It started when I was 16 years old. David was a few months older than me, and we both attended Martin Luther King High School in Holyoke. It was late May, and school was due out in two weeks. We had summer jobs lined up with David's dad, a landscaping contractor in Holyoke. Since the beginning of April, we'd been working Saturdays and some Sundays.

The day it started was a backbreaker. We both were seriously dragging, me especially, who weighed like 113 lbs sopping wet. I was 4" shorter than David's 5'7" height and he outweighed me by 30 lbs. He got teased a lot about my being his 'girlfriend', though no one actually took that seriously, except for maybe me. I was frustratingly serious about it. I kept any hint of my feelings from David.

On the way home, we fell asleep in Mr. Chaney's Chevy Suburban. We got to the house at 6 o'clock, and dragged ourselves out of the car and up the back steps to the kitchen. I was spending the night, as I had the last three Saturday nights. We took our boots off at the back door and left them outside on the porch. Mrs. Chaney ordered us to touch nothing or go nowhere but straight up to David's room and get out of our dirty clothes. We were not even to sit down on the bed. One look at us would explain why.

"You take Dad's shower," David said wearily. He leaned against his dresser and shrugged out of his jeans and t-shirt while I did the same leaning against his desk. I could fall asleep standing up if I stayed motionless for more than 10 seconds. Down to our boxers, we threw our dirty clothes into the hamper and I wrapped David's spare bathrobe around myself. As always, it was difficult to keep my eyes away from David's bare chest, arms and legs. I was eternally grateful that he did not share my 4th period gym class, so I wasn't subjected to him completely naked. In his boxers and socks was bad enough.

David had brown hair and brown eyes. He was one of the most popular guys in 10th grade, but didn't have a lot of interest in girls. Mostly, he found them irritating. He played football and soccer and especially excelled in softball; he was destined for certain jock-hood. I was undersized, but semi-popular because girls found me irresistible. Guy's shook their heads and rolled their eyes and sighed dramatically the way Justin Bieber's classmates must have in high school. I liked girls, as much as any 16 year old, but I secretly adored David.

I dragged myself down the hall to Mr. And Mrs. Chaney's bathroom, tapped on the door, got no answer and went in and turned on the light. Mr. Chaney was nice enough, but grouped me in the same category as Justin Bieber, tolerating me, though considering me next to worthless as a laborer. The majority of his crew were macho Hispanics who just had a field day with me. I was emasculated every weekend by their veiled innuendoes and crude jokes, and if not for David, I wouldn't have come back after the first day. One had even patted my ass that afternoon, leaving me totally humiliated. The galling part was they were right, at least as far as David went, which curiously, they never intimated. I longed for David and couldn't stop.

I turned on the shower and dropped the robe on the floor and followed it with my shorts. My cock was a pitiful little shrunken thing the size of my thumb. Erect, it was nearly as pitiful, measuring 4-1/2" long, and not much bigger around than my middle finger. David outsized me by a mile. I'd seen him often enough when we took a leak outside to know he was every bit of 6" long when erect, and probably closer to 7" My saving grace was my overall smallness; I'd be humiliated to be David's size with a pencil dick.

Under the spray, dirt run off me in waves, turning the tub bottom gritty and brown. I spent the first few minutes swishing the water with my feet to get it down the drain. Then I shampooed my hair and soaped up every inch of skin I could reach. I even had dirt between my butt cheeks, making my asshole gritty. I had to laugh about that.

David was ridiculously straight, almost homophobic when it came to gays or any kind of questionable behavior. He tolerated me because we were best friends; but he also didn't know what to make of me some times. I feared our days of friendship would end when college got hold of us. The knowledge almost made me cry.

I dried off and wrapped myself up in David's robe again. I fingered my longish hair into place and stood observing myself sourly in the bathroom mirror. I would make a pretty girl, I thought: blond hair and blue eyes, a narrow, attractive face, high cheek bones and forehead, a cutely dimpled chin and a perfect nose. I opened the robe and exposed my effeminate-looking body, slender and narrow-waisted, hips and thighs more like a girl's than a boy's, my chest an 12-year-old's on the verge of sprouting breasts. Something about my pectorals and nipples looked distantly odd, and for the past six months I'd been uncomfortable taking my shirt off in gym or anywhere else in public. I refused to take it off at work and give them something else to joke about. If only I were a girl, I thought. That would solve everything.

