Date: Wed, 26 Jul 2006 17:36:28 -0400
From: rick lemmon <blue_steele82@hotmail.com>
Subject: summer nights like

   Summer Nights like Lighter Fluid Stupid Teenaged Dreams


     These stupid sweaty summer nights; I feel like I should
be making something out of them, especially as my teen years
are dwindling (youth is wasted on the young, isn't it?), but
I just can't think of anything to do.  As I walk home maybe
a little too early from that house party, I think that maybe
I should call Eric.  I mean, ya, okay, it was fun, in that
`let's get wasted' sort of way, but I'm so not really into
that shit.  I'd really like nothing more than to be walking
home with him right now, hand in hand maybe, and then he
could come in, and down into my basement, and then we could
watch a movie and, you know. make out.  But I'm just being
silly.
     Eric's my best friend.  Or, really, I suppose I should
be honest and say that he's the closest thing I have to a
best friend  I'm really being too generous with the term:
he's a friend who gives me that titular allowance because he
knows I have no one else to bestow said designation upon.
We've been tight for more than a few months now, and I'm
closer with him than anyone else, but if I were to be honest
I'd have to say that we certainly don't know each other in
that `best friends' sort of way.
     We became close in a strange way.  Well, honestly, I'm
not sure if it's that strange, but I definitely wasn't
expecting it, and no one's caught me by surprise more than
he did.

     I've always been a loner.  I was the weirdo in
elementary school, the kid in the same pair of too-short
faded black sweatpants everyday, normally with either a red
or a white turtleneck, both equally unfortunate, and topped
with a rattail haircut that I, at least, thought was way
cool.  My questionable taste in fashion, coupled with a
ridiculous obsession with geography and an open fandom of
the Power Rangers while the other kids played with POGs and
trading cards and watched Star Wars, marked me as a social
outcast from the get-go.
     When I got to middle school, I faded into a sea of
anonymity, and I've been stuck drowning there ever since.
I've since traded in the sweatpants for jeans, the
turtlenecks for dully cleaver t-shirts, and the rattail for
a head of shaggy hair useful for hiding behind, but I'm
still the guy who's picture incites a `who the hell is
that?' when stumbled upon in the yearbook.
     I don't really mind though.  No one's ever been rude to
me or picked on me, and I did have a few people throughout
the years who I could eat lunch with or smoke joints with,
so it's not all that bad.  I've mostly been invisible, and
for the most part that suits me.  It's left me a lot of time
to read.  High school's such a small part of your life, and
I'm mostly finished with it now, anyway.

