Date: Wed, 08 Jan 2003 19:05:36 +1100
From: Mark Sullivan <mark_410@hotmail.com>
Subject: hazel-and-brown-1

Hi.  Just one warning: this story's pretty slow-paced.  That's all.

## ##

Even right now, in the middle of a lecture on the map-colouring
problem that's delivered like an elevator floor announcement, I'm
still glad to be here.  Glad to have made the decision to ditch
finance -- full of professors whose eyes glaze over with evangelism
when talking about The Market, and students who swallow it all without
question and regurgitate it as justification for buying their BMW
coupe or thousand dollar ski poles (or sticks, or whatever they are)
... sometimes I doubt my own motives in hating it all, wonder if it's
actually a subconscious envy that I wasn't born rich, or "comfortable"
for people who want to be euphemistic ... then I think, Nah, they're
just wankers.

Actually, the whole idea that a map can be coloured with only four
colours is sort of interesting.  I guess I'm kind of a closet nerd.

So it's only been a week that I've been here, actually only four days,
and I'm looking around the class to see who looks friendly.  I don't
miss anyone from my last university, but I still miss my high school
friends, Jared, Karen and Kyle; even though we get together on
weekends, it's not the same as hanging around for lunch or cutting
class to throw a frisbee.  This afternoon I'm definitely going to
check out the sporting facilities here.  See if they have a squash
comp going, or tennis ... rowing's out, I've had enough of those early
mornings to last till I'm 60 ... cross-country or rogaining'd be OK
too.  And see if there's anyone there who'd be fun to hang around
with.

And that's the end of the map-colouring, and everyone shuffles out
along the aisle.

##

The squash courts look pretty good.  New, glass-backed, and there are
a couple for training as well.  There's a noticeboard with a bunch of
papers stuck to it -- tae kwon do, yoga, ... two squash comps, one
varsity and one social.  Definitely the social, to start with; and
maybe B-grade, where I can just take it easy for a bit, hopefully
anyway; we'll see when I'm actually out there hitting a ball around
with someone else, whether I'm being too optimistic in my evaluation
of my own skills.

A flash of movement -- hey, he's cute.  And playing shirtless too.  I
wonder how long I can pretend to keep reading this noticeboard.
Actually, it's perfectly reasonable to watch him ... after all, maybe
I'll play him some day, so I should check out his style.  And his
style is pretty smooth, the way his hamstrings tense just slightly as
he stretches for a drop shot, just like they might if he was being
sucked off and just about to come, his thighs on either side and
straining ... I'd better stop that train of thought, or I'll have to
go and jerk off.  On the other hand, why not?  I stay there for a
couple more minutes of inspiration, hands in my pants and pushed
forward so my hardon, about half way there, isn't as noticeable,
watching him move some more, shoulder muscles bunching and relaxing;
and then I head into the bathroom, which I'd passed as I came in, head
straight into the first stall, and close the door.  Shorts fall to my
ankles in a second, dick through the fly of my boxers in another two
seconds -- I kind of fumble with the button -- and I grab hold of it.
There are some times when you want it slow and leisurely, lying back
on the bed, with lubricant, and lasting for an hour; but this isn't
one of those times.  Quick strokes, the skin back and forth over the
head, looking down at my dick sticking straight out of the slit in my
white boxers, the soft material rubbing underneath my balls ... I come
in about 30 seconds, all over the toilet seat that I'd forgotten to
lift up.  I wonder if anyone heard me grunt, just at the end there.
It was pretty quiet, so probably not, even if there was anyone else in
the bathroom.  I wipe up the splashes of come with some paper, wash my
hands and leave.

As I go to leave the gym, the desk isn't unattended any more, as it
was when I came in.  There's a guy behind it, curly brown hair and
brown eyes, probably a couple of years older than me, also pretty
cute.  Maybe I'll just find out some more about how squash runs here.

"Hey."  I give him a heads-up.  "I was thinking about signing up for
squash.  Anything I should know?  Five hundred dollar entry fee?
Bastard coach?"

He grins -- nice dimples.

"Nope, it's all pretty easy-going here.  Have you played much?"

"Only a few years, but pretty often. I was thinking I'd start with the
social comp anyway."

"Grading's on Monday; put your name down" -- he scavenges around and
holds out a list -- "even if you're just thinking about it.  Just turn
up if you want.  And maybe you could think about joining the running
club too -- we go for a run to the national park every Thursday."

There's a look people have, when you make eye contact, that if they're
not already close friends then they're interested in you.  It's not
infallible, but it's a good rough guide.  And this isn't it; it's just
friendliness.  Probably.  But it's all good.

"Sure, I'll check it out."

"I'm Jack," stretching his hand across the counter.

"Gideon."

"So I'll see you around then."

