Date: Thu, 10 Nov 2011 15:00:58 -0800
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed, Part 4

Here's the next installment of the latest story.  It's very much
fictional, and involves (or will) sexual activities between minors, so if
that's not legal where you live or not your cup of tes, please don't read
it.  I'll again plug my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is also
here in the HS Section (the last chapter was posted April 12; that'll
help you locate it).   I appreciate any and all critiques or comments, so
feel free to let me know what you think.  This is taking some time to set
up, but I think the resulting tension will make the story work better in
the long run than stories where someone meets somebody and is naked in
like 5 minutes.  Neither realistic or satisfying, on a deeper level
anyway.  Read and enjoy!

When the World Changed, Part 4

	The rest of the day passed in a blur.  Brady spent the remainder of
the afternoon in his room with David, listening to more music he'd never
heard or imagined before, and meeting so many boys he soon lost all hope of
remembering their names.  One he did make special note of was Doug's
roommate, Duncan Hennessey, when he went upstairs to visit Doug's room.
Dunc (as he liked to be called) was a gangly kid a little shorter than
Brady with a piled-high shock of disheveled blonde hair, impossibly huge
hands at the ends of long thin arms, and a jaw several sizes too large for
the rest of his face.  It made his smiles look loopy and dumb, but was very
endearing in its own way.  He and Doug seemed to be hitting it off well,
though, especially since Dunc had brought a huge poster of Raquel Welch
from the movie "1 Million Years B.C."  The two of them spent an inordinate
amount of time commenting to each other on her various physical attributes,
with Brady gamely chiming in so as not appear uninterested.  "You realize,"
Dunc said at one point when the conversation dragged a bit, "that the movie
truly sucks.  Right?  But, I mean, shit, lookit that!  Worth every dime,
man!"  They cracked up over that for several minutes, before Brady had to
slip away to get dressed for dinner.  The whole time he kept trying not to
stare at Doug.  He wasn't very successful.

	His first formal meal went better than he had expected.  Mr. Taber
was nowhere in sight.  The Master at his table turned out to be a genial
old guy who taught math, and who loved to tell old Cavalier football
stories.  He became noddingly familiar with the boys at his table (which
was less than half full because the Old Boys who would sit with them had
for the most part not arrived yet).  After dinner, he and David crowded
along with the rest of the boys on the hall into the living room of the
Hall Master's apartment at the south end of the hall.  It was
claustrophobic, cluttered, and smelled vaguely odd.  Mr. Billips was very
young - the frizzy balding guy who'd directed him to his room that morning
- and he seemed intent to speak in his the loudest possible voice, perhaps
to generate an air of authority his appearance definitely lacked.  His
lecture about rules and other procedures lasted about fifteen glazingly
dull minutes, after which he introduced the Hall Prefects, Ryan Cureton and
Bart Luce, both juniors, who lived at the north end of the hall.  Their job
was, in essence, den mothers and resident snitches, enforcing lights out,
study hall hours, attendance and other rules in the hall as Billips'
assistants and in his absence.  They seemed to know David, but not to be
especially friendly with him.

	Back in their room, Brady asked David about the Prefects.  "They're
OK, as far as that goes," David said with a shrug.  "It's like an honor to
be picked as a Prefect your junior year - responsibility and all that crap.
So they're pretty puffed up and all about it now.  Those two tend to get
pushed around by some of the seniors and all, though.  Dougie McShane
scares the shit out of Cureton, I know that."

	"How?"

	"Cureton got in his way between classes or something one day last
year, and Dougie like put him up against the wall and threatened to rip his
balls off or something.  Don't know why - Dougie just does that to people,
he likes to scare guys sometimes.  Guess Cureton started crying, and he
like runs away whenever Dougie's around ever since."

	"This guy sounds like a real piece of work."

	David snorted.  "Complete asshole," he muttered.  "Thinks he's like
king of the fucking world, and he barely passes any of his classes.  Only
reason he's still here is daddy's money."

	Brady hesitated a bit.  "Sounds like, um, you might have had a
run-in with him?"

	David glanced at him a second, then shrugged again.  "He likes to
pick on little kids.  Eighth graders are always a great target, and his
brother was there to point him to the guys he wanted him to fuck with.
He'll probably go after this year's eighth graders again, so I'm just gonna
ignore him."  There was clearly more, but Brady didn't want to press the
question.

