Making Changes Ch. 01

This version is edited from the original, although there aren't loads of changes in the first couple of chapters -- mainly a little tease at the end of chap. 2.

Then: usual caveats -- everyone in this story is over 18, and it's gay romance so if m/m isn't your thing you're lost.

* * * * *

I check myself in the scratched and dim full-length mirror behind my door. Looking good, which is all I need: gotta look good for the first day back. I don't have much going for me; no money, no car, no expensive clothes, no attraction to women -- so I have to take what I can get.

I'm lucky I got my looks from my mom -- symmetrical features, thick black hair, deep blue eyes, pale skin -- my mom calls it the Irish connection, because she's second generation. Equally lucky I must have got my height from my dad, whoever he is -- mom is five foot nothing and at least I'm knocking on the door of six feet. That's the only lucky thing he ever gave me though.

I run my fingers through my hair for that mussed look, debating wax and going for it. Worth depleting my stash for the first day. I can't do regular haircuts, so I cultivate that bed-head style like it's intentional. New t-shirt's worth it too -- not even from Target today.

My style is chilled -- I realized early on that I couldn't compete with the rich kids for fashion, so I developed my own based on my love of retro tunes -- today's is a silhouette of Bowie that fits close to my lean frame. I think it impresses them when someone is above all the posturing -- even if I am faking it most of the time. That's me all over though, walking the halls of Lincoln High I want to stay an outsider, because I'm not sure I remember what it's like to be real anymore.

It's not my mom's fault, even though she's the one who insisted I went there instead of the local, much rougher high school near where we live. Lincoln High is preferable to that, but it can be difficult, knowing that you're not really one of them.

I pull on my old Converse and exit my room through the narrow door. The first thing I see is my mom, slumped on the dusty brown couch in an uncomfortable position, an ashtray on her chest and a burnt-out cigarette between her fingers. I glance at the half empty whiskey bottle on the floor and sigh. She's still wearing her scrubs and even in sleep I can see the heavy bags under her eyes.

My mom has been working herself to death as a nursing aide since I can remember and it scares me sometimes, how much pressure she puts on herself to provide. I know it eats at her that she can't give me what the other kids get: cars, and clothes, and holidays, but it makes me mad too, that she won't listen to me when I tell her I don't need that stuff, that I'd rather have her happy. She just laughs and claims that she is happy, handing me another book, or pair of sneakers, or the dues for swim team. But her laugh gets weaker by the day, and her eyes are bloodshot with the burden.

I carefully move the stinking ashtray, dropping the now-cold contents in the bin, before returning to her side. I lift her with relative ease. I'm not bulky, but she's way too light, and is wrapped in my arms like a child as we enter her room, where I deposit her gently on the bed. It's dark and musty in here -- I make a mental note to change her bedclothes tonight while she's at work, I'm due a trip to the laundromat anyway.

I'm going to be late if I don't leave now, but I take a moment to look down at my mom's sleeping form. She looks so pretty, and much younger, when she's sleeping, none of the hard lines of worry that crease her face in wakefulness, though I wonder what it is she's hiding from me in those waking hours.

"Love you Ryan," she mumbles, shifting to her side, and my heart wells, partly with love but a little bit with sadness too.

I'm often curious about what my mom would be doing if she hadn't had me at eighteen and been rejected by her hyper-conservative family -- I cast my eye around the dingy interior, mainly decorated in dull-brown fabric and plastic wood -- not this, that's for sure.

Can't be thinking of that stuff now though. I grab my backpack -- last year's model, looking tattered round the edges, but I'm hoping it can see me through this final year -- and my lunch, and fly out the door, only just remembering to turn back and lock up before running out to the street, vaulting the broken and rusting car parts and children's toys that litter almost all the space around the trailers in a tragic approximation of a track event. Luck is on my side this morning, and I skid to the bus-stop just in time to make my journey from the wrong side of the tracks to the right side.

* * * * *

Catching the right first bus means I have time to save money by walking instead of catching the second bus. It's a nice walk, 'specially on this late summer morning, along these tree-lined streets; dappled shade falling across the sidewalks, over-exuberant joggers waving good mornings -- to me, to the dog walkers, to the happy retirees mowing their emerald-green lawns. It's a little Stepford, but I can't help but like it. Or, if not exactly like it, then feel a sense of longing for it.

