Watching Him BackbyAcerbicscribbler©
He doesn't know I've been watching him back.
I feel badly about it most days; I watch him get shoved out of the way, I watch his books get smacked out of his hand, and I watch his underwear get pulled so far out of his pants it's a wonder the fabric doesn't rip. Part of me wants to interfere and consequences be damned, but the other part of me gets irritated. Why does he have to be such a pushover? It's not as though he's the only guy to ever be bullied.
The guys pick on him because they can tell they're not safe around him. They call him "faggy" and "queer" because of the feel of his dark eyes on their bodies. They don't realize that it's the truth. They certainly don't understand that his slender waist, narrow shoulders, long silky hair and wide hips belong to a predator of men. All they know is that they're uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. Some of them probably feel the seduction of it like I do, though they may not realize it yet.
His name is Crispin, poor guy. Because he's a pussy he'll never be able to go by anything but his full name, likely with some variation of "cocksucker" attached, just for the consonance. I think his name is cute, but it won't really work for him until college at least. It's fine, though, only half a year more of torture for him until he can play the phoenix. I was going to just leave him alone, honestly. I don't plan on coming out until after high school, when my parents have already paid for at least one year of college. It wouldn't be fair to the poor guy if I fucked him and then refused to acknowledge him at school. According to all the gay indie films I watch online, that can lead to suicide. Sure, movies aren't always a good reference for reality, but I don't want to risk it.
Those good intentions fly out the window, though, when I'm presented with an opportunity like this. Crispin Vieira is masturbating in the shower. He must have gotten detention somehow, and chose the early morning run over study hall. This was surprising considering that he abstains from sports and usually walks with the lazy girls during P.E. All I needed was to grab my extra deodorant from my locker.
Whatever. Crispin's here. I'm here. There's no one else around at this hour, he's in the shower and can't hear me, and he's jacking off furiously. He didn't bother to pull the curtain, so I watch as his head falls back under the shower spray, body shaking with the momentum of his hand on his prick. For a moment I can't move. His long hair is pulled over his shoulder, giving me an unadulterated view. The water pours over his body in rivulets, tracing the contours of his shoulders, the muscles of his back, down to his buttocks. It's the first time I've ever seen him completely naked since he's so careful during P.E. I'm surprised—I thought he would be softer, but his ass is so toned it's like it was poured into a mold. It clenches repeatedly as Crispin fucks his hand in such a beautiful rhythm that I briefly wish I could freeze time.
I undress as quietly as possible. Crispin won't resist me unless he thinks I'm just messing with him. Until now he's likely been wondering if all those times I caught him staring at my dick in the locker room, if he had just imagined my cock swelling (he hadn't). Call me a narcissist, but I know I'm a fantasy to him. He and the rest of the world think I'm straight, and Crispin probably thinks that those looks I give him are just a manifestation of his sexual frustration.
Probably I should have warned him before stepping into the shower. Crispin jumps when I pull the curtain shut. He covers his crotch with both hands and turns only his head to look at me. He's too shocked, too scared to move when I press myself to his back and wrap my arms around him. I don't want him to wilt or think that this is just some sort of gay chicken, so I press my lips under his right ear.
"Go ahead and finish," I whisper, and skim my fingertips up to his nipples. "I want to see you come."
"Oh god," Crispin inhales in disbelief, but his right hand goes back to work.
I suck gently on his smooth neck, flicking the hard nubs on his chest. Through the water running into my eyes I watch the purplish helmet of his cock disappear and reappear in his fist. He won't last much longer. What will Crispin's cum be like? Thin watery fluid that sprays fiercely from the tip? Pearly ropes that leave streaks on his abdomen? Or even the thicker stuff that oozes from the slit, over the hand to drop in globules? I realize that I'm humping his ass, running my dick between his buttocks to the small of his back.
I pinch his nipples. "Are you close?" Crispin just nods in response, his hand flying furiously over his wet cock. "Let me see you shoot."
"Okay," he gasps in a strangled voice. His head falls back on my shoulder and he reaches behind with his free hand and pulls my ass against him. That is fucking hot.
When he does come it's completely silent. Crispin doesn't gasp, doesn't groan; I'm not even sure that he breathes. He curls into a question mark, grabs my thigh so hard it hurts, and his abs clench into perfect ridges. And I, unable to resist, touch him, press my first two fingers against the slit just in time to feel the warm cum spurting against my fingertips. It's thicker than mine usually is; it clings for a moment before sliding down his cock to be washed away. It's one of the most erotic things I've ever seen, to watch Crispin ejaculate into my hand.