	At about 10, Bart Luce dispersed the small group of guys who'd
gathered in the room across from Brady's.  "Lights out in half an hour,
guys.  Get cleaned up now, I don't wanna sting anybody first night."  Brady
hustled through his nightly toilet duties in a very noisy and crowded
bathroom that smelled faintly of sweat and farts, brushing vigorously while
wondering how he'd ever get to sleep.  Despite the long day, he was still
jangly and nervous.  He stripped to his underwear and slid into bed while
David was out in the bathroom, looking around at his new home.  Maybe it
wasn't so bad, he thought.  Doug's face came to mind, and he found himself
considering it idly for several minutes with a soft smile.

	David reappeared, looked nervously at Brady, and stepped behind the
door to the room's small closet.  "Would you mind?"  he asked.  Brady,
after a moment of incomprehension, dutifully turned toward the wall.  He
heard David slip into bed.  "OK," David said quietly.

	"So, good night," Brady said, suddenly feeling shy.  He clicked off
the light.  Several seconds of thick silence passed between them.

	"Right.  Hey, listen, we need to talk about something."

	Brady was mystified.  "OK, what?"

	"We need to be cool with each other about jerking off."

	"Wh - what?"  He was glad it was dark, he could feel how red his
cheeks were.

	"Look, we're gonna jerk off.  You know it, and I know it, and we're
lyin' here like fifteen feet apart and all.  No way we're gonna hide it
from each other.  So we need to just sort of clear the air and all about
it, OK?"

	Brady blinked several times.  "OK.  Um, how exactly do we do that?"

	"Well, a few ways.  We can just do it and say what the fuck.  I'm
kind of shy about that, though.  My roommate last year, Edward, he'd just
do it anytime he felt like it.  Sometimes he'd spend half of study hall
every night sittin' at his desk an' playing with his dick.  It sort of
freaked me out."

	"I thought you liked him.  You said you were gonna room with him
again and all."

	"Not him, with another guy.  Edward's like in France this year or
something."

	"Oh."

	"So, my point is, I'd kind of like it if you didn't just whack off
in front of me, OK?"

	"Sure, OK.  I, uh, I wasn't, you know, thinking of doing anything
like that anyway."  It was embarrassing to feel how hard the conversation
had already made him.  "I guess I'm kind of shy, too."

	David snorted a laugh.  "You lose a lot of the shy crap pretty fast
in a place like this, believe me.  Anyway, if you wanna do it, be my guest,
but not like really openly, OK?  I don't really jerk off much - I gotta say
I'm not really there yet, you know what I mean?  But if I do, I'll like
wait till you're gone or I'll hit the head or something."

	"Sure, OK.  And, um, if you, like, need any private time, or
something . . . you know, just like speak up."

	"Cool, thanks."  David audibly settled into his pillow, and Brady
stared into blackness for a while. He was achingly hard now.  He turned
toward the wall and listened for David's breathing to slow, sliding his
hand down to grab himself in the meantime.  After about ten minutes he
decided it was safe, and started stroking himself with agonizing slowness,
conscious of every breath and movement.  He was worried about David, but
found himself thinking about Doug.  I bet he's a really good athlete, he
thought.  It's going to be fun playing football with him.  He's a really
nice guy . . .  He was moving faster without realizing it, and starting to
breathe raggedly.  He abruptly realized two things: he was going to come,
and he had no means of confining or cleaning up the mess.  He gritted his
teeth and cupped his hand over the head of his erection as the waves
overcame him.  He seemed to spasm for hours.  Finally, his body relented,
and he slumped downwards, his right palm awash with sticky fluid, and felt
a sweet lassitude roll over his entire being.  He sighed deeply.

	"Christ," David muttered.  "You're loud."

	The next morning brought more meetings and instructions on things
he didn't quite grasp fully.  He had a job working in the school bookroom
when not in class as part of his scholarship package.  He was supposed to
rake a certain area in front of Linsley every morning after breakfast as
part of work program.  He had a mountain of books to carry from the gym,
where the main basketball court had been temporarily carpeted over and
turned into a book dispensary for the school year (a glance at the books'
prices made him secretly offer a prayer of thanks that his scholarship
covered their cost).  He would drop off laundry every Tuesday, and pick it
up on Friday before noon, in a stuffy basement room beneath the dining
hall.  He waited the table at lunch, poorly, unsure from moment to moment
what to do or where to go, and certain that he'd not get any food to the
table and everyone would get pissed off at him.  Old Boys were thronging
the campus, with more waves of cars disgorging suitcases and furniture.
Someone in a senior dorm across the main campus from Linsley put a speaker
in his window and blared Jefferson Airplane for a good twenty minutes
before a Master made him turn it down.  He was waiting for football
practice that afternoon.  There, he felt sure, he'd be at home.  And Doug
would be there too - at practice, just a few lockers down, maybe even in
the shower.  The idea excited Brady in a vague tingly way.

