Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2003 10:58:52 -0500
From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com>
Subject: Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 1 -  Gay Y/F (corrections)

Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado
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This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If
this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This
material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters,
locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or
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Of Our Teenage Years
By Tom Cup
Chapter 1
Long Lost Friends


When I was ten-years-old, a boy moved into my neighborhood that would become
my very best friend. I didn't know what that meant at the time, or what
affect my new neighbor would have on the rest of my life. All I knew -- as I
sat on the stoop in front of my house, watching the moving van drive down
the street, followed by the station wagon with the boy peering out of the
rear window -- was that finally there would be someone for me to play with. I
started down the street toward where the moving van stopped, moving
cautiously, my eyes focused sometimes on my sauntering feet, and sometimes
bashfully looking in the direction of my hope. I was emboldened when I saw
the boy's mother pull him out of the car, wave and point into my direction.
Sam was a bashful child, nearly as bashful as myself; so, it wasn't amazing
that we became fast friends.

It was the `70's and the world was a wonderful mix of reality and fantasy.
The Beatles sang "Let It Be;" the Apollo 13 mission kept us glued to our
television sets; Charles Manson became a household name; 8 tracks, black
lights, lava lamps and Disco became the rage; and Sam and I played cowboys
and Indians, astronauts, or Tarzan meets King Kong after school -- after
chores and homework were done, we roamed the neighborhood on our bikes. We
built a treehouse, with the help of Sam's Dad, in Sam's backyard. We rode
the bus to school together, always sitting next to each other, and we were
in the same class together. We created secret passwords, and made oaths to
each other that we would be friends and blood brothers forever. Life is
simpler when you're ten-years-old.

The end of childhood comes unexpectedly; it's not heralded, and rarely
noticed, but as an afterthought. One day Sam and I were the closest of
friends -- arguing whether the Brady Bunch was cooler than the Partridge
Family, the Mod Squad or Hawaii Five-O, Gunsmoke or Bonanza -- and the next
we hardly saw each other. The world was speeding up; we hadn't noticed it,
not really; we were simply swept along in the current, whether we liked it
or not. The views and opinions of the world, and within families, changed
quickly. Some families were quick to adjust to the rapid-fire information
that was coming at them everyday, faster and faster, demanding that it be
integrate immediately; some families were not. We were amazed by what was
happening in the world around us; we could believe in a Six Million Dollar
man and a Bionic Woman. Iit all made sense, and seemed to matter, until you
viewed it as the past.

The summer of our fifteenth year I rediscovered Sam. That summer Sam's
parents divorced. It was a neighborhood event, because no one else in our
neighborhood had divorced parents. I remember my parents discussing how sad
it was, especially for Sam. Sam and I still acknowledged each other, we
still said hello to one another when we passed in the halls at school, or
when our separate groups of friends intermingled at some social event. But
Sam was more or less a loner most of the time. Watching Rich Cunningham and
the Fonz on Happy Days, for some reason, made me think of Sam, the loner
whose parents were divorcing, and me: the member of a family that was intact
and loving. I wanted to do something for my old friend; and maybe, I wanted
to find out why we had drifted apart.

I looked for Sam, hoping to catch him at the local hangouts, but no one had
seen him during the first three weeks of summer. I guessed it was too
embarrassing to join the crowd when everyone was talking about you and your
family. No one wants to be asked the same questions over and over again. So
I decided to go over to his house.

"My, Gerald, it has been a long time," Mrs. Swanson said.

"Yes ma'am. I was wondering if Sam was at home."

"I think he's in the back." She answered, opening the door wider to allow me
to enter.

"Thank you."

I took the old familiar path through the house, and out the kitchen back
door. The lights in the old treehouse were on. I climbed the ladder and
knocked on the latched door. I heard shuffling above me. I called out, "Sam,
it's me Gerald. Can I come in?"

"Hold on a minute."

There was more shuffling, and finally, the latch slid and the door opened. I
climbed in and found that the treehouse was in better condition than I
remembered. Sam had cut the legs off the old sofa that once was in his
family's living room and managed to get it inside the treehouse. He told me
that he and his Dad had rebuilt portions of the treehouse the summer before.

"I guess it was a way for Dad to stay out of the house," he said with a
touch of remorseful reminisce, "At least we got to spend some time together
before he left."

I wanted to know what happened, when things went bad between his parents,
but I didn't ask. We sat for most of the evening in silence, staring at the
walls of the treehouse. I was thinking of all the great times we once had. I
wasn't sure what Sam was thinking. I assumed he was thinking of his Dad.

"You know what?" Sam said, breaking me from my reverie, "You were the best
friend I ever had."

"You too," I said, "How come we stopped hanging out?"

