Best Gay Romance 2013 (14 page)

He reached out, grabbing my hand. “No! Please don't.” He squeezed my hand hard.

“What do you want me to do?” I climbed up and sat on the edge of his bed.

After a painful silence, he whispered, “Show me you care.”

Just like so many times over the last eight months, I laid my hands on him, marveling at his satiny skin, pressing my fingers into the lithe muscles of his shoulders. I rubbed his back, and he moaned softly. My long fingers crept up his neck to tangle in his dirty-blond hair—it was longer than regulation and needed a trim. I massaged his scalp. Lowering my lips to the small of his back, I kissed around the red, inflamed skin, a crawling sense of dread nibbling at my mind. Dark thoughts invaded me, gray worries of the unknown scudded across my mind like clouds before the moon. Usually, I was breathless with wonder as I reveled in the sensations of his body, awash in a mixture of fear and joy, that stomach-fluttering feeling when you stand on the diving board, before surrendering to the cool breeze and the water that swallows you up.

My hands came to join my lips at his waist. Before I massaged his gorgeous butt, he winced. “Not there—not…tonight.”

Sitting upright, I wiped his forehead. “Tell me what happened.” I kissed his cheek, nuzzling at him, loving the softness of his day's growth of beard.

“Not yet,” he breathed. “Love me everywhere, but not there tonight. Just love me, Jake.”

Still dreading the silent unknown, yet moved by the aching
need in his voice, I took him in my arms and picked him up from the bed. Cradled like a baby, he clung to my neck and shoulders, embracing me as tightly as he could. We kissed, our mouths open, panting into each other. We drank from the saliva we exchanged; our tongues dueled for supremacy.

Breaking from the kiss, I licked at him, running my tongue over his lips, his chin, tasting the salt on his tear-stained cheeks. With pursed lips I pecked his cheekbones and eyebrows, blew cool air on his closed eyelids. I covered his nose with kisses, lapping at the bridge, his nostrils, again tasting the saltiness of his pain.

My passion increased as I worshipped him, fired by the feel of soft skin covering solid muscle. Entranced, I bit his neck, licked his shoulders and swallowed up each of his nipples. Straining my back and biceps, I covered his chest and belly with wet, hungry kisses; then lowered my mouth to his erect cock.

“Oh,
yeah!
” Charley gripped my hair. “Eat me up, man, eat me alive.”

I sucked at his swollen cock head, swirling the tip of my tongue around the slit and nipping at the curve, clean cut around the edges. He bucked his eight-inch cock against my face, begging with his body to fuck my mouth. I'd become a pretty good cocksucker in the last eight months. Having had only fantasies, I had been inexperienced, but my slightly more experienced roommate had proven to be an excellent teacher.

“Put me down, Jake. I don't want you to hurt yourself.” I obeyed, lowering him to the floor. Charley leaned against our dresser, spreading his thighs with a wince. His pale cock stood tall, curving out from his sandy bush. Grabbing his sinewy legs, I dove for his crotch, taking him in with every gulp of air I inhaled. Charley withdrew to some place in his head, arms behind his back, legs spread. Once he stroked my cheek. Once
he grabbed his briefs and wiped my nose before snot ran down and mixed with my spit and his precome.

Jerking his rod, I gnawed on his hips and thighs; my nose pressed into his crotch. He smelled like woodsy air, boy sweat, and sex. Testosterone fired my brain, burning away my worries with bright desire. I still wore my wrestling singlet, and my stiff cock strained for release from my jockstrap. Like a dog I rubbed my dick against his calf.

“Yeah! Hump my fucking leg, boy. Hump away while I fuck your hand with my cock. Don't stop, asshole. Don't you dare stop.”

Charley was unusually aggressive in his love talk, so I wondered what was playing out in his head
. Who are you talking to?

“God, I want so much for you to fuck me right now. To bend me over and spread my white ass. Hock a big gob of snot down on my crack, and poke it in me with your thumb—running that thumb around my hole, opening it up for your big, veiny cock. You thrusting in and fucking me harder and harder. I'll pretend, yeah, pretend that you're going to fill me up for the rest of my life.”

Unsure of what I was hearing, I looked up. “Do you want me to?”

His body writhed, and he grimaced in the moonlight. That meant he was getting close. “No! Just keep loving me hard like you're doing now. Aww, shit—”

Shuddering, he collapsed against me. His dick erupted, shooting a ropy load up onto my neck and shoulders. He continued to orgasm, letting go a second and third time, thickly coating my hand with his white cream. Never had I seen him shoot more than twice. Before I could grab for a towel, Charley was licking me clean. He seemed to have returned to the moment; he sighed. “I'm sorry. I was selfish. Let me suck you off.”

“No,” I replied. Standing, I pulled him up and hugged him. “I just wanted to make you feel good,”

“You sure did that!” He licked my jaw. “You'll never know how much.”

Pushing away from him, I held him at arms' length. “Charley, tell me what happened—now!”

“I need a drink first.” A moment later, dressed in his tattered bathrobe, he sipped whiskey from a Dixie cup. Contraband whiskey I kept far back under my bed. His fingers tapped on the cup as he paced the room. I stood by the dresser, confused, feeling embarrassed, still smelling of sex and wrestling practice. He took a deep breath. “You know Trey Hauser.”

“The dumb-ass bully? Of course!” Hauser, a rich, legacy senior, regularly sought out and bullied the scholarship guys. He and his little gang were two years ahead of us.

“He's been harassing me for a while now—most of the year.”

“Shit.” I sat on my bed and poured myself more whiskey.

“He's been leaving notes in my books, my gym locker, even under the door. Notes that say things like
Cocksucker
or
Ass Licker.
He's cornered me after lunch, between classes, grabbing at my uniform and messing it up. He'll say, ‘You're mine, fag,' or ‘One of these days, I'll get you.'

“A couple of weeks ago he and three of his friends came at me. He called me a pussy and grabbed my nipple. They just laughed and watched me squirm. Then Trey said, ‘Come on. Tell me what a pussy you are and I'll let go.' He squeezed so hard I had to obey or he'd have torn a hole in my fucking chest!”

That explained the ugly bruise; Charley's story about stabbing himself with a marking pen had been pretty lame.

“Well, a few days ago, I'd had enough. I told Trey I was going to report him to the Commandant. I don't know how much good it would do—Trey's father graduated with him, so
they're like best buddies. But I threatened to tell him everything.

“‘You'll be dead,' Trey said.

“‘Fuck you,' I said. In fact, I was going to tell the Major tonight. But when you went to practice, Trey and his buddies showed up.” Charley held out the paper cup, and I splashed in more liquor.

“The four of them grabbed me outside the front door, dragged me down to the boiler room and stripped me.” Charley's hand shook as he sipped at the liquid. “Trey had brought along his razor strop—that pretentious fuck with his old-fashioned shaving kit! His friends held me down. I struggled and struggled; I just couldn't get away.

“He said, ‘Bend him over.' They held my arms and legs, while Trey beat my ass with his strop. He said he wouldn't stop until I begged him to fuck me. I wouldn't.” Charley shook his head, reliving the memory.

“I didn't even cry at first. He just kept hitting me and hitting me—god, it must've gone on for ten, fifteen minutes. Maybe longer! I could hardly breathe; it was like my ass was on fire. I finally broke down—I let out a scream and cried and cried. Trey and his buddies just laughed. I couldn't stand it anymore. I…begged…for it. And Trey…Trey gave it to me.” He dashed tears away with the back of his wrist. Sniffling, he took a shot of whiskey.

Bile rose in my throat, burning away the mellowness of the whiskey. My heart ached with rage. My arms tensed; I wanted to pound something, pound on something again and again until there was nothing left.

“I…” I had no words.

Charley didn't move, just stood sipping from the crumpled paper cup. “It wasn't like us, Jake. It was…ugly, violent. Then…they…did it…too… I closed my eyes and imagined that
I was somewhere else, making love with you.”

My anger gave way to sorrow. I remembered the first time we'd made love: how Charley had guided me to fuck him, nice and slow, tempering my pent-up desire into slower-burning passion. How each day I would anticipate the wavelike rhythms of our lovemaking at night, the way we would breathe into each other's mouths.