In the bedroom I pawed through my bag for fresh boxers and slipped them on under the robe. I could see no way of keeping the robe on without drawing attention, but discreetly turned away from David as I donned my t-shirt and slipped on baggy shorts over my boxers. David had no such difficulty and stayed in his boxers for an uncomfortable length of time before he dressed. To my horror, I began to feel stirrings inside my boxer shorts. This might have been truly humiliating if I wasn't so small, and my boxers and shorts so baggy. David never noticed. Dressed, he lead the way downstairs and Mrs. Chaney fed us dinner.

We crashed in the family room and played Halo and Medal of Honor until nearly midnight, when Mrs. Chaney chased us off to bed.

"You two can barely keep your eyes opened," she said disgustedly. She was in pajamas by then and for modesty's sake had encased herself in a satiny green robe that sparked the fashion bug in me. She also sparked the part of me that controlled my penis and testosterone secreting glands.

Dave's mom was 38, brunette, possessed of an adorable figure and the identical twin of a certain president's wife from the early 1960's. I'd once seen her braless in a loose-fitting tank top and thought I'd go spastic. She'd been careful around me since then, though my reaction must have flattered and pleased her. I was still masculine enough to fantasize about her in bed.

The dream I remembered best was also the weirdest. We were married and Christine was pregnant with puppies. The ultrasound had identified six in her new litter, three males and three bitches. She was sitting opposite me in bed, guiding my hand over her slightly distended belly, locating each and selecting a name for it. This was our fourth litter together and we'd kept all 18 from her previous three, currently asleep on our bedroom floor in doggie beds. Suddenly Christine leaned back and spread her legs to display a stainless steel tube Dr. Singh had inserted into her vagina to protect against the sharp-clawed little devils when they scrambled free. The plastic ring she'd worn previously had not held up well against her 18 newborn pups. The sight of her glistening cervix and the rest of her pink genitals did me in. For months afterward, I couldn't see a puppy without thinking of David's mom.

Banished to the bedroom, we hauled out the air mattress and blew it up with the built-in pump. Mrs. Chaney insisted we make it up like a normal bed and so we wrapped it with a fitted sheet, spread and tucked the flat, and then covered it with a blanket. I fluffed my two pillows while Mom idly shot the breeze with us a few minutes, making me progressively more uncomfortable as I envisioned her without the robe, and then without the pajamas underneath. She'd freak if she had scoped my aching heard on. I hoped there would be no accidents tonight in my shorts.

I'm not sure when I went to sleep. I only knew it was after three when David shook me awake with a hand on the shoulder.

I sat up with a start. "What's the matter?" I asked, looking quickly around the bedroom but seeing nothing wrong in the dim illumination of his nightlight.

"Shhhhhh!" He looked at his bedroom door, listening intently. I listened along with him.

"What's the matter?" I asked again.

He shook his head, continuing to stare at his bedroom door and listen. After a moment, I began to understand this was more because he didn't want to answer me, than about someone overhearing us. I sat up cautiously.

"Is everything all right?" I whispered.

"Everything's fine," he answered uncomfortably. I wondered what was going on with him. Finally, reluctantly, he turned and looked at me in obvious embarrassment.

"It's nothing," he said. "Let's go back to sleep." He settled back to his mattress and turned away, pulling the covers tight around his chin.

What the hell's this about, I wondered?

"David... ?"

He grunted.

"Why did you wake me up?"

"Just go back to sleep, Michael."

Puzzled, I sat there and bit my lower lip, wondering what to do. Obviously, he was upset about something. Did this have to do with the ribbing I took all day? David had stood by and let it happen, and if that's what it was, I wanted it out of the way before it caused problems.

