Date: Fri, 13 Feb 2004 09:42:08 -0500 (EST) From: "Publishing@TomCup.com" <publishing@tomcup.com> Subject: Of Our Teenage Years by Tom Cup - Chapter 15 - Gay Y/F Copyright 2000-2004 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 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. 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Check it out at http://www.tomcup.com! ********************************************************************** The Paratwa Partnership, Inc. is a publication and marketing agency and is not responsible for the content of the Tom Cup Library, TomCup.com or its affiliate sites, or stories written by Mr. Cup or his associates. ********************************************************************** Of Our Teenage Years By Tom Cup Chapter 15 What I Didn't Know Sharon was waiting at the top of the stairs to usher me into her room. I hated my sister's room. Sharon's clothes rarely found their way to the clothes hamper. Jeans littered the bed and the chair -- discarded for the crime of not fitting on a water weight day or not matching with the tie-dye blouse she wanted to wear. She began gathering up some of the clothing and bundled them onto her bed, as I stood survey the clutter and wondering how her clothes found their way to the place where they were scrummed. "Oh just sit down Gerald," Sharon said, yanking a pair of jeans from her vanity stool, "Like your room has never been a mess." "Not like this," I answered. Sharon rolled here eyes, sighed and sat on her bed. I had the urge to laugh as her brow came together and her lips strained to thin lines of contemplation. It was a face she might have made to mock dad when he was about to begin one if his lectures and wanted to show us how serious the topic was. But Sharon wasn't mocking dad. There was a lecture coming and it was serious. I doubt that she even realized that she was mimicking dad at that moment. I guess dads aren't just engrained in their sons, they're imprinted on their daughters too. "So what's the matter," I asked. "Gerald," Sharon said, "Gerald..." Whatever Sharon was going to tell me would never be as terrifying as hearing her repeat my name to soften the blow. Dad would have gotten on with it, whatever it was. There was no need in prolonging bad news with hesitation he said. But it was human nature to hesitate when delivering bad news -- a way of sparing the person the heart break that was to come if only for a moment more. But within that moment of hesitation was the real horror -- that moment held all ones fear banded together, and multiplied, ready to mug, rape and pillage one's soul; only to be disbanded by the true delivery of that which was held back. "Just say it," I whispered. Sharon nodded. "Well," Sharon said, "We aren't poor of anything. I mean, dad left us some savings and there is some money from insurance and social security. But then there are the funeral expenses and estate taxes and the mortgage isn't paid off, and car insurance and college and ..." "Would you stop mumbling and get to the point!" My comment got me a look from Sharon that said, "If you don't let me muddle through this I'll kick your ass two weeks from Sunday." "Sorry," I said, "I just don't know what you're trying to tell me." "OK," Sharon said, "Let's say it like dad would say it. Our income is insufficient to cover our expenses. Do you understand that?" Her tune was one of annoyed frustration. I understood. Dad was the breadwinner. Mom, Sharon and I never worried about where the money was coming from to run the household. That was dad's business. Now we were faced with the realization that what we didn't know about how dad was managing things could hurt us. "How bad is it?" I asked. "Well, if Pastor Heller is right, we could lose the house." My stomach became sour, my throat burned, my vision blurred and my head flashed hot. I slid off the stool onto the floor. I stared up into Sharon's eyes hoping to see a hint of a joke. The liquid pooled in her eyes told me that she was being truthful, and that she was afraid. "What are we going to do?" I asked. Sharon rubbed the moister from her eyes. "I don't know," she said, "but we won't lose the house no matter what. OK? Don't worry." I hated being told not to worry when it was evident that worry was something that we all would be doing. I hated that Pastor Heller would be involved in our lives, announcing to the community our needs and fears. I hated that dad was gone. I nodded, forced myself to stand, and went to my room. ************ Sunday morning we dressed as if we were going to another funeral. I would have preferred a funeral to placating the town's sensibilities by going to church. I didn't complain though. I knew that the false ritual was harder on mom than it was on me. She looked old. Not older. Old. Sharon and I passed glance between us as mom fidgeted with her hair for the twentieth time mumbling into the mirror, questioning if she looked all right. Sharon and I had given up on answering. It wasn't our voice that she was waiting to snap her into motion by commanding, "Let's go dear, you look fine." We arrived at the church fashionably late. Perhaps in the back of mom's mind, fussing with her hair and make-up would afford us the advantage of arriving late enough to slip quietly into the back pew without being noticed. Of course, as soon as we entered the building, Pastor Heller began waving like a lighthouse beckoning a ship in the dark away from the rocky crags and towards safe harbors. Every eye turned on us. We became captives, ushered to our place of humiliating honor in the front row. The sermon was about the Good Samaritan. I glanced around the congregations of bobbing heads. They reminded me of one of