"Oh my fucking god," Crispin finally exhales. "Oh my god."
"Put your hands on the wall," I tell him, desperate to come.
He does. "Don't fuck me yet," he says softly, like he's afraid I'd just walk away. "I'm not ready."
He's so small that I can rest my balls on his ass. I keep one hand on his chest as I bend over him and jack off. It only takes a few strokes before I'm coming, too, all over his tight back, shooting so far some of it gets in his hair.
"Oh, fuck," is all I can say. "Fuck."
Crispin turns around, his dark eyes wide and wary. "Why—"
"If you want to talk about this, email me or meet me in the library during lunch or something," I interrupt, breathing heavily. "But know that I'm probably going to start sexually harassing you."
Crispin's black eyebrows furrow, then he laughs, showing dazzling straight teeth. "Get it line, jerk." He steps under the spray and shoves past me.
I think I'm in love.
He doesn't email me before 4th period but I go to the library anyway, slipping away from my usual crowd before it can even form. I'm neither the ringleader nor the clown, so no one will come looking for me. I'm sitting in the farthest corner next to the math reference books, pretending to read a history of the early great mathematicians.
"Aaron," I hear a whisper. "Aaron?"
"Here," I respond in library voice. Crispin rounds the corner with a stack of books in his arms. "Project?"
"This is our cover," he informs me, and drops them on the table between us. I push them to the side and indicate the seat across from me. Crispin sits down, clearly nervous, but with a bravado that tell me he may have me figured out. His hair is pulled into its customary high ponytail, exposing the shaved sides. He's back in his weird pants, the kind whose crotch is so low that Crispin looks like he's wearing a diaper. Jay's girlfriend once said he dresses like every member in a Korean boy band. It didn't sound like a compliment. At least he's not wearing fucking capri pants today.
"So." I say.
"So you really are queer," he says seriously.
"And you've been into me this whole damn time." His dark eyes are boring into me.
I look down at some artists' rendering of Pythagoras. "Uh-huh."
"Jesus, Aaron," he huffs, leaning back in his chair. "Why didn't you put me out of my misery before?"
"I wasn't ever going to—"
"Oh, awesome," he inserts sarcastically.
"—but I couldn't really resist when I saw you this morning," I finish.
Crispin raises an eyebrow. "It's cute that such a tough guy can blush," he says.
"Gee, thanks, mister."
He cocks his head, black ponytail spilling over his shoulder. "Do your parents know?"
I shake my head and finger the edge of my notebook. "Mom hates fags. Dad's not too keen on them either. If I want to go to college I need to keep my mouth shut for now."
Crispin rolls his eyes. "Poor little rich white boy."
"I can't help any of that," I respond uncomfortably. "Or that I need their financial help if I want to get a degree. Sue me."
"I guess you have a point. I got lucky. My parents knew I was gay before I did," he says.
"And they're cool with it?"
Crispin shrugs. "They made the choice to be, I guess. Plus, I totally get scholarship because I'll be a first-generation college student, because my parents are foreign, and because I look fresh off of a llama farm."
"I thought your folks were Brazilian." They run a small restaurant called El Gaucho on the north side of town.
"They are. But somehow I still get classified as Hispanic, because people are stupid and can't tell the difference between Spanish and Portuguese."
"Unless they listen to a lot of Sergio Mendes."
"Right. But either way, scholarship." He grins at me. "I knew I liked you. For more than your ass, at least."
I bow, rolling my hand dramatically.
Suddenly Crispin leans forward. "If you liked me so much all this time, why did you let me get bullied? Aren't you supposed to be some superpower among Jay and all them?"
Ah, dammit. I shake my head. "No. I'm maybe somewhere in the middle of the pack. And besides, what the worst that has ever happened to you here? Come on."
"Just because I haven't been stuffed in a fucking dumpster yet doesn't mean life is all peachy," he bites back. "I had to start stuffing my money into the waistband of my damn boxers."
That isn't my fault. "Why are you such a pussy?"
"And why are you a fucking bystander?" Crispin is whisper-shouting by now. "You and your fucking upper-crust white sense of entitlement. High school is a goddamn caste system, you know? And those of you with any sense of humanity at the top are too fucking concerned with maintaining the status quo to intervene on behalf of us poor untouchables. Because, dear god, what would happen if someone associated you with us?"