	At about 2:30, he ran up the stairs to the third floor of Linsley
and down the hall to Doug's room.  Dunc was flopped on his bed reading a
Life magazine that had an odd picture of some woman with auburn hair.  She
was very pretty.  "Her name's Veruschka," he said eagerly, holding the
magazine up.  "Isn't she amazing looking?  All pouty and crap . . .  You
should see the stuff inside, I just wish more of it was in color."  Brady
sat down next to him as Dunc flipped through the pages, pointing out each
picture and her best qualities in each.  Dunc, it turned out, was a major
tit man.  "They're like spillin' out there, look.  I mean, how cool is
that, right?  And she's in that movie 'Blow Up,' where she and some other
girls actually get naked and stuff!"

	"Dunc's gonna want to be alone now with Veruschka, I think."  Doug
was leaning against the door, smiling, wiping his hand with a small towel,
his dress shirt open at the collar.  His teeth were very white as he
smiled, and his hair seemed to shine even in the half light of the
dormitory.  Brady shot to his feet at the sight, as if afraid that he'd
been caught somehow cheating by sitting on Dunc's bed and looking at
pictures of a half naked German fashion model.  Doug laughed.  "I was about
to round you up.  Time to go?"  Brady nodded, and without a word to Dunc
(who, to be fair, had no interest in their departure), they set off for the
gym.

	The locker room was loud, crowded, and close.  The freshman
practice was set to start before the varsity and JV, allowing for staggered
use of the facility, but a number of older boys were there, in various
stages of dress and undress, some getting taped up, some just chatting.
Brady kept his eyes focused resolutely in front of him.  He wanted to take
a look at Doug as he changed, but didn't want to get caught at it.  He
stripped,. Pulled on a jock and gym shorts, and began working the heavy
uniform pants up his legs.

	"How does this crap work again?"  Doug was holding his hip pads by
the strap as if they were an unclean object.  He was wearing his gym shorts
low on his hips.  Brady stood and held his arms put a bit, showing him how
he had strapped them on his own body.

	"Then the pants go over them.  Like this."  Brady pulled up his
pants and cinched them tight.  Doug was shirtless, his chest smooth and
tanned.  Brady swallowed and looked down for his shoes.  "Make sense?"

	"Yeah, I guess/" He heard, rather than watched, as Doug labored to
strap the padding into place.  "Now for the shoulder pads," he grunted.

	Brady glanced up.  "Y - you're not gonna put on a shirt?"

	"Doug shrugged and grinned.  "Gonna be hot out there, I think.
Maybe better not to."

	"Yeah, but the pads might like slide around on you without a shirt
under 'em."

	"You think?"

	Brady couldn't look away now if he tried.  "Dunno.  I, I just
always wore a shirt under 'em.  I sort of assumed that's what you did with
'em."

	Doug frowned a moment, running his hand idly across his chest.
Brady swallowed hard.  "OK, you win," he said, grinning again.  "But if I
get sunstroke or throw up, I'm blaming you."

	Brady laughed - the laughter was a relief, a chance to look away
again. "Deal."  He hoisted his shoulder pads over his head, snapped the
straps in place, and began the inevitable wrestle with the practice jersey.
These things are really heavy, he thought as his head popped through the
collar.  We're gonna sweat like pigs in this stuff.

	And sweat they did.  No sooner had he and Doug jogged out to the
far field that was the freshman practice area then Mr. Glendon started them
running wind sprints.  "I want to see who's in shape here," he said, his
voice now demanding and harsh.  Many weren't in shape at all.  Of the
thirty-odd boys who stepped onto the field, fully half were soon dry
heaving on the sideline.  Brady was pouring sweat, but kept in or close to
the lead on every sprint - his summer's work on all those farms was
standing him in good stead.  He was relieved to see that Doug was also
hanging in, though between sprints he crouched over, hand on knees,
gasping.  Brady at one point stepped over and rubbed his back briefly.
"Thanks," Doug wheezed, looking up.  "I thought I was in better
shape. Christ, you're like barely hurting."

	Brady laughed - or tried to, anyway.  "I feel like I wanna die,
actually." It felt good to have his hand there, on Doug's back.

	"Hey faggots, line up," huffed a sharp voice.  Ian McShane, his
face violently red and streaked with sweat inside his helmet, was walking
over for the next sprint.  Brady felt a stab of rage.  What an asshole.
He'd noticed McShane barely jogging the sprints, staying in them but hardly
exerting any effort.

	Doug straightened up.  "Fuck you, too," he muttered under his
breath.  He glanced at Brady, grinned, and they stepped back to the line
for the next round together.

