Foolish Fire (6 page)

Perhaps she did, for just then she pulled away from the kiss and sat up straighter.

“My mom’ll be coming home soon. You better go.” Her voice sounded strained. She shook the hair out of her eyes.

“Oh, we got time,” mumbled Jack in a hoarse voice.

“You know I’m on restriction. If she catches you here, she’ll kill me.”

“Oh, all right.” Jack made no secret of his disappointment. “Come on, Guy, let’s go. It’s getting too
dan
gerous for some people around here.”

“Jack…don’t take it like that,” she said.

I was trying to keep my eyes away from Jack’s crotch, almost dreading the thought of what I would see there.

“Let’s go, Guy.”

Outside, the bright sunlight was so dazzling that we had to stand still for a moment, blinking weakly before continuing on. I hadn’t realized how dark it was in the living room with its curtains drawn.

“What do you think of her?” asked Jack after a while.

“Sheri? She sure lives up to her reputation.”

He gave me a funny look. “She’s a cock-tease, that’s what she is: a cock-tease. All she wants to do is get you hot.”

“But she let you cop a feel.”

“Aw, sometimes a little tit now and then but never below the waist.”

“Wow.” I loved it when Jack talked like this, using the dirty words that high school boys used. It felt so grown-up.

“Girls sure are weird,” he said. “I can’t figure them out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take Sheri, for instance. She’ll let you kiss and kiss her, and even cop some tit, but that’s it. You saw the way she was. She loves to be watched—to kiss in front of other people. Girls are like that. They pretend to be shy, but really they want it just as much as you do.”

“How can you tell?”

“Their lips get real hot. That means they’re hot down there.”

I had to swallow once before I could ask the next question. “Do you think she’ll ever let you go all the way?”

He gave me a quick glance which I was unable to decipher, then looked down at his feet, kicked a rock away into the bushes.

“I dunno,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

Feeling emboldened, I pressed on: “Jack? How do you think it feels to fuck a girl? I bet it feels a whole lot better than beating off.”

He turned to look at me with a scornful expression. “You mean you still like to beat off?” he asked, amused.

“No.” I blushed. “I ain’t no faggot.”

He pinched his cheek with his thumb and forefinger and jiggled a loose flap of skin rapidly in and out, making a “snick-snick-snick” sound whose rhythm was an unmistakable reference to my habits.

“Hey, cut it out, Jack.”

“I thought you were Mark Warren’s boyfriend.”

“Come on, Jack,” I said, feeling my ears burn.

*

From that night, I began exploring a whole new world, a world which somehow seemed strangely familiar, as if I’d stepped into a garden I’d often seen in my dreams.

Blow jobs? I’d sometimes fantasized about having my penis kissed by another boy, or about kissing another boy’s penis. But because I’d thought I was the only one in the whole world who daydreamed about such things, my fantasy had had an almost abstract quality. Never would I have guessed that other boys also thought about it—and not only thought about it, but actually
did
it.

Taking it up the ass? Not even in my wildest dreams had such a thing entered my mind. True, I often experienced a languorous, sensual feeling during a bowel movement. I’d never confessed to anyone how good it felt because it seemed so dirty, the very definition of “nasty.” Now I realized that others felt it, too.

But I’d never made the obvious connection: that an erect penis was about the same size as what came out. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Such a treacherous coincidence…and provided so temptingly by nature.

It was only now as I imagined the pleasure that it gave both parties that the “why” part of my question—why boys became homosexual—was answered. It was to indulge in this nasty little delight, something which decent people tried to suppress from their minds. No wonder the book in the library couldn’t go into details about the “child-like” activities of homosexuals.

I was disgusted, but simultaneously felt a sort of relief…because the things I’d done last summer with Bobby, which had tormented me so much, were nothing—less than nothing!—compared to what real faggots did with each other.

I got up from my bed now and listened at my bedroom door. The whole house was quiet. Stealthily, I slid the lock into place and crept back to my bed. Earlier in the day, I’d secreted my mother’s small hand-held mirror in my bureau drawer. I got it out now. I noticed my hands trembling slightly as I held it.

Feeling like a criminal (and stimulated by the excitement of doing something absolutely forbidden) I slipped out of my pajama bottoms and lay back on my bed. By bending my head and angling the mirror, I could see my own anus for the first time in my life. I spread apart my butt cheeks and exposed to plain view the creasy pink pucker of every boy’s most secret spot. No wonder I’d never paid any attention to it before: it was in such an out-of-the-way place that it was invisible except as a reflection in a mirror. I ran a finger gently over it and winced at the unexpected surge of pleasure which swept through me.

That delicate tickle revealed its extraordinary sensitivity. Again I brushed it softly. A tiny, clear pearl quivered on the tip of my sudden erection. Because I was doing something so forbidden, I felt an exciting mixture of fascination, disgust, and guilt.

