While I was away in Florida, Bobby moved in next door. Bobby was 15 and went to the high school, so we never crossed paths, except whenever I came and went from my back door, he'd be watching me from his kitchen window.

Bobby scared me in a way no one else could. It wasn't an external fear. I could take a beating with the best of them. I wasn't afraid of anything, but something inside me went off the first time I saw him watching me. Was it instinct, gaydar, a sense of what he was after?

I took to taking my steps two or three at a time and I could be up my steps and into my kitchen faster than he could get the door open to ask, "What's up doc?". This also kept him from getting a good look, which to me seemed important. When I came out I did the same thing in reverse, being off the porch and gone in a couple of seconds.

This was going to require an extra effort by him. He was fifteen and capable of having his own plan. I was a not too bright twelve year old, except when it came to perception.

One evening on my way home from a neighbor's house, I found Bobby sitting on his back steps, checkmate speedy.

"Hi, I'm Bobby," he said, standing up to shake my hand and speaking in a deep mature voice. "Want to see my fort?"

Do I look like a fool?

What the hay, I'd go see his fort. He took me down the stairs into the laundry room and opened the door to the storage area. Inside was piled up a load of junk that he'd fashioned a hidden space out of by unrolling a rug over the opening he created in the piles. I wasn't impressed by the fort but the fact he had a key impressed me big time. I didn't have a key to anything, and he had a key to the apartment building's storage room. What else did he have?

"Want to play strip poker?" he asked, sensing I didn't have a lot of time.

"Sure," I said, knowing that wasn't the answer.

My heart was racing from the first time I heard his voice. I was excited by him and he could see the bulge in my pants as easily as I could see the one in his. Bobby and I were birds of a feather, only I wasn't sure I was ready to fly yet.

I was scared. I should have excused myself and gone home, but I was twelve and destiny had me staying when I knew better. Being stupid didn't mean I wasn't aware of who and what I was. I also knew what Bobby was.

When I was ten I'd looked up the word homosexual with a great deal of difficulty because I couldn't spell it. I'd always felt different and I knew this word was the key. It had explained the turmoil of feelings inside me and I knew I was to hide these facts to keep from becoming even more of a pariah. I did not fear what I was or what I felt, knowing I was already bad, did this make me worse? Did this mean I should be even further shamed and humiliated? I didn't know the answers but I knew what I was.

I knew what Bobby wanted and I was unable to break away before he got it. Like anything else, I knew better, but what I knew had nothing to do with what I felt. And so we played cards in his poor excuse for a fort. I could do better than that and I couldn't do anything.

It was obvious he was double dealing me, but my desire to see where we were going was greater than my sense of fair play. When I was sitting naked, he could see my excitement and he made sure I was aware of his before he raised the stakes to get us to where we were bound.

"Okay, you got nothing else to lose. If you lose again you've got to blow me," he rubbed his bulging pants in a slow and pleasurable way, watching me watching his fingers.

He was dealing before he stopped speaking, realizing he could object to my objection by saying the hand had started before I opted out, but I didn't say anything. I lost the hand and he stood in front of me and unzipped his pants as I wanted for the moment of truth.

Bobby was no doubt a man and the warm odd flavor he offered me was strange and different, but exciting without being the least bit offensive. I felt the head swelling as I accepted his offering. He eased forward as I failed to object and the sound he made indicating he had gotten where he wanted to go.

Once we agreed I'd given him enough stimulation for the moment, he sat down, let's stretched out, cock stiff and shinning with the tip leaking as it twitched as he dealt. He knew where my eyes were and didn't obstruct my view by playing with himself as he'd done when it was hidden from me.

Each time he stood I opened wide and let the warm hard flesh slip deeper into my mouth. It took to pulsing while I held on to it. There was an extra taste that might have been the liquid that was coming from the tip. It was nothing like piss and probably excited me more, but I'm not certain if it was the act or the response.

Bobby wasn't talking and seemed delighted to have his excitement enhanced by my willingness. We continued like this until my name came floating through the night. He stood up to help me retrieve my clothes, feeling my erection, and requesting he give me some of what I'd given him.

I'd done what I'd come to do and I didn't need a reciprocal arrangement. Bobby was there to get what he thought I'd give him and I was there to give it to him. I had nothing else in mind as it was as far as my mental capacity had taken me. I did stop to take a last look at the still wet pulsing erection before I left it behind. It was a testimony to what I'd done and wouldn't do again for years.

I didn't feel like a victim. I knew the right answers and I was capable of giving them. Those weren't the answers that would lead to my understanding of what it was I felt and what it meant. I didn't have any control over my life and so when I got the chance to go where I needed to go, I went.

I wouldn't soon forget Bobby standing and shaking, quivering each time I lost the next hand. The hypnotic scene we'd created next to the laundry room was the most powerful minutes in my life. I suppose in some way it defined me at a time I was just discovering there was a me.

"I've got to go," I said, yanking on my clothes as I took one last look at the excitement still protruding from his pants.

I was twelve and I knew what I felt. I knew what to say to Bobby. I knew not to play strip poker. I knew my fear of him was because I knew what he wanted and as long as I could stay away from him I could resist. In a half hour, he'd told me all I needed to know. The fear of him was gone, but I had never been afraid of him. I was afraid of how he made me feel. Even before we ever spoke I knew he stirred something inside me. Bobby was always nice to me, and when I'd found out what I wanted to know, there would be no repeat.

I didn't know much but I did know about me. I would never play cards with Bobby again, although I went with him in his car, played in his house when other kids played there, and besides little hints he'd give me that he wanted a replay of the night in the storage room, we never mentioned it again.