Somehow this has turned into a fight. "What do you want me to do?" I say defensively. "I was bullied in middle school, but I didn't take it lying down."
"So being a pacifist, not returning violence with violence," Crispin hisses, "is being a pussy? I don't deserve to be defended, is that it?"
"That's not what I'm saying!" I protest, feeling desperation.
"Okay, ultimatum," Crispin says. He puts his palms flat on the table and gives me a penetrating look.
When did it come to ultimatums? I wonder. I feel like I was left behind somewhere in the conversation-turned-argument.
Crispin holds up a hand. "I'll let you fuck me—"
"If and when I feel that you have proven yourself to be different from the jackasses with whom you love to surround yourself." Crispin sat back and flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. On the one hand I was a little turned on. What guy wouldn't be after being offered a fuck? On the other hand, though, it wasn't fair.
"That's not fair," I finally reply.
Crispin looks taken aback.
"You can't call my friends jackasses and expect me to be your fucking knight in shining armor." I hold up a hand to stop his protests. "How about this: You grow some balls, the metaphorical kind, not the ones you were playing with this morning. I'll keep my so-called pack of jackasses off your back whenever I can. And in two weeks you can come over to my place where there's plenty of privacy, and we can see where shit goes."
Crispin folds his arms. "Never thought I'd hear the word 'metaphorical' come out of your mouth."
I make a face. "Don't judge me. Wearing a letterman's jacket doesn't make me stupid, you know."
"I'm sorry," Crispin say with a much more friendly tone. He holds out his hand. "Two weeks, that Friday night. It's a deal."
I shake his hand. "Deal." I'm still going to grab his ass when nobody's looking.
My mom says that two weeks is only a long time when your a kid or when you're pregnant. I must be a child, then, because it seems like the days just drag on and on. Why the hell had I not said one week, or just a few days? Every morning I walk into the gym locker room hoping that Crispin will be there, and every morning he isn't. I feel nervous every time I get close to him, just in case one of my buddies messes with him and I'll be forced to step in, and then suddenly they'll realize that I've had HOMO tattooed across my forehead the whole time. Doesn't matter that I'd chose a pint-sized queen over their hairy asses; they'll still feel threatened.
I gave him a hickey in the shower. He covers it with scarves and ties and collared shirts, but every time we have P.E. I can see the bruise dark against his bronze neck. No one notices because they don't dare to look at him until he's dressed. I know it's there, though.
On Tuesday I almost blow it. I have detention again, this time for getting to school late too many times in a row. My punishment is to clean the desks in the school's East Wing. It's actually not so bad because all the artsy-fartsy classrooms are down here, like drawing and photography. That's at least half the work gone right there. Nobody cares who writes on the art tables.
I feel everything the opposite of unlucky when Crispin walks in, thinking I'll finally get to do more than look at him. Then I notice he's followed by Jay and LeAndre, still in their pads and practice uniforms.
"What?" I straighten up, watching Crispin from my peripheral vision.
"Coach wants to see you," LeAndre says.
Crispin unplugs the projector and wheels it toward the door.
"Yeah," Jay chimes in, "he wants you to get your ass to school on time and quit hanging out with cocksuckers," here he shoves Crispin hard into the teacher's desk, "like him instead of practicing."
"Fuck you, asshole," Crispin wheezes from his position on the floor. He shoots me a look that says, This is what I was talking about.
I sigh. I hate sticking my neck out. "He walked in when you did," I tell Jay, crossing to give Crispin a hand. "Leave him alone."
Jay steps in on me. He's a big guy, not as big as LeAndre or me, but he carries himself like he's fucking Goliath. "What's wrong, Aaron?" he taunts as I haul Crispin up. "Feeling protective of your boyfriend?"
Did he notice something? Had I been found out? My head goes hot, then my body goes cold. "I—"
Crispin cuts in. "Maybe he's trying to make up for having fuckwads for friends," he yells, bristling. "Was there any goddam reason for you to shove me like that? I don't give a flying fuck about sucking your shriveled dick."
Jay turns on him but I grab his arm. "Tell Coach I'll stop by." He shakes me off. "Your life won't end if you quit throwing your weight around," I say, trying to be soothing.
