Page 12 of Hello Forever
When I’d told my mother about my commute through the woods, she’d promptly FedExed me a headlamp from LL Bean. I’d tucked the funny little device into a pocket of my backpack just in case. But I’ll tell you right now that a man cannot look sexy wearing a head lamp. Not even Channing Tatum could pullthatoff.
Either way, I didn’t need the lamp tonight. With the moonlight reflected off a dusting of snow on the ground, there was enough light for me to see my way, and soon I was home, unlocking the door to my quiet, barely furnishedapartment.
I got ready for bed in silence, bringing my tablet with me when I slipped beneath the sheets. I considered watching a movie or listening to some music, but I set the tablet asideinstead.
What I really wanted to do was thinkaboutCax.
I’d met him at a wintertime church retreat when we’d both been eight. We’d made friends in that desperately fast way that kids do. Everyone needed to pick a hiking buddy, and we just looked at each other andsmiled.
After twenty-four hours, it was obvious to both of us that we’d done well to end up together. A couple of the other boys were crybabies and a couple more were bullies. Cax and I were the nicest of the lot, in our own opinions,anyway.
We both had Xs in our names. It was meanttobe.
Every two months or so our diocese offered a youth retreat, where kids from three or four churches in our half of the state would meet up for activities (some fun, some lame) and prayer. My single mom liked to send me on these, because it meant she could go out with her friends for a night. One of us prayed while the other drank half-price beers at aroadsidebar.
Until I met Cax, I only tolerated these trips. But after we became friends, Ienjoyedthem.
Often the retreat took place from Saturday overnight until Sunday. They had us in sleeping bags on the floor of some church’s all-purpose room. But in the summertime there was always a four day “camp” to attend. Those were myfavorite.
Over the years Cax and I did everything together—archery, swimming, horseback riding. Sledding, marshmallow roasting. Bowling. Wherever we were, I always brought my basketball in the hopes that there would be anavailablehoop.
Cax had never played hoops before we met, but I taught him all my grade-school moves. Whenever the church leaders planned something really boring—like gluing macaroni on paper plates in the shape of a cross—I’d give him the eye and we’d sneak outside for a little oneonone.
Rinse and repeat. By the time we hit our teen years, we were the kind of friends who texted. On social media, I saw occasional pictures of Cax’s life at a fancy private school in thesuburbs.
I lived an hour away and went to public school. We stayed close, though our paths never crossed except for at the regional youthgatherings.
Because of basketball, I didn’t make it to as many of the church events during my teen years. But I always made time for the summer campretreat.
The summer I was sixteen, I had begun to admit to myself that Iwasgay.
When June rolled around, I was happy to see Cax, as usual. But that was the year my interest in him changed. When Cax climbed out of his family’s late model Range Rover on drop-off day, my heart practically exploded. Because…damn. He’d shot up and filled out a little. And when he turned to smile at me, his dimples did something to mystomach.
For the first time since I’d met him, I didn’t know where to putmyeyes.
I’m sure I said something witty like, “Hey, man.” But a sixteen-year-old boy isn’t expected to be eloquent. And whatever he’d replied, I hadn’t heard, because my poor little brain was struggling under the weight of an uncomfortablerealization.
I was very attractedtohim.
We set up the tent that Cax had brought for us to share, and I tried to snap out of it. Somehow I got through dinner and the bonfire on that first night of camp. But I could feel his presence like a heat inside my body, my awareness of him hot enough to roastmarshmallows.
It wasn’t the first time I’d ever wanted to stare at a guy. I’d already figured out that my appreciation for the athletic photography inSports Illustratedwas different from my friends’ in a fewcrucialways.
And the swimsuit issue? Not interestingtome.
But until then, I hadn’t felt soconfrontedby the truth, and truth was a living, breathing guy with a broad chest that I wanted to touch and pale eyes that made me stare at him. That first night, I’d barely slept. The second night I had to jerk off quietly after I was positive he’d fallenasleep.
Swimming together became a new form of torture. Watching him strip off his shirt made me dive for cover in the lake. I had to keep my towel nearby on the dock and beg and plead with my body to stay under control whenever we changed into oursuits.
My teenage hormones were raging, and at night it took me forever to fall asleep. Because he was right there—two feet away. I’d never been so aware of another person’s body in my life. Each breath he took echoed through me. Each rustle of fabric reminded me of ourproximity.
The third night I woke up in the pitch dark, and I wasn’t sure why. Sleeping on an air mattress in a tent meant lots of unfamiliar noises. For a few moments, I lay there silently,listening.
But it wasn’t footsteps or owl hoots that had woken me. It was Cax. His breathing was a little funny. Short and shallow. I listened, and there was a rustle, too. Arepetitiveone.
My heart rate leapt when I realized what I was hearing. Cax wasjerkingoff.
The nice thing to do would have been to lie there in silence and pretend to sleep through it. But I couldn’t do that. Just the idea that he was getting himself off made me painfully hard. My hand slipped into my boxers against my will. I squeezed my aching dick and let outasigh.