	Mercifully, Mr. Glendon only ran them three more times after that,
then sent everyone for water.  When they returned he launched into a long
speech about the need for conditioning and the need to give your best
effort (this, it seemed to Brady, while looking coldly at McShane).  He
then began showing basic stance, blocking, and tackling techniques, using
mostly boys who'd never played as demonstration partners.  He soon had them
practicing with each other, while the boys (like Brady) who'd played before
watched.  Brady enjoyed being able to stand with his helmet off for a bit.
Doug had tried out a couple of things, then been allowed to watch -
apparently he'd done well.  He and Brady stood next to each other,
occasionally glancing at each other and smiling slightly.

	One of the kids who'd never played tried to come hard out of a
three point stance, but slipped and stumbled badly.  A snort of laughter
came from behind the two boys.  They turned to see McShane's face curled up
in contempt.  They glanced at each other again.

	"All right," Mr., Glendon called.  "Now I want the experienced boys
over here."  He laid two large tackling dummies down parallel to each
other, about eight feet apart.  "OK, let's have the running backs behind me
here, and all the other defensive and offensive people form tow lines,
either end of the tackling dummies."  The boys shuffled into position.
"This is called a West Point drill.  We'll do this a lot, to teach the
basic technique along the line.  Some of you know how this works."  Brady
saw McShane nod, strapping up his helmet.  "On the snap count., the running
back will run through the hole here between the dummies.  There'll be one
offensive man lined up to block for him, and one defensive man trying to
stop the play.  Got it?"  he looked at the lineup, "McShane, you're on
defense first.  Let's see, who's done this - Conover?"

	"Sir?"

	"You done this before?"

	"Sort of, sir.  I get the idea, anyway."

	"Good, you're on offense blocking.  Clayton, you're the running
back.  Let's go, on my count."

	Brady felt nervous, and very much on display.  He saw McShane smile
nastily as he stepped into position.  Glendon pulled Brady over, told him
the snap count was three, and stepped back.  Brady dropped down into his
stance, flexing his right hand a bit as his forearm rested along his thigh.

	"I'm gonna bust you up, kid," McShane whispered to him.

	On three, Brady launched himself into McShane's chest.  McShane,
startled by the speed of Brady's explosion, was caught on his heels, and
Brady drove him back fairly easily.  As they separated, McShane threw a
forearm upwards, barely missing Brady's chin.  Mr. Glendon clapped and
started telling the group what Brady had done right - leading with his nose
into the number of his opponent, going low to high through his opponent's
chest, and so on.  Brady and McShane stared at each other challengingly.

	"I want to go again," McShane yelled.  Mr. Glendon glanced at
Brady, who shrugged.  They lined up again.  This time McShane was quicker,
his forearm clubbed under Brady's chin as he drove forward, and they
smashed into each other with a resounding crack.  Brady's jaw throbbed, he
tasted a bit of blood despite his mouthguard.  It made him angrier.  He
felt McShane grabbing his jersey, trying to tug him over.  He eased his
body back slightly to the left, then drove forward again as McShane fell
into the area of lessened resistance.  As Brady drove him to the side and
the back again scampered by, McShane swore under his breath and clubbed
Brady in the head with both his forearms.  Brady's head rang, and his anger
boiled over.  He drove McShane into the ground and pounced on top of him,
ready to start punching.  Only Mr.  Glendon's whistle halted the impending
fight.

	"Both of you stop now!"  he barked.  "Save it for the game, against
other teams.  You're teammates, so start acting like it."

	Both stood up, glaring at each other.  McShane glanced down for a
long moment.  Then he held his hand out to Brady.  "I'm sorry, man.  I just
want to win.  I expect to win.  In everything.  So, if you can play well,
and we can play together, we'll win, and that's the idea.  OK?"

	Brady looked hard at McShane a second.  He had said this in an
artificially loud voice, and now had a look on his face that would have
better suited a choirboy.  Brady was suspicious.  "Sure," he said finally,
clasping McShane's hand and shaking it vigorously.  "We're gonna kick some
butts.  Right, guys?"  A chorus of whoops and cheers rose, as the two
smiled at each other a moment before stepping to the backs of their
respective lines.

	Only Mr. Glendon saw the look McShane momentarily gave Brady as
Brady turned away.  He pursed his lips slightly.  "All right, who's next
here?  Let's get some hitting going on!"

	Practice lasted until after 5, by which time even Brady felt ill
with exhaustion.  He hadn't faced off against McShane again (Mr. Glendon
appeared determined not to allow that to happen), and indeed had played
alongside him on some drills, with the two meshing well.  McShane was
actually a fairly good player - quick, unafraid of hitting, and strong.  If
he seemed to take a little too much pleasure from inflicting punishment on
his opponents, that was only a slight concern for Brady.  At least it
wasn't him.  And McShane already knew that pecking order - Brady had beaten
him twice.  Throw a forearm at that, Brady thought, again suppressing his
anger over the cheap shot.