I dropped the mirror to the floor and closed my eyes the better to concentrate upon my sensations. Delicately I tested with my finger to see if I could probe inside. The feel of my finger pushing against the barrier was delicious beyond words. That finger was like a saucy tongue kissing, teasing, and tickling me to madness.

I realized that I’d stumbled upon another mysterious little world which had lain hidden until now. Just as when I’d first discovered masturbation, I felt like an explorer. I wondered how it would feel if my finger were to penetrate it…I wanted it…. Perhaps a lubricant of some kind would ease entry.

I thought of the jar of cold cream I’d borrowed from my mother for my chapped skin. It was sitting on top of the dresser, just within reach from where I was. I unscrewed the cap and dipped a finger into it…and winced at the cool kiss as I dabbed it gently onto my hole. It made a crackling sound as I applied it more liberally, spreading it around and around. Gingerly, delicately, I probed with a finger, my closed eyes giving a detached objectivity to my actions.

My heart leaped when I felt the first tight bite which signaled that the tip of my pinky had finally edged inside. But for a while, pain forbid any further exploration.

I brought my finger up to my nose and caught a bouquet, not the one I expected, but a new, sharp, musky tang which made my stomach trembly and weak with its promise of forbidden pleasures.

Night by night, I found I could manage to get further and further inside with each new try. Instinctively I learned how to relax, to get into the lazy, sensual frame of mind I assumed whenever I sat on the toilet. At first I was worried because the feeling was so much like the other thing—with its heavy, delicious feel in the pit of the stomach. And sometimes I had to wipe away dirty streaks from my finger. But soon I became inured to the sensation, knowing that what I feared wouldn’t happen, and just concentrated on enjoying the deceptive—but absolutely safe—sensation of imminent disaster.

As soon as I learned how to slide in quite easily, I used two fingers, then three, stretching my pain threshold to greater limits. But this wasn’t enough like “the real thing.” I thought of another object I could use in place of my fingers, something long and cylindrical…an empty bottle…a carrot…a banana….

Late one night, after everyone was asleep, I crept down to the kitchen and got a banana from the refrigerator. Surely there was nothing odd about a growing boy having a late-night snack….

Back in my room I excised the banana’s hard tip with my Boy Scout knife, then coated it carefully with Vaseline, which I’d discovered was a more practical lubricant than cold cream.

With one hand, I pulled off my pajama bottoms and my briefs, then lay back on the bed, giving myself up to my fantasies….

Completely naked upon the bed I was a beautiful young girl with her hands tied behind her back, helpless, about to be forcefully violated. “No…no…don’t!” I moaned softly, feeling the ravisher already nudging at the rim (coated beforehand with a slick layer of Vaseline.) But at the first slow thrust I felt myself let go, copiously, without the need to touch myself at all.

“Oh!”

I blinked, and felt a single teardrop trickle out the corner of my eye, slip down my temple.

“Oh….”

I lay still for a long time afterwards. It seemed odd that the house could remain so silent after I’d just felt the whole earth convulse.

Finally, I stirred. “So this is why the fags do it,” I thought to myself. “No wonder they like it so much.”

A lone cricket chirped from somewhere out in the yard.

The Music Lesson

Fads came and went with a dizzying rapidity in junior high. All of a sudden, it seemed, all the boys in our class were goosing each other like crazy. I don’t know how it got started, but one day while I was in line at the cafeteria, a boy named Todd sneaked up on me from behind and gave my balls a quick squeeze. I yelled out in surprise, almost spilling the glass of milk on my tray.

Before long we were all greeting each other by making playful grabs at the genitals—in the locker room, in class, in the hallway. It was a boyish assertion of masculinity done in imitation of our older brothers. In a way it was also a gauge of popularity, for the most liked, most envied boys were also the most frequent victims.

I was delighted to discover that the quietest boys would let out loud surprised squawks when I squeezed them. And the playful grabbing gave me a legitimate chance to do something I’d always dreamed of: touching other boys’ penises.

I couldn’t have been the only one who had this interest, for all the boys were beginning to make jokes and references to each other’s penis size. Under cover of the game I was able to touch as many boys as I wanted. However, I was shy about doing it to the boys I really liked.

There was one group of boys who were significantly left out of the sport: the “sissies,” those effeminate, mincing boys who walked like girls and fluttered their hands when they talked. Ever since I was a kid I’d felt an instinctive dislike of them, for there was something about them that was extremely distasteful, though I couldn’t say exactly what. Now I began to notice them more and more, perhaps because they conspicuously avoided the rough-housing of the other boys. Whenever I saw the way they carried their schoolbooks—cradled against their chests like girls, not slung low at their sides like most boys—I felt a vague sense of shame.

Mark Warren was the worst of them. Many boys made fun of his mannerisms, and, egged on by Richard and other classmates, almost against my will, I found myself beginning to bully him. At first I was disgusted by the malicious, vicarious delight of the other boys as they stood by watching me do it, but soon the perverse pleasure of seeing Mark humiliated became a source of gratification for me as well. It got to the point where, if I spotted him, I couldn’t pass up the chance to do something. Now my audience expected it of me.

For example, if I saw him in the lunchroom, I stalked over to where he sat and, standing impudently before him, calmly shook salt over his pudding or his sliced peaches, staring at him all the while, daring him to tell the teacher on duty (which he never did.)

Or I would bring my own tray along and scoop my uneaten peas and salad into his roast beef and potatoes, then stir up the batch into an unpalatable mess, commanding him to eat it. At such times I felt a hot lump in my chest which remained there long after my delighted classmates had pounded me on the back in glee. I was haunted by the fact that he never made a move to fight back, only staring up at me with eyes that begged silently for me to leave him alone.

Whenever I humiliated Mark I felt a satisfaction afterwards which was almost sensual. What made it even more gratifying was the knowledge that every time I bullied him in front of the others, the act helped wipe out the memory of the whispered word I’d overheard by the lockers that day. Perhaps even now my classmates had forgotten that they’d ever said that word about me.

Mark now began to haunt my life in much the same way I haunted his. In our symbiotic tormentor-victim relationship, I felt I needed Mark to prove my own strength, to win the respect I craved. If a girl sometimes remonstrated with me, I always had a ready reply which justified my bullying in the eyes of all my comrades: “Don’t you know he’s a fag?”

The strange thing was that I had a feeling my attentions were neither undesired nor unappreciated. The martyred look which came over Mark’s face made him heart-meltingly attractive, as if smoldering fires within him were being ignited by my cruel attentions….

If only he had ignored me from the start or had told a teacher, I would have stopped terrorizing him. But it was too late now—it was like an addiction. The way I could make his face turn pale with fear or crumple to the point of tears was a temptation I could no longer resist. And because he co-operated so well, I knew he was virtually asking to be pursued and bothered. Otherwise he would have done something about it.

As time passed, most of the other boys left off pestering him, probably under the influence of the girls in class who came to his defense. While this had only increased their cruel joy in the beginning (because it got the girls’ attention, which was what they really wanted), eventually it had its effect. In time, I found myself alone in my sport.

It felt strange to have such a diabolical hold over him. If he had wanted to fight me one-on-one, it was by no means impossible for him to make a good showing; he wasn’t a thin weakling, but actually quite well-built. But he seemed to fear me to an unreasonable degree. For me, his cringing cowardice only confirmed the rumors about him, and in my contempt, I felt I had to punish him for making his former overtures of friendship to me.

One afternoon, near the beginning of spring term, I spotted him standing in the hallway chatting with a girl. As our eyes met, a strange change came over his face and posture, as if a wave of dread had transformed his very metabolism. The girl noticed it and turned around to see the cause. Emboldened by Mark’s show of weakness, I continued to glare at him and didn’t break my stride. As I neared him he panicked and broke away, walking rapidly in the opposite direction.

I began pushing my way past the kids in the hallway to get at him. Just then he looked back, almost as if he could sense my pursuit. His walking picked up speed and he began to run. I sprinted after him and managed to catch his sleeve and drag him back into the hall just as he was going through the double doors leading to the principal’s office. He tried to shrug free but I shoved him roughly back through the entrance of the boys’ room, pinning him against the wall.

An excitement hotter than blood pounded in my chest when his scared face snapped forward and our eyes locked.

“Tell me, faggot,” I said with my voice lowered, trembling in spite of myself, “is it true that you like to take it up the ass?”

His face froze. Then, with a calmness which surprised me, he muttered, “Why don’t you leave me alone?” and tried to push his way past my encaging arm.

I grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back into a niche formed between the washroom partition and the urinals. His eyes grew big with fright, belying his recent show of bravado, and I felt a quick spark of relief shoot through me.

“Listen,” I hissed between my teeth. “You’d better not sass back if you know what’s good for you.”

“Why? What are you gonna do about it?”

I was at a loss for an answer and my confidence suddenly ebbed. I wondered again about my ability to take him on in a fight, one-on-one. He had an almost smug look on his face, as if he were laughing at something I couldn’t see behind my back. (I actually turned around to see if someone was behind me.) I’d never seen him this confident before.

“How come you’re so cocky today?”

“I’m not cocky.” His expression changed suddenly, as if in demonstration of this, into a softer one tinged with obsequiousness.

“You are cocky. You’re a cocky little faggot, that’s what you are.”

He glared silently.

“Well? Say something. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

I shook him roughly, but he didn’t reply.

