What my memory sees -- the door opens, and there stands Billy Flynn, facing the dark street of the pavement cul-de-sac. His curly black hair, lit yellow by the street lamp, shines bright as he turns to face us; shapely lips grow into a smile. A sparse cover of facial hair dots his upper lip, but the curly hair of his head is bounding and abundant. With hands in leather jacket, his soft but muscular thighs shake in his grey sweatpants as he plants his feet from turning. His brown eyes look me over as mine do to him. His waistband is protruding.
He had come to my apartment late that Saturday night. I remember, as he walked over, I waited in my bedroom, pacing. A knock had finally come -- he was here. My hands began to sweat profusely; part of me hoped he wouldn’t show.
Without hesitating, he entered and went directly to my room with a charismatic ‘Hey.’ His sense of ease surprised me. I had never felt so comfortable in a situation like this; his normalcy was refreshing. I walked behind him to my own bedroom, where we had understood was the only place to meet. I had needed to meet late at night after my roommates went to sleep. Now they were in bed, and Billy Flynn was draped across my desk chair.
To explain all of my past is impossible, but let it suffice to tell you that I am a young man now, a student at university; a writer, thinker, and a homosexual. Whether the last attribute listed has a place among the rest, I don't know. How much of what excites me, defines me?
I spent years and years scouring the stalls of shopping malls and bookstores just to find another man who felt like I did. I found them; they treated me as an adult, though I was a child. Sex, as they say, is the heat of the moment; so the moment passed, lukewarmly. I was disappointed, I was sad.
I decided, from then on, never to release myself wholly to this overwhelming world. Certainly, there are men who enjoy this lifestyle; to them it is freedom. If, in their independence, they can safeguard against loneliness, may they be free to remain in their ways. But in the vein of old prudes and maidens, I preserved my virginity. I surrendered to the cyber lure only when my young blood cried so badly for it that my very body ached.
So it came to pass that I entered university as a closeted young man. I denied it all, desperately. My unwhole body cried for a masculine section to complete it, yet I daydreamed of finding love with women.
The first time I had let myself feel for a man was in the back row of a playhouse. I had gone to a performance of ‘Chicago’ at my university, and I sat in the nose bleed seats, unimpressed but entertained. The porcelain-faced actors strutted the stage to music and rhythm. Whether his talent or his spirit stirred me, I can't say -- A young man stepped onstage; his stentorian voice soared high above the seats as he sung. 'All I care about is love,' sang Billy Flynn, crowded by an ensemble of giggling girls, fanning with a fringe of large feathers. But the feathers lowered, finally, and standing center stage -- there he was. I wanted to kiss him as I had never wanted to kiss anyone. I wanted to kiss him to be close to him.
Later that night, when the show had finished, I found his Facebook and sent him a message. I told him how he had impressed me, how he’d caused me to miss my own theatre days. I felt freed by his song, but still I reread my message countless times, ensuring it was untinged by the tone of homosexuality. I wanted to admire him -- but in quiet, insecure words, though in my mind I saw his naked body on mine, his broad singing voice warbling out his lyrics of love.
He never wrote back to me. I thought about him often as I sat in class, often in my bedroom, late at night, wishing to capture his attention, but still wanting to do the exact opposite. We passed each other on our way to classes, spoke in close proximity at the dining hall, but never said a word to each other. So much time passed that I forgot about him, and I became lonely without ever realizing it. Perhaps that was why I returned to that other, exotic world of the internet; of immediacy and plenty. Online, I sought out others like myself, but had the courage to meet only with older men, fearing that I might find someone who knew me, who would tell the world what I was. I hadn't even admitted it to myself yet. My sense of worth plummeted as months passed, when people touched me only in those five minutes it took him to release the day's urges. Night after night, it happened again and again, rarely with the same person. I felt so wretched about what I was doing that I stopped enjoying myself altogether. Even while I watched the dark shape of a brown-haired head bobbing hungrily up and down on the shadow of my crotch, I regretted it all.
It was a day like this that I went online in rueful search of a night's partner. I pulled up a section of craigslist advertisements where men merchandised their needs and sat erectly in their offices in wait. I found something different on this day, however: a personal ad listed at my university. I was excited and afraid to see that, somewhere, another student like myself was seeing what was out there. I responded to his ad, which included a description of himself; his wishes not to be a 'daddy's boy,' that he was looking for someone wanting a relationship, but that if 'fun' happened to come his way, he wouldn't say no outright.
I wrote to him, and he responded. We typed messages back and forth under our anonymous avatars, until finally he wanted to see what I looked like. That was how I came to find Billy Flynn sitting in my computer chair one night.
‘It’s nice in here,’ said, contentedly.
‘Thanks. It’s a little empty,’ I said. ‘Needs a poster or something.’
‘Mm. Your roommate’s gone for the night?’
I nodded. He rested his legs up, parted, on the edge of my bed.
‘So -- when did you --,’ his drew circles with his hands, he searching for a word, ‘--when did this whole -- man thing -- start?’
‘Man thing -- you mean, like --’
‘Your interest -- you know -- when did your -- I don’t know -- your attraction start?’
‘I guess it’s always been there.’
He nodded in understanding.
‘That’s what pretty much everyone says... I always thought you were straight.’
‘You’ve seen me around, then?’
‘Passing by... You read a lot, I imagine?’
‘Is it obvious?’
‘You have more books than anyone I’ve met.’ He laughed and picked one up. ‘Book of the Dead.... What?’