	Doug had proven to be a quick study, strong, and likewise fearless
in all the hitting drills.  He and Brady trudged off the field together,
their helmets dangling from their hands, sweat dripping down from their
lank soaked hair and off the ends of their noses.

	"So what'd you think?"  Brady asked.

	Doug frowned slightly.  "Dunno, how'd I look?  I thought it was OK,
I had fun, mostly."
	"You looked great.  I thought, anyway."

	Doug smiled.  "Thanks." It made Brady feel wonderful to see him
smile like that.  "God," Doug added, his head again dropping limply toward
his chest as they walked, "the shower is gonna feel so good."

	Brady was too tired to feel nervous or self conscious about the
shower.  He didn't even look with any interest at Doug as they stripped and
padded down to the huge shower room.  Most of the guys had preceded them
there, and many were already coming out, their skin glowing and slightly
pink from the heat of the water and damp air.  Brady only had eyes for the
nearest free nozzle, under which he stepped as fast as he could.  He turned
it to a barely tepid level in the hope of cooling off.  The guys on either
side of him objected mildly about his water being too cold, but he ignored
them, standing directly under the spray, eyes closed, letting the cool
water pour down over him.

	He lost track of time a bit.  When he finally opened his eyes, he
found himself almost alone in the room.  Doug was standing facing away from
him on the other side, also with water cascading down his back.  Though
there were plenty of noises down the hall, they were alone.  Brady looked
at Doug as if for the first time.  His hair was plastered down the back of
his head and neck, sleek as an otter's and almost as dark.  His shoulders
were wide (for a high school freshman, anyway) but still graceful and
slender, tanned, and shining with the water that flowed over them.  A
rivulet ran down the center of his back to his butt, which was impossibly
round and high.  His legs were long and subtly sinewed.  Holy shit, Brady
thought, unable to look away.  What am I doing.

	Doug turned to face him.  Their eyes met, and Doug smiled again.
"Damn, this feels good, doesn't it?"

	Brady had to concentrate to regain the power of speech.  :Uh - uh,
yeah, really."  His eyes ran over Doug's front.  His pectoral muscles were
faintly defined, his nipples small and very dark colored, his stomach flat
and smooth.  And, as Brady realized, his eyes widening, his cock was
enormous.  It hung thick and pendulous from the only sparse patch of hair
on his torso, darkly purple.  It was flaccid, obviously, but if that was
flaccid, Brady couldn't imagine what it must look like erect.  He glanced
down at himself to compare, thankful that he hadn't gotten hard, and saw
that he was puny next to Doug.

	Doug's laugh made Brady blush.  "It's OK, I get that a lot.  I
know, it's like a monster, isn't it?"  He reached down and waggled it with
his right hand a little.  "Needs its own zip code or something, I think
sometimes."

	Brady quickly looked away.  "I - I'm sorry, I, I didn't mean - I
mean I just - "

	"Forget it.  Like I said, it happens a lot.  I had guys asking to
touch it back home in junior high, they couldn't believe it was real.  How
sick is that, right?"

	Brady swallowed hard again.  "Yeah.  Really.  Sick.  And all."

	Doug laughed again, still idly fondling himself.  "It actually,
y'know, doesn't get that much bigger.  It just sort of is what it is, you
know?"

	Brady swallowed.  "I think, if it got much bigger you'd like fall
over or pass out from blood loss to your brain."

	Doug laughed hard.  "Brain?  Fuck our brain, we think with this,
don't you know that?"  He grabbed himself and shook it toward Brady, who
laughed and pretended to shy away.  He had a sudden urge, though, to lunge
for it; the strength it took to resist was daunting.

	Doug turned about halfway back round under the shower head.  "But
the water feels so good on it after all that."  He cupped his hands under
his testicles (which were fairly tight to his body) and let the water pool
up on them.

	Brady swallowed again; he hoped Doug couldn't see how his Adam's
apple kept bobbing around.  "I know.  Really good."

	Doug turned off the water; Brady did the same.  The sounds from the
locker room were softer, many of the boys had left.  "We better see how
much time we have before dinner," Doug suggested.  "I need to go back to my
room to get dressed.  We should bring the jacket and stuff for dinner to
practice next time.  Though I suppose most days practice'll be right after
class, so we'll be dressed for dinner anyway.  "
	"Right," Brady said in a daze Doug's body, the closeness of his
naked form, his cock, his ass, his beautiful chest and face, had him
feeling woozy.  Maybe I sweated too much and I'm like punchy or something,
he thought.  He swayed a bit, and Doug was immediately next to him, an arm
under his shoulders.