“Listen,” I said, my voice pitched low. “You’d better be in the music room after school today if you know what’s good for you.”

“Why?”

“Just be there if you don’t want me to beat the crap out of you.”

I let go of him and watched him scurry off. Then, drawn by a confused yearning, I stepped into the hall to watch him walk away. I noted the way his buttocks pressed tightly against the fabric of his pants. To my shame, I found myself picturing how he’d look naked.

*

I was first clarinetist in the school band, which automatically made me Mr. Seth’s student assistant. I’d been “volunteered” to keep the music sheets in order, neatly filed by song title and instrument in the music library. I’d also been given the keys to the music room so I could let students in after school to practice for the year-end band festival.

As I made my way to the music room, I spotted a waiting figure by the door. It pleased me to see Mark so compliant after his cheekiness earlier. But when I got closer, I saw it was a girl named Sharon, a fellow band member. Scrawny and stoop shouldered, she was hugging her clarinet case tightly to her chest.

“Hi,” she smiled shyly, trying to hide the silver braces on her teeth as much as possible. She had greasy-looking hair parted on one side, and her enlarged eyes peered owlishly from behind the magnifying lenses of her tortoise-shell glasses. I knew—to my embarrassment—that she had a crush on me. Our hands had brushed once as I’d reached to turn the music sheet, (she was second-chair clarinet) and she looked so wrought up I thought she’d faint. On another occasion she had sat at the same table with me in the lunchroom, but had been unable to speak a single word, blushing through the whole meal.

I felt flattered by any attention I received from attractive girls, but the fawning looks cast my way by girls like Sharon only shamed me.

“Hi,” I said. “Did you wait long?”

“No.”

I unlocked the door and we entered the deserted building. She went straight for her usual seat and immediately sat down, opening her case and starting to put her instrument together. Seeing this, I felt obliged to practice with her. Since I hadn’t brought my own clarinet with me today, I went into the instrument room to borrow one of the school’s.

This instrument room was a separate room within the building with its own locked door to protect its contents from theft. Here, from among the racks of moldy-smelling instrument cases, broken drums, and tarnished tubas, I pulled a clarinet case off a shelf and returned to the outer room. Sharon was already fingering her keys silently as she squinted at the music sheet on the stand. I sat down next to her and began assembling my instrument.

“Do you practice a lot at home?” I asked her.

She nodded.

“Why’d you decide to come here today?”

“I thought everyone would be here.”

I looked at her and saw the archetype of the unpopular girl who desperately wants to be one of the crowd. Her weak face seemed to sum up the character of her whole dreary life, and I felt depressed.

“Maybe some other people will turn up,” I said in a small, hopeful voice.

The door opened and we both looked up to see Mark Warren standing uncertainly in the doorway.

“Well, look who’s here,” I said with relief.

Mark stared at Sharon in puzzlement, then transferred his perplexity to the room at large as his gaze shifted about the clutter of chairs and music stands, to the white soundproof tiles on the ceiling.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “Is this the first time you’ve seen the band room?”

As Mark wandered over to where we were sitting, I was angered at what I thought was an amused smirk on his face as he glanced from Sharon to me. Sharon’s unattractiveness was a humiliation for me, though our being together was an accident.

“Why didn’t you ever go out for band, Warren?” I asked. Then, as he shrugged noncommittally, I went on: “…because I hear you can
blow
so well.”

“Oh?” Sharon perked up and flashed a smile, momentarily forgetting her metal-studded teeth in her relief at being able to join the conversation. “Really? What instrument do you play?”

“The flute,” I quickly put in, thinking of the “skin flute” of boys’ jokes. I was delighted at the way Mark’s face darkened. “And they tell me he’s
so
good. Of course he practices a lot.”

“Oh really? How old were you when you first started?” asked Sharon. When Mark didn’t answer, she offered helpfully, “
I
started when I was nine. It’s supposed to be the earlier you start, the better.”

No answer. As she looked from Mark to me, she began to sense that something beyond her comprehension was going on. Hesitantly she continued, “Why don’t you practice together with us?”

“No,” I said, “he doesn’t like to play in front of people. It makes him nervous. He likes to play with himself.”

“What do you want?” Mark turned fiercely upon me. “Why did you call me here?”

“I did not call you here,” I said quietly. I turned to Sharon. In her oblivion, she was sitting with her mouth slightly open, a blank look on her face. “Sharon, me and Mark want to practice alone.”

She continued to look blank for a moment before snapping out of it. (It was the first time I had called her by her first name.) “Oh….” She began to move. “Of course. I’ll just….”

While she bustled about, Mark and I were silent. But as soon as she left, Mark turned to me. “Why do you say these things?”

“What things?”

“You know.”

“She didn’t know what I was talking about. She’s dumb.”

“Oh, I don’t believe this.” He looked tired.