I smile at him.  "Yep.  See ya."

##

I'm thinking to myself as I walk out of the gym, It really is true
that my friends tend to be good looking.  Jared and Karen and Kyle
especially, and they're my closest friends.  Jared especially
especially.  I know I like them because they're fun to be around, and
they're good to talk to; but I wonder if it means that I'm still just
shallow, really only being friends with people because they're good
looking.  That there's some buried-down-deep directive I'm not
consciously aware of, that works behind the scenes in my brain.  Maybe
that's why Jack from the gym seemed like friend potential.  But I
really don't like the idea that I'm like a machine directed by my
subconscious.  I guess it's kind of weird to worry about this, which
is why I don't mention it to anyone, not even Jared.  But I figure
everyone has their own weirdnesses, so that's just one of mine.

##

Next morning the schedule looks pretty much the same -- more
mathematics, more theory of programming, some eighteenth century
literature for variety.  The first class is a lab, getting used to
Unix and working up to map-colouring.  It's lucky that Kyle's already
done this, so at least I have a clue what Unix is, unlike the people
who seem to have only played Half-Life on Windows.

The lab's about half full, so it's easy enough to get a terminal, one
in the corner.  So I have a good view of the rest of the room, which
is getting noisier; and a gaggle of freshmen part -- maybe that's
condescending, but I'm sure I wasn't so goose-like last year -- and
suddenly I see a guy who makes me catch my breath, that feeling where
your chest tightens and you feel warm and cold together -- he's got
blond hair that's long in front and flops to either side from a centre
part, amazing cheekbones, cute dimples -- and then one of the guys
standing near him says, "So did you do her?  How was she?"

One eyebrow goes up, and the smile becomes a smirk; and I take in the
way he's sitting, legs spread, like he's totally arrogant; and the
ostentatious brand name clothes, the Armani sunglasses -- he's wearing
sunglasses inside! -- with the freshers around he looks like he's
holding court.  Total wanker.

So it's an easy opportunity for me to prove to myself that I'm not
motivated just by looks: I resolve not to be friends with him.  Part
of me says that that's not much of a challenge, since all it requires
is a lack of effort on my part, with this guy who's one person of a
class of maybe eighty.  So I decide that I won't talk to him either.
I know it's still pretty easy, but it's something.

I look over again.  Wanker.

##

It's late Saturday afternoon, and I'm round at Karen's place.  Kyle's
there too, on the sofa watching soccer.  We're on the phone to Jared,
deciding what movie we should see tonight.  Karen and I are both on
the receiver, heads together -- she smells like baby shampoo, nice.
And with her hair pulled back she looks pretty good, sort of sporty
and alive.  I can see why Kyle is going out with her.

"How about we see 'Hedwig and the Angry Inch'?" she suggests.  I've
put her up to it.

"What?" says Jared.  The tone of voice translates this to "get real".

"I think it sounds good," I say, like it's the first time I've heard
of the suggestion.

"I reckon you do, ya big nancy-boy-girl's-blouse.  Isn't that the one
that used to be a Broadway musical?"

Bugger.  He knew more about it that I was expecting.  Not that I want
to go because it was a Broadway musical, it just sounded cool.

"OK, let's use some democracy," says Karen.  "Kyle, what do you think
of 'Hedwig'?" she calls in a slightly louder voice.  Kyle, however, is
in the kitchen getting a snack.  She smiles at me.

I do a passable imitation of Kyle's grunt.

"OK, I'll succumb to the tyranny of the majority.  Should I just come
over?"

"I was going to go home and change first ..." I start.

"God!  Why didn't I realise?  It's all just a plan to go to an artsy
cinema so you can scope out the guys in tight shirts."

"No, it's just that I cycled over here and need to shower.  And
stuff."  I hate being so transparent.

"OK, so how about we meet at 7pm, and then catch the train in."

"Sweet."

##

They all like the movie, a bit surprisingly.

I'd been a bit undecided about what to wear.  Given Jared's --
justified -- suspicion about my motives for going to the cinema, I
thought that maybe dress down was the way to go, just so he wouldn't
have the satisfaction of thinking he was right.  But then I thought,
Bugger it, you're only young once, so I put on my black button-up
shirt with the sleeves that stop at mid-delt, and jeans and
Blundstones.

When I'd arrived at Karen's place, Jared had been dressed up too.
White to my black, his shirt hugged him close, and he looked pretty
fine.  He smirked at me.  "I couldn't let you be the only one getting
attention."

After the movie we're in Luigi's, an all-night pasta place.  I just
order a spaghetti with pesto, since I've about done the evening's
budget, and a beer.

