Page 4 of When Ben Loved Tim
“I was trying to help you make fun of me more effectively,” I say, already walking away, because I might be recklessly brave at times, but I’m not suicidal.
“Hey, fuck you!” Bryce shouts after me. I don’t respond, which is probably why he feels the need to add, “Fag!”
That’s the shitty thing about my situation. Not that assholes exist. My dad assures me that they’re something to contend with at any age. He’s been great about coaching me on how to deal with them. My dad says it’s best to not let them see you react, no matter how they make you feel on the inside. But it bothers me that everyone knows the truth. I already came out of the closet. Or was outed, depending on how you look at it. Which I don’t regret exactly, but I got all the drawbacks with none of the benefits. Case in point…
When you’re younger, your social circles aren’t as defined. Learning that someone in your class has an exciting new video game or whatever can be enough motivation to fish for a sleepover invitation. It was on one such occasion that I first messed around with a guy. We played video games for most of the evening. After his parents went to sleep, he took out a nudie magazine hidden between his mattress and box spring. My initial excitement was replaced by disappointment when it offered only naked women.
“Where are all the men?” I had asked rather cluelessly.
I still remember how the guy looked at me as if I was crazy.
“It’s not like a porno,” he’d replied. “Check her out! Have you ever seen boobs that big?”
I’m always surprised that guys care about such things. To me it would be like going around and sizing up everyone’s ears to find the largest pair. Now when it comes to pecs, yeah, that makes sense! And of course, as I would learn that night, size could be exciting in other ways.
“Pretty hot, huh?” the guy had said, nodding at the open magazine. “The only problem is that it’s hard to jack off when your hands are full.”
I wasn’t completely naïve, even back then. I knew perfectly well that it’s easy to hold a magazine one-handed. Just fold the cover back. But luckily, I held my tongue long enough for him to suggest a solution.
“But I guess if we helped each other… And took turns. That would work. Right?”
“Let’s find out!”
And we did. Sort of. He wanted to go first, meaning I had to do all the work. Which was fine with me, even when he finished and became theatrically sleepy. “Maybe in the morning,” he’d promised. “I’m really tired.”
“Yeah, me too,” I’d replied, lying awake half the night before sneaking off to lock myself in the bathroom. That wasn’t the last time. Not with him. Or a few others, because word began to spread, and I was willing to do more than just use my hands. For a horny teenager, I was in absolute heaven. Even though the encounters were always one-sided, they helped me come to terms with myself, the emotional and physical impulses melding together into one simple concept: I’m gay. Rather foolishly, I thought those other guys would appreciate me clueing them in, like a course map sent from the finish line. I told each of them in turn, expecting to see their faces light up with the same realization.
Instead the opposite happened. No more sleepover invitations. My calls went unanswered. I was a ghost in the halls when they saw me at school. Then the rumors began to spread, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pretend that I’m not gay. The cat was already out of the bag. I figured if there was a chance of finding someone like me, that it paid to advertise. So I came out. Whenever people made the accusation, I proudly confirmed it."Yes, that’s right, I’m gay. So what?”Which is how I became Ben Dover. Bengay. Butt-fuck Ben. I’ve heard them all. And for the most part, I try not to care. But it sucks anyway, because there should have been a silver lining. Some shy guy who approached me when no one else was looking to say, “Are you really? Because I am too.”
My throat feels raw as I enter my Spanish class. I just want someone to love. So how come I get so much hate? I think of Tim again, a flame rekindling in my heart as I take a seat. I watch the door, hoping to see him enter. I’ve been thinking about his mom’s accent, which sounded Hispanic. And assuming that Tim can already speak the language, what teenager wouldn’t want the easy A? But alas, my rainbow dreams are too big for such a small gray classroom. The teacher shows up, shutting the door behind her, and with it, one more chance to find the companionship I so desperately crave.
* * * * *
Allison has good news for me when we meet in the school cafeteria for lunch.
“I saw him!”
I grab her shoulders and attempt to throttle the information out of her.
“What? When? Where?”
She laughs and twists sideways to escape my grip. “In the same hallway as our old biology class. That has to be a sign.”
“I’d like it even better if it was chemistry,” I say with a grin. “What was he doing? And wearing? Did he seem like he was looking for anyone? As in me?”
She averts her gaze before glancing around for a table. “Where are we going to sit this year?”
“Same place as always,” I say dismissively. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Allison sighs. “Tim wasn’t alone. He was walking with Stacy and Darryl.”
I groan, because they’re two of the popular kids. As in, themostpopular. Darryl looks like a toad, and if his family wasn’t filthy rich, would probably be at the bottom of the social pecking order like we are. Stacy is a drop-dead gorgeous brunette who is dating Bryce, but unlike her big dumb ox of a boyfriend, she’s viciously smart. And an overachiever. She used to give Allison hell, back before we both learned to avoid their clique.
“Maybe they were picking on him,” I suggest, already knowing it can’t be true.
“Sorry,” Allison says in sympathy as we begin walking toward our usual table. “Maybe he’ll figure out that they’re terrible people. You could be the one to tell him.”
“Yeah, you’re right!” I say, perking up again. I have a million horror stories I could share with Tim. Nobody in their right mind would still be friends with those jerks after learning the truth. Unless he’s cut from the same cloth.
