Once a Nerd Ch. 02

"Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? Why are you asking me that?"

He gives me a dry look. "Come on, Dean."

He's not buying it. I wipe the stupid, surprised look off my face and size him up. I hate to say it, but the only thing running through my mind is whether or not I'm going to have to beat the shit out of my best buddy to keep him quiet. Jacob's no scrub, and while he's not as big or as strong as I am, he can damn well hold his own in a brawl. He's crafty, too.

Jacob's eyes blow open as he picks up on my train of thought. He throws his palms up in front of his chest in the universal 'easy there, fella' gesture. "Woah, woah, relax. I'll take that as a 'yes' then, since it looks like you were thinkin' about silencing a witness."

I can't help but laugh at the image he's created, and his shoulders visibly sink with relaxation. "Damn, dude," He huffs. "Were you really about to beat my ass?"

"Hey, I still might." I shrug. "I promised him no one would find out, and last I checked, your name isn't 'no one'--how the fuck did you know? Have you said anything to anyone?"

"No, no, swear to God. It's just, well...you're not as subtle as you think you are, dude, at least not to me. No one else has picked up on it, I don't think, but we were shitting in diapers together. I thought something might've been up when you were up his ass a few weeks ago, bringin' him shit and hanging out in his room, but I wasn't sure. You also, uh...stare, a lot. Eye-fuck, actually. That game against the Hawks, too. You kept lookin' at the stands, and I couldn't quite tell where you were looking, but I saw him there. Mr. Powell usually never comes to the games."

I swipe my hands through my hair, smoothing it over my scalp to give them something to do. I'm kicking my own ass as I listen to him, because I really, really should've been more subtle.

"Today, well. You were hiding it pretty good, but when those douchebags were talkin' about him in the weightroom, you looked fuckin' pissed, dude. Even I thought those tackles were excessive. If he's all marked up like Scott said, I mean--one plus one equals two, y'know?"

"Alright, alright, fuck. I get it, Sherlock Holmes, thank you."

Dean laughs, throwing his head back to polish off his beer. Then, he asks: "So, uh...what's up with that? Did he...?"

"No." I say firmly and immediately. "I practically forced him into it, if I'm honest. I showed up unannounced at his house after the Hawks game, and uh...I don't know, peer-pressured him? He tried avoiding me after that, but I got him to agree to a fuck buddy situation."

Jacob stares at me, seeming at a loss for words. "Bro, why...? Don't get me wrong, Mr. Powell is...attractive." He says carefully, avoiding any lewd descriptions to skirt my temper. "He's definitely your type, but...I've never known you to chase anyone so hard before. Of course he wouldn't be down for it, he's your teacher. Why are you trying so hard? There are plenty of nerdy twinks in the sea, if that's what you want."

I scowl, and while I'm not necessarily annoyed with Jacob, it's irritating to hear him describe it that way. When I reply, I try not to take it out on him. "It's...hard to explain. I won't go into detail because it's no one's fucking business, but it's literally the best sex I've ever had. It's like...a spiritual experience, every time. Other than that, I just...I like him. I fuckin' like him, a lot. That's enough for me." I shrug.

Jacob eyes me thoughtfully. "Well, far be it from me to judge. But, listen, man. The only reason I'm bringing this up at all is because people are starting to talk."

I snap around to look at him fast enough to make myself dizzy. "Talk about what?" I snap, worried out of my mind that I've somehow put Sam at risk.

"The fact that you're curving girls left and right. Before this whole thing you've got going on with him, you were a bit of a slut, y'know? Different pussy every week, that sort of shit. Not only are you avoiding the entire female population at school, you're just not acting like yourself. You don't look, you don't make comments, you don't flirt, nothin'--and you've been 'busy' every weekend too."

"Oh." I breathe a quiet, relieved breath. "Dude, I don't give a shit about that. Let 'em talk. I'll just say I've got an out-of-town girlfriend or something."

"I mean, don't you think a lie like that is gonna get sniffed out at some point? You like him, I get it, but...it's risky, dude. It's risky for both of you, but mainly him--he could lose his job."

"I fucking know that, shit." I snap. "It's only three months until Summer, I think I can get away with a fake girlfriend until then. I'm not gonna let him lose his job, I promised no one would find out. I love you, man, but I will actually beat the fuck out of you if you spread this around." I make hard, serious eye-contact with him, and Jacob flinches back. "Got it?"

He holds my stare for a second more, before his face relaxes into an exasperated smile. "Christ, you're such an asshole, Dean. Yeah, I got it, I won't tell a fuckin' soul. The rest is on you, try and be a little more discreet. If you keep undressing him with your eyes, the rumors are gonna start themselves."