     I started talking to Eric at the beginning of this year
when we ended up sitting next to each other in our World
History class.  I'd been barely aware of his existence, and
he'd been entirely oblivious to mine (he asked me if I was
new the first time we talked) but we eventually started
chatting, first about assignments, and then about other
things, and soon we were friends, at least of sorts.
     What I mean by that is I think we're at least a little
bit more than friends.  We've never done anything, acted
upon it, or even acknowledged, but there are little things
that make my stupid brain think that maybe one day we might.
We flirt sometimes, in unobvious ways, and touch each other
a lot, and once and a while do nice little things for each
other like, `oh, I saw this and thought you might like it,'
or whatever.  But Eric still thinks he's straight, and I've
never told him I'm gay, and there we are.
     I've been attracted to him from the very beginning.
He's tall, not as tall as me, but then, most people aren't,
and has longish sandy-brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an
odd, knobby nose.  And he has a great smile, one that warms
me up and makes me feel more wanted than I ever have before.
He's not unpopular, either, not like me.  He's not king-shit
by any means, and mostly hangs on the sidelines, but he has
a lot of friends - by my standards, anyway - and at least
takes part the proverbial game.  I'm not in his circle of
friends, I just know him, but I'm okay with that, too.
     In fact, I've been more okay with a lot of things since
I became friends with him.  I've never really cared about
how I look, but once and a while I get doubts, if only
because I don't have anyone to reassure me.  You're not
ugly, he's told me many times when he catches me standing in
front of a mirror brooding over myself.  He can be really
sweet sometimes.  I never even noticed that I did that
before I met him - brood, I mean.  I always thought I was
the picture of studied nonchalance.  But since I've known
him, I've developed a standard answer to his not-ugly
statement: how so?  That generally provokes a sideways laugh
from him, because over the months it's become a game that we
play.  I make faces at my gawkiness, my tall, thin frame, my
pointy nose, and it provides an excuse for him to complement
me and for us to flirt.  He tells me that he likes my brown
eyes, when he can see them, and that I have a nice bod,
underneath it all, and that I'm smart, and clever, and that
that goes a long way.
     It goes both ways, too.  We're both always giving each
other reasons to pay complements.  It's not that either one
of us suffer from bad self-esteem, or anything.  It's just
an inside joke, an intimate one, and it makes me feel like I
won't ever need anyone else as long as I have him to hang
with.
     When we're bored, we need nothing more than a car and
the occasional spliff to have a good time.  We drive around
and point out people, talking about how Eric's like so much
better at walking than that person, or how this person's
breathing skills pale in comparison to my own, or how he's
way better at wearing black than that lady trying to hide a
huge ass with night-coloured pants.  Again, just stupid
little ways to let each other know how great we think the
other one is.
     Doing nothing with him is fun.  I never knew it could
be, but it is.  Sometimes we just lie on the floor in his
bedroom and listen to music for hours, or sit in my basement
and read, me something like Do Androids Dream of Electric
Sheep? and him something like Ulysses, or hang in the
kitchen and cook a meal, or wear shabby slippers and his
Gramps' hats and play Scrabble or cribbage or chess like
we're eighty.  I suppose we're both sort of barmy old men in
many ways, but we enjoy each other's company, so it doesn't
really matter.
     There has always been a degree of distance between us,
though.  It goes back to that ever-present sexual tension
that I'm sure I'm not imagining.  There are times where
we'll share a moment, and then, with brusqueness that always
startles me, he'll back off and remain distant for hours.
He keeps me at an arm's length, and I expect that I
sometimes do the same to him, if only in apprehension of
what his reaction might be if I didn't.
     I'm in a constant state of confusion over him, because
I genuinely don't know where this is going, if it is even
going anywhere or if I'm just inventing it all.  I mean,
it's June already, and we've been friends for eight months,
and still nothing.  Maybe I'm just so horny that I've been
misinterpreting everything, every little touch, and quite
frankly, I'm the first to admit that possibility.
     I'll readily acknowledge that I badly need to get laid.
One of the disadvantages of being a loner is that there's a
horrible shortage of people to fool around with.  When I was
in grade 10 I drunkenly made out with some dude in a dirty
bathroom at a party I never should have been at in the first
place, but that's basically the long and short of my sexual
history, besides, of course, my daily desperate and
frequently depressing jack-off sessions.  These days, I
can't help but think of Eric when I do it, of his pink,
inviting smile, and his solid, sinewy forearms, his dark
nipples, his perfect, hard dick, and I always end up feeling
guilty afterwards because I don't have his consent to use
him that way.
     But life goes on, and for the most part I'm glad he's
in mine, and that's where I'm at.

     It's warm even for mid-June as I longingly walk down
the looping streets of my neighbourhood, trying to get home
or trying to trip over something better to do.  I don't know
why I went to this party tonight.  It was so unlike me.
This girl Karen was playing host, and I sort of know her, if
only because she's very friendly and nerdy enough to be in a
lot of the same advanced classes as I am.  But she's pretty
and popular enough, and the party was fairly big and mostly
full of the cool kids, so I'm sure she only invited me
because she felt obliged to as I heard her talking about it
with her friend outside of our English final.
     Normally, I never would have shown.  I wasn't even
thinking about going until my slutty friend Stef told me she
wanted to so she could get with some guy, and since it was
only a convenient three streets down from me and I was
secretly hoping to see Eric, I found myself there,
surrounded with 200 people I don't know and don't care to
know.  My usual scene, when I have one, is 5 or 7 high
people who mostly don't go to my school in a dark basement,
so of course, despite the big turn out, I ended up feeling
awkward and leaving early, and mostly sober at that.
     Longing as I am for something more than a boring party
to come out of this warm, early-summer night, I can't help
but wonder where the fuck Eric is.  I'd half expected to see
him tonight, but I didn't.  Granted, I spent most of the
night in the same back corner stuck listening to this dude
Carl talk about his take on the neo-con conspiracy because I
didn't know anyone else who was around, and for all I know
he was there and I just missed him entirely, but I still
feel disappointed.  It's a dumb concept, this
disappointment, because we never go partying together and I
don't even know what we would have done together in such a
social situation, but I still wish I could have seen him,
anyway.  I figure we could have smoked a joint, and then,
later, since my house is on the way to his, walked home
together.  Maybe he could have even come in for a while, and
we could've gone down to my basement, and I could have
played my cards right. and I'm back to that, again.
     Deciding that I should call him, I stop and sit on the
curb in the darkness and pull out my cell-phone.  No answer.
I should have guessed.  Bummed, I light a cigarette and
appreciate the fact that there are no streetlights in my
hood.  The darkness, at least, is good company.  I don't get
more than five steps in after I toss my butt before my phone
starts vibrating in my pants pocket.  I get a twitch in my
cock and I answer.  In front of a backdrop of laughing,
shouting, and music, I hear Eric's voice.
     You at Karen's? I ask him, like a fool.  Of course he
is.  I'm not surprised when he tells me so.
     Where are you? he asks, in turn.
     I check the street signs and I tell him - On Maple,
just past Woodglen - and that I'd just left, that I was
bored, that I was going home.  He tells me to wait, so I do,
hacking two more butts in the process.

