Perfect chemistry - Poison denial

I studied him as he sat at his desk in my life science class.
His butt rested on the very front edge of his seat and his shoulders against the top edge of his chair. His long legs stuck out so they were underneath the desk in front of him. His eyes were a light sienna brown and he had a small scar on his full lower lip. He was letting his sparse facial hair grow in; soft and light. His long, shiny brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a rubber band. One arm lay across him down to where his hand lightly cupped the tight, rounded bulge in his jeans, his long fingers curling down between his crotch. The other hand was tucked behind his head, showing off the round bicep of his slim, muscular arm. He wore a tight baseball tee shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the hair on his arms was straight, smooth, and silky looking.

When he spoke, his gaze was sincere, and his voice was soft. He was also the type of guy who wasn't afraid to touch other people; on the arm, or the waist, and sometimes would put his arm over your shoulder to talk. A trace of a smile always appeared on his lips and his eyes. He wasn't aware of how attractive he was... he seemed empty of himself, and unconscious of his appearance. He seemed completely comfortable with who he was.

I fantasized about what it would be like to know him as a friend.
Just talking to him. Just spending time with him.
Doing simple things together.
And I imagined, that over time, we could share more than just friendship.

The romantic visions made me feel bad about myself.
Weak. Less of a man.
Lonely.

___________________________________________

The full moon is callin'

The fever is high

and the wicked wind whispers and moans

You got your demons

You got desires

Well, I got a few of my own...

___________________________________________

I sat under a tree eating a tuna fish sandwich on slightly stale bread from the cafeteria. It was a bright and cool January day. The air was freshly scrubbed from a recent rain.

Even in the chill weather, he lay sunning himself on the slightly damp grass. He was short and stocky, and had curly shoulder length hair the of color of wheat. His heavy brow, full bull nose, and wide strong jaw magnified his virile, almost caveman-like features. He had thick, rusty sideburns and a light mustache that curled in at the corners of his mouth. He lay on his back with his face tilted toward the sun, his hands tucked behind his head, his stomach slowly rising and falling...
asleep or no?

His tan bib overalls were unfastened and pulled down low on his hips. He was shirtless, exposing his thick upper body, a woolly light-colored fuzz covered his chest and belly. The thick thatches of his armpits almost blended completely together with the hair on his chest and down to his stomach. From where I sat, he was stretched out so I could almost see down his pants where the hair continued to grow to his pubes.

His normal speaking voice was slightly raspy; the vocal trait of a guy active in sports who spent a lot of time yelling to be heard on the field. Because of his height and build, he was on the wrestling team, but he loved all sports and interested in all of them. He came across as a very confident guy, and by his loud speaking voice and swagger, somewhat aggressive, but not threateningly so. When he spoke with you, his steely-blue eyes were full of attention and energy. He was known for being a nice guy, someone who cared about other people's feelings. He was the type of guy who was friendly with everyone, even if you weren't interested in sports as much as he was.

I wondered what it would be like to go to game with him. Even if I didn't like the particular sport we were watching, I thought he would make it interesting anyway, just by how excited he got about it. I would love to have a friend like him.

Again, I entertained fantasies about what it would be like to know someone like him.

I thought about the truly great times we could have together,
and what a good friend I could be.

I thought about what it would be like to be close to him. Emotionally connected.

I thought about what it would be like to have him share his feelings with me... to allow himself to be vulnerable.
To reveal his weaknesses.
To trust me.

The feelings crept back again.

___________________________________________

Ooo, loneliness will blind you
In between the wrong and the right
Ooo, coming right behind you

Swear I'm gonna find you
One of these nights

___________________________________________

Again I thought,
"I have to try not to think about guys that way.
I know it'll pass.
One day I'll wake up and I'll think differently."

And again, I tried to analyze my feelings,
"I want to be like them so badly, I'm attracted to the image they project, rather than to them personally. I want what they have... not them."

To me, their lives, and the way they appeared to be living,
seemed so much more simple and happy than the way I was living.

"If only I wasn't...   ...

if only I didn't... think the way I did."



Roger was intelligent and friendly, and he and I seemed to connect from the first time we met. We were on the same intellectual level, even though he was a strict honors student, while I was completely lazy when it came to subjects I wasn't really interested in, and only exerted myself when it was absolutely necessary.
Now was one of those times, and were working on group project, and as it turned out, he and I were our own group of just two.
It was lunchtime, but our English teacher almost always kept her room open (It always gave the geeks a place to hang out together.) There were only a couple of other students in the room with us while we pulled information from books and notes.

