, trying every idea he could to get around David's argument. Finally he gave in, especially when it became clear that he was trying to strand David here at home. Then the only question was, who would stay.
"I will," I said, jumping in ahead of Jerry. Jack jumped to disagree, but backed off because he knew arguing would just make him look like more of an asshole. He was disappointed though, no doubt about that. He wanted me along, his best friend, even if I was a hindrance around girls. Jerry didn't look too happy about it himself. The thing was, Jerry, for all his disinterest, would not make anyone uncomfortable from being around. Feeling no interest from him, girls tended to be comfortable around him. And so it was set.
I spent the next afternoon with Jack, met up with Jerry at 5 o'clock--Jerry was Jewish, but his family was no more devout as Jews than mine were as Catholics--and we headed down to David's house. I had never seen Jerry wear a yarmulke, miss anything because of the Sabbath, nor have to be in at sundown on a Friday night. As far as I knew, his parents didn't even attend temple on Saturdays. (They would later; the whole family becoming more devout, though I never knew the reason why.) His sister Susan and his brother Nathan were the same way.
We went to dinner as a group, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen buying. It was only the Bob Evan's in town, but it was the first time Dave's mom and dad had ever done anything like that. I'd had dinner at David's sure, just like he'd had dinner at my house. But climbing in the family car--a Dodge Caravan—and heading out to eat was decidedly different. In the dining room, Dave's mom chattered on while Dave's dad spoke only when asking for salt or a napkin.
Mrs. Cullen had always been a dilemma. Not hot, by any means, she was nonetheless pretty in a Tiffany Theissen, Rachel Wiess kind of way. She had short black hair, big eyes, and a chipper personality. She wore only the frumpiest, middle-aged mother kinds of clothes: plain dresses, colorless slacks and shirt outfits, shorts and sleeveless shirts in the summer that made her look straight out of a family sitcom. Yet ever so often, I'd see a flash of a smile, a dart of the eyes, hear a snicker or snort that hinted at a much different Mrs. Cullen trapped inside. (Actually, Rachel Weiss as Abigail Salmon in the movie The Lovely Bones, was the embodiment of Mrs. Cullen. The character in the book was Mrs. Cullen on steroids.) From the time that I was ten, until the start of events in this story, I was smitten with the woman. But enough of that. This story is not about Mrs. Cullen.
After dinner, Mr. Cullen drove us to the movies and dropped us off. Mrs. Cullen would pick us up later. I looked forward to that. We watched Cloverfield, a seriously cool movie with incredible special effects. I fell in love with Lizzie Caplan, who got herself killed three-quarters of the way through, dammit. (Then again, just everyone died.) After the movie, we hung around the mall until 10 o'clock, when Mrs. Cullen called David on his cell phone and told him to meet her at the front entrance. It took us ten minutes to get there, David grabbing all the attention he could from his broken leg, the rest of us soaking up the attention in the form of girls. Jack was in heaven; David not so much. His leg was hurting and his pills were at home. We got back about 10:30, and now, finally, this story begins.
It was quarter to twelve. Jack was itching to go. Mrs. Cullen had checked on us one last time, before going to bed. She had admonished us not to stay up all night. Like we'd listen. Giving it ten more minutes, Jack opened the stairwell door and eased it far enough open to slip through. The way up was fourteen concrete steps to the side yard. Jack did not turn on the stairwell light.
"You ready to go?" he whispered. Jerry nodded, and the two of them slipped out the door into the narrow stairwell. It was warm out, and humid. Around the back of the house, I heard the air-conditioner pump kick in. I closed the door behind them, easing it until the catch snicked home. Now, if only they didn't get caught, I thought. I turned around, wondering what we'd do until 4 o'clock in the morning. David already had out his deck of cards. We played poker, and then some Crazy-8's, chatting aimlessly. By one o'clock, I was ready for bed.
David, a speculative look on his face, gazed up at the ceiling.
"What?" I wanted to know. Had he heard someone sneaking about? Mrs. Cullen, perhaps? I shivered lightly and was glad David was looking away. He had no idea I had the hots for his mom.
"Nothing," he whispered, telling me it was something. I frowned, wondering what he was up to. I cut the deck, and shuffled clumsily. I'd always been a clumsy shuffler. I dealt out the next hand while he gazed up at the ceiling.
"You want to watch some porn?" he asked.