     A few hours later, we're sitting in my basement,
watching TV, just like I wanted.  We're cuddled together,
like we always are, in simple intimacy, his head on my
shoulder, me absent-mindedly fingering his hair, but I can
already tell that, like always, this is going nowhere.  I
wonder if he's even aware of the places we could go or that
I want to go to them.  He's not an idiot, or all that na‹ve,
but I often think that the thought probably hasn't even
crossed his mind.
     We're watching Cheaters on Fox, and I'm only
entertained because he's here with me.  It just feels so
right, so comfortable to be sprawled out on my couch with
Eric by my side.  I feel warm inside, and I'm not hard, but
slightly chubby in my underwear.  I think he is, too,
because his hand is resting on his lap and he keeps idly
grazing past his crotch.  Out of nowhere, I'm struck with
the simultaneous thoughts that if I did want something to
happen, I would eventually have to do something to force it,
and that he has really flawless ears.
     You have cute ears, I tell him, and I give his outward
one a squeeze.  But all that succeeds in doing is making him
back up off of me and retreat to the far end of the
chesterfield.  I feel stupid and slighted like I always do
when he pulls these moves.  I also feel annoyed with him, so
I turn away focus all of my attention on the suddenly
asinine and intolerable television show.
     But I can't stand doing that for long, so I instead
turn my attention toward him and study his person and his
body language.  He's trying to relax, I can tell, but one
hand is still resting on his lap, and his other his clenched
in a tight fist, and he's biting his lip.  I stare at him so
hard, trying to understand what goes through his head at
times like.  He eventually feels my eyes on him, and turns
toward me, staring back.
     What? he asks me, defensively, and I can't deal with
his self-induced obliviousness for a another second.  I
can't even endure being near him, so I abruptly stand up and
walk into the bathroom, slamming the door closed on my way.
I'm in a mean rage, and I'm honestly surprised by the sudden
violence of my emotions.  I don't know what or why I'm
doing.  I feel the sickness of our dishonest relationship
seep into my head and my gut, and I can't shake it off.
     But I try to, anyway.  I splash cold water on my face,
trying to wash away my rage and my muddled over-reaction.
In standing back up, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Water dripping down my face, cheeks flushed, wet hair, I
hardly recognize myself.  I feel so divided from myself by
my emotions, like I'm calmly and rational watching this
insane person be upset.  I don't know what the hell has come
over me, what I'm doing, or where this angry impulsion has
come from, but in a moment of out-of-body clarity I know
that I'll be fucked up until I'm honest with him, until I
know one way or another.  Then I hear the door open.
     Eric lets himself in.  The basement bathroom is tiny,
and in standing face to face, me half-leaning against the
sink's counter, him pressed against the back wall, papered
in an ugly, peeling, pink print that's at least as old as I
am, we're mere inches from each other.  His presence draws
me back into my body, and I'm acutely aware of his
proximity.
     What's this all about? he demands, when he sees me
flushed and wet and upset, a smile on his lips, but concern
in his eyes.  He passes me a hand-towel so I can dry my
face, and for the thousandth time I'm struck in the pit of
my stomach with an all-consuming want for him.  I can't
stand it anymore.
     Eric, I begin, and then I falter over my words because
I don't know how to say all the things I never thought I
would say.  I stop, rewind, and take a deep breath.
     What are we doing?
     Watching tv, I thought, he says, chuckling.  But I can
only stare at him, shoot him an incredulous look, and when
he gets caught in my eyes, I think he finally realizes what
I'm getting at.  Maybe he already knew.  I must be on his
mind, too.
     I- he starts, and then chokes up, and I can tell that
he doesn't know what to say, either.
     Eric, I say again.  Eric, pleading this time.  Eric.I
keep staring him right in the eye, the entire time, and I
can feel his warm panting breath on my face.  I put my hands
on his sides and begin lightly tracing them up and down.
Eric, please.
     What do you want from me, Collin? he asks, his voice
dripping with nerves and want and fear.  Stupid question.
     You could kiss me.  I say it gently, but I feel giddy
as my nerves tighten around my stomach.  I'm still rubbing
his sides, still looking him in the eye, and his face is
even closer than it was before.
     I.No, Col, I.But he doesn't sound very convinced, and
he gives up too easily.
     Ya, I say it firmly, and move my left hand up to his
neck and pull his face towards me.  His lips briefly graze
my lips, still afraid, and he leans his forehead against
mine, looking down through thick eyelashes.  I feel his
fear, like a scared little boy, and he lets me put my arms
around him and rub his back.
     I can't- he begins to say, but I cut him off by putting
my lips against his.  He goes rigid for a moment, and then
finally relents, relaxes, and kisses me back.  He puts his
arms around me like I have mine around him, and everything
just feels so right.  He hesitantly opens his mouth and lets
my tongue inside.  I kiss him with smiling lips.  It's
funny, because here I am again making out in a bathroom.
It's funny, because I never thought I'd be the aggressor in
our relationship.  It's funny, because I'm so happy just to
finally be here with Eric, and now that I have him in my
arms I can't stop myself, and I let my hands run all over
his body.
     It's hot.  I'm sweaty and flushed, and so, so hard.  I
can't get enough of him, of his firm body, his soft skin,
his tender lips.  This is what I've wanted.  This is better
than what I've wanted.
     We kiss for a faultless eternity.  Our breathing
becomes ragged and desperate as we kiss each other
everywhere, nose, cheeks, chins, necks, and lips, always
lips, caving in to a pressure that's been building for
months.  He pushes me insistently against the counter and I
lean against it for support, all the while keeping him
wrapped in my arms and my lips locked on his.  I feel us
melting together, and I grasp hungrily at every part of him
I can.  I know I'll never be the one to stop this.
     And I'm right.  Without warning, he goes tense again in
my arms and pulls back, head down, standing away from me
now.
     I need to go, he stammers, and just like that he turns
and leaves, out of my bathroom, out of my basement, out of
my house.  I'm alone and bewildered, standing in my dingy
basement bathroom with a raging boner and no Eric.
     I can't really figure out what's happened, and I can't
really think of anything else to do but go to sleep.  It's
late, anyway, so after the lonely shock wears off, I brush
my teeth, take off my shirt, throw on a pair of sweatpants
and get into bed.  I do it all mechanically.  I feel
emotionally drained, empty, out of my body again, and the
dampness of my basement bedroom settles around me like a
thick, mood-trapping miasma.  I'm so out of it that I can't
even jack off, despite the fact that a mere 20 odd minutes
ago I had been more turned on than I ever was before.  But I
just don't have the heart for it, so instead I curl up in a
ball on my side and try to pass out.