"You remember. It was that summer Dad put me in baseball. We almost never
saw each other, then ..."

I did remember that summer. I found new friends. None were as close as Sam
and I had been, but my new friends and I had hung out for most of the
summer. We had memories to discuss in the fall, memories that Sam didn't
share. Sam seemed despondent when he came back to school. Slowly he and I
drifted apart.

"Yeah," I said, "Sorry."

"It's OK. You're here now."

There was such sadness in his voice. I remembered times in the treehouse
when I was sad, or upset with my parents, for one thing or another, and Sam
would wrap his arms around me and hold me. He would whisper his comfort to
me. I wanted to do the same for him. Had it been any other boy, I don't
think I would have had the courage to slide next to him and put my arms
around him, but with Sam I did. Sam immediately melted in my arms and began
to cry. I tried to quiet him. I shushed him, and told him it was OK. I told
him everything was going to be all right.

"No it isn't," he said, "It's my fault."

"What's your fault?"

Sam sat up, wiped the tears from his eyes. "You want to know why my parents
started fighting, why they got a divorce? I'll tell you. It's because of
me."

The summer that Sam played baseball he met another boy. He never told me his
name; I never asked. They became friends. He stayed over at Sam's house and
Sam stayed over at his. One night, while staying over at Sam's, while
sleeping in the treehouse, they began playing with one another. It became a
ritual with them whenever they stayed over the other's house. During one of
their play sessions they forgot to lock the treehouse door. Sam's Dad caught
them.

"He wanted me to go to therapy. Mom said that there was nothing wrong with
me -- that all boys experimented. They argued about it constantly. I would
hear them at night when I was in bed. Dad tried to pretend it didn't bother
him. He tried to spend time with me, and all, but I could tell that he
didn't trust me."

Sam told me the whole story staring down at his feet. He was too ashamed to
look me in the eye. I was feeling confused. I thought that Sam stayed away
from me because I had made new friends. He stayed away because his father
found him with another boy, and he didn't want his Dad thinking he was doing
the same things with me.

"How come you did it?" I asked.

Sam turned red, but looked me in the eyes. "Don't you get it? I'm queer.
Thanks for coming Gerald."

Sam thought that I would be disgusted that he liked guys. I wasn't. As I
thought about it, I came to realize that I was the only one in my crowd that
hadn't gone out with some girl or another. I didn't have the desire. I
talked to my Mom about it once, briefly. She smiled, ruffled my hair, and
told me that some boys develop slower than others. She said I didn't have to
be in a rush. She said I'd know when I was ready. I put my hand on top of
Sam's hand.

"Do you want me to go?" I asked. His eyes watered as he shook his head.
"Friends forever," I said, reminding him of our childhood oath. We lay back
on the sofa and I held him.

"Friends forever," Sam whispered.

*****

Undressing in my room that night, I reflected on what Sam told me. Sam was
queer. I didn't really know what that meant. I'd heard people called "homo,"
"cocksucker," "queerbait" or "fag" but those were terms used to describe
people for whom no one cared. I cared for Sam. It didn't matter that we had
drifted apart. He was still my friend. The derogatory terms that were used
to describe homosexuality just didn't seem to fit Sam. Sam was kind and
loving. Sam was handsome. Sam was cool. Sam... Sam... Sam liked boys.

I stood staring at my face in the mirror. I found myself repeating the word
"homo" over and over again: as though, if I said it enough, I would truly
come to understand what the word meant. I wondered if Sam liked me; a cord
of heated thrill twanged my inner being. I thought of how my eyes moved to
the lips of my male friends as they spoke. I reflected on how my eyes
watched their eyes as they gawked at some girl in our class. I pondered the
warm smell and feel of Sam's body as he lay against me. I was as comforted
by him as he was by me. I felt I was where I belonged when I held Sam. Just
as when we were younger, and Sam held and comforted me. The night closed in
on me and darkness invaded my senses. I remembered my conversation with Mom.
I had suspected that something was wrong with me. How could I admit that I
could be queer when I had seen what being queer was doing to Sam's family?
Sam's Dad had left. He left because he didn't want to deal with a queer son.
I would die if my Dad left because of me. I covered my face with my hands
and cried. I cried for Sam. I cried for myself. I cried because I loved my
Mom and Dad, and didn't want to hurt them. In my heart, I had known why my
eyes focused on the lips and eyes of the boys around me. They were far
lovelier to me than any girl. I gave myself to the weeping darkness,
comforted only by the light of renewed friendship. I wasn't alone. Sam was
queer too.

*****

"Gerald? What are you doing?"

Mrs. Swanson's voice startled me. I had been pacing in front of Sam's house
since before sun up. I couldn't sleep. I had tossed and turned all night. I
could think of nothing else but Sam. Writing the note that would make my
parents proud of my eagerness to help my childhood friend, I paused before
laying it on my bed. The note spoke only of my desire to comfort Sam, to be
a friend to him, to show him that he was not alone. Was I deceiving my
parents? Yes. I was. Mom said that telling a half-truth was the same as
telling a lie. I didn't want to lie to my parents, but I couldn't tell them
the truth. I didn't fully understand the truth. All I really understood was
that I needed Sam, and he needed me.

"Hi Mrs. Swanson. I was just waiting for Sam."

"Gerald, how long have you been out here? Do you know what time it is?"

I shrugged. There was really no need to answer. Mrs. Swanson was already
motioning me into the house. She fussed over me saying that I would catch my
death of cold in the cool morning air. I hadn't noticed that I was slightly
chilled until she mentioned that I might die. She ushered me into the
kitchen and made hot chocolate for me. Mrs. Swanson seemed anxious. I
figured it was because she didn't want to talk about why her husband had
left. We couldn't even talk about Sam. So our conversation kept close to my
plans for the summer, and how the past school year went -- things you can
talk about, and ask questions about, when you don't want to talk or hear the
answers to the questions you ask. Finally I asked if I could go up to Sam's
room and wait for him to wake up. Mrs. Swanson first gave her quick
approval. She was as relieved as I was that we wouldn't have to continue
making small talk. As I started up the stairs though, I heard her wrestling
with herself: "No, wait... um... maybe.... um...." How could she explain why she
didn't want me in Sam's bedroom? I had spent many nights in his room. I
pretended not to hear and continued on.

*****

Sam's sleeping habits had been a source of untold childhood giggles. No
matter how a bed was made, Sam could find a way to end up with his covers
crumpled on the floor. If it got cold at night, he would then climb in bed
with me. I am a cocooner. I love being wrapped snuggly in blankets. So
rather than picking his blankets up off the floor, and trying to rearrange
them, Sam would climb in bed with me, stealing half my blankets as I
grumbled and complained. I smiled at the remembrance, standing and staring
at Sam's brief covered body sprawled across the bed with the bedding
crumpled on the floor. I always fell into a deeper sleep on the nights that
Sam slept with me. We would be a tangled mass of arms, legs, and blankets
when we woke. I always asked, in a somewhat annoyed tone, why he couldn't
keep his covers on his bed. He always shrugged, and we would fall into
laughter over this idiosyncrasy.

I found myself sitting on his bed, and running my hand over the smooth flesh
of Sam's back before I knew what I was doing. Sam inhaled deeply and rolled
over. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked, questioningly, at me.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," Sam answered, and then realizing that he was almost naked reached for
his blankets, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know."

Sam wrapped the blanket around his midsection, leaving his chest bare. I
wanted so much to touch him again. His eyes embraced me, and caused me to
blush. He smiled, and I smiled back.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked again.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"OK."

"Well, we're friends right? I mean still, right?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I mean, like we used to be. Like you can tell me stuff, and I can tell you
stuff, and nobody else will know."

"What's going on Gerald?"

"Do you like me?"

"You're the only person I know I can call... `friend,'" Sam answered, looking
away.

"No, I mean do... you ...like... me?"

"Look, just because I'm queer doesn't mean I have the hots for every guy I
see. OK? I won't do anything to embarrass you."

"Jesus Sam, can you just answer the question. Yes or no?"

"Yes," Sam sighed, "You satisfied now?"

It's strange how we can rehearse a moment over and over again in our minds,
and when it occurs still be stunned to silence. When Sam admitted that he
liked me, I was supposed to immediately confess what I had discovered about
myself. Then we would hold each other, followed by a kiss. It was the kiss
that excited me the most. I hadn't kissed anyone in an erotic manner. Sam
would be my first. I was so overwhelmed by Sam's admission that I said
nothing. Sam sighed deeply and got out of bed. I had waited too long. He was
hurt.

"Wait," I said.

"Why?" Sam asked his back turned to me, "So you can tell me what an asshole
I am for perving over the only friend I've had?"

"No, so I can tell you what an asshole I am for perving over you."

Sam turned slowly to look at me. I shrugged. Sam laughed. I smiled slyly,
watching him. I didn't know what to do next. Sam came to me and hugged me; I
held onto him, trembling, afraid that if I let go, I would collapse from the
shear weight of my confession. Sam kissed me on the cheek. It wasn't the
kiss that I had expected, or desired, but it had the same effect. I was made
welcome by the lips of my long lost friend. I was whole again.

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Blair Manor - Added 10/10
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Private Lessons - Chapter 3
Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 4

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