I jerked, nearly spilling my handful of cards. My heart-rate shot up and my blood pressure spiked just thinking about it. But watching porn with another guy, just the two of us, alone in his bedroom? Danger, Will Robinson ... Danger!
"Uh, yeah," I said uncertainly. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling. I tried to control my heartbeat, and my breathing.
David said: "I have a couple a disks my brother lent me."
Michael, his 20-year-old brother, lived on campus. When he was home, he lived in an apartment over the garage that his dad and he had built. He was currently not home, and never in the mood to lend his brother anything. David must have snuck them out of his room. Though how he'd done it discreetly on a pair of crutches, I didn't know. The stairs up were outside the garage, and clearly visible from the house. He must have snatched them one afternoon before his parents got home from work. I wished he hadn't bothered.
For want of a better question, I asked: "What kind?"
"One's a bunch of amateurs, fucking for the camera. The other's an ass-fucking movie." He grinned, and my heart skipped a beat and kicked into a higher gear altogether. I loved ass-fucking movies. I loved seeing amateurs fuck. I loved blow jobs, which I knew there'd be in plenty, and doing the chick doggie style, and getting her from both ends--and maybe even seeing some A2M. But watching them with another guy? How gay.
David dropped his eyes and looked at me. "I know what you're thinking," he said in a low voice.
"You do?" I asked stupidly. If he knew what I was thinking, he wouldn't be talking about porn videos. Or maybe he would. Maybe, he was counting on my weakness to get himself blown, or to get a hand job or something. Or maybe even fuck me. As hard as I tried, I was never sure how well I concealed my uncertainty, my gender-identity crisis. Though I had never done anything gay, I'd always known I was capable of it. Maybe David knew this. Maybe he wanted me outed, forced out of the closet where he could exploit my mouth, or maybe my asshole. Though I wasn't sure there was anything to out me over, I didn't want to find out.
"Yeah," he said. "You think it's gay. I don't blame you, I think its kinda gay myself. But I also think a couple of guys can share a good time without anything gay going on between them. You know what I mean?"
I gulped and nodded.
"I mean, you don't wanna suck my cock, do you?"
I shook my head, no.
"I don't wanna suck yours, either. I like girls. I just wanna have a good time and give us something to do until Jack and Jerry get back."
What's wrong with TV, I thought, or On Demand, or poker? My mind shied away from that, thinking of strip poker. Crazy-8's then, I thought dourly; anything, except for porno.
"I mean, if the four of us were here, I wouldn't even care."
That was true; if Jack and Jerry were here, I'd have jumped on porno with both feet. There was safety in numbers. Four of us would be a blast, egging each other on, laughing and joking, rewinding and repeating scenes, watching in slow-mo; most likely Dave's mom would pound on the basement door, demanding to know what was going on. Two of us were a disaster, begging to happen.
"I don't think it's gay," I lied. "I'm just worrying about your mom finding out."
David shook his head. "Nothing to worry about. She comes to the door, I just hit the power button on the DVD and switch to On Demand. I'll have us a movie running in the background for safety. And don't worry, I won't do anything to embarrass you," he said with a big grin.
My face, and I felt it, grew red as an apple.
As expected, I got a hard-on. The first blowjob scene, a surprisingly pretty married blonde with a black guy in a motel room, nearly crippled me. I did everything but stand up and yank out the front of my shorts. David made no secret of his enjoyment watching the girl put the cock in her mouth and suck on it.
"Oh, man," he kept saying, and "Jesus Christ, she's a hottie." The truth was, the woman was a hottie. In her early thirties, she was slim, verging on anorexic, with breasts that sagged just a bit but were enjoyable enough to imagine in my hand and in my mouth. She had a very nice pussy, clean as a baby's, and a guarded enthusiasm that proved she was a real live girl, fucking a black man while her husband circled her with a camera. The segment was entitled Fucking A Black Man for Obama. In one scene, early on, the husband points the camera out the motel window and focuses on the words MGM Grand, on the building across the street. They were in Vegas.
"I really like her," David said. He was slid all the way forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between his knees, watching the woman take it doggie-style. I liked the woman also, but not for the same reason as David. I envied her. I wanted to be on a bed in Vegas, on my hands and knees, having a man—not a black man, I wasn't interested in black men—fucking me doggie. I realized with some horror just whom it was that I envisioned myself with ... and stared directly at the screen. I locked my teeth together, made myself blink, and shoved that image out of my mind.