"Yeah, yeah." I mutter into the mouth of a freshly cracked beer. Jacob's right, but fuck, it's like Sam walks around with a magnet in his ass.

Suddenly, Jacob laughs. "Man, poor Sammy. I bet back when he was in school, he was the little dork that got stuffed in lockers by bastards like you. Now, over a decade later, he's still getting pushed around by the quarterback."

--

The next day, Jacob's comment is still sitting with me: "...he's still getting pushed around by the quarterback."

It makes me anxious to think that's how Sam might be taking it, but it also makes me horny as fuck. The idea of bullying him: shoving his face in a toilet while I pound into him from behind, stuffing him in a locker and only letting him out once he cries uncle and agrees to let me facefuck him against the cold metal, making him teach class with my cum dripping out of his softened hole. Christ, maybe I am an asshole, because Monday night saw me beating off furiously to such corny fantasies.

Unfortunately, with our 'no physical contact on school grounds' rule, it's moot. I start to wonder what it'll take for him to let me do it, and then I mentally throttle myself. He gave me the inch, I shouldn't try and take the mile. Throughout the entirety of his class, I keep my head down and my thoughts as wholesome as possible. I studiously do the work he's assigned, as well as catch up on some assignments from other classes. Like Jacob said, I can't keep eye-fucking him and brazenly adjusting my dick in my pants during English--it'd be like a neon advertisement to the rest of the student body.

Blessedly, towards the end of the period, he discreetly leaves a folded note at the corner of his desk. He doesn't look at me as he does it and goes right back to grading our latest round of papers. My heart is a hummingbird in my breast, and despite my efforts, I'm rock hard by the time the bell rings. I take my sweet, sweet time packing my books up, and I swipe the note off of his desk as I pass by. I don't look back at him either, as badly as I want to. I glance at the contents of the note on the brisk walk to my next class. It simply says:

4/3, 6pm

4/5, X

4/7, X

I can't help but scowl as I crumple it up and stuff it in my pocket. Tonight's greenlit, but Thursday and Saturday aren't. This is the first week since the beginning of our arrangement that he's shot me down for a Saturday. I'm sure he'll tell me why if I ask, but in the meantime, my mind races with the possibilities. Does he have a date? Is he hooking up with someone else? Is he just getting sick of me?

"Hah, fuck." I grumble, because Sam has me wrapped around his dainty fuckin' finger and doesn't even know it. Upon arriving at my last class, I do my best to smooth the irritation from my face. I paste on an amicable smile, weaving through the desks towards the back corner. Some of my teammates are in this class with me, but they're more acquaintances than close friends: Tommy Salinger, Harry Robins, and Kyle Teegan. Kyle shoots me a casual, two-finger wave as I drop into my seat.

"What's up, Dean?"

"Hey, man, how you guys doin'?" I greet casually, sloshing around in my pack for the notebook I'll halfheartedly scribble some equations in.

"Ready to blow my damn brains out." Tommy groans. "So glad we don't have practice, I need a deep-tissue massage or some shit."

"Yo, there's that parlor in Mason, I heard they give happy endings if you're good lookin'--you're shit out of luck on that one, Tom." Harry jokes.

Tommy flips him off good-naturedly. "Shut the fuck up, Harry, I bet no one's touched your limp dick since Mrs. Robins last changed your diaper."

They go on like this and I'm content to let their banter wash over me as white-noise, but I'm once again drawn into unwanted conversation by the desk in front of me: Kayla Kinny, a girl who's as much of a stereotype as I am. She's the Captain of the cheer squad and looks every bit the part. Long, silken ribbons of pitch hair that roll down to the middle of her back, bombshell body, and a classically pretty face pasted with slightly overdone make-up. It might be overdone, but she makes it work. She's good at blending and shit. We previously had a situationship, as I wouldn't really call it dating. We mostly fucked and got drunk after games, primarily at parties.

Kayle has turned halfway in her seat, smiling at me with rows of blinding, white teeth. "Hey, Dean!" She chirps.

She's wearing a low-cut shirt that's definitely violating the dress code [not that I can judge], and she's got a deliberate arch in her back to make that perky rack push out. I drop my eyes from her face to do a bold once-over of her chest. I've fucked those tits before. I ended up painting her pretty face with a huge load, without warning, and she called me 'the world's biggest douchebag'--she got cum in her eye and had to stick her face under the faucet in her bathroom. Neither the memory, nor the sight of those tits now, puts so much as a twitch in my pants.