I haven't got far to go, but I'm still happy when the cherry-red Mercedes Cabriolet pulls up alongside and the beautiful brunette offers me a lift. I jump in enthusiastically and she laughingly rebukes me.

"Hey buddy, feet off the upholstery!"

I laugh and plant a kiss on her perfectly made-up cheek.

"Hey Mad, how did your last few weeks of vacation go?"

"Oh you know, the islands are the islands," then she looks at me guiltily, knowing full well I have no idea what makes them so.

She doesn't really know what she feels guilty about. I've been to her palatial stucco mansion often, but she's never seen my place, and I suspect she imagines some nice working-class cottage with a painted veranda and roses round the doorway. We established early on in our friendship that it's the one thing I don't want to open up about and she's never pushed it, which just helps me love her more. I don't feel like an alien with her.

"Anyway," she's eager to change the subject from this one piece of awkwardness between us, her brown eyes cheeky, "don't you have some news for me? I want to hear every detail."

"Every detail? I'm not sure you know what you're asking for," I casually flutter my fingers over the side of the door, feeling the coolness of the breeze whipping through them as I shoot her a cheeky smile.

We laugh, comfortable again, and I tell her about my last few weeks.

* * * * *

I'd made the decision at the beginning of the break. I was going to get my v-card punched. Sorry for the crudeness, but it's a fairly crude topic so I guess there's no point holding back. Plus, last year, Mad told me every detail of her 'ascent into womanhood' in jaw-dropping nauseating detail so it's the least she deserves.

It wasn't ideal. I wished there was someone I could develop a bond with first, before sex. It's not because I have some antiquated idea that my virginity is precious -- I'm not some eighteenth-century maiden -- but because I have a feeling sex would be a much more satisfying thing if you have a connection first. But you know what they say, or my mom says, at least (if not about this topic), beggars can't be choosers...

Guys from school are out of the question. Sure, there were a couple of seniors last year who I wouldn't have said no to if they'd have shown an interest, but during vacation they were all off doing their rich-boy thing and I didn't feel like waiting for the new school year to see if anyone had glowed up and come out.

You might wonder why I have this apparent plethora of potential choices at school -- high school not exactly being known for its acceptance of guy-on-guy -- but Lincoln High is a progressive school in a wealthy neighborhood in a left-leaning state. It's not perfect, but I certainly have it better than most and it's one of the reasons my mom insisted on me coming here. I've been out since I arrived, and I don't have to put up with more than some minor shit from the usual suspects.

So, after I'd lost Mad to her cruise, I joined Grindr, obvs -- stick with the tried and true. It was actually unnerving how many matches I got -- not because I'm all that, just because there really is that much thirst out there.

I was picky that first time. I met a couple of guys (public places, of course) who I walked away from: one because he'd clearly used a photo from at least ten years earlier and I don't like manipulators, and the other because, regardless of how hot he was, he was a pushy creep from the get-go. I might not have been looking for a love connection, but I wouldn't mind if my first time didn't make my stomach turn.

Alister was different. He's a sophomore at college and was kind of sweet that first time we met, in a coffee shop near the university. He has soft brown eyes and hair that matches, plus deliciously broad shoulders and strong arms. I'm a sucker for strong, toned arms.

We chatted slightly awkwardly at first, but he soon put me at ease, so when he asked if I wanted to go watch a movie with him in his dorm I was more excited than nervous. My mind, and body, was telling me that I was ready for this, and he was looking like a great option.

His picture had been a recent one; I wasn't complaining about the addition of some sexy facial hair, and he didn't greet me by grabbing my junk, so I was onto a winner. Okay, my expectations weren't massively high by that point.

We watched a movie for a while, our knees pressed together, his fingers lightly stroking my arm from its position over my shoulder, until he got rid of his roommate with some pointed coughing and eyebrow-raising. The door had barely closed behind him before Alister was on me, his mouth crashing passionately with mine, his body leaning over me, pushing me into the couch as his hands caressed my hair. I've kissed guys before, so it felt good to lean into it, to show him I could be just as passionate.