     Some time later, I slip out of my state of semi-sleep
at a stirring in my room.  Before I can manage to make sense
of it, Eric is laying behind me in my bed, spooning me, his
arm around my body, holding me close.
     I'm sorry, he whispers in my ear, and then he
tentatively kisses the back of my neck.  At that, I roll
over and face him, entwining our legs in the process.  He
looks at me for long moments in the gentle grey light of the
very early morning, contemplating.
     I couldn't go home, he tells me at last, shaking his
head.  I never wanted to let myself do this, but the more I
thought about how I left you alone like that, the more I
couldn't explain to myself why.  He takes my fingers in his,
playing with them, and we say nothing for while.  Then he
kisses me.  I feel his tongue on my lips, in my mouth, all
over my face, and I do the same for him.
     We make out for hours.  Eventually, he kicks his jeans
and his t-shirt off, but keeps his boxers on.  We do little
more than kiss, but we kiss until our jaws are sore, and
then keep kissing.  He sucks on my neck while he rubs
himself against me and I play with his hair.  I kiss and
bite on his ear while thigh touches thigh.  We kiss and kiss
until all I can taste is his spit and his skin, and all I'm
aware of are his shins, his thighs, his hands, his clavicle,
his shoulders, his neck, his lips, his tongue, as if his
body and this bed were my entire world.  I forget that
anything else exists, and when we finally fall asleep in the
bright sunlight to a chorus and chirping birds, I feel
satiated and completely content.
     Long morning hours later, I wake up, and he's still in
my arms.  I'm glad that it's summer, and that I'm young, and
that I'm no longer waiting for something more to happen.  We
were finally honest, and I finally have him, he's finally
mine.  At least for a little while.



I've posted another story before, Matt, last updated Dec. 5,
2004, but I wouldn't recommend looking it up because I never
finished it.  But I will one day, eventually.

Comments are always welcome, though, at
blue_steele82@hotmail.com.