"I have to put it on hold a minute," David said. Startled, I looked over and saw him laughing to himself. I became instantly paranoid.
"What's the matter?" I croaked.
"I have to take a leak. I've been holding it since before the movie started because I didn't want to get up. Now I have no choice. I'm about to bust open." Groaning, he struggled off the couch into a standing position. I fought to stay where I was, then jerked up clumsily to grab his crutches and hand them to him. He nodded gratefully. I could see, without meaning to look, that I was not the only one suffering a hard on.
"Man. This is only the first girl. I don't know if I'll make the end of the tape, man. She really turns me on."
I laughed, because he was laughing. Luckily the lights were down and he couldn't see my face. I was heated up like a light bulb. I wanted—
No, I commanded myself. Don't you think that! I didn't, but I was so glad when he got the crutches under his arms, turned away from me and hobbled toward the bathroom in the corner. I sat down, thoroughly confused, thoroughly aggravated, thoroughly despondent.
I didn't even like David. It made no sense that I would suddenly be—dammit, I thought. There you go again. Will you cut this shit out! But try as I might, I could not deny the feeling of desire I had for him. It was him I wanted to be in the room with, him I wanted behind me on his knees, him I wanted to look back at over my shoulder. David was turning me on, and I didn't even like him!
Or was that true? Shaking a little, I wrung my hands together and tried to clear my mind. Jack had always been my best friend. I had always figured that, were I to come out, Jack would be the person I would do it to. Not to say he'd be receptive, or even understanding of it; Jack, like his father and his brother, was something of a homophobe. He scared me sometimes with his talk about what he'd like to do to this cocksucker, or that ass-fucker. I always assumed he'd be different with me. Had I been deluding myself? Had I counted on Jack's inflexibility on the subject to keep my closeted, on the straight and narrow, normal? Maybe that's the reason I had always avoided other guys as well as girls. Maybe Jack was the only one I trusted myself to be around. If I was honest with myself—and suddenly, I was, wasn't I, being honest with myself?—hadn't I avoided David all these years because of his open-mindedness, his easy-going nature, his willingness to accept others as they were? Hadn't I unjustly put him down as a stuck-up prick? Well, no, not entirely, I admitted with a laugh. David was stuck-up. Or stuck on himself, a better way of looking at it. Looking at the bathroom door, I wondered, not idly, were I a girl, would I want David for a boyfriend? He opened the door and I looked away.
Both of us, somehow, made it through the first DVD. There were no more beautiful cuckolding wives. There was a plethora of sucking girlfriends, girlfriend's girlfriends, brunettes, redheads, two or three more blondes, but nothing that got David's arousal and my envy up to the same proportions. By the end of the disk, I had lost my hard-on completely. So had David, I think. Handing me disk number two to swap into the player, he quipped wryly: "I don't think you have to worry about any gay episodes here, Josh. You gotta have a hard-on to do anything gay."
I laughed, I couldn't help it. Clumsily, I ejected the first DVD, placed it carefully in the case, and loaded disk number two. I could not stop thinking about all the cocks I'd seen on that first disk, and how none of them had interested me as much as the one I hadn't seen. I wondered if it was big. I wondered if it was straight. I wondered if it was sleek and smooth like the young man's that I had seen midway through, or thickly veined and dangerously purple like the last two cocks had been. Not that I had a reason, but I secretly wished for sleek and smooth. It actually made my heart ache a little that I would never find out.
I put my elbow on my knee, dropped my chin into my palm and sighed. And immediately sat up.
"What's the matter?" David asked. He'd been paying attention to the TV.
"I thought I heard something," I said, covering up. We both looked at the ceiling, David concerned, me befuddled. I had just, exactly like a girl would do, crossed my left leg over my right and put my chin in my cupped palm. And sighed.
After listening a moment, David shrugged and pointed the remote at the player. The movie came on, and it proved to be as mind-numbingly boring and exploitive as the bulk of the first DVD. I never imagined not wanting to see a chick get effed up the asshole. I never imagined not caring whether a guy came in a girl's mouth, or sprayed all over her face. I did enjoy the scene where the guy came in the girl's mouth, enjoyed her placid yet mildly joyful expression as he deposited sperm on her tongue, and got a for-real erection when she opened her mouth and displayed her treasure before swallowing it. That girl I liked, and I'd wished I had let her penetrate my apathy sooner. And then everything changed. We both sat bolt upright.
"Is that... ?" David started.