	"Bray, you OK?"

	"Huh?"  Brady blinked, startled and frightened a little at feeling
Doug pressed up against his side.  It felt amazing, electric.  "B - Bray?'

	"Um, yeah, sorry.  It's like short for Brady.  I, uh, I just sort
of thought of it - just now.  Nobody ever called you that before?"  He
smiled shyly.

	"No."  Brady was sure he'd faint now.

	"Is it OK?"

	Brady grinned stupidly.  Don't kiss him, idiot.  "Sure.  It's cool.
I, I like it.  Bray."
	Doug smiled.  "Excellent, far out.  You OK now?"

	"Yeah, fine."  Brady didn't want Doug to step away, but knew they
had to disengage.  Had he gotten hard?  He wasn't sure.  "Um, can you see
what time it is?"

	Doug threw a towel over his shoulder and strode out to the hall.
"Twenty-five of," he called.  "We better move it."  He started vigorously
rubbing the towel over himself.

	"Right, thanks.  Cool."  Brady did the same, trying not to watch
Doug too closely.  His tiredness had vanished; he felt incredibly alive.

	They made dinner with seconds to spare.  Luckily, the first week
had New Boys doing only one meal each as waiter, to teach them how to
perform the task, so Brady wasn't on the hook.  He found himself famished,
and nearly knocked over several glasses grabbing for a roll as soon as
grace was finished.  Mr. Sauerman, the Table Master, gave him a quiet but
stern lecture about the manners of gentlemen.

	By the time Brady made it back to his room, he felt exhausted.
David wasn't there, which pleased him- he wasn't in a mood to listen to
more unfamiliar music, even if much of it sounded really cool.  He flopped
onto his bed in his jacket and tie, shoes still on, and slept.  He awoke to
the sound of quiet conversation.  He blinked one eye open to see David
sitting across the room at his desk, talking with a smile to a short
roundish kid with wiry black hair.  It was almost dark, and David's desk
light was the only illumination aside from the hall light spilling through
the open room door.  He listened for a few seconds, but was too groggy to
make out much of the conversation.  With a loud yawn and stretch, he sat
up.

	"Hey," David said with a bemused look.  "Have fun being the
all-American jock today?"

	Brady tried to shake his head free of the cobwebs.  "It was OK.
Hot, long.  What'd you do?"

	"Played rec tennis, which means we hit a few balls and sat under a
tree.  Yeah, I heard you had quite a practice today."

	"Whaddya mean?  "
	"You and McShane mixed it up a bit?"  David clearly wanted to hear
all about it.  "Oh this is a friend of mine, Jerry Goldman.  He was with me
here last year.  He's on the first floor."

	Brady nodded, still barely functional.  "Hey, Jerry."

	"Hey yourself."  He smiled politely at Brady.  He had an accent,
but Brady couldn't quite place it in his loggy state.

	"So I hear you kicked his ass in some drill and he tried to pick a
fight with you?"

	Brady shrugged.  "Wasn't anything.  We're teammates.  We're cool
with each other now, shook hands and all that."  Brady took off his jacket
and tried to smooth away some of the wrinkles.  Don't sleep in your dress
clothes, asshole, he thought.

	David and Jerry glanced at each other.  "OK, man, you need to know,
it's never cool with McShane.  Or with his brother.  He's a total asshole,
and he holds grudges.  Shit, he makes up grudges just so he can be pissed
about stuff.  And then superior when he fucks with you."

	Brady blinked, trying to process this information.  "OK," he
finally said.  "It'll be OK, I can take care of myself."

	David looked at Jerry again, raising his arms in a gesture of
futility.  "Hey Sleeping Beauty!"  Doug leaned against the doorframe,
wearing a t shirt and jeans.  Brady smiled, feeling suddenly very awake.
"About time you woke up, I thought you'd like taken dope or something!"

	Brady laughed.  "Yeah, that's me, the hippie pothead."

	Jerry laughed, but waggled his finger.  "Man, don't even joke about
that stuff in front of a Master.  They get like crazy about dope."  New
York accent, that's it, Brady thought.

