Becoming ballsy

by Thomas Stevens

Troy wore a deep pink t-shirt and black jeans over an athletic expanse of body. His wide upper back, a weightlifter’s back, tapered to a butt like a couple ripe plums. His chest arced outward, stalwart as if on guard duty; when he turned, the tip of a nipple registered. His stomach was a short stretch of plain leading to stallion’s legs, tough, graceful, a glory to look at, say, as he played lacrosse, running to catch a ball in his stick head. Likewise a glory to look at was his hair, dirty blond hair that encased his head like the helmet of a centurion (I’d seen Ben-Hur).

In class he delivered comments to the American literature teacher in a baritone voice that projected lasting firmness. Once he said: “I was surprised that we’d be reading Huck Finn but now I see it’s the sharp contrast to My Antonia”—opening the palm of his right hand—“to the narrator, the voice of the narrator that is”—closing his palm—“the unforgettable point.” I saw his palm opening and closing and drank in his steady flow of words, and I wanted his unforgettable point, the one at the head of his shaft, grazing up my chest, my neck, my face, into my mouth…he doesn’t even see you.

“Any other thoughts?” our teacher was saying. “Going once, going twice…” “Huck was a bore!” I shouted out. “I was much more interested in Antonia’s fate—I mean—the fate she creates for herself,”—Troy had turned his dirty blond head, now he saw me—“given her strength and—resourcefulness.” I looked from the teacher to Troy still looking at me with his lake-blue eyes, still, resolute. “And Huck is not strong and resourceful?” the teacher said. “You got me there,” I answered, dutifully doing a sheepish grin. I was always dutiful.

On my way from early 20th c. American literature to AP French and No Exit, I felt a hand touch my shoulder, give it a squeeze, and release. Surprised, I turned my head. Then I stopped and turned around. I was facing him, the mesmerizing beauty of him.

“Smart comment you made in there. On target. You should speak up more,—.”

“Definitely speak up more, David. It was good to hear from you. Well, see y’around the campus,” Troy said, flashing a smile at me as he walked on, an effusive smile that colored his cheeks and enlivened his eyes. It was a smile that threatened to melt my defenses (such as they were) and harden my dick into a flagpole, flag aloft.
I did see him around the prep school campus, but he was generally in fervent conversation with one or two other guys, the same guys, whom I came to think of as his entourage. They were not unattractive; neither were they Troy. When he walked by without his entourage, he had a remote expression on his upturned face, as if something were calling to him from far away, and I dared not so much as say “hi”. Although I was not speaking to him, I was speaking up more in the American literature class, as he had urged me, that one time, to do.

I pointed out, “Though we hear a lot from Darl, it’s Cash who gets my attention. He’s the one who’s doing something constructive, making the coffin for his mother as she lies dying. Speaking of which, there’s something about his mother that’s always been dying, in the sense that she’s never been alive to love. I think Cash is alive to love.” I pointed out, “It’s ironic that it’s called the Brotherhood. I can’t imagine anyone feeling the love from this group. It’s like 1984. Or Animal Farm.” Referring to Orwell was leaping onto a limb, but my goal, Troy-propelled, was to speak up. And speaking up generated more speaking up—about Fahrenheit 451 and The Bluest Eye—a good thing to do, I told myself, and virtue is its own reward, I told myself, on my way in mid-April to Albert Camus and The Stranger…I felt a hand touch my shoulder, squeeze it, and release.
This had to be Troy. His summons, maybe to something more rewarding than virtue. Maybe not. Whichever, I don’t want it now, I told myself, and I kept walking.

That voice, deep and level. I turned, but I kept walking. A little awkward to walk backwards, but not much.
“Troy, I can’t stop.”
“You’ve been able to stop, before.”
A matter-of-fact statement.
“On to French 3,” I said, turning, and walked off.

Troy didn’t follow me, but a rush of thoughts did—I hope that didn’t sound like “French me,” of course not, I don’t want him to french me, in my mouth or in my ass, methinks you doth protest too much, brain, brain, go away, come again in the next class. My brain didn’t come in French class. It didn’t come after class. A hand touching and squeezing my shoulder did.

I broke helplessly into a smile.
“Do you always say hello like that?”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“You first.”
I got an uncomprehending look that I assumed was disingenuous. I stood there.
“Well, do you always say hello—?”
“Only to the creeeaaam of the crop. Ok, you answer me.”
“Working in the garden. I promised my father—.”
“Too bad. Come on!” he exclaimed and ran off.
“Come on!”