‘It’s a Buddhist text -- it’s interesting.’
‘You like Buddhism?’
‘That’s interesting. That’s cool.’ He began flipping through the pages as he spoke. ‘Were you raised religiously?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘My parents tried to raise me as a Christian.’
‘How’d that go?’
‘Pretty terribly! It’s just a -- I don’t know. It’s not worth talking about. I’m an Atheist.’
‘So you believe in nothing?’
‘I always find that strange... that someone can just -- believe in nothing.’
‘Well, why do you believe in Buddhism?’
‘It just makes common sense to me.’
‘I don’t know. There’s no laws, no dogma. It’s about being who you are, completely. That’s the point of it. Becoming fully yourself.’
He stood up and wandered round the room, looking at my things and my roommate’s bed. When he sat down again, he sat beside me on my mattress.
‘It’s raining. Can you hear it?’
‘I love the sound of the rain at night.’
‘I love laying in bed while I listen to it.’
He laid down in my bed, head on my pillow, with his arms behind his head The rain picked up; I laid beside him. We both stared at the ceiling, quiet.
‘Maybe instead of posters you can get those glow-in-the-dark stars you stick to your ceiling.’
‘I had those as a kid!’
He looked over at me. I faced him. Our noses were close together and I felt his warm breath on my lips. I was unsure whether I should kiss him or keep speaking; we said nothing. Our eyes darted around, wasting time, though it was obvious what we both wanted. I wanted it, too. It’s always the first kiss that’s the hardest to initiate
I pushed my lips onto his -- felt the oily prickling of his unshaven lip -- felt his hands on my shoulders -- his hands on my arms, on my biceps, my triceps -- on my back, my waist, my ass. He tore his lips away suddenly, rising above me, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me over so I lay on top of him. We rolled around, kissing, while our hands travelled -- becoming more and more adventurous -- his hands on my thighs, mine sneaking into his waistband. I slipped my hand inside -- felt the warmth of his crotch -- his thick, curly pubic hair -- but again he tore his lips away. My hand slipped out. I looked at him.
‘The lights,’ he whispered.
I hopped out of bed and switched the lights off, banging my head against his as I dove back onto the mattress. We both recoiled from the bump -- we began to laugh. He brought a hand to my forehead and rubbed where our heads had knocked.
I smiled -- found his lips in the dark - fell flat with him on our backs -- kicked the blankets away -- began unbuttoning each other’s shirts -- button by button. I felt his bare skin for the first time, and he mine; my chest was not hairy, but fuzzy. He remarked how I felt like a teddy bear. I laughed and dove my hand into his sweatpants, felt the stiff rod press against the cotton. It was thick, was a large but well-proportioned. I let it breathe air, and clenched it tightly in my fist. He let out a stifled moan -- a moan like an actor makes when he is onstage.
We had finally shucked our clothes off when he began kissing my neck, my shoulders and my chest, finally my stomach and my waist. His wet, warm tongue found the head of my penis and licked it gently. Holding it with his left hand, he slowly took my head into his mouth, moistening it, spending time on it, before he finally brought the mass of it into his mouth and wet my scrotum entirely. I pulled his head off my dick and threw him to his back.
His limbs spread out and open playfully; my eyes had an appetite to merely stare at him for a time. He was thin, but meaty, slightly rounded where other men were bones, but still compact. He was soft and hairless. I threw myself on him, kissed him again, touched him with my hands and brought my mouth to his crotch and tasted him, licking his balls and wetting his dick as I massaged his head with a moistened hand. We were both so excited by each other that we often had to stop. He brought my head away from his dick now, as I had done to him, pulling me in close to his face for a whisper -- ‘Can we get into the shower?’
I savor it still: the way he looked, ambling to the bathroom, his naked body sneaking in the hall, listening, looking round to ensure that nobody was there. As he swerved into the bathroom, I started the water and kissed him on the bathmat, waiting for the water to heat. When we stepped inside, he began to wash me, guiding me beneath the stream of water and running a hand through my straight, black hair. I had never been in a shower with anyone before. He bent to his knees and took me into his mouth again. I threw my head back in quiet pleasure, gently thrusting my hips back and fourth to guide my dick in and out of his open mouth. After a while, he lay flat across the bottom of my shower, pulling me down so that I lay on top of him. The stream of hot water hit hard against my chest, but I did not move. We lay like that for a while, quietly. I listened to the sound of his breathing while his shaking hand traced the outline of my body.
When we returned to my bedroom, we hopped excitedly onto the bed in the dark, throwing the blankets over us; the room was cold with winter. Our wet, naked bodies rubbed smoothly over one another, our hands working fast to memorize our every curve. We kept our heads pressed close together, and my whole body warmed up as he began to breath into my ear canal. I came minutes after he did, in his hand, having listened to his tremulous sighs and feeling his body shaking, half out of pleasure, half out of show, as a white thread of hot cum shot from the head of his deck, falling upon his chest in a long rope. Our bodies lay on each other, hot like two overworked furnaces, and breathing deeply in an hour.
I leaned up in bed to watch him hobbled on one foot in the dark, pulling on his jeans.
‘I’d have you stay if my roommate wasn’t coming back so early,’ I said.
‘It’s fine, I understand,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Good... And how do you feel?’
‘Me? I feel great.’
He walked over to my bed, wrapped a hand around my head and kissed me.
‘Text me, will you?’
I nodded, and he left.
The story, if anyone is interested in hearing more, would be one of three parts. I wrote this section in one sitting tonight, on a whim.