He shucked off his shirt and I enjoyed those well-defined shoulder and arm muscles, stroking my hands along, tracing the curves while I nuzzled into his warm neck. He wasn't wasting any time -- I could feel his fingers at my belt, fumbling it open while he nibbled my earlobe, and soon his warm hand was on my cock, already filled and twitching against his touch.

Alister pulled my t-shirt off, that day it was a Fleetwood Mac one I'd gotten from a thrift store, and traveled down my body with small kisses, murmuring sweet things that sent my heart racing. God, I was excited, about to receive my first ever blowjob, but nervous that I'd come instantly. I was distracted by him taking the head of my cock into his mouth, overwhelmed by the heated sensation on sensitive flesh, although I managed to breathe through it, feeling thankful that I love to do a little edging when I masturbate.

His mouth took more of me and I absorbed the vibrations along my shaft, the jolts of electricity through my body and through my mind. I was laying back against the cushions, half annoyed that I'd waited so long to do this, to feel the heat, and the wetness, and the wriggling snake-like movements of tongue. I felt the tip reach the back of his mouth and he held it there, using the base of his tongue to rub against the sensitive ridges near the tip, while his fingers played with my balls, stroking their softness, gently probing their delineation.

I felt a stronger jolt when his questing finger found that soft point between my cock and asshole, stroking gently at first and then with a constant pressure as he increased his rhythmical bobbing. I could let myself go now, reveling in the intensity and the moisture, in the pulsating murmurs coming from his mouth. He was obviously enjoying this as much as me, and that was so sexy, that he was getting off on doing this as much as I was getting off on having it done.

I warned him when I was close, and he moved his head, kissing and licking the underside whilst jerking, never letting up on that perineal pressure, until I released with a gasp, a splash of creamy white over my abs.

To my surprise, he collected that deposit with the tip of his tongue as he journeyed back up, sharing it with me in a deep messy kiss. I didn't mind, I've tasted myself before, obviously, and taking it from him gave it a frisson that I hadn't expected.

I wanted to return the favor then, but it was the moment of truth. Did I give him a heads up that I'd never done it -- give myself an out if I was terrible? Or just go for it? I decided to go for it -- what's the worst that could happen?

I pushed him back and slid down between his legs. It was the work of a moment to divest him of his jeans and pants, flinging them to the side. I took a moment to hold his thickness, feeling its heaviness in the curved palm of my hand, feeling the twitch of eagerness as he waited, mainly patiently, for my next move.

His scent was musky and spicy, and I just ran my closed lips from the bottom to the top, amazed by how silky he felt against me. He moaned, and I repeated the move with my tongue, out and flat, wanting to know if he tasted as good as he smelled. He did, his skin was burning hot against the moisture of my mouth. I rested the head against my tongue, tapping it lightly, just enjoying how it felt applying pressure.

He said my name, curling his fingers into my hair, and I felt a growl form deep in me at how sensual it sounded. I flicked my tongue over the globule of moisture forming at his tip. He tasted different to me, but still good, a musky salt, and I twirled my tongue around his head, around the ridges until he was shiny with my attention. I slid forward, wanting to know how he would feel inside my mouth, taking his thickness slowly, until I felt it probe the back of my mouth. I wanted to go further, but knew that would take time and practice, not sure if Alister would be the one to do that with.

At that moment, all I wanted was to take this experience for what it was, an opportunity to explore, to understand myself, work out what I was capable of. I bobbed and moved, swirling my tongue until Alister paused me, reaching forward to take my face in his large hands.

"Ryan," his face was very serious, almost comically so, "you're going to make me come."

I shrugged, well, yeah, hopefully. I wanted to taste him properly, swallow him down. I continued to bob, using my hand to gently twist around his base, forcing a deep groan from his throat. He stopped me again.

"I don't want you to make me come yet. I want to fuck you."

I couldn't stop the grin. Okay, I wanted that too, it's what I'd come for, obviously, regardless of this delicious distraction on the way. But then I remembered my little 'situation'. Time to be honest.

"Alister, I want that too, but you should know, I've never had sex, never done any of this actually. I need to you take it slow."