Roger was unpretentious and honest, and he was very easy for me to talk to. He had a self-depreciating sense of humor, which I thought might be his way of asking for approval when he was feeling insecure. He was also on the tall side for most Asians I knew, and spoke with no accent, which was surprising to me the first time I heard him. Even though he wasn't a rebel, his very long hair certainly made him standout, at least it did for an Asian living in the Suburbs in 1975. His hair was straight and jet black, and the thick glossy strands seemed to magically stay out of his face. His hair only dropped forward when he looked down at something, and a quick comb with his fingers set it back when he looked up. He had a slight mustache, thicker at the corners of his mouth and continuing downward; in time he'd have a mean Fu Manchu.

We had only been working for a few minutes, when he asked if Sheri (a girl I been on a date with) and I were still going out. I was surprised because of how fast word got around, and also of the emphasis he put on the "Still".

"We've only been out a couple of times. It's not like we're serious." I said.

Roger didn't look up from his notes, but I could see a little smile.

I asked, "Do you know Sheri?"

His hair shifted forward.
"No. My sister knows her sister, Debi." he said pulling his hair back.
"Debi thinks you're not really serious about her sister Sheri." he said.

"We haven't had time to get serious."
I don't know why, but I felt irritated Debi said something like that. But as a teenager, I was always thinking there was some deeper meaning behind everything everyone said.

"Debi told my sister you and Sheri had time to get a little serious."
he said with an emphasis on the word "little" this time.

I could feel myself blush.

He looked up at me with smiling eyes. "Did you get a little serious?"

No matter how hard you try, you can't control the color in your face. I was silent, while I tried to figure out something masculine to say. But seeing as Sheri and I hadn't really done anything other than just feel each other up, there was nothing masculine to say.

"We didn't do anything." I said with what I'm sure was a self conscious grin.

"Do you like Sheri?" he asked.

"I like her. She's sweet." What the fuck was I saying? "Sweet"? She was "sweet"?
I was glad no one was around to hear me say that but him. I just had to hope he would repeat it.

"Yeah, she really is sweet." he said seriously. "I wish I could find someone like her."

"Who do you like?" I asked.

He looked down flipping a page of his notes.
"Nobody my parents would like." he said.
"I don't have the looks to get anybody interested anyway."

I thought to myself, "That's untrue. Is he just fishing for a compliment?"

He said, "I'm not like you. All you have to do is just wait around for somebody to ask you out."

That shot me down. Or was that part of the game?
"What's the matter with the way you look?" I asked.

He shrugged slightly. "You're good looking. You don't have anything to worry about."

I said, "I think you're a good looking guy."
Immediately I thought, "Jesus! Why did I always have to say something without thinking first! I screw things up every time I do."

He looked at me, his eyes deep, black pools of sincerity.
"You think I'm good looking?" He said quietly.

An electric shiver ran through me, a sudden arc of recognition,
one that I felt on previous occasions with him.
Was I imagining the feeling, or did the connection really exist.
I could feel an emotional tide rise inside me, one that made me feel excited, but insecure.
I thought, "What do I say?" and adjusted myself to a more typical masculine posture.

"I've heard girls say stuff about you." I said with a shrug and a smile.

"I wanted to know if you thought I was." He asked, his eyes now locked to mine.

He seemed like he was another one of those people who could read my mind. "How did I keep running into them?" Every time it happened and I responded emotionally, it was a disaster.

"I guess. How would I know?" I said. My response killed me inside for some reason. It was a strange feeling; an odd combination of knowing that what I had said wasn't completely truthful, and also a feeling of 'disappointment' which I didn't understand right then.

He looked away into empty space for a couple seconds. 
"Forget it." He said.
Then shaking his head slightly said, "No matter what, my parents will never be happy. I know they wouldn't let me date anyway, but they're always bugging me about girls."

He pulled his hair back and rested his head on his hand. 
"They point out girls for me. 'This one's pretty.' 'This one has a good head on her shoulders.' 'Her parent's own their own business, and her husband will take over the business after they're married.' God, don't they know they can't choose everything for me?"

His eyes seemed to glitter, and I wasn't quite sure what he was feeling.

"It's easy for you Chuck. My life isn't ever going to be the way I want it to be."

My heart sank, and I was so moved. I wished I could be sure of what he was talking about. But I just didn't have the courage to ask him. I really felt deeply for him.

And I reached up to touch him.

His hand caught mine in midair before I could reach him.
And he pulled my hand down to the table gently,
withdrew, and began to leaf through his notes.

No more personal stuff anymore. 

___________________________________________

I've been searching for the daughter of the devil himself
I've been searching for an angel in white
I've been waiting for a woman who's a little of both
And I can feel her but she's nowhere in sight.

                                 One of These Nights - Eagles - 1975

The rock bands of my generation produced some very passionate ballads - with sexual innuendos threaded throughout them. And though the words of the songs reached into my soul, and were able to stir my deepest desires, I believed I would never experience any passions as intense as those in my own life.

___________________________________________

Roger and I remained friends throughout high school, but our relationship changed after that single, short exchange. Even though, at the time, I could never accept the fact he actually had feelings for me, I knew something important and unspoken was lingering between us. Sometimes when we spoke, he would hesitate as if he was on the verge of telling me something, but would always retreat and become quiet. I could tell that there was something he wanted to say, a feeling he wanted to express, but could never allow himself to disclose something that could possibly alter his life forever.

And he was not alone with those thoughts.

Roger and I didn't really have the same crowd of common friends. He was an over-achiever and hung out with all the other honor students, while I was involved in performing arts.
He and his friends were interested in music and art, and came to most of our productions, and he always asked about what was coming up. For the four years I was involved in the performing arts department, we actually produced some very high-quality work. Our school had a particularly good "batch" of artists at the time, and I was glad to be part of it.

My grades were marginal with all the hours I put into the productions, but I was always able to just scratch by in the subjects I didn't excel in. Sometimes rehearsals ran late (too late for the administrators), but as long as the department kept producing the high level of quality it did, they continued to look the other way and make exceptions for us.

I worked with all the technical aspects of the productions; lighting, sound, set construction and design, etc. I loved what I did, and since I was serious and committed, our director entrusted me with more responsibility and freedom. I was often given the keys to the drama department, which included the magical and powerful "master" key, that allowed me access to anywhere on the school. Our director had no reason to suspect that I would abuse the privilege of her trust, and I never gave her a reason to mistrust me. At the time, I valued her trust in me over my competence in anything I did. All for her attention and approval.

We were rehearsing particularly late one night; again pressing our luck with impatient parents and administrators. While the stage was being used by the actors, the multipurpose room floor was being used for some dancers practicing their routines. The stage with its wooden surface, offered more comfort than the linoleum veneer over the solid concrete slab, and some of the dancers were complaining. The director conceded to their busied knees and elbows, and asked me to get some mats from the gym. I took the ring of keys, grabbed a dolly and a couple of bungee cords, and set off to the gym.

The gym and locker rooms weren't far from the theater, and the area where I was walking was illuminated dimly by the stadium lights in the distance still lit from football practice that had ended over an hour earlier. Some of the players had stopped by the theater after practice to talk to their girlfriends, who were in the show, and wait for them to finish so they could drive or walk them home. When I got to the door of the gym, I remembered there were some smaller mats rolled up in the locker room. I thought while I was in the locker room, I could also grab my PE clothes out of my locker and take them home to wash them over the weekend.

I opened the door to the boy's locker room with the master key and pushed the dolly through, the steel door swinging shut behind me. I didn't have to find the light switch because there was a bank of lights still on near where my locker was located.

The locker room always smelled the same way, and it's pungent odor wasn't unpleasant to me. It was a combination of sweat, dirty socks, deodorant, cheap soap, and something else that was "moist", "potent", and "organic"; like cum. The smell was always slightly arousing for me.

The area was brighter nearing the aisle where my locker was located. I rounded the bank of lockers, had taken about two step onto my aisle, and was surprised to see a naked backside. Normally, seeing someone naked in the locker room isn't surprising, but I wasn't expecting anyone to be here at all. Football practice ended over an hour ago.

Obviously not aware of my presence, I admired the guy's beautifully sculpted back and ass. He was fully developed into a man, his muscular frame angular and wedged. His wide shoulders tapered down to narrow hips, his ass square, tight, and furry. Then I saw long dark fingers grip his round his hips, and his head tipped back as a grunt came from his throat. He moaned slightly, and the muscles in ass tightened, as two large, dark hands slid around either side to gasp his firm cheeks.

I was excited by the site, but embarrassed as well, and I took a couple small steps back.
A moving body creates a pressure-wave across space and creates a sensation which can almost be felt, nearly audible; and those sensations gave me away.
A face appeared from around the naked guy's hips, wide-eyed and surprised.
He stood up as fast as lightning, scrambling and barking, "Fuck! Fuck!"
The naked guy didn't look back long enough to actually see me, but cried out frantically, "Oh shit man... shit!" He reached past the black guy in front of him, almost knocking him down reaching for towel on the bench behind him.

I turned and went round the corner of the lockers,
hurrying in the direction of the door.
I had only taken a few steps when I heard a loud "Hey!" behind me.
I turned and recognized this face. He was in the life science class where I was working a teacher's assistant.

Bernard was a hulking, black senior football player, who weighed over two hundred pounds. His eyes were full of fear or anger.. or both. As he took a step forward, I felt like I was shrinking. I wasn't sure what he was going to do, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he decided to pummel me. He was wearing boxers. He either was already wearing them, or put them on somehow while he was coming after me. I could see him breathing hard, his shoulders rising as he inhaled, his cocoa-colored body sheened with light sweat.

His eyes were wide and wild. He panted short breaths, and his mouth opened and then closed, as if he was trying to think of something to say. And a tickle ran down from the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Slowly, the look in his eyes softened, and then turned almost pleading. His lips started to tremble slightly, and eyes were beginning to tear up.

I heard the slam of a steel door on the far side of the locker room. Bernard's frame remained still, while only his muscles jolted. The other guy obviously bolted, leaving Bernard behind.

Still looking like he was trying to think of what to say, his head shook almost imperceptibly. And I could see tears ready to spill out.

I looked into his beautiful, black eyes, and I said,
"What you guys do is none of my business."

He took it in, and he grew absolutely still. He seemed to be holding his breath.

I shook my head, and I said,
"I didn't see anything.
Nobody else did either."

I turned and walked away, wrestled the mat onto the dolly, secured it, and went out the door without looking back in his direction.

Bernard was an arm's-length best friend for the rest of the year. He went out his way to say 'Hi' and talk to me, even bringing me a can of soda a couple of times. I wanted to tell him he didn't need to treat me any differently, but he was sincere and I didn't want to run the risk of hurting his feelings... or insulting him. Bernard was in the process of tearing himself up inside, frightened of his feelings, frightened by exposure. Or maybe he was hating himself for who he was, or who he thought he was. He was the supreme, popular football jock with admirers and girls falling all over him.
And he had a secret.

I knew who he was blowing that night, or at least I had a pretty good idea. Every once in a while I would see him talking to Bernard, usually with no one else around. The look on their faces when they spoke was sober, and they were noticeably more serious with each other than they were with their other friends. The more I observed them over time, the more obvious it became their relationship was different. Maybe one was more serious than the other. Maybe one wanted to end it everything, and the other didn't.

I had a weird encounter with the guy who was being blown by Bernard that night in the locker room:
I was in the library with my friends (all geeks and nerds) sitting around a large round table, doing homework and minding our own business. Roger was sitting next to me, and we were all goofing around and acting stupid, when the guy who was receiving the blow job (I'll call him "Jake") walked up with a couple of his big jock friends. He slammed his hands down on the table, and said, pointing from person to person, "Everybody at this table is a fuckin' faggot!" His finger came round and stopped a me. "Except you." Without thinking I said, "Hey. I'm the only queer at this table."
He looked at his friends and they all bust up laughing, Jake slapped me on the back with more force than was necessary. I thought to myself, "What kind a fucked-up message was that? Did he know I was the one who caught them? And was that was his was of saying 'If I go down, you go down?' Or was he just in complete denial?" They walked away and all sat at another table where a couple of girls were already sitting. Jake sat next to a pretty Asian girl and slung his arm around her, pulling her toward him, jerking her body roughly. Just looking at the two of them together made me feel sorry for the Asian girl. I shook my head.
Roger sensed my disgust and said,
"Think of how I feel. The guy's an total asshole,
but my sister thinks he's the perfect man."

I blinked and asked, "That's your sister?"

He nodded, "Yeah. He's at my house almost everyday."

There was nothing I could really say.