Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time

by Mickey Erlach

  That’s when I felt this wave of apathy sweep over me. I’d been feeling it a lot, this year, and that sketch on the wall was like a monument to everything I’ve been going through. Started but not finished. Interest lost halfway through. Critical eye taking over faster than the brush or pen could find completion. Even that painting that Aaron liked, the one hanging in the refectory, I hadn’t completed the guy’s backpack or locker; I’d just declared it done, even though deep inside I knew it wasn’t.

  That’s why there were smudges of paint on my bed – from all the times I’d collapsed on it, brush still in hand, fingers coated with color, heart lost in disgust because my latest work was turning out to be crap. Perspective off. Color choices wrong. Original intent swallowed in the details of transcription. I had a thousand fancy phrases excusing me from achieving anything I wanted to and slamming myself for not making it happen, anyway. Typical.

  I know where it came from – this growing feeling that my choice of careers was just not going to happen. I mean, who did I think I was, Picasso? I could be sloppy like him but not as emotionally connective. I liked to paint, but I had no burning need to. I enjoyed sketching, but for fun, not to focus the world on my vision. I knew I was good enough and capable of being better, but I didn’t have the ego to proclaim myself a genius or say that I was the future of art. I was dabbling, playing with my minimal skills as if I could be the next Rembrandt or Degas or even Sergeant, since I really liked portraiture the most, while knowing deep down I didn’t have the spark one needs for greatness. The fact is the only things in my room that even hinted at being good art were my sheets. They used to be white, but now they had this sort of Jackson Pollack feel to them from all the times I’d collapsed on them before cleaning the paint off. Wouldn’t it be funny if I get the most beautiful guy I’d ever met in here by promising to paint his picture and not be able to complete it?

  Oh, great. That was not what I needed to contemplate.

  To keep from thinking about it, I set about cleaning the place up. Nothing like self-flagellation to kick yourself into action. I pulled all my jars together and picked up the papers and long-gone food and made trip after trip after trip to the dumpster. I wound up with six loads of laundry, including pillows and comforters. I wash them because I found it cuts down on my allergies, though this year I hadn’t cared enough to bother, and they hadn’t bothered enough to bother me. As for the paint on my bed, I added more to make it look deliberate. My freshman art teacher once said, “All mistakes are deliberate ... and if they aren’t, make it look like they are.” I swept. I dusted. I washed away the charcoal sketch, though it didn’t completely vanish, sticking around to haunt me, huh? By the time I got to scrubbing my bathroom, I was dirtier than my dorm ever had been.

  I stripped off to do the shower. This was going to be the hard part. There was so much mineral residue from limestone in the water and some rather creepy looking fungus-type things building in the corners. I had an old tooth brush, so I used it and some dish soap to dig into the mess. I think it was close to midnight before I had it mostly gone and was sweating like a pig from the exertion and hot water I used to wash it away when I heard, “Hey,” come from behind me. I jumped around, and there was Aaron, standing in the bathroom door, grinning at me!

  “Didn’t mean to spook you,” he said. “You left your door open ... an’ I knocked ...”

  “Oh, that ... that’s okay,” I stammered ... and dammit, Joe, you’re naked! Shit! I grabbed for a towel but hadn’t brought any into the bathroom! “Uh, excuse me. I’ll be right out.”

  He glanced me over then ran a finger over the dirt on my chest and smirked, “Maybe you better take your time.” Then he showed me the tip of his finger; it was almost black.

  I blushed and stepped back into the shower, muttering, “It’ll ... it’ll rinse off. Will you toss me a towel? They’re in the big basket by the bed … the door.”

  He strolled away, and I watched his rear roll under those OP shorts then started soaping up, fast. Oh, this was perfect. Aaron-un-fucking-believably-good-looking-Friesen comes wandering in when I look like something from the garbage dump and probably reeked like that, too. Shit. But then I wondered what I was worried about? He’s got a girlfriend and what little gaydar I had was down at zero so far as he was concerned. Her? Well. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. I mean, seriously – did I really think we’d wind up in bed?

  He returned with the whole basket and set it by the bathroom door and kept looking at me. I could see him through the now almost clear shower door. “Got soap?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I stammered. “Thanks. What’s up?”

  “Just thought I’d come by, see what you’re up to. Spring cleanin’?”

  “Yeah. I ... there wasn’t anyplace to set up my easel, so I ... I got started making space ... and one thing piled on top of the other and here I am.”

  He laughed, and the deep sexiness of it ripped through me, and I couldn’t help but get a hard-on.

  “I was gonna ask you if you wanted t’ head out for a beer,” he said, “but ...” and he opened the shower door and glanced me over and his smile widened as he continued, “... looks like I came at a bad time.”

  I just gaped at him, surprised. I didn’t realize my dick was pointing at him, as if at attention, until he ran his finger over the top of it and said, “You clean, yet?”

  I jerked back, so startled I couldn’t think of a word to say.

  “What?” he asked. “You never had a jerk-off buddy before?”

  “Y-yeah,” I stammered out, “but ... but ...”

  “But what?” he asked as he climbed into the shower, fully clothed except for his shoes.

  The square basin was barely big enough for us both, and in seconds, Aaron’s shorts and shirt were wet and clinging to his perfect body. I could see the darkness of his nipples under the white cotton, erect and ready and promising joy. The golden hair darkened under the effect of the water, and it playfully swirled over his chest and down the center of his smooth abs to a neat little “innie” of a belly button. And I could tell he was wearing boxers from the bulge in his OP shorts (it swung to the left). The beauty of it, the perfection, kept me speechless.

  Impulsively, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close, felt the warm wet cotton whisper against my body as I kissed him. Oh man, his lips were so, so smooth and moist and fit my own so perfectly. And his nose brushing the side of mine and his eyebrows mingling with mine gave me a rush like nothing I’d ever experienced, before. His hands trailed around to my back, strong hands, a guy’s hands, and tickled down my spine and danced over my butt and crushed me closer to him. My erection slipped between his legs, so he pressed his thighs together, and the combination of the soft wet hair on them and the hem of the shorts tickling me almost drove me insane. I pulled at the buttons of his shirt, but he took my hands and stretched them down to my side and rammed his whole body against mine, pressing me against the tiles as he kissed me, even harder.

  Through the shorts, I could feel he was as hard as I was. He was rubbing up and down against my belly, rolling under the material, and I wanted to hold him, to touch him, but he wouldn’t let go of my hands. He just kept grinding his body against mine, the cotton and corduroy gliding over my skin and my tits and my pubes until I was sure I was going crazy. The water kept steaming, and his tongue kept probing mine, and his body kept rubbing me and suddenly I could feel him pushing harder and harder and jerking in spasms as he ejaculated into his shorts. Then I exploded between his thighs. I’d never done that twice in one day, before. He crushed even harder against me and the screaming lightning roared down the inside of my legs and – the hot water ran out!

  I took a cold blow back to reality and Aaron vanished into the back of my mind as I slammed out of the shower with a yelp and smacked my hip on the sink at the just the wrong spot. Pain shot through my left leg, and I dropped onto the toilet. I put my head in my hands and, for a second, tried to bring back the picture of being with
Aaron, but it was gone. Shit! Couldn’t I even have a moment to enjoy the explosion I was feeling?

  Man, right there, right there is the story of my life – lusting after a straight guy who wouldn’t give me a second thought except that he wants something. And despite my hopes to the contrary, deep down I really knew all I’d ever get out of him was a jack-off fantasy, and that would be in a shower that went cold faster than it got hot. Irritating and typical and so damn depressing.

  I finally rose and dried off and flopped naked onto my now clean bed (something I never do; I usually sleep in a pair of briefs) in my now clean dorm room and drifted into sleep, thinking about Aaron, knowing in the back of my little brain I was beginning to fixate on him and not caring that I was. Which was also typical and also depressing.

  Why is it that all I ever want is what I can’t have?

  Well, now I had two of my questions answered beyond any doubt. I definitely wanted to paint (so long as Aaron was my model), and I was definitely into having sex with a guy (so long as it was Aaron Friesen). Dammit. I don’t know why I thought deciding how I felt about those two concerns in my life would make things easier for me. Shit, I was even more confused than before.

  I mean, seriously – would I be this hyped up over doing a portrait if my model was to be some ninety-year-old man or some radiant mother’s six-year-old brat? So was I really interested in art or just the fantasy of it? The dream of getting a good-looking guy into bed with it? Was I aiming to be nothing more than a fag who paints pretty nude boys with nice hard erections and smooth skin and perfect hair and way too excellent muscles? What Tom of Finland did was fine for him (hey, I did a few little “illustrated stories” of my own when I was in high school and needed some way to pop off the steam), but their work was so – I dunno – so limited and a bit too laced with prurience for my needs. That was my word of the month – prurient. Hell, just about anybody can draw a decent looking naked guy with a hard-on. Why would I want to be just like them? Yet, having Aaron sit next to me – giving me the chance to paint just his perfect face and capture just his perfect smile and find just the right shade for his golden hair – God himself couldn’t have told me that I was not meant to do at least this.

  Which begs the question, so why do you still have questions, idiot? You’re obviously psyched about this guy and can’t wait to show off what little ability you have as an artist. And you had enough confidence in yourself to offer to show it, and not just because you think it’ll get him into bed with you. It’s something you’d enjoy doing, so what’s the big deal? And the answer is I don’t know!

  You see, I’ve never really felt like this before. In fact, it’s usually been the opposite. In my life drawing class, last year, the nude model was this viciously frumpy girl who had rolls of flab cascading down her bones. No, that’s unfair; she was just overweight (by about forty pounds, I think) but I hated drawing her. I didn’t mind that she was a girl; I was just irritated that she looked so sloppy. I felt the same way toward the nude guy we had on one or two occasions, who had next to no body fat and carried sharply defined muscles and was generally in good proportion, but who hid his face behind this scraggly beard and didn’t believe in using deodorant. Guess that makes me picky or snotty or something like that, but I have to have a subject I can be proud to have painted, and I’ve only come close to having one of those.

  It was a guy named Leon in ninth grade. Leon was a dick, to put it kindly. He pretty much ignored me in the few regular classes we had together, but he had some cruel fun with me in gym due to the fact that I was not as developed as the other boys. But he was headed toward being a good-looking guy, in a small-eyed cowboy kind of way, so I’d still done a couple sketches of him when things were slow in English.

  Anyway, one day I was kept late after school (detention, actually; I got caught doodling during a geography lecture, for the twentieth time). I’d just called my mom, who said she couldn’t get me for half an hour, so I went to some benches by the tennis courts to wait. And that’s where I saw Leon sitting on one of those decorative rock formations that landscapers seem to think are so cool. He was scrunched up, arms across his knees, chin resting on his arms, looking mournful. He didn’t see me, which was fine so far as I was concerned, so I sat down and started doing homework.

  But I found myself sneaking glances at him, and not because I was attracted to him. (I hadn’t fully figured out what my urges were, at that time.) There was just something about his position and the solitude around him that caught my heart, so I pulled out my sketchbook and snapped off a fairly decent rendition of the moment, using a soft pencil and handkerchief for smudging in some texture. In fact, I found myself praying that he wouldn’t move before I got the position down and some of the details, and he didn’t. Not until a beat-up old station wagon pulled up, and he slipped off the rocks and sadly plopped into the back seat. A tired gray woman was behind the wheel. My first thought was that she’s his grandmother, and she did not even look at him. They just drove off. I don’t think he ever saw me or ever even thought to see me; he was just lost in his own little world of misery and pain as are all fifteen-year-old boys, myself included.

  Funny thing is here he was, one of the guys making my life hell, and suddenly I ached for him. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because the old gray woman never even acknowledged him as he got in the car. Maybe it was the way he was sitting on the rock formation. Maybe it was just my own pitiful mood. Whatever it was, a couple days later I photocopied the sketch and slipped it into one of his books during English.

  Leon was out of school for a couple days after that, and I forgot about it. Then he stopped me, a week later, and showed me the sketch and asked, “You do this?”

  “No,” I said. I was kind of scared of him.

  “You know who did?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  He growled and turned to walk away then stopped. He didn’t look at me as he said, “My momma died, couple days ago. Cancer. I ... I found it, today, in one of my books, second I opened it for class and ... and ... and ... it’s like she ... she ...” He couldn’t finish; he was too close to tears.

  All I could think to say was, “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  He stiffened, glared at me and snarled, “You tell anybody ‘bout this, I’ll beat the crap out of you ... and ... and I don’t give a damn about your brothers! You got me?”

  I nodded. He stormed off. Never spoke to me, again. Not even to make fun of me in gym. I still have that sketch. And it’s not perfect, perspective’s off, his head’s too small for his body, the feet look awkward, but my critique of it is gentle – not like how I can get with my work, today, and I can see a little quality in it. I guess I was hoping I’d find that, again, with Aaron.

  So Saturday finally came inch-by-inch the clock neared 6:00 pm. I had everything ready – a comfy chair I’d “borrowed” from the refectory for him to sit in, a pair of lamps flanking the chair to give me decent light, Cokes and beer in my dinky little fridge, chips and dip and some Zero Seven on the stereo. The easel was positioned just right, a two-by-four pre-framed canvas resting on it, all treated and ready for oils to be applied. I had a pad of sketch paper for some studies, my Derwent pencils were sharpened (I only use #4b), and I had a fresh stick of charcoal to outline his position on the canvas.

  I’d taken a shower at 4:00 pm and dressed very carefully in too-cool-artist-casual-chic – clean T-shirt with a slightly frayed collar and one tiny hole in it (for just the right feel), slim-fit jeans that were about four inches too long so bunched at my ankles, deck shoes with drops of paint on them. The way I was obsessing about how everything came across, you’d think I was prepping for a date.

  And then came a knock at the door – finally! I opened it, and there was Aaron, still almost painful to look at. He wore a plain white shirt, Dockers and his Topsiders and looked so clean and fresh, I felt as if I hadn’t bathed in a week.

  “Hey, Joe,” he said, grinning that fan-fucking-tastic grin.


  “Aaron,” I managed to say, “is it that time?” God, I was so proud of myself for being able to say that without a waver in my voice.

  “Nope, I’m runnin’ late.”

  “C’mon in,” I said, and then I noticed the twin was with him. Dammit.

  “Oh, Joe, this is Andrea,” he said as if he had just realized she was there.

  “Hi,” she said. “You are so cool to do this.”

  I blinked. I was “so cool?” Jeez, where was she raised, on Saturday morning TV? Fortunately, the manners my mother beat into me as a child (figuratively, not literally; we don’t have that kind of family) took over, and I smiled as I said, “Thanks. C’mon in. You guys want something to drink? I have DP, Shiner Bock, some kind of juice drink.”

  “You drink Bock?” Aaron asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Love it.”

  “Never tried it.”

  I pulled one from the fridge and handed it to him. “Try one, now. Andrea?”

  “I’ll just have some water, thanks.”

  I pulled out a bottle, twisted off the top and handed it to her as Aaron sipped at the Bock.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “I got some chips, if you want.”

  “No, thanks,” said Andrea.

  “We’re gonna grab a bite after I’m done, here,” Aaron smiled.

  Well so much for the thoughts that had settled in the back of my head despite my best efforts. Not that I should have been surprised; I already had a pretty good idea he thought I was gay, and the fact that he brought this female with him to act as chaperone just proved it.

  Hey, I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid. Oh well, at least I’ll get to sketch him.

  “Then we’d better get to work,” I said, making myself smile and glance at Andrea. “I have a stool at my art table, if you want to sit.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Hmmph, limited vocabulary, though I guess when you’re blond and beautiful, you don’t need to be able to understand anything deeper than Nancy Drew, huh, bitch?