Date: Sun, 19 Feb 2006 22:11:18 -0500
From: Rick Adams <ou.ohyeah@gmail.com>
Subject: "tyler" chapter 1

The Spanish Coast. Years ago-1805-this strategic body of water was the
sight of Britain's greatest naval victory, and France's worst defeat. The
Battle of Trafalgar, arguably the most significant European naval battle,
the greatest engagement of the Napoleonic Age, and the pivotal battle in
19th century Europe was fought on Spain's southwestern edge.

"John."

Nelson's plan was to run his ships easterly into the French fleet; break
the enemy line with two or three columns in order to cut the center and
rear of the fleet from its van, and to then concentrate his forces on the
ships in the rear part of the line.  Divide and conquer.

To successfully rout the enemy, one must take them by surprise. Do
something that will utterly confound them, set them back in their
paces. Only then can victory be assured.

"John!"

"Wha-what?" My head rolled up from my history book blankly, angled to the
desk next to me. To Tyler. In a millisecond, my mind registers that he's
actually talking to me. I can't remember the last time this happened. We're
in study hall, and the bell's just rung. Time to go to Economics.

"You had your nose buried in that book; I was trying to get your
attention." He smiles as he says it.

"Oh," I say flatly. "Sorry I was...I get kinda into it. History, y'know."
It's always awkward talking tom him, barring the fact that we've known each
other since second grade.

"Yeah, its okay." He stands from the desk and slings a backpack over his
shoulder.  For a moment I see strong muscled arms flex and glimpse a small
patch of hair in the armpit underneath his blue sleeveless shirt. He could
get away with wearing a shirt like that; when you got it, flaunt it, after
all.

Tyler--Ty, as I'd called him since the second grade--is a wrestler. And in
the off- season, a running back for the football team. He's cute. Runner's
legs-thin and sinewy, with tiny curls of hair in all the right places. He's
wearing baggy khaki shorts today; leather flip-flops and an anklet that
seems to separate his pale and bony feet from the tanned skin and black
hair above. The sleeveless shirt he wears broadens his shoulders has a
white swoosh on the left breast. The best PR Nike can ask for, standing
right in front of me. He has a beautiful face, too. Deep set brown eyes,
flawless complexion, a nose the shape of a downhill ski-slope that just
screams handsome.

The truth of the matter? I'm gay. Tyler--straight. And not exactly a best
friend either; hell, this is the first time he's said two words to me since
we came into High School two years ago.

I want him. I know it. Christ, I'm a sophomore in High School; I should be
learning this kind of thing. I should be...expanding horizons. Right?

We walk to Econ together, by virtue of having a similar schedule for
once. We don't say anything. It gives me a chance to catalogue things in my
head.  He talked to me. He never talks to me.

He's a wrestler. Hot in itself. I've seen pictures in the papers; he's one
of the best on the team. On the few occasions I've seen him in gym class
changing his clothes-shirtless and once, standing in front of his locker,
naked to God and everyone while he was rooting for clothes-that was when I
knew I wanted him.  When I knew I was gay. Physically, Tyler is perfection,
from the neck down. A wrestler's sculpted chest and abs, hairless except
for the remnants of a happy trail below his navel. That leads to a
neatly-ordered array of pubic hair surrounding his cock. He was unabashed
about his physical appearance; he knew he could get away with doing
it. This all is coupled with a friendly demeanor and a friendly smile. The
kind of smile that said "I can be your friend."

Maybe that's want I want. Or maybe its just hormones yanking me in a
hundred directions at once. I want to go in Tyler's direction. To follow
him anywhere.  We get into Econ and sit at desk next to each other;
business as usual. Tyler slouches in his chair. His shorts ride up slightly
and reveal paler skin above his kneecaps, with less hair. Just as muscular
though. My cock instantly sprang to life inside my denims. I hunched
forward and immediately started writing in my notebook, pretending to look
busy.

I felt something knock up against the sole of my boot, looked over the side
of the desk to see one of Tyler's flip-flops pressing its toe on the black
rubber. I can tell he's putting effort into it by the way the tendons of
his toes rise under the skin.  Hot. From the corner of his eye, he catches
the action, pulls his foot back and apologies.

"It's okay," I say sheepishly, and go back to my work. At the head of the
class, the teacher starts giving his spiel. I don't even bother to pay
attention; I've heard it before.

By conventional standards, I'm a bit of a bookworm. Not exactly the
greatest student, but I do well enough that the teachers seem to like me. I
the realm of High School sociality, I'm the polar opposite of someone like
Tyler. Someone like Tyler only comes to someone like me to get homework
tips.

Still...

"So what are you doing tonight?"

"Tonight?" I ask, not looking up from my notebook. One ear catches the
teacher's notes, and the other focuses on Tyler. "Nothing, why?"

"Got a wrestling meet-home match. Thought you might like to come."

I look at him with a raised eyebrow. This is me playing tough. "How much?"

"Two bucks. And afterward we can go to McDonald's or whatever; my treat. My
gift to you, for helping me out with the Kennedy paper last week."

Yeah. Homework tips.

"Two bucks? Athletic Department must be getting a bigger budget."

"Come on," he presses. "What do you say?"

I sigh. "Alright. But I'm only staying for your match."

Tyler slaps a hand on the desk, smiles, and says, "That's fine."