	Doug stepped in the room, dropped onto Brady's bed casually, and
the four of them started idly talking, David tried to pump Doug about the
incident with McShane, but even Doug's enthusiastic account (he had been
rooting for Brady, after all) couldn't seem to quench David's thirst for
information on anything resembling a humiliating defeat for Ian McShane.
Soon other guys from the hall joined them, and by about 8:30 they had a
major bullshitting session going, with a couple of Playboys being passed
around amid general laughter.  It was the best time Brady had had since
coming to Wilson, and Doug was there next to him, reclining sideways on the
bed, backs against the wall, their shoulders slightly touching.  They
talked to each other, to the other kids, they sometimes listened for long
periods, especially when David and Jerry started in on stories from last
year.  One particular incident, in which a senior snuck a girl into his
room only to be surprised by a Master in the middle of fucking her, had the
room in an uproar.  "And so Kent walks in, and Tony like jumps up off this
girl, and he's been fuckin' her so he's all boned up and shit, and he
stands there staring at Kent with his eyes really wide open and all, and he
like comes all over the place!  Just standing there!"  The ensuing clamor
lasted several minutes, before David finally finished the story.  "I dunno
if they kicked him out because he had the girl in his room and was fucking
her, or because he jizzed all over Kent!  I think Kent was more pissed at
that than about the girl!!"  They rolled about, laughing and making every
rude comment they could think of (and there were a whole lot), trying to
outdo each other for sheer grossness.

	Doug had grabbed Brady's bicep during this, laughing helplessly.
Brady was laughing, too, but at the same time acutely conscious of Doug's
hand on him.  It felt good.  He looked at Doug and smiled warmly, and
Doug's return grin was like the daybreak.  Then Doug leaned forward.
"Lemme see the May issue," he called, grabbing a Playboy and opening the
centerfold.  "Brady, look at her.  Is she like sexy or what??  All in pink
like that, you can almost see her pubes, too."  He regarded the picture
fondly for a second.  "Great rack, man."  He looked up at Brady, grinning
lewdly.  "Doncha think?"

	Brady looked at Miss May.  Anne Randall.  She stood on a deck of
some sort, leaning against the rail, a kite held over her shoulder.  (Why
the hell is she holding a kite, Brady thought).  Her pink blouse was open,
revealing a pair of large soft looking breasts, and her pink slacks were
provocatively unzipped most of the way down her belly.  Her nipples were
large but indistinct.  "It's OK," Brady said finally.  He realized he
needed to say something else.  "Um, except, well, she's got too many
clothes on, right?"

	Doug howled and punched his arm.  "So true!!  She oughta be lying
in bed without anything on.  She oughta be lying in MY bed without anything
on!!"  He grinned at the idea as the other guys catcalled and laughed.

	Brady laughed too, crushed as he felt right at that moment.

	Johnny Ruiz - the kid McShane had pushed Brady into at the dining
hall the previous day - held up the new September issue.  "Like this one,
guys, check this babe out!!"  They crowded around him, and most agreed that
Miss September was far sexier than any of the others.  Brady had lost his
appetite for the subject.  David, who'd never joined in the discussion to
begin with, eyed him quietly from across the room.

	"What's happening, guys?"  Ian McShane, still in his dress shirt,
with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, was leaning casually in the
doorway.  The conversation and laughter faltered.  Johnny Ruiz frowned
slightly and pretended to concentrate on looking at Miss September.  "Hey,
Conover, this your room?"  Brady nodded, sitting slightly forward on the
bed.  He was conscious of people watching him out of the corners of their
eyes.  "Cool, so who's your roommate?"  McShane asked, his eyes scanning
the group.  "Not pencil dick here, is it?"

	He was, of course, looking directly at David.  Brady was taken
aback and at a momentary loss for words, but David responded smoothly.  "Hi
to you, too, there Ian," he said in the fakest friendly tone he'd ever
heard any kid use.  "Nice to see you back.  How was the rest of last year?"

	McShane flushed a bit.  "Wh - wha. . ."

	"Never mind," David breezily continued.  "Hey, will you do me a
favor?"

	McShane was even more taken aback now.  "Um, what?"

	"Eat some shit for me?"  The room was pindrop silent for a long
second, then everyone burst into riotous laughter.  McShane stood very
still, no longer in a casual pose, before joining (forcedly, it appeared to
Brady) in the laughter.

	He stepped into the room, toward David, and Brady rose as well,
Silence fell again.  McShane, conscious of Brady's move, paused and glanced
around.  He smiled, again forcedly.  "So do I get to see the Playboys, or
what?"  Duncan Hennessey handed him the September issue.  McShane opened
the centerfold and appraised the picture for a couple of seconds.  "Not
bad," he finally opined.  "I've seen better, of course.  Hell, I've fucked
better."

	"Come on, Ian, you're a fucking high school freshman, you haven't
fucked anything but your hand," Johnny Ruiz snapped in a frustrated tone of
voice.

	"Or your pet goat," one of the guys from the room across the hall,
Nate Dexter, interjected.  Nate was small and skinny, with slicked down
brown hair and large eyes.