God, I'm ruined.

"Hey, Kayla." I return her greeting, struggling not to sound bland.

She twirls a lock of hair around her acrylic-tipped finger. "So, I wanted to ask you, um...are you seeing anyone right now?"

Initially, I'm irritated by the question, but then it occurs to me that Kayla's the perfect mouthpiece to spread the good word: Dean Saunders is off the market. I make a show of looking sheepish, like I've been caught red-handed. From my periphery, I can see my buddies leaning in to listen. "Actually, yeah. I've been seeing this girl from a few towns over. We linked up after a game."

Kayla rears back, surprised. "R-Really? How long has that been going on?"

"Uh, almost a month now?"

Her mouth drops. It is strange, as I've never been one to 'date' or interact with the same girl for more than two weeks. Even when I would be 'dating' someone, I'd still be an incorrigible flirt. Jacob had me pegged, for sure. I really was a slut.

"Holy shit, Dean, wow!" She says it like she's unsure how to react. There's disappointment, annoyance, but also plain ol' shock. "So it's, like...really serious then? Who is she, a cheerleader? What does she look like? Do you have any pictures?"

"Mm, I'd say it's serious, yeah. Since we go to different schools, I'm tryin' to be on my best behavior, I don't want anything bad getting back to her, y'know?"

Harry whistles. "Wow, never thought I'd see the day Dean Saunders went steady. This chick must have the tightest pussy this side of the Mississippi."

Kayla cuts him a dirty glare.

Class begins shortly after, and I manage to avoid skirting around anymore details of my 'long distance, steady' girlfriend that doesn't exist. The seed I've planted sprouts roots in the school immediately, spreading out to every corner by the week's end. It's a perfectly believable lie, for the most part, so it's bought and sold with ease. The biggest issue is my unwillingness to name names or share any details about this alleged girlfriend. Before long, rumors pile up on top of the original story: she's ugly, fat, or simply doesn't exist. I have erectile dysfunction, AIDS, or I injured my dick on the field, that sort of thing.

They're harmless, as I'm not one to fold under pressure or be bothered by the gossipy nature of the masses. As long as Sam isn't implicated in any of them, my peers can think whatever they like. But, back to the Tuesday at hand. I beeline home as soon as school lets out and head upstairs to shower as soon as I breeze through the door. I pride myself on being well groomed, taking great pains to keep myself fresh and shaven in a few key areas: namely my groin, face, and pits. I brush my teeth, gel my hair, and spritz some cologne across my throat and wrists. I dress casually, but it's an ensemble that flatters my physique.

For all intents and purposes, it looks like I'm headed out for a date, and that's exactly what I let my old man believe when he gets in close to six. I mean, it's not totally untrue. My dad doesn't rule over me with an iron fist by any means. As long as I attend practices, win games, and don't flunk any classes, he couldn't give a shit what I get up to. Coming home reeking of weed, alcohol, or sex, he'll just clap me on the shoulder and say: "Long night, son?"

We're not extremely close, but that works just fine for me. I've always appreciated the freedom, but now it's even more invaluable. Of course, he might not be so lackadaisical if he knew I was traipsing off to see my male English teacher. My mom? Your guess is as good as mine, brother. Dad doesn't talk about her, and I don't care enough to ask at this point.

When I clunk down the stairs, I find him seated at our flimsy dinette, shucking out of his muddy work boots. Despite what I'm sure was a long, tedious day for him, he hits me with a big grin. "Hey, buddy. Headed out?"

"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?" I quip back.

"Goin' to meet your little girlfriend, huh? You know you can bring her around here if you want, Dean. I don't bite."

"Yeah, I know, I know. She's just real shy, and we're takin' things slow, y'know?"

He lifts his brows dubiously. "Slow, eh?"

"Shit, you know what I mean!" I laugh, heading for the adjoining kitchen door.

"Just make sure you're wrappin' it up, bud! I'm not ready for grandkids." He groans.

I snort to myself. As many times as I've filled him up, Sam would be six weeks along by now if he could get pregnant. That's a weirdly hot thought, for reasons I won't be analyzing. "Don't worry, I'm on top of it."

"Yeah, that's the problem!" He chortles after me, as if he'd told the funniest joke of the year.

The drive is roughly fifteen minutes between our homes, with the additional five minute walk from the abandoned garage to his front door. My chest is tight and pounding with excitement the entire way, as if I'm a longtime virgin who's finally been promised some sloppy toppy. It's a little more than that though. I'm just...genuinely looking forward to spending time with him, especially considering this will be the only chance I get for the week.

