Chapter 3
Plus, none of the dudes looking my way had
quite the same appeal in my eyes as Mr. Pierce.
When I began applying for college, I picked
schools as far away from home as I could go without leaving the
state. I needed the lower tuition, but wanted to put some distance
between myself and my family. I knew Mikey would stay close to
home, if he even bothered with college at all, and the thought of
being on my own for the first time in my life was exciting.
Thinking of college conjured up images of sunny days lounging on a
grassy quad, my head in the lap of some sexy frat boy whose
erection pressed hard against my cheek through his warm jeans. Or
late night parties with dark rooms, groping hands, fingers easing
beneath the waistband of my briefs to finally, finallywrap
around my stiffening dick. Or stolen kisses in the hallways between
classes, holding hands in line at the cafeteria, squeaky springs as
I took a pleasant pounding on the mattress in my dorm. Yes, I
looked forward to college, and I couldn’t graduate fast enough.
Perhaps the best daydream was the one I had
about coming home after my first semester. It’d be December then,
cold, and I’d bundle up as I headed over to Mikey’s house to check
in with him. Of course, he wouldn’t be there—maybe he had to work a
late shift, or his classes at the community college wouldn’t have
ended yet for the year. Whatever the reason, Mr. Pierce informed me
Mikey wasn’t home when I stopped by, but he remembered me and
invited me in. “You were always good to my son,” he’d say—that was
how the daydream started before descending into decadence. My
clothes on the floor, Mr. Pierce leading me upstairs to the closed
door of his bedroom, which was always been off limits to us boys.
Or he’d take me right there in the living room, spreading my legs
as he kissed me, his rough cheeks scratchy against my smooth skin,
his hands strong as they lifted my knees apart, his cock thick and
fat as it butted against my tight ass.
God. As much as I wanted to leave for
college, I wanted to come home all the more if thatawaited
me.
* * * *
Though most boys our age outgrew sleepovers
once they reached high school, I still stayed at Mikey’s house a
few nights every month. It got me out of my own home, away from my
parents and my younger sisters, who were always bickering about
boys and makeup. And it gave me a chance to be close to Mr. Pierce,
who probably never said two words to us on the nights I was there
but any small glimpse, any gesture, fueled my teenage crush. I
wasn’t too worried about the kids at school finding out I slept
over at Mikey’s because we’d been friends for so long, most people
assumed we were a set. Wherever Mikey went, I wasn’t far behind.
Some probably thought we were like that, which we weren’t,
but Mikey had grown from a small bully in kindergarten to a
formidable opponent in high school, his arms and thighs and chest
filling out, his neck thickening, until he grew big and bulky, just
like his dad. It looked buff on Mr. Pierce, giving him a
rough-hewn, rugged appearance, but on Mikey it looked awkward and
silly—in my mind, he was still the pipsqueak who’d pushed me off
the damn swing set during recess. But he looked tough, and he was
the only undefeated wrestler on our school’s intramural team, which
garnered him a wary respect among our classmates. If anyone
didthink he was queer, they sure as hell wouldn’t say it to
his face.
The last time I spent the night was the
Saturday before I left for college. My mother had begun to get
weepy whenever she saw me, sniffling into a tissue and babbling
about losing her “baby boy.” Please, I was eighteen, and the
college I’d be attending was only a two hour drive away but to hear
her tell it, I was practically taking classes on the moon. I
couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d be like the day I left. So
when Mikey called to see if maybe I wanted to come on over, just
for pizza and a movie, I couldn’t pack an overnight bag fast
enough.
When I got there, I walked my bike into the
open maw of their garage and left it propped beside Mikey’s in the
corner. The garage was cluttered with stuff I always associated
with men like Mr. Pierce—tools littered workbenches, hammers and
screwdrivers, drills, wrenches that gleamed dully in the light
angled in through the open door. Glass jars full of nails and drill
bits, screws and end caps, gave the place an air of mechanical
alchemy that made it mystical to me. I didn’t have names for half
the items lying about, but Mr. Pierce knew every one—he used them
on his side jobs, handled them with blunt fingertips dingy with oil
and dirt, dropped them carelessly into his toolbox when finished
with them.