The Boyfriend

Chapter 1: Love Story

We sat there in the dark, staring at a movie that bored me to tears
and I couldn't even bitch about that because I had picked it. That's
the worst part of being out on a date, when you pick the wrong thing
and you can't stand it after awhile, you have to live with it. And
from what I could see Jamie was actually enjoying it so I didn't want
to just lean over to him and say let's get out of here. If you've ever
seen "Unbreakable", you know what I mean. In the TV ads they made it
sound like another "Sixth Sense," but this story line was so bad it
couldn't be hawked as a cheap comic book to a ten year old. I mean how
lame does it get? Security Guard becomes Super Hero. Bruce Willis as a
guy who gives up a career in pro sports for love. Right. Like Bruce
Willis could give a damn about anything besides himself. Calls for
more acting ability than he'll ever have to bring that off.

But I’d picked the movie, so Jamie went along with it, just like he
always does. Jamie goes along with almost everything I say, anyway.
Jamie always gives in to what I want. Sometimes I think it’s because
he's too damn dumb to come up with anything by himself.

No, that's not fair. Jamie isn't dumb. He's not the quickest guy in
the world sometimes, but he isn't dumb even though a lot of people get
that idea. He's 6'2" and weighs almost 200lbs, and none of it fat,
either---we’re talking solid guy here. Ever see one of those Marine
recruiting posters? That's Jamie. Square jawed, rock solid,
all-American boy. Well, except for the earrings, but he only wears two
at a time. His hair is the blondest you could find without a hair dye
and his eyes are the clearest, hardest blue this side of the polar
sky. He's 18, and a senior in high school, same as me. Not in the
highest jock group, but a jock anyway – just second string football,
though. He'll smile at you and just tell you that he doesn't have the
killer instinct to make the first squad, and that’s the truth. He’s
gentle, soft spoken, and generous. He’s that guy you always heard
about who’d give you the shirt off his back. In spite of his size, he
was never the bullying or intimidating kind. The chicks at school
worship him, but they all think he’s just too shy for his own good
because he never dates. Even my older sister, Donna, said she'd drag
him in back of the stadium and do him, and the one thing her
soon-to-be-ex-husband and I ever agreed on was she had the sex drive
of a seventy year old nun.

The girls laid in wait for him, but he just smiled and eased out of
it, playing the big, good-hearted dufus, too slow to pick up on what
they were after. Or rather, what they wanted to give him. See, Jamie’s
got a big secret, and that’s me. Jamie likes his boys… and right then,
I was his boy. I’m not his first. Sometimes I prayed to God I’m not
his last. That night was one of those times.

Now, with all this going for him, you'd think I have to be some kind
of knockout myself, right?

Erm, not quite. I'm 5'6", kind of blah light brown hair, and I’ve got
that pale, yellowy-brown eye color my mother calls hazel. Soaking wet,
I weigh maybe 118lbs (yeah, I make a note about every one of them). My
Adam's apple is big and my nose, well, maybe it’s a bit on the long
side. Large mouth, too, and in more ways than one, but I do have a
great smile if I have to give myself points for something. I'm no
beastie, but I'm really not much above ordinary. I’m un-athletic to
the point of being a wuss, and smart enough to almost get myself into
the nerd category at school. Oh, I'm fit enough mind you; I like to
run, but I’d be a lousy candidate for the track team – I'm too short
for the sprints, and my long-distance pace keeps me tight, but it’s
never gonna get me any trophies. I just run for the sheer hell of it.
It keeps me lean, and tight. It also keeps me from bulking up much so
a lot of people think I'm like 15, even if I am 18. I'm good with a
one-liner, so a lot of people like having me around, and that keeps me
on the right side of the nerd line. Still...

Unlikely couple, right?

Not really. See, in our school neither of us knew with any certainty
if there are more than two gay guys -- in other words, us. At least in
the beginning. The odds were in our favor that there are more, but
right then we only knew about each other, so I guess you could say we
fell in together by default. Lack of alternatives made us boy friends.

Looking back, of course, I could make this big BS story about how we
found each other in a sea of teenage despair, longing, and loneliness…
two lost, kindred souls seeking each other out and falling madly in
love.

Yeah, right. I wish.

I've read all those stories up on the Nifty Archive, and I soak ‘em up
every chance I get because there's this big, mushy romantic in me. I
really wanted that first scary, stolen kiss; that big scene where we
look into each other’s eyes and tell each other how much we have
secretly yearned for one another for all these many years; where we
kiss and hear the choir and see the fireworks, when we both decide
it’s to be us against the straight world, forever.

But the reality was more like… well, read it here.

God, that whole thing was such a mess, more from the stroke story
section than Teen Love Stories.... * * * * *

It was August, the summer of 2000 fading fast, and even though the sun
had slipped down, the sky was still way too bright for me when I slid
my Tercel into the Route 3 rest area and grabbed the first spot I
could.

I'd heard about the place in jokes, and even checked it out on-line at
a cruising site. Huh. A cruising site for cruising sites. Kewl, huh?
I'd been scouting it out during broad daylight since June, and been
telling myself that I was going to give it a try. And here it was,
just two weeks before Labor Day and the start of my senior year, and I
still didn't have the balls to go in.

I’d decided back in June that this was going to be the summer that I
did It. The big It, the one every teenage boy, straight or gay, yearns
for, fantasizes about, lies about. This was going to be the summer I
got laid. I had a driver's license, access to a car, trusting parents
who went away a lot, an older sister who’d gotten married and moved
out, and a job to finance my cruising. It was a great job, too. I’d
managed to get a spot at Borders' Books up at The Loop, the new
shopping center. Now, I know that working at a book store doesn't
sound all that cool, but Border's also has a great music section (can
you say discount on CDs?), a small but trendy clothing section (ok,
accessories and caps, but the stuff is way cooler than what you
usually see), and a reputation for a great gay magazine and literary
section. That meant plenty of gay guys, right? And some of them had to
be young; maybe not as young as me, but close enough. Besides, I was
eighteen. Why couldn't I hook up with some kewl college stud that
dropped by for the latest issue of Advocate or Genre? It was an
option, and I’d decided this summer I was going to explore all my
options. Borders' was one step in my master plan of Getting Laid.

My schedule would be a mix of days and evenings; and I figured, if I
had a day shift, I could use the time in the evening to hit the mall
up in Salem, NH, and do a little looking around there. An evening
shift gave me time to hit the beaches in Salisbury or Hampton, and I
had a modest selection of immodest Speedos to attract attention. I may
be short and slender (jeez, that DOES sound better than skinny), but
I’m tight, and my running had given me a great set of legs and a
pretty good ass. I filled the front nicely too; I'm no monster down
there, but there’s plenty to fill one of those snug little pouches.
Besides, I love the beach. Short and skinny yes, but at least I'm one
of those guys that actually bronzes nice with only a mild sunscreen,
and my normally dull light brown hair gets these wild NATURAL golden
high lights running through it. So each day, I combed the beach,
hanging out at the State Reservation Pavilion (I’d been hearing rumors
about that place since I was old enough to know what sex was) and
checking out the Black Rocks Barrier that protected the mouth of the
non-existent harbor of the Merrimack River. I spent hours sunning
myself in those tight little suits, trying to look sexy. I guess I did
to a degree, because I always had chicks moving in on me. The
attention was nice but the gender was the wrong one for me, and I
wondered where all the gay men were that supposedly came here looking
for young guys. If they were there, they didn't seem to notice me
much. The best I ever got was in invite for some pick-up volleyball.
Aside from that about the only male attention I got was from Officer
Paul Cayman, who after seeing me three days a week for the month of
July sort of wandered over to me one afternoon.

“Go easy, kid.”

I tried to look startled and younger. Natural reaction for a student.
"Huh?"

"Just a word of warning---go easy,” he said in a low tone. “If you're
selling, move on. If you're giving it away, that's cool, just don't
get caught. If you do, I promise you the lock-up, and a call to your
parents."

I know I turned red, and I started to protest, but he just turned and
walked off. I did notice he had a great ass. Wasn't that old, either.
Probably a summer cop, some college guy picking up some bucks and
college credits in criminal justice by protecting the summer
sun-people of the Massachusetts beaches. I took his word to heart
though, and spent some extra time up in Hampton. There were a lot of
guys up that way, too. But every now and again I'd still go to
Salisbury... hoping... and avoiding Officer Cayman.

The Mall at Rockingham Park in Salem, NH, also became one of my
favorite areas. How many stories had I read about pickups at malls?
You dressed cool, shopped, hung out on the benches or played in the
arcade and sooner or later some hot stud dripping with sincerity and
honesty moves on you and the two of you head off to his place. To be
honest, this one guy did check me out every time I went. He was about
fifty, had a face that looked like he’d been walloped not with the
ugly stick, but actually had the whole forest land on him. He was damn
nice though, and while he never got insistent about anything or made a
nuisance of himself, you got the idea that he’d be more than happy to
help a young guy out. Then he'd be off, and every now and then he’d
see me and just say hi and stop for a couple minutes of casual
conversation before moving off. He never hinted at sex. Sometimes I
kept an eye on him to see who else he spoke to, but he ran one of
those booths selling cheap jewelry and gaudy paintings so he knew
pretty much everyone. I suppose if I had just asked, he would have
steered me the right way, but I never did.

A couple of times I did sense some eye contact and flirting from a
distance from other directions, and those few times damn if I didn't
suddenly start running into almost everyone I knew. Timing was all. My
timing seemed to truly suck.

Well, my three-pronged assault on losing my virginity seemed to
fizzle. I saw a lot of copies of gay magazines and novels passing over
the counter, but generally they were either too old or just plain not
interested in a kid. Most of them would stare at the counter while I
rang up the sale like I didn't exist, or maybe they were hoping they
didn't. The only bright spots were my manager Karen (well, one of the
assistant managers really), who had to be the funniest chick I ever
met, and Dave Sciuoto. I knew Dave a little from school. He was a
good-looking guy with black hair and eyes almost as dark. He was short
but still taller than me, and a similar slender build but it all
seemed to go together a lot different with him. He had one of those
bodies that clothes hung on just right, whether they came from Macy’s
or Wall-Mart. His features were fine and even, and everything
registered on his expressive face. You always knew what kind of mood
Dave was in, and it was usually a good one. Not that he was that
annoying type of “sees some good in everything”, but he was really a
great guy. He had a stunner of a smile, exposing teeth that would
never need an orthodontist, and an even better laugh. He was Italian
(like Sciuoto could be anything else, right?) with that slightly olive
skin. Years of middle school and high school gym classes and showers
told me he was almost hairless, way different from the other Italian
kids in the school who were already turning into hair rugs (oh and
hey, I know what you're thinking, and yeah, I DO look around in the
locker room and I admit it. And I've caught more than one other
straight(?) kid checking to see how he compares. Difference between
them and me is, they don't have to give the cold water an extra twist
in the shower).


Dave also had something else that was terrific. Remember that Kodak
commercial awhile back, the one where they're passing around some
cheap camera, and one of the girls snaps a picture of this dude's VERY
nice ass just before the teacher grabs it? Well, that's what Dave's
ass looked like. I mean, it was the perfect picture of young male
ass-hood, and that perfection was how Karen picked up on me being gay.
She must have caught me checking it more than once, but never really
said anything. But one day I was going over some order lists at the
main counter and Dave was working on a display, bent over and just a
few feet away. I must have had that dazed look I sometimes get when
I’m miles away from reality. She saw me, and busted me for it. After
that she busted something else on me every chance she got, but she
never said a word to anyone else, especially Dave. She even admired my
taste.

"Ask him out,” she said, looking over her narrow, black-rimmed
glasses.

"Huh?"

She shook her head, dealing with a slow child. "I said 'Ask him out.'
What have you got to lose?"

My mouth got very small and my eyes very wide "You mean Dave's..."

Karen shrugged. "I have no idea, but what the hell? He's cute. He’s
nice. What have you got to lose?"

I slumped down and looked up at her. "How long have you been out of
high school, Karen?"

She didn't answer of course, just narrowed her eyes some and gave me
That Look women use when their age comes up. The question is not an
appropriate one. "Ok,” I said nervously. “Try and think way, WAY back
when. What happened to the gay kid when you went to school?"

She did that Dana Scully thing with her lips and paused, but only
briefly. "He got the shit kicked out of him,” she said with a sigh.

I nodded. "I go to school with Dave, Karen. He might very well be like
me, but if he isn't, I go back this September and he drops the 'g'
word, I spend nine months in hell."

"Massachusetts has laws, Chris,” she said, trying to sound
encouraging. “School's are safe havens for gay youth."

"They have laws against criminal assault when you were my age?"

"......"

I nodded. "Thought so. And make no mistake about it Karen, a teacher
or guidance counselor can still use the term 'gay youth' and make it
sound like 'fuckin’ faggot.'"

She sighed, scowling some. "Some things never change. I guess high
school still sucks."