Since this has become a regular occurrence, he's been leaving his front door unlocked for me. The porch light, however, stays off. Coming up the steps, I can see a golden hue bleeding through the curtains of his living room. He's probably on the couch, reading under the lamp. Imagining it floods my stomach with a strange, bubbly warmth. I walk in without knocking and call out: "Yo, Sammy!"

Silence. I frown, closing and locking the door behind me. Padding through the foyer, I swing my eyes around in search of him. The kitchen lights had been left on as well, and true to my guess, he's in his preferred spot on the couch. Instead of reading, he'd fallen asleep. His copy of 'War of the Worlds' had landed haphazardly on the carpet. On the end table by his head, there's a decanter of whiskey and a glass a quarter full of the amber drink. My brows climb with surprise. "Drinkin', huh?"

He's wearing another big T-shirt, one that's practically swallowing him up, and his bare legs are tangled up in a threadbare blanket. His glasses are askew on him where his cheek is pressed into the throw pillow, and his curls make a handsome mess across his brow. I crouch down beside the couch and drink him in, less than six inches between my face and his. Instead of the toothpaste I'm familiar with, his breath smells faintly of alcohol as it rolls slowly and deeply between the slight crack in his lips. Careful not to wake him, I pluck the glasses from his face and leave them to rest on the table. I brush the hair from his face, swiping my thumb across the tiny divot of his temple, because I can't fucking help myself.

He's so beautiful, it physically hurts. I can hardly breathe with it. Like a stray bullet through some drywall, it hits me hard, fast, and lethal: this is a whole lot more than good sex, at least for me. I really, really, really fuckin' like this guy. I'm hesitant to call it love, because I've never experienced that before, but it's gotta be in the ballpark. Even with hormones rampaging through me like a surging river, I find I'd rather let him get this rest. That's love, isn't it? Selfless shit like that?

However, curiosity, curiosity. Surely he wouldn't mind my taking just a few liberties with him while he sleeps, nothing crazy. Moving down the couch, I cautiously lift his legs from the cushions and slide myself beneath them. I rest his long, slender legs across my lap, running my hands up and down the length of them, massaging circles into his calves and thighs. He groans softly at the attention, but otherwise doesn't stir. I slide the blanket over his waist, down his thighs, and push his shirt up over his hip--all to reveal another pair of tiny shorts. Without pulling his shorts down, I slip my hand between his legs, into that warmest of places.

"Fuck, Sam, goddamnit..." I hiss, as I probe between his supple globes. He'd prepped himself, more than thoroughly. I can slip two, three, fingers into him with damn near no resistance. "Christ, you did such a good job, baby..."

I press against his insides, rubbing the pads of my fingers into his walls. He feels so goddamn good: silky, tight, fluttering flesh that grips my fingers like it's aching for something to cling to, something to milk. He shifts slightly on the couch, pressing back into my hand, and a string of breathy, mindless noises escape him. Even in sleep, he's seeking stimulation. I can feel my grip on the reins slipping, and I quickly withdraw from him before I can take it any further while he's unconscious and unaware. Replacing the blanket back over him, I rest my hands on his upper thighs and drop my head into the cushions with a resigned sigh.

"You've got me...completely fucked up." I tell the ceiling solemnly, gritting my teeth against the ache in my unattended cock.

It's barely 6:30, and technically, I can be out as late as I want without consequence. My old man won't give a shit, as long as I shoot him a text. If Sam would okay it, I'd sleep here with him. I'm guessing he probably hasn't had dinner yet, so it might score me some points to whip something up while he sleeps. After a few more minutes of lounging beneath the warmth and weight of his legs, I get up to do just that. I readjust him on the couch, stretching the blanket out to cover him completely, before moving into his kitchen. Previously, if we didn't order out, Sam's always been the one to make something for us, so I haven't had a chance to showcase my culinary chops.

Being the motherless young man I am, it was do or die growing up. Dad has always worked long hours at physical jobs, leaving him exhausted and unmotivated upon his return home. If I wanted something more than pizza, ramen, Chef Boyardi, or shitty teriyaki from the Chinese joint down the road, I had to step up. This became especially important as I got into athletics. I float through his kitchen, opening cabinets and peering into the fridge for an appropriate combination of ingredients to make something half-decent. He has a thawed package of grass-fed beef in the fridge, some fresh veggies in the bottom drawer, a carton of angel hair pasta, and a large can of crushed tomatoes--spaghetti it is.