	McShane eyed Dexter as laughter again swept the room.  "OK, so who,
exactly, the fuck are you, anyway, kid?  You want funny, go look at your
face.  You could put a tennis ball in each cheek and go to a costume party
as a scrotum.  Maybe your dad is cheap, Ruiz," he continued, turning his
attention back to Johnny, "but mine paid top dollar to set me up this
summer for a weekend with a couple of coeds who're hustling to pay their
tuition.  Let's just say," he added with a sly smile, "that they earned
their money."

	A number of the guys in the room now wanted full and explicit
details on this exploit.  They crowded around McShane, and followed him
when instead of elaborating he shrugged and left the room.  David's fists
were clenched; Nate was red faced.  Brady looked at the people remaining
(himself, Doug, David, Dunc, Jerry, Nate and his roommate Mark, a couple of
other kids whose names Brady hadn't mastered).  He stepped over and closed
the door.  "That was fun," he said quietly, hoping to defuse things a bit.
"Looks like we cleared a few people out, anyway."  He sat back down on his
bed.

	"Looks like we just found out who's in whose camp," Nate said.
Brady glanced at him, and at Doug, who shrugged and smiled slightly back.

	"I wanna hear more about how you kicked his ass, Brady," David said
- very quietly, but very intensely.  "Did he give you the bruise?"

	"What bruise?"

	Doug leaned over and traced an area along the underside of Brady's
jaw.  It hurt where his finger touched.  "You got a pretty good one coming
up along here."

	Brady felt it himself, conscious of it for the first time.  His
hand brushed Doug's as he did so, and their eyes met momentarily.  "Ow," he
said.  "Yeah, he threw a forearm at me, that's what got me pissed off."  He
slid his tongue around inside his mouth a bit.  "I think it bled someplace
a little, too.  For a second, anyway.  I remember tasting it.  Blood, I
mean."

	David frowned.  "You OK?"

	"Yeah, sure, it's no biggie."  He grinned.  "You think I'm gonna
give him the satisfaction of acting like it's something major?"

	David laughed.  "So much for being a loyal teammate and all that
bullshit."

	Brady laughed.  "I'm loyal, I'm just not stupid."

	David nodded.  "I hope not."

	Brady shrugged.  "So what's he doing here anyway?  I saw him in
line yesterday and he was claiming he could room with his brother or near
his brother or something, over in Hornberger."

	Jerry Goldman glanced at them all.  "You guys haven't heard?"  They
all looked puzzled.  "They put McShane on the first floor, in 102, in a
single.  And he's got his own phone line."

	The boys stared at him, astonished.  David was red faced and
seething.  Doug was first to break the silence.  "How the fuck does a kid
get a room to himself, and a phone line - as a freshman??  What, does he
have a butler or something too?"

	Jerry grimaced.  "Don't put it past him, man.  Money talks, right?
Somebody was sayin' he's got one of those new portable TVs that you can
carry around like a transistor radio, too.  I really can't believe they'd
let him do that, but who knows?"

	Brady shook his head.  "Well, he'll be popular."

	"Guys like McShane are always popular," David snapped.  "You saw
how many guys followed him outta here like fucking sheep."

	Brady needed no masturbatory aid to fall quickly asleep that night.
He dreamed of walking across the football field with Doug, into the forest
behind the lake in Cullingstown and to the clearing.  They faced each other
there and dropped to the ground talking, arms casually around each other,
suddenly very naked though Brady couldn't quite figure out where the
uniforms had gone.  They're bulky and all, they couldn't just disappear, he
thought.  Their faces were close, their eyes sparkling at each other.
Doug's cock was growing huge between them, and Brady looked down, hungry to
touch it.  Doug smiled his daybreak smile, and Brady reached for it, but
Kenny Heuer wouldn't let him.  "Don't be a pussy, have a cig, man.  We'll
jerk off like we used to, right?"  Doug stood and moved back as Kenny
stepped toward him.  "You don't belong with those faggots, anyway, you're a
farm kid.  Get the fuck out now and c'mon home, OK?"  Doug looked at him
despairingly, and the agony of that look sent him shooting awake, sitting
upright in the dark and panting.  The image of the two boys seemed to
linger in the thick darkness for a few seconds as he tried to clear his
head.

	He heard David roll over grumpily.  "What th' hell was that?"

	"It - I - it, um, I just had like a dream.  S - sorry."

	He heard David punch up his pillow.  "You're not like retarded or
anything, are you?  You're not gonna go on top of Geiger with a rifle like
that guy in Texas?"

	  "N - no," Brady protested.  "Come on, I just had a dream, that's
all."

	"Hmpf."  David was burrowing under his covers.  "Too bad, you could
take out McShane with your first shot.  They'd like knight you or
something."

	He didn't seem, entirely, to be joking.