"It won't go on for ever, you know. Sooner or later they'll loose interest and find someone else to pick on."

He raised his head and cocked it in a manner that said, What are you talking about?

"The guys at work," I clarified. "Giving me a hard time. Alluding that I'm gay." I laughed. "At least they haven't asked if I was your girlfriend. They know better than involve you, I guess."

He turned over and regarded me with his eyebrows in a deep V, his lips pursed in disapproval. "I'd like to smack those fuckers. Their cuts are plain mean-spirited sometimes. You can't help looking like you do. And you don't act gay, Michael, so fuck those bastards. Next week I'll flatten the first one that opens his mouth."

I laughed softly again. "Right. That'll prove I'm not your girlfriend. Defending my honor."

He scowled deeper. "Will you stop saying that. You are not my girlfriend. Bad enough hearing it from other people without hearing it from you too. Now go to sleep, will ya?" He turned over and yanked up the covers again. I sat there and stared at him.

"I probably shouldn't not go with you any more," I muttered, hurt. He raised his head again. "I'll just cause you trouble. You don't need to get on the bad side of those bums."

He turned over again, and pushed up on his elbow. "You're my best friend, and I already deserted you three times now. I shoulda stepped it that first day. I just ... fuck," he said angrily. "Defending you woulda done exactly what you said it would."

"Telling them I'm gay."

"Are you gay?" he asked angrily. "I mean, it's OK if you are. I just ... I just don't want to embarrass you by asking."

I sat looking at him, considering the question. I was not gay. My interest in guys was almost zero. My obsession was David, not guys. I longed to be his girlfriend. Unfortunately.

"What did you want to ask me when you woke me up, David? That?"

He looked away, embarrassed. "Sort of, yeah."

I was confused. "What exactly?" I pressed.

Now he looked really embarrassed. "You'll get mad."

"Why would I get mad?"

"Believe me, you would."

I looked at him, brow furrowed, totally clueless, which shows how dumb I was, because the answer was totally obvious. In retrospect, at least.

"Are you asking if I ever... ?" I cocked my head, unable to say it out loud.

David worked his jaw wordlessly for a moment, before saying slowly, "More like, do you want to?"

"To who?" I asked, mystified. He thought I wanted to be with somebody other than him? "Thanks," I muttered crossly. "That makes me feel good."

He blinked, perplexed and frustrated. "What are you talking about, Michael? I'm talking about me. You and me, damn it."

I stared at him blankly. Then I opened my mouth, and closed it again. "Are you asking if I ... I want to, with you?"

"Yes."

I snorted, dispirited. "That sounds great. Asking me to blow you? That settles if I'm gay or not, right?"

He looked away, pained. "That's not what I meant. I'm just asking if you'd like to."

I laughed again. "That's still asking me to declare myself gay. If you ask, at least then I could say I was doing it for my friend, because he wanted me to. Because he likes me enough to want me to do something really intimate to him. You're-"

"I can't!" he hissed. "How can I ask my best friend to blow me?"

I sat silent a moment. "Would you like me to?"

He ground his teeth again.

"If you're asking me to, then say so. If you're not, then there's nothing to talk about and we can just go back to sleep."

He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, which kind of freaked me because that was exactly how he'd have to be for me to blow him. "You see why I didn't ask you before," he growled. "I can't ask my best friend to suck my cock, and you can't ask me yourself. So we should just go back to sleep. I have to go pee first," he muttered angrily.

I put a hand on his knee to stop him. You should have seen him jump. "I can't ask," I said softly, putting my hand back in my lap. "If you ask me to, I will. I think that pretty much answers the question if I will or not. But I can't tell you I want to without you asking me first." I shook my head, not quite sure what I'd said and if it even made sense. He laughed, frustrated and went to the bathroom. When he came back, I went myself. He was sitting on his bed when I returned, bent over, elbows on his knees and his hands clasped loosely between them. I sat down in front of him.

"Ask me and I will," I said softly. "Otherwise, I'm going to bed."

He shook his head and I laid down.

