Date: Mon, 30 May 2011 18:55:27 +0200
From: Mark Gouwen <lthawk34@xs4all.nl>
Subject: Tyler and Reese - part 2

The following story is an erotic work of gay fiction. If you are not of
legal age to read stories of this nature or you are offended by the subject
matter contained here do not read any further.

In real life, always play safe.

Comments are more than welcome at lthawk34 at xs4all dot nl

                             * * * * * * * * *

                             Tyler and Reese
                                Chapter 2

                              by Sandboy


Tyler rows. He rows, and jerks - but mostly he rows. If you were to drill
into his head and observe the contents of his brain, both static and in
flow, that's what you would see. And you would see it all in images:
definitely no words, and only a few numbers - all the numbers being
associated exclusively with the various physical exercises related to the
rowing. That's what you'd see.

It's all very physical. That's Tyler. His thoughts are all in images. The
idea that he could express them in words - even less write them down in
words - would strike him as ridiculous. Why
would you? Why engage in such an artificial, arbitrary exercise in
translation? Life is about the body, so the images are fine. And so what
you would see, if you drilled into his brain to see, is Tyler
rowing: every detailed nuance of the process, every ripple and twitch of
every muscle involved, close-ups of every tendon, every tension, every
breath, every detail of diet and metabolism, every
gymnasium stretch and exercise. Each exercise would have numbers next to
it, large white numbers, counting up, always up, clocking up the pulses or
weights or targets or achievements. No words anywhere. That's most of what
you would see.

And what isn't rowing is jerking, which is remarkably similar in its
physical detail, but mostly without the numbers, and, being less than half
the whole, in less detail generally, but similar in
form.

Tyler likes his rowing. He likes the discipline, the camaraderie of being
part of the fleshy machine that is the coxed eight (the leading part, aka
the Stroke) on the water, the anticipation during
the preparation of the boat, the all-over physical buzz afterwards.

And he likes his jerking, alone in his bed, or just as often now alone in
front of his PC, on X-tube. He clicks on "I am male" and "I like female",
because that's what you do, but it is the men that
he analyses with the expertise of a sportsman, and whose bodies, muscles
and movements - observed in forensic detail - make him cum. He had once
dared to click "I like both", but the two-male, one-female video that came
up made him feel quite sick within the first half second, and he thought
he really would gag during the five seconds it took his PC to decide to
stop the stream after his panicking click on the red close-window X.

Everyone knew he was gay. Nobody ever said it. Perhaps they didn't even
think it. Because it wasn't the presence of any guy that made it obvious.
It was the absence of any girl.

In training and on the water, Tyler was the captain of his pack, the best
by a mile. All the other rowers - all the other sportsmen - admired him,
adored him, wanted to be him. He commanded them with a glance. They fawned
at his every suggestion. But in the social life around all that - which
the rest of them relished more than the rowing itself - he was simply
absent, and they were a team with no leader, adrift. Even when he was
there he was absent, shying away from the attention that all the others
adored. The rowers - fine physical specimens all - had the best
girl-attention in the school: pussy galore. But while the others lapped it
up, Tyler just looked more and more uncomfortable. With a girl on either
side, pawing at his arms, he would begin to look physically ill, and
eventually depart in a panic. He came to avoid the whole process
altogether except under the most extreme duress.

When he jerked in his bed, it was the other rowers in his mind, not the
girls who surrounded and outnumbered them.

The college had sports scholarships, and needed rowers that year. His
father called in some favours, spoke to some key movers, and both the
place and the scholarship were his. Tyler was there because of his body,
that's all. He was hopeless with words, poor with numbers: his body alone
won him that place. His body was welcomed; the rest of him was there by
mere consequence.

Physics. It was his least-bad subject in school, and his father said it
was a proper subject, and would lead to a proper career, unlike four years
doing "sports science", the default option for
sports scholarship boys who wouldn't keep up in anything else.

He was indeed a fine physical specimen. Not pretty in the face at all - if
his over-extreme romanesque nose had been broken, you'd have said he had a
rugby face. But the rest of him: you'd have
considered him late-20s and in his absolute physical prime, despite being
only eighteen. The future potential was breath-taking, as the scholarship
committee certainly knew. A fine, fine muscular ass and thighs and hams,
incredible arms (though with the asymmetry typical of rowers), and the
rest all thickly muscle-bound poise from the neck to the abs and the
ankles. You would have assumed that hot bod had fucked every female under
fifty within fifty miles - taken the virginity of half of them, and had a
few guys in addition - but it had seen no flesh-on-flesh action. It was
virginal. That ass had been touched by no-one but himself since he
finished using diapers. That cock (only a little smaller than the national
average, but most inadequate in his own mind, having only porn for
comparison) had never been touched by anyone but himself at all.

He had taken to wearing only joggers and sweats. He had tried fashion, but
what looked good on the manequins in the shops, and so effortless on his
fellow rowers, always seemed to look ridiculous on him. So it was joggers
and sweats, in a range of colours, but nothing more. It worked for him -
but it was yet another source of fears for the college days that now lay
ahead. He knew he wasn't going to fit in. He imagined - correctly -
weathly New England types with suave clothes and accents, slacks and
checks, cars and cash, effortless social graces and effortless
superiority. The terror grew, like an all-consuming darkness, as the
dreadful day approached.

On the day he left for college, Tyler's mind contained the usual images:
training exercises with rising numbers next to them; the boat driving
through the water; his own cum spurting on the fine
strong muscles - any and all of the fine strong muscles - of the other
young men in his eight and the men in his straight X-tubes. These were
both his memory images and his current flow of images. Normally they would
be his future planning images too, but where the future planning images
should have been there was only a blank, all blackness, and a vague sense
of foreboding, even fear: all of it felt physically, of course, as a kind
of trembling, and a pit in the stomach.

Finally he stood, with his cases piled up behind him, at the door to his
student room, and he turned the key.

==========

There was an invisible line across the room, from corner to corner. On one
side of the line - evidently his - bare, sparse furnishings and blank,
bland walls. On the other side of the line, two walls
full of Star Trek posters, grey student clutter strewn around, and nerd
boy: skinny, anemic, colorless nerd boy. Tyler wouldn't have put him a day
over fourteen years of age.

Tyler's first response was relief. No suave New England slacks and checks.
No monied elegance. Thank God. His second response was instantly
protective: this poor, frightened boy! He could protect him! He wanted to
embrace him in is big strong arms! Tyler's cock twitched at the sensation.
(Tyler's cock twitched a lot.) He instantly dismissed such nonsense from
his mind, focussing instead on the only slightly-reduced awareness of his
own fears and inadequacies. He looked at nerd boy. Nerd boy looked at him.