I figured, if curiosity hadn’t killed the cat, then boredom would have, and I ran after Troy who ran out the fiberglass double doors leading from French (and Spanish, German, and Latin) to the outside, specifically, a field in back of the school that led to poplar trees that lined a little river. Troy, lacrosse guy, was easily a faster runner than my un-athletic self, and soon he had disappeared from my view. Both baffled and stung, I ran faster toward the river. He had to be somewhere along it. Not quite. Troy was doing the sidestroke in the river. Naked.

“Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it!” he yelled at me. “Said Goethe, anyway! Come on in!”
I looked down at my dark blue button-down shirt tucked into brown chinos.
“You know what they say about he who hesitates!”

I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it over my head, slid off my belt and chinos, gray socks and loafers, and—yes, I thought, boldness—my black boxers. I ran into the river, kicking up water around me, and plunged forward into a breaststroke. I swam for a third of a second, maybe, when Troy caught my arm and pulled me back to shore, as if I were a dysfunctional dinghy.

“Here,” he said, in shallower water. “Here we can stand.”
He put his hands on my hips and flipped me, from flat and afloat, back to upright and standing. Something else, I sensed, was moving upright, but all I said was “I know how to stand,” or, rather, I started to say that, because Troy pressed his lips onto my lips and his hands onto my ass cheeks. If beforehand I’d ever been like chaste Daphne resisting lustful Apollo, I was like her no longer. I took Troy’s right hand and brought it to my ass crack. Right away, I felt a finger up my ass, then a second, and a third, like the barrel of a gun, a warm-blooded gun, sliding, pressing, relaxing me, slow like a massage at first—like a massage for my butt—then fast and deep, in, out, in, out, while his palm brushed my left ass cheek. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to sense anything else but his fast fucking motion.

Troy took my right hand and brought it over so that it was cupping his balls, then my left hand and brought it over so that it was gripping his dick.
“You know what to do,” he said.

I do? I do. I’ve got to. I buried my face in his smooth chest, the chest that before I’d only dreamed of, and I lapped it up and down, and licked and nibbled his right nipple; I stroked up and down his hardening shaft (I was getting my god hard!) and then covered his cock head with my palm (talk about the cream of the crop); I caressed his balls and followed it up with a squeeze like he’d squeezed my shoulder in greeting, firm so he felt my grip but not rough—and caress, then squeeze—caress and squeeze.
“You do know what to do,” he said and, taking his fingers out of my ass (alas), he twisted and bit hard into my nipples (yes).

I felt my body about to give way and fall back into the river, the brisk river currents, when Troy’s right hand slid down my torso and onto, lightly, my acute erection. I’d become erect fast, too fast to notice when it happened. My dick was really like a flagpole now, hard like aluminum, sticking up and about to spurt. The French phrase du calme suddenly came into my head, and it seemed that something like it had come into Troy’s head also, because he murmured, “Hold back, hold back,” as he slowly stroked my shaft.
Re-focusing on the mud on my feet, I held back. Detachment didn’t last. I gripped his thighs, hardened by the rigor of sports. I licked all over his chest, and his neck, and his ears, as if I were a dog licking its master.

“One more thing,” I said, low and fast into the ear I’d been licking, clasping the hand that was stroking me.
The hand stopped, followed by a courteous and curious “Yes?”
“I want you to—.” I stopped—I do?—I blurted, “—rub your dick against my ass. Cheeks.”

I felt my face cheeks go red. I sound like a porn movie. He’ll laugh at me. He’ll leave me here. He didn’t laugh or leave. He touched my face and smiled and kissed me. He did to me, gently, what I wanted him to do to me, and the rubbing motion of his dick against my ass cheeks sent torpedoes of ecstasy through me, and with a spasm I spurted and spurted and this time I did give way, and I fell back into Troy’s embrace.

Troy leaned over against my neck and intoned, in that baritone voice, that projected lasting firmness, “You are mine, yes, you sweet lovely boy, you are mine.

Thomas Stevens has been traveling through the genres for 36 of his 45 years. Recently he incarnated as a poet and self-published a book of poetry inspired by Joan Armatrading’s song “More than One Kind of Love.” Even more recently, after reading an anthology of gay male erotica, he decided to try his hand at writing gay male erotica. Resident of Roslindale in Boston, MA, Stevens commutes to an outdoor cafe in Boston’s South End to produce his writing.