those stupid dogs that sat in the back windowsills of cars, mindlessly nodding at every word like blurred scenery passing their ears. In the back, in the corner, shadowed by the multi-hues of Jesus holding a staff in his right hand and a lamb in the other that fell from the stained glass window, sat Brian and Emily. He shrugged and lifted his eyebrows when our gazes met. Then his eyes darted to his left, to behind where I was sitting. I turned to look over my left shoulder. Behind me three rows back sat Kelly, Missy and Rick. I groaned, smiled, and sank into the pew. Pastor Heller preached happily, animated like a child on a sugar high. What I remember thinking about the sermon was that if I were the guy lying on the side of the road there wasn't a chance in heaven (or hell) that any of my neighbors would be a Good Samaritan. Sure they filled the collection plates when told, "Now one of our neighbors needs us today. What will we do? Will we pass them by? Or will we like the Good Samaritan, reach deep, and give from our heart?" How embarrassing. Pastor Heller even winked in our direction as if no one in the congregation knew to whom the sermon referred. I sank so low in my seat mom finally tugged on my jacket sleeve. Most of the adults in town would have been perfectly happy if we had sold the house and moved away. I was an embarrassing enigma that mocked their Christian sensibilities. If it were just mom and Sharon, the widow and her daughter, Dad's view that the church as nothing more than a social engine could have been forgiven. The f! amily's visits on Easter, Christmas and the occasional potluck Sunday could have been build upon as the foundation of a new relationship. But there was more to consider. There was the gay son. Giving money was easy. It was the cheap way out, a way of easing their Christian conscience with a show of charity that was a fragmented as the stained glassed windows. I knew it and the eyes that darted away from my gaze knew it. They gave because the pastor obligated them to give, their gifts would never be from the heart. Brian grabbed my shoulder after I escaped Pastor Heller's back pats of self-congratulation. He stood with his head bowed, shuffling his me, umming, umming away until Emily, Kelly, Missy and Rick joined us. "What's up Gerald?" Rick asked. "Nothin'." "We're glad you came," Missy said. I nodded and stared into the distance, my eyes meeting one of the men's as he herded his wife and young son to their car. Kelly followed my gaze and shook her head. "Don't worry about them," she said, "Some people are assholes. You know." I smiled. "Um," Brian said, "We were thinking of going to the mall. You could come... if you wanted." "Oh," Missy said with her eyes rounding like silver dollars, "would you?" "That would be cool," Rick said, glancing at Kelly and then me. Sam and I had plans later that evening. What I wanted to do was to get away from social obligations, go home and curl up with my Leif Garret issue of Teen Beat Magazine until I could meet Sam. But Brian's mouthed "Please!" with his sideways glance at Emily forbid me from saying `no'. I would be the buffer between Brian and Emily, a quasi-companion for Missy, and would give Rick and Kelly a chance to be an item. I didn't resent my role within the group. They had shown me friendship when I need it. It was my turn to be a friend to them. ************ Sharon drove us to the mall. Rick and Kelly sat in the front seat, holding hands and sharing glances that made Brain and I fidget nervously and glance bashfully at Emily and Missy. Of the expectation that floated below the car roof, Missy's were the lowest, though it made me nervous to sense that she had expectations -- we supposed we would be forced to hold hands and pretend to be an item for the sake of the other two couples but Brian's bouncing thigh, rubbing against mine signaled to me that things were a bit more complicated then I had first thought. "If you're going to do this Gerald," Sharon warned, "Don't embarrass her." "Gawd, what do you think I am?" "Gay." I was baffled by Sharon's statement before we left the house to pick-up the rest of the gang. Having Sharon drive us to the mall had been my idea -- I still had a date with Sam and didn't want to be at the mercy of someone else's time table -- I had suggested that I would meet the rest of the group at the mall; that got a series of groans, begging eyes from Brian, and Missy's prolonged, "Please." "Yeah, so," I answered. "Well so," Sharon rolled her eyes, "You got a group of three girls and three guys going to the mall together. Everyone is pairing up." "It's not like that," I said, "We're all just friends." Sharon raised an eyebrow. I hated when she did that. I sighed. Of course I knew I was supposed to hang out with Missy. That was my job. And I didn't mind hanging out with Missy. She was nice for a girl. "First of all," Sharon said, "girl's like Missy don't "hang out" with guys. There were other guys your age at the church, they could have invited one of them, but they invited you. Why Gerald? Think! Because Missy likes you. Don't be so thick Gerald." "But," I protested, "they all know I'm with Sam." "I warned you." "Warned me about what?" "That some girls would find you attractive because of that." "Because of what?" Sharon sucked in air through her teeth and gave me a mother's sideways glance that said if I continued to pretend that I didn't know what she was talking about I would get a backhand to the mouth. "Listen Gerald, all I'm saying is that you have to give Missy some kind of courtesy. If everyone in the group is holding hands, then hold her hand. Don't make her feel like she has the plague. This isn't just about what you are feeling. "Maybe