He swung his legs into the bed and covered up. "We got to forget this conversation ever took place, Michael. Otherwise we're gonna have problems." He turned away and pulled the covers up around his neck. "I apologize for my stupidity. It won't ever happen again. You have my word of honor on it."

I almost laughed in frustration. I didn't want his word of honor. I wanted him to ask me. I wanted his cock in my mouth and I wanted to cry.

I drifted off, had a vivid dream and awoke with a start at 4:20 AM. My cock ached and was right on the verge of exploding in my pants. I grabbed it gently and told it to calm the hell down, and thought about piles of rock until the danger passed. Then I pushed up on my elbow and gazed at David's back. Fuck this, I thought. Raising up, I grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently.

"David... ?"

He raised his head, grunting, "What?"

"Sit up," I whispered.

He turned over and propped up on his elbow. "I thought we were done with this shit, Michael."

I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder and urged him to sit up. He did, and I got on my knees and settled back on my calves right between his legs.

"What are you doing?" he asked, alarmed.

"I don't care if you ask me or not. I'm volunteering to give you a blow job. If that makes me gay, then I'm gay." I reached up and he immediately grabbed my wrists.

"Hold on," he hissed.

I looked at him, frustrated. "Do you want me to or not?"

He vacillated. "Yes, but Michael, you're my best friend. Doing this could be the worst thing we could ever do. I'm already eaten up with guilt that I started this shit in the first place. How do you think I'll feel in the morning if you do? How will you feel?"

I knew exactly how I'd feel: Mortified. Just knowing I'd tried, that I'd admitted wanting his cock in my mouth, the most intimate thing a guy could do to another guy--and I believed that even over kissing, or engaging in anal sex; the only intimacy I thought could be greater would be to be in bed together, wrapped in each other's arms, making out like boyfriend and girlfriend. I shuddered, imagining that

David released my hands and they dropped into my lap. The moment had come and gone. Doubt and anxiety took it's place. My erection began to wilt, and my happiness along with it. My shoulders slumped and I sat staring at nothing. Then David said, "Uh, oh," and swung his feet back into bed and I hurriedly laid down and yanked the covers up to my neck. The exhaust fan in the Chaney's bathroom was on, which meant someone was up taking a pee. I looked at the clock: 4:35 AM. To early for Mr. Chaney: not on a Sunday morning. We didn't start work on Sunday's until 9 o'clock.

We settled in and a few minutes later the door pushed open and Mrs. Chaney stuck her head in and looked around. She was in her pajamas, which consisted of a light grey tank top and baggy belted pajama bottoms, a thoroughly alluring look. I shivered at the soft bumps of her breasts in the material, and the vague outline of her small nipples. I imagined her pregnant with my litter of puppies and almost groaned. She'd be adorable in maternity clothes, I thought. After a moment she eased the door closed again and returned to her bedroom. I envied and hated Mr. Chaney right then...

He gave it two minutes and then David rolled over and propped up on an elbow. "There's no way," he whispered, as though any chance existed of it happening now. "Let's see how it goes this week. If we can get past what almost happened tonight, I think we'll be okay. You agree?"

I nodded, lying. David was a lot more conflicted about this than I; ironic, considering it wasn't his mouth that almost ended up full of cock. He turned over and went to sleep while I laid there in bitter disillusionment.

Things were strained the minute we got up. David wore a brave face, pretended nothing was wrong and feigned good cheer all day long. Our Hispanic coworkers scoped the tension between us and left me alone for once, an act I was doubly grateful for because David would make a scene on my behalf to assuage his guilt; I wanted nothing to do with that.

Mr. Chaney was perplexed, but this was not something you could ask about. David and I talked normally enough, and worked together the way we always did, and I wondered if I wasn't imagining the whole thing, that David really was okay with what had happened last night, and all this was just guilt on my part. I convinced myself of that for a while. But on the drive home, he put his head against the window and pretended to sleep. Pretended, I say, because the night before we had fought like crazy to keep our eyes open, and yesterday was a hell of a lot harder. Following his example, I laid against the headrest and closed my eyes and let me head loll back and forth the entire way home. It was a very quiet ride.

