This is where the emotional problem really came into play. Everyone in school now knew that I was a "raving homo" and surprisingly, I got on with everyone a whole lot better than I ever did before - I was no longer living under a blanket of false pretence. However, I was now an active target as a date for any other gay bloke in school, and I didn't realise it straight away. It was only when I cottoned on to the fact that this really cute kid in the year below me started hanging around I realised I had a problem.

Gareth was quite unbearably cute: He was about 5'3" tall, had short, vividly golden-blonde hair, deep blue eyes and an arse that wouldn't quit. I'd seen him around before and almost without fail he'd get my dick pointing skywards. But that was before I met Taylor.

Here was the problem - I could either stake my hopes on Tay calling me again and us having a romp in the hay every six months or so when he was in the country, or I could have Gareth whenever I wanted. Sure his looks were dynamite (it looked as if he had a quite sizeable lump of C4 in the front of his trousers as well) but unfortunately however good he looked, he was as equally shallow. He could play any sport you threw at him very well, but that's precisely where his talents ended. Except, of course, the talent he had for standing practically every horny guys cock on end, gay or not.

Despite all of the 'cons' to the Gareth argument, I was starved for sex. Tay had spoiled me. Only once, mind, but that was enough.

It was Saturday afternoon and I'd just arrived home for the weekend. It was the sixth of December and it was bloody freezing outside and, just to round it off nicely it was raining. Horizontally. The wind was so strong it was unbelievable and, more importantly, had knocked our satellite dish of position so all we could receive was TV Polonia and whatever the BBC, ITV, Channel 4 and Channel 5 could offer us. After a good half-hour of scrambling through the TV guide I decided that the evening's TV highlights could be counted on the fingers of Captain Hook's bad hand. On satellite however, there were a whole host of goodies to be had: Friends, MTV Hot, UK Charts, 3rd Rock, King of the Hill, something about skydiving on Discovery, the list was endless. And I was stuck with TV Polonia screening a classic episode of "The Avengers". In Polish. Great.

OK, plan B. IRC - that can prove to be quite interesting. I sauntered into my room and fired up Beastie (my computer who has, as a matter of interest, the same attitude towards hard work as Beavis - Huh huh huh huh.... Uh Huh huh huh.... Er, like, no...) who surprised me by firing up quite successfully. However, when I tried to connect to the Internet, I get a "NO DIALTONE" message back. I pick up my handset. Yep, no dial tone.

"Dad?..... DAD!" I yelled downstairs.

"What?"

"Are you on the phone?"

"Couldn't be if I wanted to - tree fell onto a telegraph pole on Thursday night and cut us and three other houses off..."

Perfect. Information blackout. I looked out of my window - it still looked horribly windy but the rain had changed to snow, and it was drifting already. Even though it was only three in the afternoon, it was almost dark outside the snow was that dense. I fell onto the bed and dragged a shoebox from under it. Opening it up I pulled out my picture of Tay and myself at Alton Towers, along with a booklet of stories about Hanson I'd downloaded from the Internet over the last six months or so. I pulled my cock out of my jeans and began to beat off (what else was I supposed to do?!). I'd just gotten to my favourite part in one of them where Zac was experiencing his first orgasm of his life when the power failed, plunging me into a grey darkness with nothing but the sound of the howling wind outside.

I couldn't find the torch I kept next to my bedside table, so decided to imagine the story back to myself as I wanked in the dark. I was so involved with my self-pleasure I didn't notice Mutley, our Jack Russell, doing his 'someone's just arrived and I want to kill 'em' routine. It was my dad's voice that broke into my fantasy.

"Dean? Can you go and see who that is - your mum's asleep and I'm trying to get the fire going down here..."

"Shit," I swore under my breath. "Yeah, hang on a tic, dad..." I sped up my pace but it did no good - I was out of the mood and that was the last of it. Pulling on my bomber jacket and hat, I went out of the back door to see which fool was trying to visit us on a day like this.

The black Range Rover was having quite a hard time getting through our gate as it kept nearly sliding into the gateposts.

"What the hell's aunt Penny doing here in weather like this," I asked myself. About a month before hand, she'd bought herself a brand new shiny black Range Rover. I didn't like it as it reminded me of Tay all over again...

As I drew closer, I realised that the number plate wasn't the "PEN1 22S" I was expecting. In fact it looked rather like "HAN 50N" to me. Han fifty en. Who the hell was that? Or was it a pun on HANSON - surely not...

In the mean time the driver, whoever it was, quite sensibly decided that pulling into the drive wasn't the best idea in the world. Seeing this, I continued to walk over, trying to keep my excitement levels down so as not to be disappointed when I found out it wasn't Tay coming to whisk me away from this sub-zero, entertainment-starved environment.

I was right. It wasn't Tay. I could tell from the way he slipped over on the icy driveway as he leapt out.

"Shit," squeaked a high pitched voice.

It couldn't be, I thought to myself...

"Aw man, I just had these washed...."

"Zac? Is that you?"

Realising he had an audience, Zac scrabbled to get up, his trainers failing quite convincingly to stop his feet from sliding sideways. He managed to sort of stand half way up with a lot of arm flailing.

"Is that, uh, shit was his name..."

"Dean?" I volunteered

"Yah - you Dean?"

"Certainly am," I said, walking up to him. I could barely see his face due to the amount of scarves and hats he was wearing. He grabbed my outstretched hand which, far from steadying him, managed to send us both bum over bollocks, landing with a thud against the Range Rover. I managed to get off of the drive and onto what I knew to be grass where the tread of my boots managed to get a slightly better purchase. Bracing myself against the fence I dragged Zac up with me. "You OK?" I enquired.

"I've had worse..." he said, grinning.

"Come on - let's get inside before we freeze to death. Is that Kevin driving?"

"Yeah - how'd you know that?"

"Met him last time..." I replied, waving at Big Kev to follow us. He clambered out of the car, immediately sliding around on the ice Zac'd found. Try over here, there's grass under the snow rather than slippy concrete..."


On to Chapter Three

Back to Chapter One

Chapter Index

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Touring with Hanson is © 1998 by Dean Lidster. This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.

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