Now his face really was comical.

"Shit. Really? God, okay, I promise I'll take it easy. You wanna stop, we stop."

It was sweet, but I was ready for more. I took Alister's hand and led him over to his bed, pulling him down with a kiss built of all the pent-up arousal I'd been feeling since I decided to go ahead with this plan.

"You sure you want to do this?"

His voice was breathy, holding a desperation in the question. Though I appreciated him checking in on me, I just murmured my response, rolling onto my stomach to give him the access he needed. As he stroked the muscles of my back with one hand I could hear the whirr of a jar being unwound. I felt my ass cheeks being parted, and then nothing for a moment. I looked over my shoulder in confusion to see Alister staring with heavy lustful lids, his tongue rolling over his lower lip, chased by his top teeth.

"Fuck," he breathed, "your hole is so damn cute, so pink and tiny."

Right then cute wasn't what I was going for. Well-fucked was more my aim. With this particular objective in mind, I wriggled my ass, pushing it back and opening my thighs to prompt Alister.

It felt good, actually, wonderfully wanton and slutty to be shaking my ass trying to get a guy to fuck it. It worked, anyway. Alister brought a slick finger up and circled the muscle, applying just the right amount of pressure to demonstrate his intent. I'd used my own fingers before, but it's never convenient or comfortable, in terms of positioning, so I was looking forward to this independent invasion, and not fearful.

He popped the finger through the muscle and I felt it slide inside. It felt so good, I just pushed my head down into the bed and moaned, keeping my back arched hard. When he slid a second finger in I felt the burn and whimpered. Alister leant forward and nibbled at my ass.

He held still until the tingle faded and I began to shift, demanding movement. When he added a third finger, leaning down to kiss and bite at my shoulder, I just rode into the pain, feeling the stretch as a pleasurable burn, until it was replaced with only the pleasure.

"Fuck, Ryan, those noises, you're so sexy."

It's funny really, when I watch porn, I love the videos where the guys are verbal, specially when they're good enough to make it seem like they're genuinely into each other. But right then, I just wanted him to shut up, so I could absorb all these new sensations without distraction. I didn't tell him that though, if he wanted to tell me how hot I was I guess I could live with it.

Then he was at my entrance. I don't even know when he got the condom on, I'd been so distracted by my body's reactions. Suddenly, I was nervous. I'd never seen a real-life hard cock before so had nothing to compare against -- his wasn't porn star big but I think a decent size, and now it was ready to enter me it felt huge.

I focused on my breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, trying to keep my whole body at the state of arousal that desired this more than anything. I was there, but when he pushed forward, entering me, I cried out at the fire, at how my body tried to reject him. I whimpered as he kept moving forward, slowly but steadily.

He leaned to my ear and whispered, "You're doing good Ryan, you feel incredible around me, just concentrate on telling your body to push out, to open up and accept me."

I kind of did, by sort of pushing down with my muscles while my mind was chanting to suck in. The pain was bad at first, especially because he didn't pause, just kept sliding, but once he was all the way in I could feel the electric stabs fade out, and they started to be replaced by this warm fullness that made me want to grind my ass back. I was doing that, arching and writhing, as he slid back and forth.

"You're so fucking erotic, one of these days I want to see you dance."

Yeah, you do; I love dancing, and I was using my hips for all they were worth. Alister grabbed them, pulling me up so I was on my knees, and thrust into me hard. I'd stretched out a little, but the increased depth sent sparks of electricity deep in my gut that were so sharp I couldn't tell whether they felt good or bad.

I did know that they were making me want to come, and I reached between my legs, grasping at my dripping cock, jerking it until I felt it rise through my body, shooting over Alister's bed. When my muscles contracted I could feel them massaging Alister's cock, pulling his release, and after a moment he came with a shout, buried deep inside.

We fell asleep for a while, and I couldn't bring myself to even be embarrassed when his roommate came in a while later and we were naked on top of Alister's cum splattered bed.

* * * * *

"Fucking hell, Ry."

Mad is staring at me wide-eyed. She's just pulled into a parking space outside school, and her cheeks are flushed. Students are scurrying through the lot, heads down, already late, and she's frozen in time.