Monday, he wasn't in school. We pulled up to his stop half a mile from my house and David was not among the students waiting to board the bus. Something like panic grabbed and shook me in place for a moment before standing back, looking me over carefully and deciding I wasn't that far gone yet. I told myself this was just David needing to get a grip on himself. I understood that perfectly. I needed to get a grip also.

I left him alone, not calling and not texting. In the morning, David wad there, and to his credit--and my embarrassment--sat down beside me and immediately exploded into a hacking, hoarse cough. "Fucking cold," he grumbled. "How you doing this morning?"

I nodded, completely ashamed of myself. He sounded like Nick Nolte back in the days of his gravel-voice problem. "You sound horrible, man," I said.

"You should feel my throat. It's like someone poured a can of nuts and bolts down it." He coughed again and the girls around us giggled and recoiled reflexively, exactly what I wanted to do. Had this been coming on Sunday night, I wondered? Did this explain his falling asleep in the car and picking at his dinner like an anorexic? Jesus, if so, then I really felt ashamed of myself.

But as the day wore on, the standoffishness reasserted itself and David became my imitation best friend. Instead of inviting me over or staying on the bus to get off with me, he begged off, saying he needed the afternoon to rest. The problem was he obviously felt better by then. I nodded and told him to feel better.

Wednesday, he still had his cough but he no longer sounded like Nick Nolte on Marlboro's. His spirits were good and we joked around just like normal on the bus. But squeamishness lay just below the surface and the few times I touched him, whether accidentally or not, he immediately stiffened or leaned away, covering it with some stupid joke. There was no plan to talk things out, or even to bring up the subject, I knew. It would continue to sit there, a boulder in the road, impossible to get by.

On the way home, he made it clear I wasn't getting off at his bus stop and he wasn't continuing on to mine. In his defense, it wasn't written in stone that we spent our afternoons together every day. We did it only twice a week so, but there had never been a resistance before. No hesitation.

Thursday was bad. He had made no mention of the upcoming weekend and any plans we had of working with his dad. I tried to remember when we went over this last week, and was pretty sure it was Wednesday or Thursday. So when 2:30 rolled around and he still hadn't brought up the subject, I knew I wouldn't be around this weekend.

Friday, I drew malicious pleasure in acting cool as iceberg lettuce. I let nothing bother me and faced the world with a radiant smile and enormous good cheer. I realized people had started to talk about me. I acted mystified. "Really?" I asked. "I had no idea I was acting strange."

I joined David on the bus and traded jokes with everyone around us. I was the normal Michael again. Even David seemed relieved. He could ease me out of his life now, guilt free. No one stays friends forever, right? I bid him goodbye at his stop with a "See you Monday morning, dude!" and began chatting with Kerrie Fletcher in the row ahead. I swear to God, I thought she had a crush on me. A new best friend?

At my stop, three others got off and I walked with Tim Boucher as far as his house and then continued on to mine, wanting to scream at the top of my lungs. In the house I intended to grab a pillow off the couch and do just that. And then I planned to hurl something heavy and breakable against the wall and kick something else across the room. Fuck David Chaney! Fuck his goddamned obsession with my sexual orientation. If he'd just left well enough alone and let me sleep last Sunday morning instead of fantasizing about getting a goddamned blowjob...

I jumped at the approach of running shoes, shrinking away, unsure what was going on, afraid some gay-basher planned to stomp the shit out of me right here. It was David

"You fucker!" he panted angrily. "You never once asked me about this weekend."

I stared at him in shock. "What?'

"This weekend. You never once asked if we were working. You just wrote us the fuck off? Thanks a lot, fucker."

I stepped back, appalled. "You're blaming me? Is that what you're doing?" I hit him in the chest with my fist. It rocked him back, though it didn't make him lose his footing. Stunned, he gaped as I spun on my heel and headed for the house as fast as I could, absolutely seething. Then I staggered forward with a cry as he slapped me hard on my shoulder. I would have gone down, had he not caught me and yanked me upright. He immediately stood back, shaking with rage. I gaped at him, stunned.