"Y'know, the music wasn't bad.  I was expecting Julie Andrews or
something."  Jared's taste in music runs to Guns and Roses, "the
Gunners".  I didn't know who they were until I met him.  Then I heard
all of his older brother's CDs, probably a hundred times each.

"So was that guy in the band actually a woman?" asks Kyle.

"Yeah, I thought so too, at the end ..."

We're discussing this for a while, and then Jared elbows me softly.
"Dude, that guy over there is checking you out."

I look over.  Brown hair, buzz cut, nice clothes, all round pretty
cute.  "Nah, he's checking you out."

"Well it's not going to do me any good, is it?"

Hmm, maybe he is looking at me.  But I'm kind of a wuss about picking
someone up just based on eye contact.  Not like Jared.  He can pick up
a woman within about five minutes of entering a room.  But I always
imagined more going out with someone I was already friends with, like
happened with Karen and Kyle.  I look at them, the way their arms are
touching, not obvious, and feel not quite envious, really more just
rueful.  That sort of thing doesn't happen often.

But it does give me a warm buzz -- along with the beer -- that a cute
guy was checking me out.

##

For Sunday lunch I go round to my mum's, as I do most weeks.  I wonder
what the tension's going to be like: whether I'll be able to cut the
air with a knife, as she often says, or whether it'll be almost
imperceptible, almost the way things used to be.

She's wearing a light blue dress, and is looking relaxed.  Her eyes
seem especially blue today.  It's a good sign.

"Hi mom."  I kiss her on the cheek.  "Can I smell ..."

"It's corned beef and mashed potato.  I just thought we hadn't had it
for a while."

I smile.  I like corned beef, and the way the carrots taste sweet when
they've been cooked with it.  Good memories.

As we're going through to the kitchen she tells me about work, how
there's a new secretary who's obviously been hired just for her looks
and who's a complete bitch.  Of course, she doesn't say bitch, just,
"You know, the b-word."

"Banana," I say unhelpfully.

"Yes."  She purses her lips, then smiles.

I decide to tell her about my work prospects, just because she's
obviously decided she's not going to hassle me about it.  "So I've
lined up vacation work at an investment bank." Not that I'll make a
career with those leeches on society, but it's OK for a few months.
"They like all the maths I'm doing," playing up the usefulness of what
I'm doing now.  She was pretty crushed when I gave up a guaranteed
high-paying job on leaving my last course; she's struggled for so long
that it probably seemed to her like I was just throwing it away.  "And
with the scholarship over the year, I'll be doing OK."

"That sounds good," she says as she's serving up lunch.  She sounds
like she means it too.

"Have you seen Jared lately?"  She likes Jared, understandably.  He
used to come around a lot when I was still living here.

"Yeah, we went out last night to a movie.  Hung around for a while
afterwards too."

"Anyone else go?"

"Karen and Kyle too," through a mouth full of peas and potato.  Then I
notice she's sort of expectant.  "No-one else though."  It's only a
small thing, and I'm not certain, but I think she's hinting that she's
interested in more of my life.  I take a punt.  "There was a guy there
that Jared says was checking me out, but I didn't do anything about
it."  Get it out in the open, and at the same time reinforce that I'm
a Good Boy who doesn't go around picking up strangers.  Almost never,
anyway.

"I know you're a good boy."  She's reading my mind!

Things are comfortable after that.

She's pretty resilient, my mum, and I respect that.  Not that she's
technically my mum.  She came out newly married to Australia from
America, discovered her husband -- my dad -- was having an affair; and
then ended up saddled with me, the product of the affair, when dad and
his woman died in a car accident, to raise by herself on a low-paying
secretarial job.  Of course, she didn't have to take me, but she did.
And I could imagine that in a lot of people I would have been the
focus of all their resentment at the situation, but not her.  That's
not to say that she's perfect.  I didn't know any of this until I
turned seventeen, although I'd always wondered how I could look so
different from her, but figured I just didn't understand enough
genetics.  She'd just been waiting for 'the right time' to tell me,
and then I found out from a retiring teacher at my high school who
thought I already knew.  So that was when I told her I liked guys.
Probably not the optimal way, especially judging by her reaction and
my subsequent move out of home, but at the time it seemed pretty
bloody fair.  So there're a whole lot of topics we skirt around, but
just maybe there's a bit of hope.  I'm trying anyway.  Sometimes it
seems like it's all ridiculous, that the producer of "Footballers'
Wives" decided to script my life -- "This week, Gideon reveals to
Karen that his transvestite sister is bulimic" -- that it couldn't
possibly be true.  But it's my life, and I'm stuck with it.

And today's OK.

## ##

There'll be 7 or so parts, I guess.  Hope you thought it was OK
so far.  Remember you were warned it was slow, though.  Email to
mark_410@hotmail.com is welcomed with open arms and slow-typing
fingers.