Date: Wed, 12 Dec 2001 16:25:52 -0600
From: james smith <boyzheart@hotmail.com>
Subject: Ronnie (Revised)

Ronnie (Chapter 1)

Disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction depicting teenage males in romantic
and/or sexual positions and activity.  The people depicted in this story may
or may not really exist (many characters may have distant ties to the
memories of my past).  The places and historical social events are most
likely true, but you may not always be able to associate both to the same
place and time.

If you are under 18 years of age (or whatever the legal age I your area is)
you must leave.  If you find this material offensive, you should not be
reading this story.  If you choose to continue . . . you have been warned,
and I trust you to make your own wise choices.

This is my first attempt at anything like this, so I'm kind of nervous about
a lot of things here.  I welcome any comments . . . any of them.  I will do
my best to answer any email, but please be patient with me if I do not get
to you right away - I will respond.  The purpose of my writing is to express
what has been held for so long without a voice.  Hopefully these ramblings
will help someone who may be struggling with similar feelings and
experiences.  Please feel free to contact me at boyzheart@hotmail.com with
any comments or suggestions.


Chapter 1

"Great!" I fumed.  "Just fucking great! What a start to a Monday!"  Normally
I don't cuss so much, but why does this crap have to always happen to me.
My life is so complicated these days.


Rain was pelting down on the windshield of my father's car, the sky was dark
and foreboding, and the stupid thing had the nerve to run out of gas.  (I
know the car isn't stupid, nor intelligent - I also know it has no nerves,
but that wasn't my point just now - okay!)  His STUPID car, the pride of his
life, was an ancient relic that we could hardly find parts for any more - a
63 Chevy Impala.  Slate blue (or is it gray?).  Truthfully I had been glad
that he trusted me enough to drive it to school this morning.  Just turning
16 a few weeks ago, I kind of liked this adult responsibility thing.

Well, not just at this moment.  It must be at least 4 or 5 miles to the
nearest gas station, and it must be raining 6 inches an hour!  No way I can
get out of this - no way.  Might as well just scream . . .  for all the good
that will do.

I checked the back seat to make sure all the doors were locked.   (I wonder
if I left it open if some one would steal it so I wouldn't have to fool with
the STUPID car.  Better not go there.)  Leaving my books in the front seat,
I set out to get help (gas).  Cold rain instantly drowned every inch of my
clothes.  Fortunately I didn't have on my school uniform; I was wearing my
warm-ups (odd name for clothes - warm-ups.  I thought I got "warmed-up" when
wearing them.  Another of my life's frustrations is that I always see what
is wrong - always) as I was on the way to track practice.  That is why Dad
let me have the car this morning.  I had to drop him off at the truck yard
for work (yes, my Dad's a truck driver - but he's cool though) then head to
school for the 5 a.m. practice.

"Watch out for the rain," he'd said just before I drove off.  "Call me if
you need any help.  By the way . . . did you notice you're about out of
gas?" he asked.  Then, not waiting for a response, "Take this and get some
at the corner stop before you go on, or you'll run out before you get to
practice," he said while shoving a 5 dollar bill into my hand.

"Sure thing.  Bye Dad."

Naturally I forgot about the STUPID gas gauge and was searching for a decent
tune on the ANCIENT am radio (good grief).  I didn't even think about it
again until I got on top of the overpass at the highway.  So here I am
walking in the freezing rain (flood) kicking myself for being so stupid.
Not the car's fault, not Dad's fault - just STUPID me again.

God, I hate myself sometimes.  Why can't I be more like Mike (my brother,
just over a year older).  Mom and Dad never compared me to him, I did enough
of that for everyone else.  This shi. . . stuff never happened to him.
Mike, always two steps ahead of the circumstances in his life, never stuck
on the side of the road, never forgot his homework, never late to practice -
is perfect, my words - not his.  I love my brother.  That troubles me too.
I mean, he is perfect - 6'-2", athletic build, kind, gorgeous green eyes,
dirty blond hair with naturally unruly curls.   Did I say he is kind?  He is
to everybody - but especially to me.  He always has time for me.  Lately,
when he gets up in the morning and heads for the shower (we share a room),
he drops his boxers and walks nude to the bathroom.  I can't take my eyes
off of him.  I usually beat off under the blanket before he returns and it's
my turn in the shower.  This isn't right.  I am not supposed to like boys -
especially not my brother (at least not like this - beating off over the
sight of him naked just feet away from my bed).
Most of my so-called "friends" hate their siblings; they are always ragging
about how they hate them, how cruel they are, and how they can't wait for
them to be off to college.  When I think of Mike leaving home for college
next year, I almost always start crying.  What will I do without him?

By now I am just about to the station.  "Crap!  Crap!  Crap!"  (See, that's
a little better). I left the gas can in the STUPID car!  Don't tell me I
have to walk all the way back . . I will never get to practice.  Coach is
going to be so pissed.

HONNNK HONNNNNK   I jumped at least a foot in the air as some fool came
sliding to a stop just inches from me on the side of the road.  "What the
FUCK!" (Oops!).

"Hop in you little rat!"  It was Mike.  Somewhat relieved it wasn't a mass
murderer or something, I scurried around behind the car and opened the front
passenger door.

"You scared the fucking shit out of me you bas. . . "

"Tisk, tisk," he scolded, "does your mother know you talk that way?"  He
said this with the usual humor in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes,
completely disarming me - again.

"Shut-up," I said, grinning despite myself, while sliding into the front
beside him.

"I saw the 'Blue Bomber' on the overpass," he offered before I was able to
ask.  "You, of course, know that you should keep gas in that hog if you're
going to be driving it."  The tone in his voice telling me he already knew I
had heard that speech a thousand times.

"I know, Dad told me the same thing. I just can't remember all this shit all
the time," I commiserated.  After a moment of silence, "life used to be
simple."  I was staring out the window at the dark sky and shivering from
the cold clothes sticking to me.

Life was simple, before I knew how different I am, that is before I knew I
was in love with my own brother.  Don't get me wrong - he is my brother, and
I do get aggravated at him, but that never lasts longer than the time it
takes to spit out some verbal barb.  Most of the time I just say them to
myself because I don't want to hurt him.  What am I going to do about this
shit?  How could this happen to me?  I am an all around normal guy - normal.
  I play every sport our small private high school has (all the boys sports
- all of them).  I am normal height, 5'-10"; normal weight, 155 lbs.; normal
hair, brown, cut normal - off the ears and collar, out of the eyes; normal
eyes, chocolate brown (this is my favorite feature . . . well my almost
favorite feature).  With all this normality - WHY am I so weird - queer?
I told you my life is full of frustrations.  This is most likely why I am
sitting here frozen like a pop cycle.  I can't figure all this shit out.  I
think I need help, only I don't know who to talk to.  Mike is always my
confidant.  We talk about everything.  He's my best friend.  Come to think
of it I don't have any other friends.  All the other guy's my age are too
snobbish, stupid, or whatever.  I don't need any of them.  I have Mike.  But
how do you tell your big brother you're in love - with HIM?  I tried before.


Two months ago

"Mike," I whispered out across the darkness separating our twin beds.

"Yeah," his voice already scratchy and groggy with sleep.

"I love you."

"Yeah."

Silence.  Stupid blockhead!

"No."

"No, what?"

"Mike, I said I love you!"

"Yeah, I heard that."

"So."

"So, what dickhead?"

Silence.  Shit! Shit! Shit!

"Aren't you going to hit me or something?"

Silence.

Mike sat up.  I could see his silhouette by the soft light sifting through
the open window from the street lamp across the street.  He seemed to shake
his head slowly.  I was sure he was about to come over and pound the shit
out of me. (He had never hit me before, but I had never told him or anyone
else that I was so messed up before).  Why did I have to be so stupid?  I
should have kept my mouth shut.

He did get up and began to move across the small room.  I scurried back
against the wall, pulling the blanket up to my chest like some dopey starlet
in a class "B" movie - yep, always stupid, that's me.  I felt him sit on the
side of my bed.

"Andy," he said softly.  I shifted slightly; keeping my protective blanket
snuggled close.

"I know you love me."  His voice kind and gentle.  He reached out softly
stroking my cheek with the back of his fingers.  " I have always known that,
Andy.  What we have is special.  I have worked hard to keep our relationship
strong and warm.  I don't want to ever be without you as my brother. . . and
my friend.  Now, go to sleep and stop worrying so much."  He leaned forward
and kissed me softly on the side of my neck, his hand on my chest.

I was too stunned to reply.  I heard him wrestle with his linens for a
couple of minutes, and soon heard that rhythmic sound of contented sleep.
How he could just lay down and go to sleep I will never understand.
Eventually, after what seemed like hours - but was more likely only minutes,
I drifted off to sleep and dreamed about how warm that kiss felt, the
tingling in my chest from his touch . . .


Today

"Hey," Mike's voice snapped me back to reality, "here we are.  Let's get
some gas and I'll get you to the 'Blue Bomber.'  You won't have practice
this morning, no way Coach has everybody out in this mess."

"I left the gas can in the car," I said matter of factly.

"No prob.  Just get the one out of my trunk."  (Shithead is always two steps
ahead).

Finally arriving at school in Dad's trusty steed, I gathered my bags and
headed over to the gym to change out of the wet warm-ups.  I made my way
over to my locker, dropped my gear, and fumbled with the lock.  As I reached
in to get my towel and underwear (I always kept a few extra there because I
was always changing after some sporting practice or event) I heard a
rustling noise just behind me.  Turning swiftly, I gasped at the sight
before my eyes.

It was Ronnie Webster - THE Ronnie Webster, eighth grade hunk - Ronnie
Webster.  He was the best athlete to come out of this school in years and
had been invited to work out with the high school track team.  He was also
the other vision in my jack-off sessions.  Mike I dreamt of in the morning
because he was so . . . close . . . so . . . well . . . naked.  Ronnie was
whom I thought of at night.  But there was absolutely no way I could ever
let him know who I felt.  What would I say?  "Hey, Ronnie - want to get down
on the floor and fuck our brains out?"  Ronnie was straight as anyone could
be.  Besides, he just turned fourteen, I'm sixteen (now), we weren't
supposed to mingle together; it's just not done in high school.

Ronnie was standing inches away from me, wrapped loosely (very loosely - I
see no hair - anywhere below his eyebrows) in a towel, his hair still
dripping wet.  His dark brown hair seemed almost black with the dampness of
the shower and the dim locker room light.  I smell the soap and shampoo.
It is intoxicating.  His ocean blue eyes are piercing straight into my mine,
unflinching.  There is a question hidden in them.  I couldn't speak.  my
heart was racing.  Ronnie is six inches shorter than me, but has quite a
body working for him, he weighed about 120 lbs.  Actually he is a specimen
rarely seen in boys his age; perfect  "v" shaped torso, strong flat stomach,
with the beginnings of a six-pack.  Absolutely hairless, at least as much as
was visible above his towel.  There is only a light dusting of light brown
hairs on his lower legs.  I can't see his thighs, but cannot imagine there
could be any hair on them.

"R. . . Ronnie," I stammered.  "Holy shit, you scared the . . . well I
didn't expect anyone to be here.  I thought practice was cancelled."  I
strung that all out with one breath and at about twice the rate of normal
speech.  My mind was racing, how was I to keep him from noticing how
flustered I was?

"Sorry, Andy," he said.  "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I got to
practice early and set out before the storm started.  I thought you would be
here early as usual . . . I wanted to be . . . r. . . run with you," his
eyes never leaving mine.  "Why were you late for practice?"  He seemed to be
stumbling over his words for some reason.  I wonder what that is about.

"Ran out of gas in the 'Blue Bomber."

"You okay?"

"Huh, yeah . . . sure.  Just wanted to take a hot shower to warm up and
change into my uniform," I said, struggling to keep my erection from
embarrassing me even more than I was already. (Why does this embarrass me?
There is nothing abnormal about this situation. . . . just calm down,
everything will be okay.  I hope.)


I turned and began pealing the wet cloths off, my shirt sloshed on the bench
and began dripping immediately.  (Gee, somebody could get hurt with all that
water on the floor.  Somebody ought to clean that up).  Ronnie stayed right
there watching. With my trousers around my ankles, I kicked off my shoes and
started hopping on each leg while attempting to get the wet pants off.
Loosing my balance I reached out toward Ronnie, but realized that I was
about to touch him, so I pivoted in mid-stride reaching for the locker
instead.  Damn water!  Down I went like a rock. WHAM!  That would be my head
bouncing off the floor.

Ronnie jumped to reach me and brake my fall, but I was totally too far-gone.
  The combination caused Ronnie to fall right on top of me.  Somehow in the
process his towel fell off and he was completely naked.   Neither of us
moved for a few seconds as we assessed the situation.

Our eyes locked.  I shifted slightly and Ronnie's arms slipped even more and
he was now sprawled completely on top of me with his full weight.  My
erection was painfully obvious through the thin material of my wet jock
strap.  I could feel Ronnie's endowment very plainly against by stomach.

"You okay," Ronnie said while his eyes remained glued to mine.  His face was
so close I could feel his breath on my face.  I could smell his toothpaste.

"You have already asked me that once this morning," I replied.

"You almost killed yourself since then," he chuckled.

I was extremely conscious of my hard-on pocking him in his mid-section.

"Besides," he said, "you're about to impale me with this . . . thing of
yours." His hand went to my still wet jock-encased package that was
obviously enjoying the full body contact.  His grin somehow seemed to turn
into a leer.  He subconsciously licked his gorgeous red lips.  Slowly he
lowered his face towards mine.  I watched as his eyes glazed over just
before he closed them.  Ever so gently, almost timidly he placed those
sensuous lips on mine.

Electricity shot out of his lips and ran straight through me.  I felt faint
and dizzy.  The most beautiful boy in the entire school was naked, lying on
top of me, kissing me!  He moaned aloud as he came back for more, forceful
this time.  There was urgency in this kiss.  He was leaking pre-cum
copiously and began humping his body against mine.  His tongue snaked it's
way into my willing mouth and my own tongue played with his as the passion
heated up.  My arms were around him.  I was touching his hot flesh and began
kneading his back.  My right hand wandered down to his firm butt cheek.  It
was like electricity.  I couldn't believe how hot his flesh was to the
touch.  His ass was hard and soft at the same time.  Both of my hands were
now kneading his globes of boy flesh.  His grinding intensified.  The moans
now turned to cries of passion as he neared eruption.

"Ah-hem!  You guy's gonna lay there playing kissy face all morning!"

Damn!  Damn!  Damn!  I know that voice without looking.  It was Mike.

God . . . it must be Monday!  Why does this always happen to me?


That's all for now.  Sorry to leave you hanging, but I want to know if you
like this or if I am way off base.  Please let me know.
boyzheart@hotmail.com

-Andy