I leaned forward on the counter and sighed my agreement. She rubbed
the back of my neck, and her voice had that low, soothing sound some
people can do so well. "Your time will come, Chris. You're cute, and
cool, and nice. One day, if you play your cards right, it will come."

My wise-ass gene broke in, of course. "Oh, it comes all right. It's
just my right hand is getting worn out playing solitaire."

She laughed, and swatted me across the butt. "There's a new shipment
loaded with stuff for the Gay Studies and Literature section, and I
saw this really hot looking pair of college boys browsing over there a
few minutes ago. Why don't you go over and do some stock?"

My eyebrows shot up.

"Just remember though, take 'em into the back room for the orgy, ok?
That's new carpeting over there, and I don't want stains all over
everything.

I was very mature, and stuck my tongue out at her.

"And Chris? You’re right. Dave's IS great," she said, and took my
place leaning on the counter, pretending to go over the order sheets
while Dave was still bent over his display. I sniggered as I went off
and busied myself unpacking a box of stuff while the two college guys
looked everything over excluding me, I think, but all they did was
giggle once or twice and they left.

And that's where things stood all that summer -- me looking and
wishing, hanging out and peeking, and day-dreaming about Dave
Sciuoto's backside. Then one Friday I just couldn't take it any more.
I’d been toting a half-rock inside my Dockers all day at work, and
about an hour before my shift ended I decided I was going to do more
than just hang at the mall, or wander aimlessly around Hampton that
night. My parents were going away for the weekend, and I was going to
be on my own. I had the perfect situation going for me if I could just
find someone else to share it with. I knew this time my hand and the
few improvised "toys" I’d acquired were not going to cut it tonight. I
at least had to try something different, or I was going to go out of
my mind. Thank God Dave was off that day or I would’ve probably made a
move on him in the stock room.

I raced home in my beat up Tercel and threw my clothes off as I made
my way to the upstairs, headed for the shower which I immediately
cranked up to cold hoping to take the edge off things. It worked for a
while, but after slipping on a pair of shorts, a tee, and some flip
flops, I could feel it stirring again by the time I got down to the
kitchen. I had half a bologna sandwich thrown together when I just
said, "screw this" and hoped I’d remembered to lock the door when I
came in. I prayed my parents hadn't suddenly made a U-turn on the
highway today. My man business didn't take long. * * * * *

So, here we are again. The August sun had finally gone down and it was
gradually beginning to darken, and I was sitting in a rest area on
Route 3. It's one of the old style ones, a sharp ramp off the highway,
and plenty of woods around it. Picnic tables and a big map, but no
"facilities" as they call them, except for a quick step-off to the
side behind some trees. It's Friday evening, and the highway itself is
packed with vacation travelers headed for the mountains of New
Hampshire and shoppers for the "bargains" in the no-sales-tax state,
just prices that’re 5-10% higher than these same people would have
paid in Massachusetts. I sat in the car, the woods blocking the sight
and a lot of the sounds of the rushing motorway and looked around me.
It was just that hour I guess they call twilight, when the shadows
begin and things start becoming a little less distinct. There were
half a dozen cars in here already, including my own. One guy, who was
maybe forty, was walking up and down the cracked asphalt sidewalk,
looking each car over and presumably the occupant as well. Oh, yeah,
occupant, as in singular. According to the website that led me here,
this rest area was one of the crusiest spots in northern Middlesex
County. I don't know how they polled it, but they guaranteed that 90%
of those stopping would be gay men looking for.... companionship.
Sounded good to me. I was tired of being in the minority every place I
went. Anyways, the old dude was checking things out and taking his
time about it. Eventually it was my turn --- I’d taken the first spot
I saw when I came in, just off the ramp. That way I figured I could
keep a better eye on things.

The old guy paused, looking directly at me, and smiled.

I froze in my seat with my head aimed straight ahead, shaking a bit
and desperate not to show it. Shit, what if he starts to hit on me?
What was I going to say? Yeah, I thought I might be approached by some
older guys, but somehow when I thought of ‘older’ I pictured some guy
in his twenties, not someone almost my dad's age. I mean, he wasn't
bad to look at really, no gut or anything and he was dressed nice and
all. But DAMN, I didn't want my first time to be with someone who
COULD have been the father of one of my friends. I mean, bisexuality
exists, right? The potential was there. If I had to meet a bi guy, I'd
just rather he was out of the daddy-danger-zone.