“I feel so ashamed.” He choked back a sob.

“You have to report this.” I touched his shoulder. “I'll stand with you, be your witness.”

“What good would it do? Trey spotted me as a butt licker the minute I walked into this place.” Charley shrugged off my hand and moved to face the window. Silvery light highlighted the tracks of tears on his face. I wanted to dry them, make the whole episode go away.

“It was just a matter of time before it came out.” He leaned on the windowsill, swirling the cup, and then downed the rest of the liquor. “You know, people feel sorry for you, having to room with the likes of me.”

“I said that I'll stand with you—I'll admit everything about me too.”

“Why should you? Nobody suspects you're a fag. You're a wrestler. You're a man.” He hurled
man
as if it were an obscenity. “I'm just the nelly little runner. Fuck. No matter how fast I run, they always catch me.” He sat on his bed, cradling his head in his hands.

I wanted to show him that this time was different, to prove to him that not everyone was against him. But I didn't know how; in my heart I feared I was wrong, feared that my love wouldn't be enough. Apprehension throttled me and I had nothing supportive to say, so I sat on the floor, resting my head against his thigh, and stroked his calf. “Then we'll leave. We'll
transfer out of here and go to a better school. I'll protect you. I'll never—ever—let anyone hurt you again.”

Charley's hand stroked my hair. We held each other for a long time, cuddling together in the dark. He said only two words the rest of the night: “Thank you.”

The next morning I awoke to find Charley gone.

In the following days nobody would tell me where he went. His parents hung up when I called; my letters were returned unopened. Confusion and heartache turned to bitterness as I finished out the year and then transferred to State, giving my folks a cock-and-bull story about the “lousy politics that prevented me from fulfilling my athletic potential.”

Feeling sullen and rejected, I had sex with no one until three years later, when I took a lover in grad school. By then my broken heart had scabbed over and Charley entered my thoughts only rarely, usually when I buried myself in my lover's ass, rocking against his smooth back and listening to him purr with contentment.

Before leaving the guest room, I shook my head, clearing away the memories. I'd been so transported that now more than ever I regretted not standing up for Charley.
I should have gone after that fuckhead Trey, taken his strop and beat him senseless in front of his shitty friends.
I wondered what Charley thought. He'd not said a word about that night.

 

Entering Charley's room, I found myself transported into a different scene. The bedroom was austere: a gray-sheeted double bed against the wall, no rug, the only other furnishing standing opposite the bed—a wooden construction composed of a sturdy upright and a crossbeam; it resembled a crucifix. Desolation filled the room; the air itself felt devoid of any happiness, and that depressed me.

Leaning against the cross, Charley held his hands behind his back. Barefoot, he wore torn camouflage pants and a stained green tank top that clung to his well-developed torso. Dog tags hung from his neck, resting in the valley between his pecs. His hair was mussed, and he had smudged soot or something across his nose and cheeks. He stared at me, his eyes daring me to pass judgment on him. Again I was struck by how he had changed. Not just older, he'd become different: he was not the adult that my Charley would have become. His arc had been altered.

“I'm your prisoner of war.” His voice sounded flat, matter-of-fact. His eyes never left mine. “You're responsible for interrogating me. I may have information vital to your cause. You've had me locked up for a week, starving me, but I haven't said shit so far. That's why you've brought me here. I need additional… persuasion.”

He flashed me a reassuring grin and the young Charley shone through for a moment. “Don't worry, Jake. I'll guide you through this.”

Just as quickly the grin vanished, replaced with a sneer. “See those cuffs above my head? Put my hands in them, turn the key and place the key in your pocket.”

Part of me wanted to say, “Let's cut the theater, get naked on the bed and fuck like we used to.” But another part, a part I thought long healed, wanted to go where this was going, wanted revenge. Maybe Charley knew that, maybe he wanted it too. I obeyed.

Stepping back, I studied him, now spread-eagled before me. He pulled against the restraints, apparently judging the seriousness of my participation. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged as he strained against the handcuffs. A trickle of sweat ran down his arm, darkening the edge of his tank top. I wanted to lick him, wanted to taste the salt on his skin. That
realization drove blood straight up my cock. I was hard.