I shouldn't go." "Too late," Sharon said, "You already promised you would." It was awkward once we got to the mall. Rick and Kelly walking ahead of us hand in hand, arms swing as they went along. Brian and I walked together and Emily and Missy walked together with a space between the boys and girls large enough to get a Mac Truck through it. Rick and Kelly made their way, happily, to the food court. The rest of us stopped at the open-air court to decide our demise. There was a lot of shuffling feet and examining the floor before Brian said, "How about the arcade? We could go to the arcade." Girls agreed and off we went, Brian and I happy that we would be in our element. But things didn't quite work out the way we thought. The girls didn't go and play arcade games on their own -- they didn't play any games. Emily followed Brian from game to game while Missy tagged along with me. "Thanks for coming, Gerald," Missy said right as I was speeding towards a dangerous curve while trying to avoid being bumped off the road from behind and turning to pass another car on the left side. There was a splendid crash with a rollover and the game ended. I rolled my eyes. "Sorry," Missy said, and began to turn away. "It's OK," I forced a smile and followed her gaze to Brian and Emily. "Emily really likes Brian," Missy said, "But I don't think he's interested." "He's just shy," I answered. "No," Missy said looking into my eyes, "He not interested. I can't really blame him. Emily is a bit intimidating." We both laughed and my gazed returned to Brian and Emily. Brain looked so small and fragile next to her. Emily stood slight he behind him, not quite out of his sight, shifting her head ever so often causing her hair to frame and reframe her face, waiting patiently for Brian to notice her He did notice her, his eyes darting back and forth from the game he wanted to concentrate on to the figure just over his right shoulder. I looked at Missy. She was staring at me. "Why'd you invite me to come here?" I asked. She blushed, tossed her hair and stared at the ceiling. "Because," she said, "I like you." I nodded. "I'm with Sam." "I know that, silly," she said bumping against me, "that doesn't mean we can't be friends. And I just wanted to spend the day with you." Being a teenager is confusing. Being a gay teenager is perplexing. Being a gay teenager who is liked by a girl is terrifying. Missy laughed. I shrugged. We both looked back at comedy that was Brian and Emily. "I won't embarrass you Gerald. I promise." I smiled and took her hand. ************ Sam rolled over the floor of the treehouse in laughter as I told him of the days events. Brian had confided in me, as we stood side by side whizzing into urinals, that Emily scared the shit out of him. He wasn't ready for girls. I gave him the same speech that Sharon had given me. It took a lot of coaching, and a lot of foot shuffling when finally he worked up the nerve to talk to Emily, but he did tell her that he would like it if they could just be friends. Emily was heartbroken but Missy calmed her by saying, "Being friends isn't a bad thing. Gerald and I are friends." I nodded. Missy and I walked hand in hand to prove the point. Brian resigned that holding hands, for a little while, wasn't an awful price to pay for friendship; and once the initiation ceremony was over we were free to walk and chat, boy -- girl, boy -- girl, without a gulf between us to prove we weren't attached to one another or holding hands to prove that we were bonded to each other. And we were no longe! r embarrassed that Rick and Kelly were an item. We had a good time just hanging out together. "So Mr. Casanova," Sam teased, "how was it being with a girl? Did she give you a woody?' "Stop it," I blushed, "It wasn't like that at all." "So why are you blushing? Did you get a woody?" "No!" Sam grabbed me and pulled me down to the floor. We began to a mock wrestling match as he continued to tease me about Missy's affection for me. "So," he said lying on top of me, his hand resting on my crotch, "if she didn't give you a woody how come your hard right now?" "You know why," I whispered. Sam's tongue played over his lips. His eyes fell onto my heaving chest. He stood, crossed his arms at his waist and pulled his t-shirt over his head. "Come on," he said, extending his hand to me. He pulled me to my feet and into his arms. Our lips met. The kiss left me light-headed. Sam began to strip. I followed his lead until we stood naked before each other, our cocks hard and throbbing. Kissing, fondling and jerking each other off was now routine for Sam and I. I reached for his cock but he pushed my hand away. He smiled at my confusion and dropped to his knees. I gasped at the hot, soft, wetness that seized my body. My knees buckled. Sam guided me to the floor. I was paralyzed by the waves for pleasure that overtook my body. I could only pant and whine. I wanted to conduct the electric ecstasy that I was receiving back to Sam. I tried to pull him to me but he remained at his post. My body vibrated until it could contain its joy no longer. I wept afterwards, nakedly in Sam's arms, trembling at the unknown joys of what I didn't know about being gay. ********************************************************************** Send comments to: comments@tomcup.com To support this and other stories by the author, join at http://www.tomcup.com. If you like this story, check out Tom Cup's "Calvin: A Coming of Age Story." Available at Barnes and Nobles Bookstores, Amazon.com, your local independent bookseller, or from Tom Cup.com. Tom Cup's "Of Our Teenage Years" is scheduled for publication and release in paperback in the Spring of 2004. Check it out at http://www.tomcup.com!