Bobby and I were never friends. We were birds of a feather and I felt that as well. He was mostly a shy and pleasant fellow but the first time was the last time for me. It was so intense that I sensed I was not ready for more. He had allowed me to face up to facts and I was glad I knew what I was.

In a time of great change when I didn't have a clue about what was going on in the world I lived in, knowing the fact about something inside of me was more of a comfort than a trauma. Being an outcast meant I didn't have far to go on that end of things.

The very next day I went to my church to talk to the minister about my feelings. I knew what was inside of me, but I had never been able to trust adults enough to talk about my feelings. My minister proved to be a prime reason why. The first thing I wanted to be certain of was the conversation would stay between him, me, and God.

When I asked if the conversation was private, he said it most certainly was. I told him about Bobby and my feelings and I was there to ask his advice. He'd always said that's what he was there for. I attended his church each Sunday, but my parents didn't. They preferred sleeping in on Sundays, so I didn't figure they spoke. Once he listened carefully to my accepting the feelings I wasn't sure about before, he sat thoughtfully. He did squirm a little.

What I got was his, you're going-to-hell advice. I did what I always did in such instances, headed for the exit as soon as I got an opening. I thanked him, which was the custom of the day.

I didn't buy it. I knew I was your basic good kid, not too bright perhaps, but meaning no harm, helping those I could when I could, and from what I knew about the Bible, I was way ahead of most. Going to hell for what was inside of me was a foul ball. At twelve and with a flawed brain, I knew it was a fraud.

In two days I'd made two of the most important discoveries in my life. I was homosexual and men who claimed to speak for God, lied. This left me with two bits I was given to put in the collection plate each Sunday. I went to People's Drug Store on Sunday where I drank my troubles away with Fountain Cherry Cokes that were as close to heaven as I was ever going to get.

I suppose I learned the art of deception resulting from the fallout. The two bits deal bothered me, but discussing why I no longer went to church wasn't a conversation I'd have with my parents. They said, go to church. I went.

I lived in a house where for twelve years I wasn't acceptable. I was a pretty pathetic kid. I was fed and clothed out of my parent's kindness. There was no more to be had. I knew better than to lie or deceive them, but in this case I made an exception. If they wanted to think I was going to church on Sunday, who was I to ruin it for them.

It was a couple of years before Dr. Franklin Kameny was fired as a government astronomer for being homosexual. This story was repeated on television news casts. His name or the word homosexual would always get my attention. It was then I learned that the being homosexual was illegal. My distrust of the forces that could make this stuff up was enormous. It made absolutely no sense. I put this here only to mention that not only was I bad, useless, and a homo, I was also a criminal, which boggled my mind.

I suppose the rage that surfaced from within me every now and again was enhanced. It was almost always exercised only on inanimate objects, or if another kid got up in my face, at which time all bets were off. I was tempered by beatings and constant punishment and no midget was going to scare me. Other kids were of no interest to me. I didn't them to do what I did.

At junior high school I hung with hoods. Not because I had anything in common with them but because they knew me as another illiterate and all that was required to belong was the ability to sneer and grunt, while stationed near the entrance of school in the morning, until the bell rang.

These were the guys I knew from elementary school and felt most comfortable around. They weren't a lot brighter than I was but they had a need to assert their presence by menacing others. I never subscribed to this part of hood dumb persona.

I leaned and guarded my own space, unless one of them got near someone I found interesting, and then I'd grunt my protest, which was all it took to warn one of your kind off. It was part of the code, I guess. I had no desire to bully anyone.

It's as close as I got to joining anything. My athletic ability was noticed by the hoods in my gym class. This gave me a little more physical credibility. Excelling in gym class was not inconsistent with my usual poor performances in other classes.

Having Mr. Q educating me on things I could make my body do was neat. No one but Mr. Romeo seemed aware of the attachment we shared. Toward the end of my 7th grade year, we were playing softball behind the school, when I caught a fat pitch, hitting it from the lower softball field up over the upper field and into the woods.

Mr. Q came running and shouting from the sidelines, "No one touch that ball. No one touch that ball."

The fielders came back from climbing the hill as Mr. Q disappeared into the school. He returned with a tape measure, measuring from the plate with me holding the other end of his tape. It was a fifty foot tape and took us five measurements to reach the 212 foot homer.

This was my achievement alone. He'd never taught me anything about hitting. He was mightily impressed, putting his arm over my shoulder as we walked back to where the mere mortal boys were playing. The hit might have been mentioned by a few guys to a few other guys and it would have been son forgotten. Mr. Q's measuring the hit made it legendary.

It was a good year, 7th grade, but not if you looked at my report card. Being stupid was a bit of a handicap, but I loved going to school and getting to gym class each day.

Twelve, all in all, wasn't bad, but thirteen was going to shake the confidence Mr. Q's attention had given me. In fact it was the eighth grade teacher of CORE-social studies, English, and geography-who would become my teacher from hell.

You can only fool all the people some of the time and some of the people all the time, but you couldn't fool Mr. Warnock even for a minute. I'd never met a teacher more aware of his class or more determined to teach them everything they needed to know. He wasn't fooled for a minute by the tricks I'd learned to hide my ignorance.

Note from the author:
This chapter tells you how I came to be a writer. The first story I wrote to send to a publisher was the short version of this chapter. It was bought by Scholastic Inc. in May, 1994, and this set me on the journey to learn my craft.

Rick



Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

On to Chapter Four

Back to Chapter Two

Chapter Index

Rick Beck Home Page

"Gay Boy Running" Copyright © 1 April 2010 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
    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.

Home Page | Authors | Stories by the Writer Suggested Reading | Suggested Viewing | Links Privacy Policy | Terms of Service Send a Comment All Site Content © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer unless otherwise noted Layout © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer