Colin thinks to himself about everything that has been bothering him lately, including his awkward talk with Jen, and the anxiety of considering Michael's offer for a blowjob. He decides to relieve his stress the best way boys know how.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. But then, they also say that if you don't see the cat, it's both alive and dead at the same time. So if I get a blowjob, but I close my eyes, will that make me both straight and gay at the same time?
Up until now, there's been something that I've been trying to avoid admitting to myself. It was the answer to a question that had been lingering in my mind ever since the day that Michael had given me his proposal.
"Are you gay?" I asked him. Him, of course, was the guy standing in front of me. I was in my room, standing in front of a mirror. So yes, I was asking my reflection if he was gay.
"No," said my reflection.
"But do you want to get a blowjob?"
"Yes, and you know it." My reflection can be such an asshole sometimes.
If I were anyone else, I would have refused Michael's offer right then and there. But I hadn't refused it. I'd stayed silent. They say that 'silence means yes'. But did it really?
I was really going nowhere with my questions. Let me rephrase that. Did I want to experience what a blowjob felt like even if it was from Michael? Was I really considering going through with it?
"Yes." Dammit, reflection!
Why did I want to go through with it, anyway? What is a blowjob, even? It's just your dick in someone's mouth. No big deal. How am I sure that it's not the same as just jerking off?
I looked at my reflection again, and watched myself as I put my left index finger in my mouth. I felt my tongue lick it all over, and I tried sucking it like a straw. It felt like . . . I was sucking my finger. I should have eaten some Cheetos beforehand. At least I would've tasted like cheese.
I looked at my dick. Yes—I was naked, and I was looking at myself all over. I've never done that before because I've never really had any reason to scrutinize my dick the way that I was doing now. How should I describe my dick? I . . . don't know. It's just my dick. I'd never really cared if it was longer or shorter or fatter or thinner than other dicks. I'd never measured it. I didn't really care.
I'd prided myself on not caring about puberty. While everyone else had been busy comparing in the showers, or seeing who had more pubes, I'd been more concerned with learning more words that would make me sound smarter. For example, I'm pretty sure that I'm the only one in my school who knows the word "defenestrate". It specifically means throwing something—or someone—out of a window. I've used that word exactly zero times since I learned it.
Now it was different. There I was, staring at myself in the mirror, and everything about it felt weird. That was what my dick looked like, and Michael wanted to suck it. Michael was making me think about all of this—making me care. Damn you, Michael. Damn you so much.
I went to my computer, my bare ass feeling cold on the chair. I needed to jerk off and clear my head—both of my 'heads', actually. I've been jerking off since I was ten, with my extensive collection of wank material spanning erotic animés to the most exotic and foreign sex videos on the internet. I was rather proud of my ability to find porn, and I'd bet that my pornography collection is so expansive that 80% of all the world's nationalities have equal representation in my videos and pictures. Yeah, I could probably form the United Nations with my porn.
I remembered that I had a folder dedicated to lesbian porn. I'd thought it was cool at first, because . . . reasons. But the novelty of it quickly wore off. Two women were having sex and . . . well, where's the man? I'm the man, and I always imagine myself as the man, having sex with the women. But without the man, without a dick actually on-screen, it was hard for me to relate to anyone or anything in the videos. I felt like I was just simply watching something rather than being in it. And porn is only effective for me if it's immersive. I wonder if there's IMAX porn somewhere.
I pulled up a video where two best friends—a guy and a girl—get it on in a college bathroom. I only got as far as them stripping each other off before I had to close the video. I didn't even get hard. In fact, getting hard was hard. For some inexplicable reason, I remembered Jen. I was remembering what she'd said: "It's only ever sex. That's always a boy's endgame."
Did my crush for her ultimately lead to me wanting a sexual encounter? In the deepest darkest depths of my mind . . . I knew that it did, however abstract. Had I ever entertained any fantasies or dreams about Jen naked or having sex with me?
Fuck you, reflection! I'm not even looking at the mirror anymore and you're still answering like an asshole!
It was all I could do to grit my teeth and slam my fists onto the table. I couldn't ever think of Jen that way anymore. I just couldn't. After today, after everything that she'd said, thinking of her in a sexual way was nothing short of a betrayal. If I'd cried easily, I would have right then, because the shame that I'd felt as all those thoughts filled my head was overwhelming.
It was the same with every other porn vid that I tried to watch. I felt too guilty. Everything that involved a guy and a girl killed my boner more than excited it. I just couldn't make the porn work anymore. Unless . . .
There was one video that I had in my computer that was unique. I've never touched it since the day I that I'd gotten it. It was one of those vids that I got from a shoddy website that disappeared a few days after I'd found it. Downloading it had been an accident, really—I'd thought that the video was about something else. But then, it turned out to be two teen boys blowing each other. It was gay porn—and if I was honest with myself, I'd admit that I wanted to watch it right then.
I pulled up the video and let it play. The film looked grainy, like an old vintage film. There were the two boys with clothes that I swear should already be in archaeology books, but I guess historians don't consider the 70's to be ancient history yet. One of the boys had long blonde hair like a typical skateboarder of the time, while his friend had a properly-trimmed mop of brown hair—he looked just like your average, ordinary school boy.
It had just occurred to me that these boys looked almost young enough to be my age. They looked like it, anyway. They might as well have been fourteen like me. That brown-haired school boy could have been me. In that video, he was me. He climbed onto the bed spread-eagled, with the blonde skater boy climbing in after him. That blonde skater kid . . . he could be Michael. No—right then, he was Michael.
'Michael' climbed on top of 'me', then leaned in. He was kissing me. With tongue. A lot. Then he grabbed at the front of my trousers and copped a feel. I was hard and we both had that look in our eyes. We started stripping. We were hurrying, we wanted to be naked, and we threw our pants to the side without looking. As I lay on the bed, I quivered with anticipation and looked at 'Michael' expectantly. He was smiling. He nestled his face close to my crotch and began kissing me all over, my pubes brushing across his face.
Then, without any further delay, 'Michael' took my dick into his mouth. He bobbed his head—sucking, licking, kissing. I was throwing my head back, gripping the sheets. I was close! Really close! But the brown-haired school boy was not. I wasn't the school boy in the video, and Michael wasn't really the skater boy. Those two boys in the video were still going at it with no sign of stopping, but because I wasn't one of them—because I was just watching them, because I was just a boy jerking his dick to a kind of pornography that drove his imagination wild—I was almost done. 'Michael' gave 'me' one last suck and that was it.
But of course, Michael wasn't there in my room. It was just my hand. My sticky, slimy hand. My brief stint at being the horny school boy in my mindscape was over, and so was my jerk-off session.
I got one of my dirty shirts and cleaned myself up. At that point, the only thing that I could think about was a wish. A fervent wish . . . that my mom wouldn't be able to recognize cum stains.
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