"You really are blaming me," I said. "Aren't you?" Tears filled my eyes and he blinked in surprise and consternation. I turned and headed away again. This time he caught up and walked alongside me.

"Leave me alone," I wailed, fighting tears with every once of my being. I would not let myself cry on the street. Anyone watching would know exactly what was happening here: David's girlfriend was having a hissy fit.

He backed off his earlier accusation. "I'm not blaming anyone. You just usually ask me about the weekend on Tuesday or Wednesday and I ask my dad. You didn't, so I thought that-"

I stopped again. "I never asked you?" I hissed. "You always ask me! And I ask my mom if it's OK and she says yes or no and you set it up with your dad. That's how it works, David!" I jabbed my finger in his chest, right where I'd hit him before and he winced. I stepped back, grabbing the strap of my backpack with both hands. "I didn't mean to hurt you, sorry."

He laughed. "A pansy like you? Get away from me," he said, adding quickly "No, no, I meant it in the normal way. Don't take offense, Michael."

I leaned in close. "Normal was before I tried to give you the blowjob we didn't talk about all week." I turned, and walked away again, realizing how absolutely like a girl I was acting. I'd even punched him like a girl. Insanely, I wanted to grab his shirt and yank him to me and kiss him right there on the sidewalk. That would go over well with the neighbors. He caught up with me again.

"We can talk about it now."

"I wanted to talk all week."

"Then why didn't you, Michael?"

I stopped and faced him again. "What planet are you from, David?" I walked off again.

He laughed, frustrated and peeved. "OK. Maybe I was a little pig-headed this week. OK?"

I stopped again and laughed. I wanted so badly to slap his face and so badly to kiss him. The needs warred insanely in my mind and I did neither. So I walked again.

"You might as well be my girlfriend," he said gruffly, catching up. "You're certainly acting like one."

That stopped me in my tracks, again. Panting, I gripped the strap of my backpack and said through clenched teeth: "I want to be your girlfriend, David. But I'm a boy, so I can't." Instead of walking away, I stood and faced him belligerently. He stared back at me, not stunned, more like angrily resigned.

"I wish I had let you do it Saturday night. It would be all over then. No more, coulda, woulda, shoulda." He ground his teeth for a moment. "Tomorrow night, in my bedroom, as my girlfriend, you're giving me a blowjob."

My heart trip hammered. "What?"

"Tomorrow night, in my bedroom, as my girlfriend, you're giving me a blowjob," he repeated harshly.

I began to blush, wildly.

"I don't believe this," I complained. "You're passing up a totally safe opportunity in my bedroom right now for tomorrow night?" I wanted to stamp my foot, and might have, if I were standing up instead of sitting on my front steps.

David chuckled. "I don't want to be in your bedroom the first time. I want it to be where it was supposed to happen: on the edge of my mattress with you sitting between my legs."

I laughed in dismay. "A romantic now, are you? Since when? And what do you mean, 'where it was supposed to happen'? Since when was I supposed to give you a blow job, David?"

He looked around. "Will you please keep your voice down?"

I blushed, looking around myself, realizing how loud I had just said that.

"There's something else I want to talk about anyway," he said.

I looked away, blushing because I knew what that something else was. "I don't want to talk about it," I muttered.

He laughed, making me blush even harder.

"I know it embarrasses you, but we need to talk about it."

"Why?" I asked peevishly.

"Because you're voice was at least an octave higher out there on the sidewalk."

"I was stressed," I objected fretfully.

"Since when does stress make your voice higher? Cracking I can understand, but talking?" He arched his eyebrows doubtfully. "I was talking to a girl out there. I wasn't, before I confronted you."

I shook my head in denial. "I don't know what you're talking about, David. You're imagining things. You were stressed too."

He sighed. "Whatever you say, Michael. It's not something to be embarrassed about."

I snorted. "You figure? I'm not just gay, but I'm secretly a girl? Or a total fag, acting like a girl? I am so insulted, thank you."