"Man, fuck you!" Jay retorts, and storms out of the room. I'm not too worried; he'll forget about it in a couple of days.
LeAndre shakes his head. "Sorry, man," he says to Crispin, who's so shocked that he just goes, "Yuh."
I start laughing.
"What?" Crispin snaps.
"Yuh," I mimic him. "Yuh."
He gave me a begrudging smile and rolled his eyes. "So you're a good influence on your pack. Why don't you be all fucking cocky about it."
"Cocky?" I grab my crotch in mock confusion.
"You are officially bad at jokes," Crispin informs me, still smiling. "Friday at seven. Email me to tell me how to get to your house, okay?"
"Hey, wait," I say, hopping onto the teacher's desk.
"What?" Crispin asks as he shifts from foot to foot.
I don't know what. There is no plan. There is only the relief of a tense situation diffused and the excitement building in my stomach as I realize we're alone. All I know is that I don't want Crispin to leave. We don't have time, but we're alone.
"Close the door and c'mere for a sec." My voice is low, a tone I didn't even know I had, and Crispin's sudden inhale tells me that in this moment he notices that it's just the two of us. The potential to do very, very bad things to him crackles in the air.
Crispin obeys, but warns me, "I'm on an errand for the office." He's cute, all wary with his arms folded protectively over his chest.
"I won't keep you out past curfew, sugar."
He's a little to far for me to reach with my arms. I lean back, hook my ankles around his small waist, and pull. Crispin stumbles and has to put his hands out to catch himself, and where should they fall but my upper thighs. The tingling in my stomach intensifies.
"I have to go," he says softly, staring straight ahead at my chest.
I hook a finger in the collar of his t-shirt and check his neck. "It's gone," I comment, running my thumb over the bronze skin.
"What, the hickey? Yeah." He's trying not to smile; I think he's really nervous.
"I'll give you a new one."
Crispin throws his head back to look at me, his dark eyes half eager, half scared. "B-but..."
This is incredibly risky for the both of us. There are still people around the school, the door is unlocked, the lights are on. I glance around. The door opens inward to the front of the classroom and the projector is sitting right in front of it. We'll hear if anyone comes in; we just need to be out of view from the narrow window in the door.
Sliding off the desk, I pull Crispin to the back of the classroom, to where the cabinets form an L in the corner. I like that I can lift Crispin on top of them without much effort, though he might have helped. He's breathing a little hard, and crosses his legs Indian style as he scoots back against the wall; he'd burrow into it if he could. I want to leave a bruise on the back of his neck like an animal, bite marks that say this is taken. Keep out.
No. I'll be kind. Crispin's shins press right at my belt buckle when I lean in and pull his head forward to whisper in his ear.
"You can choose where you want it. Here," I touch his side under his left pectoral, right where he might be ticklish, "your tight right titty, or here." The spot I indicate with my fingertip is behind his jaw, under his ear. He could hide it if he combed his hair right.
"Um, I don't know," Crispin breathes. He tries to pull his head back but I don't let him.
"Um, u-under my shirt," he replies in a shaky voice.
I'm only slightly disappointed that he wants to be able to hide it. "On your side?"
We both watch my hands when I pull his shirt out of his shorts and push it above his abs. He's so tense that every muscle is standing out, though not as defined as when he came in my hand. I want to take my time, to run my hands over him and explore, but the ever-present danger of someone walking through the door spurs my towards my goal. Crispin lets out a tiny sigh when I touch my lips to his skin.
"Wait," he said in sudden desperation. "Don't—"
"Shut up," I order, and bite down.
Crispin nearly kicks me in the stomach when he jerks and grabs my head. I know it hurts; a hickey is a goddamn bruise. Reaching up with one hand I cover his mouth and continue. I suck hard, trying to do as much damage as I can in just a few seconds. His breath is hot and moist against my palm, and he wriggles so much that I have to wrap my free arm around him to keep him still.
My heard pounds, my brain conjures scenario after scenario—Crispin pulls my head up and we make out only to have Jay barge back into the room and kick the shit out of us both. Crispin pushes my head down and lets me blow him, but right in the middle the office pages him back. Crispin reaches for my zipper and we jack each other off, filling the room with the smell of jizz. Or best of all, Crispin pulls the room key out of his pocket and locks the door, and we don't wait for Friday. I want to fuck him so badly, I'm craving his body and mine is heating up dangerously fast.