My Best Friend is Gay
by Victor Thomas
Chapter 4
I jerked upright in bed and wrinkled my nose. Gay guys actually did… that? How could they… especially the one getting… it was too disturbing to think about. What was more disturbing than that was the mess I'd made of my sheets, and the fact that my dream about the two boys doing it was a wet dream.
I'm not gay. I'm not gay. I was forced to think that far too often. Was it a case of 'me think thou dost protest too much?' How could it be? Wouldn't I know if I was gay? I was so confused. Why did I get off to gay sex?
I pushed it out of my mind for the moment and stripped off the top sheet. The rest seemed okay. I spent way too much time washing sheets. I could wear underwear to bed, but I liked to sleep naked.
It was a Saturday and I had slept in so there was no chance of sneaking my sheet downstairs. I stuffed it under my bed instead. After showering and dressing, I'd get another from the linen closet in the hallway.
Thoughts of my dream returned as I showered and gave me a raging hard on. There was something seriously wrong here. What if I turned out to be gay? I didn't want that. I didn't even like gays. Shawn and Steve were okay, but some of the others… like that Troy kid who Kevin caught sucking off a freshman in the restroom. Rumor was he did stuff like that a lot. Rumor was he would blow anyone and was a bigger slut than Corrine Bleu. Gross! How could he even stand to walk down the hallway?
I fought to get my dick under control, but there was nothing for it but to jerk off in the shower. I kept my mind firmly on pounding Cody's mom as I did so and groaned with relief in only a few seconds. Sometimes, I truly wished I wasn't so horny all the fucking time.
I dried off, dressed, made my bed with a new top sheet, and then headed downstairs.
"Want some pancakes?" mom asked as I entered the kitchen.
"Yes, I would love some pancakes."
It seemed like mom was always in the kitchen, just like moms on old TV shows. Most of my friends had moms who worked, but mine was like a housewife from the 1950's. A lot of my friends had to fix their own breakfast. I didn't think I'd like that much, mainly because I had no idea how to make something like pancakes.
"Have you ever thought about getting a job?" I asked her as I poured myself a glass of ice tea.
"Taking care of all of you is my job," she said.
"Don't you want something more?" I asked.
"When I was younger, I wanted to be an actress," she said.
"Maybe you should go for it," I told her.
"At my age?" she said. "No. Besides, I tried acting before I met your father."
"You did?"
"Yes," she said. "I headed for New York City straight out of high school, over my parent's objections I might add."
"No way?" I said. "So, what happened?"
"In the year I was there, I only landed two very minor roles, worked myself to death as a waitress, and learned that I did not like New York. I returned home defeated, but then I met your father."
"Wow," I said. "I never imagined you ever did anything like that."
"I took a chance," she said. "I failed, but I'm glad I made the attempt. I learned that my dream of becoming an actress didn't fit me. I don't have to wonder about that now."
"So, you're happy with the way things are?" I asked.
"Very."
"I'm glad."
She gave me a hug. To her, I knew I was still a little boy. If she knew some of the thing's I'd done… but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
The pancakes were great. I loved pancakes, Saturday's and sleeping in, but I was troubled. The dreams were getting to me. The weird thing about them, other than the gay stuff, was how well I remembered them. I usually only remembered bits and pieces of dreams or nothing at all, but I remembered the gay dreams as if I'd lived them.
I really, truly needed to talk to someone. I thought about Spencer, but no way could I tell him about my dreams. Mary? I wasn't sure I could talk to my sister about this either. She would be compassionate and understanding, but she might think I'm gay. There was no one I could talk to about things like this. The truth was, I didn't have many friends. I was sort of friends with my teammates, but we weren't close. Spencer was my only real friend and he wouldn't understand this any better than me. Worse, he might thing I was queer.
Maybe I needed to talk to a shrink, but that cost a lot of money and I'd have to tell mom and dad why I needed to talk to one. I wished I could talk to one, mostly about the gay stuff, but also about other things as well.
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