" ... the girl?" I finished. I couldn't be certain, not with her clothes on, not with the way she had her hair, not with the way she was sucking the guy's cock on her knees, kneeling before the guy, but I would swear it was our cuckolding white Obama supporter.
"Jesus, Josh. I think that's her." He pointed the remote at the TV and the image jumped to twice its size. It didn't help. The resolution, terrible to begin with, diminished to individual, unreadable pixels. Jamming the hold button, he returned the image to its former size.
"I think that's her," he repeated. Both of us had scooted forward to the edge of our seat cushions. I had to believe he was right: the same nose, the same cheekbones, the same high forehead; even her expression was the same: bemused enjoyment. "I think that's her," he said a third time. And then, making me shrink back into my seat, David undid the button atop his fly, unzipped his fly, reached in and took himself out.
I was thoroughly embarrassed. Mortified, I sat there staring, blinking rapidly, trying to convince myself that yes, David was actually sitting ten feet away, masturbating himself.
"David," I croaked.
"I know, I know. I just love this girl, Josh. I have to do it." Hard as I wanted not to look at his cock, I just had to answer my impossible question: Yes, he was sleek and smooth; pink, not purple. And long. Not extraordinarily thick, thank God, because I was imaging myself putting it in my mouth. I was imagining myself on my knees, my head tilted back and my mouth open, frozen in a suck like the girl on the TV screen. Gulping, I sat back in the chair and gripped the armrests with shaking hands.
"You ever had a blowjob, Josh?" he asked.
"No," I had to admit.
"Neither have I. Ever gotten a hand-job?" he asked.
"No," I admitted again. Where were these questions going?
"Me either," he agreed. "God, I'd like to have one now."
He didn't look my way; kept his eyes glued right on the TV screen, but I knew what he meant.
"David," I croaked. "I—"
He cut me off. "I'm not asking you to give me a hand job, Josh. I'm just saying this would be a good time to get a hand-job. Know what I mean?"
I told him yes, this would be an excellent time for a hand-job--not adding that it was he, I'd like to give the hand-job to. Again, I experienced this distinct, eerie, puzzling sensation of being a woman. It was like I had breasts under my shirt, a slit between my legs instead of a package, long hair on my shoulders, lipstick on my lips—I had to battle the urge to suddenly wipe my hand across them—but with a movement, it was gone.
"Maybe I should go," I suggested.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm almost through."
"David," I croaked again.
He began to laugh. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna go spray all over the place. I just mean, I'm almost ready to put myself away." I could see him breathing through his mouth, tipping his head back with a certain jerkiness, see his legs widening and closing jerkily. He was ready to come, no matter what he said. Suddenly, he released himself.
"I don't want to look at her anymore." He jammed his thumb on fast forward and turned our blonde into a blonde blur. "Sorry, man. I don't know what came over me. I really embarrassed you, and I'm sorry."
"No. It's no problem," I said lamely. "Wait a minute." And with incredible stupidness, I unbuttoned my shorts, unzipped my fly, took my ridiculously small cock out of my underwear and began to stroke myself.
It was ten minutes later. David and I had stroked ourselves long enough to get over our initial humiliation, uncertainly, feelings of gay-betrayment, and just plain stupidity, to enjoy what we were doing. It didn't feel natural being out of my pants, but it wasn't horrid, either.
"I never thought I'd do this in front of a guy," David said.
"Me either," I had to admit. To my chagrin, David had twice gandered over to take a look at me. I was pitifully small compared to him, not even six inches. He had to be at least eight inches. I felt entirely inadequate. But as long as he didn't look at me, or bring himself over for a comparison, I was okay. Unfortunately, the DVD was nearing its end.
"Do you have another one?" I asked.
He blinked at me, surprised. "Really?"
"Really," I assured him. I didn't care about stroking myself, but I didn't want to see him put away. It would ruin my fantasizing.
He shook his head in disappointment. "Only the two. Besides," he said, looking at the display on the cable box. "It's after three. The last thing we want is Jack and Jerry catching us doing this." He laughed, and I laughed with him, though it made me cramp inside, even thinking about that. Jack would never let us live it down. Jack would crucify us. Jack might even begin to wonder about me. I began to lose my hard-on.
"I'll tell you what." David put the DVD on pause. "Let's go back to our girl and finish up with her."
"By finish up," I said doubtfully. "Do you mean... ?"
David grinned. "Only if you want to."
I did want to. I told him so. But I also told him that I wasn't going to, not for anything, not in front of another guy. "You can if you want to."
He thought about it. I could tell he was losing his erection, also.
"How about if we did this..." He checked himself, gave himself one of those inward looks where you ask yourself if this is what you really want to do. I already knew what he'd ask. I knew what I'd say if he did ask. What I didn't know was whether I hoped more or feared more that he'd ask it.
"You'd like me to give you a hand-job like I was a girl," I suggested. My face felt like a two-hundred watt light bulb.
"Well, yeah..." he admitted sheepishly. "Not as a guy, not giving another guy a hand-job, not queer-like or anything. But as a friend, letting a guy find out what it would be like if a girl did it. A preview. A trial run. You know how two girls will kiss, practicing for their first kiss with a guy?"
I nodded; I'd seen the same videos on You-Tube.
"I'd be willing to return the favor," he added slowly, though I couldn't tell if his reticence was from distaste at the thought of touching another guy, or fear that he'd insult me by suggesting it. I shook my head.
"Thanks, but not interested. I got no disagreement to doing it to you, though. As a friend, giving it a trial run. I could do that."
"You're sure you don't mind." His doubt was gone. He wanted my hand, maybe even my mouth on his cock. There was no hiding that. He didn't care that I was a guy. He was horny and wanted his horniness taken care of. It didn't matter whom; he just wanted it done. The fact that I was a friend only made it easier for him.
Or did it?
Was it possible, I wondered as I got up and put myself away, that David wanted me, and not just some hand on his cock? Was the only reason he'd taken himself out of his pants, indeed, suggested watching videos in the first place, was that he was interested in me? Wanted me in a way he could get only through coercion or trickery?
Again, for the third time that night, a wave of femininity washed over me. I felt my arms change, my legs and my hips, felt my masculine posture alter subtlety, felt breasts on my chest where none belonged, felt a surge of estrogen rather than testosterone hit my bloodstream. The feeling lasted through four steps, until I'd crossed the distance between the chair and the end of the couch. I saw David's eyes blink, his forehead wrinkle, his mouth purse in bewilderment. For those four steps, for those few seconds transiting between chair and couch, I had been female; David had sensed that. If I was imagining myself a girl, experiencing a girl's sexuality, then I was in serious emotional trouble.
I sat down on the couch, tucked my legs under me and reached out and put my hand around David's cock.
"If you ever," I said, "tell Jack or Jerry what I'm about to do to you, you'll need a cast on both legs, your head, everything on your body. Do I make myself clear, David?"
He grinned and nodded his head.
"Our secret. I promise. I'll never tell anyone."
"You better not," I said. His cock, barely more than limp when I took it in my hand, was hardening rapidly. I squeezed it experimentally, felt it react, got embarrassed about it and held it lightly while he fumbled with the remote. I was intensely aware that my sideways position to him, my legs tucked under me like a girl, the very fact that I had his swollen cock in my hand made me effeminate. I didn't care. There was nothing I could do about it now. I couldn't very well sit next to him and beat him off with my left hand. That would be weird. I couldn't sit on the other side of him, because he was right up against the arm. Regardless, the only way it felt acceptable was in the position I was currently in. It was somehow impersonal, objective, the only position a guy friend might stroke off another guy friend.
The DVD started. Onscreen, our blonde housewife sucked a white cock, presumably that of a white friend, expertly running her mouth up and down the shaft. I began to stroke, doing it experimentally, trying not to feel like a girl while I did it, or worse, a queer. David had his attention on the screen; he was breathing hard, having trouble concentrating, glancing more than he ought to down at my hand. He squirmed, rather uncomfortably.
"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.
He shook his head. "It just feels weird, that's all. You doing it."
"Tell me about it," I whispered. To get my attention off his beautiful cock, I looked at the screen, started to become physically aroused as the girl went completely up and down the man's cock, her head twisting side to side, slowly, slightly, not like a porn star's blowjob, but like a married woman giving a blowjob to a friend. Most likely her husband's friend, while her husband videod her with a camera.
I began to fight my own ragged breathing, my own rocketing blood pressure, my own hard-on straining against my jean shorts--the certainty that masturbating David wasn't the only thing I wanted to do to him. I saw, clearly in my mind's eye, bending down and putting his cock in my mouth. I had begun to move forward, when to both of our horrors, the door at the top of the stairs opened and Mrs. Cullen called down: "David? Are you still awake?"
Frozen in fear, neither of us moved. Gulping, David called back: "Yeah, why?"
"Why? It's quarter to four in the morning, David. Are you staying awake all night?"
David pushed my hand away and scrambled to get himself back in his shorts. Befuddled, I scrambled silently off the couch, tip-toed back to the chair and sat down. I had to rearrange myself; I was out of my underpants. I watched David kill the DVD player even as he hit the mute button on the TV set. Suddenly, Richard Gere and Diane Lane were onscreen, battling a hurricane, trying to stop the house they were in from being swept out to sea. David waved at me to speak up.
"HI, Mrs. Cullen," I said lamely. David threw up his hands in disgust and I angrily mouthed back at him.
"What are you boys doing up?" Mrs. Cullen asked. I could imagine her shaking her head in disgust. Insanely, I wondered what she had on, if it was pajamas covered by a robe, a nightshirt, a flannel nightgown, a negligee or a baby-doll? I couldn't help giggling. David glared at me. I said the first thing that popped into my mind.
"Actually, we're watching porno videos," I said. David's jaw dropped. His eyes bugged out, just like you see in cartoons. He mouthed Are you crazy? even as Mrs. Cullen snorted and exclaimed, "Well, that explains it then. Turn off the TV, David. You're going to bed."
"Mom!" he objected.
"David," she said back. "No arguments. I want you boys asleep in fifteen minutes. I hear another peep out of you, I'm coming down with my switch. Do I make myself clear, David, Joshua, John and Jeremiah?"
David rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Whatever you say, Mom." He motioned me up, and together we dragged the cushions off the couch, tossed them on the floor and pulled out the spring-loaded sleeper. Hearing the coils ping and creak, Mrs. Cullen said: "Good. Now let's get some sleep down there." Quietly, she shut the down and I imagined I heard her pad away in her slippers.
"Good goin, Sherlock," David grumbled.
"It worked, didn't it," I shot back. I stood aside as he clumsily smoothed out the sheets and turned down the covers. I retrieved his pillows from a chair, tossed them to him one at a time. I was keeping my distance. I hadn't recovered from my near-disastrous trip to his cock-head yet. I could taste it in my mouth, feel the warmth and energy, the stuff waiting to shoot out of it. I shuddered, turned and returned to my chair. I was moving like a guy, all traces of my female persona gone. I grabbed my sleeping bag and flipped it open, spread it out on the floor. Five minutes later we both were safe and sound in our respective places. Five minutes after that, the stairwell door opened, Jack and Jerry slipped inside, and we spent the next hour recounting and commenting upon their night on the town. When sleep did come, about six a.m., I dreaded the things I'd dream about. I wasn't disappointed.
The next week was hell. I avoided David like the plague. Finally, Thursday afternoon, he nailed me between English and Trig and forced me outside into the smoker's quad. Smoking wasn't allowed at school, not anywhere on campus, but this was where the last cigarettes had been lit up, more than ten years ago, and it still retained the name.
"Look," he said in an angry whisper. "You got to stop this shit."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said defensively. I backed a discreet two steps away from him. He closed it again, saying, "Look. I understand you being embarrassed and all. The fact that you're embarrassed shows you got nothing to worry about, though, Josh. Trust me."
How do you figure, I wanted to ask. Instead, I simply grunted and backed away two more steps, which he made up on his damned crutches.
"Look," he said for the third time. "If you were doing it on your own, I could understand it. But you weren't. You were doing it for a buddy who was in a seriously messed up way. All you did was demonstrate what a girl would do, given the same circumstances. It's not like you bent over and gave me a blowjob, or nothing."
Was it possible? Had he somehow not gleaned my forward and down motion toward his cock? Did he honestly not understand that I'd been on the verge of doing exactly that, and not as any demonstration of how a girl would do it?
"So what's your point?" I demanded angrily.
He looked at me in surprise.
"My point? My point is that we're friends, and as friends, we don't let things fester until they ruin our friendship. What happened was a non-event. What happened was no-blood, no-foul. Stop beating yourself up over something you didn't do. If anyone should feel guilty, it's me, not you, asshole."
Laughing, I had to agree to that. "You are an asshole," I said. "The biggest one on campus."
The bell rang. "Come on," he said. "Let's get inside. "Jack and Jerry'll think we turned queer for sure."
And they would be right, I thought ruefully, about one of us.