by Daryl Banner
Owned By The Freshman
a Brazen Boys story
by Daryl Banner
Books By Daryl Banner
The Beautiful Dead Trilogy:
The Beautiful Dead (Book 1)
Dead Of Winter (Book 2)
Almost Alive (Book 3)
The OUTLIER Series:
Outlier: Rebellion (Book 1)
Outlier: Legacy (Book 2)
Outlier: Reign Of Madness (Book 3)
Outlier: Beyond Oblivion (Book 4)
Outlier: Five Kings (Book 5)
The Brazen Boys:
A series of standalone M/M romance novellas.
Dorm Game (Book 1)
On The Edge (Book 2)
Owned By The Freshman (Book 3)
Dog Tags (Book 4)
Other Books by Daryl Banner:
super psycho future killers
Psychology Of Want
Love And Other Bad Ideas
(a collection of seven short plays)
Owned By The Freshman: a Brazen Boys story
Copyright © 2015 by Daryl Banner
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover & Interior Design : Daryl Banner
Cover Model : Nick Duffy
www.instagram.com/nickduffyfitness
Photo of Nick Duffy by Simon Barnes
Owned By The Freshman
a Brazen Boys story
by Daryl Banner
[ 1 ]
He’s such a cocky fucker.
You know the type. He’s hot shit and he knows it. Overconfident. Strutting to class, he’s surrounded by his bros. His snug, hot shit clothes show off all the best parts of his body, which is perfectly proportionate and an obvious result of daily trips to the gym—or he’s got perfect genes, which is somehow just as likely. He kicks up his feet in my classroom, sporting his bright red-and-white high tops. Carefree and above it all, this tool. Even his hair’s cocky, swept up into a proud little tuft in the front.
What a cocky shit.
I hardly notice any of my other students, so distracted by that freshman in the back row. My classroom is the small black box theater, which is an improvement from the cramped room they gave me in the Communications building for the last two years during the renovation. The black box has raked seating on three sides of the acting area, which is really just a square of space we refer to as the stage. My students occupy one of the three seating areas while the other two are empty, except for the one chair I’m in, flanked by my director’s notebook and my box of script sides and props. I don’t know why I brought my box of props on the first day; we never use them.
I twist my wrist and find we’re five past ten. I glance down at my roll sheet, noting that twenty out of the thirty in this room are actual Theatre or Dance majors. At least the majority of these fools will take my class seriously.
As for Mister Hot Shit in the back row, he’d better participate or else he will not be passing my course, I can guarantee that.
“Everyone here?” I call out, rising from my seat and inspiring all the murmurs of the students to draw to a soundless vacuum. “You are in eleven-o-one: Intro To Basic Acting. Movement, Voice, and Stage Combat, eleven-ten, eleven-twenty and twenty-ten respectively, are down the hall in the rehearsal room—in case you’re lost. Intro To General Theatre Studies is in the main auditorium. As there are thirty present and thirty registered to take this class, I’ll assume we’re all in the right place. Am I safe to assume that?”
Blank stares meet mine. Great.
“I’m your professor,” I go on, “and I am not an easy A. You will work for your grade in here and I expect you … all of you … to participate. We’re going to jump into our first exercise. I want you, one by one, to come here to the stage and introduce yourself to your peers.” I stroll back to my seat, sit and, with half-opened eyes, survey the students patiently and add: “First one up doesn’t get brownie points, but I always remember who’s first.”
No one moves, except for their heads as they look at one another wondering who’s daring to go first. I wonder if my reputation for being a hard-ass acting professor is preceding me, judging from their eyes. The nerves and freshmen fear is as visible as a mist, able to be tasted on the tongue.
The hot shit in the back, in stark contrast to the rest of the class, doesn’t look worried in the least; his feet kicked up, his mouth twisted into a smirk that I daresay looks bored, he brings his hands behind his head and yawns.
“We could wait here all day,” I say calmly, though I know my words inspire fear anyway. “It’s your first-ever acting lesson: learning how to introduce yourself. Even if you never go on to be an actor or pursue a job in the acting field, you’ll still remember the lessons of this class in some future job interview, or in your board meetings and presentations, or even when you go on a date with that guy who looks nothing like his profile pic.” I slap the attendance chart onto my lap. “Let’s get introduced, people.”
Finally, a spritely young female gets up from the front row and turns to face the class. She speaks with a spine-grating, nasally voice that I’m sure Mr. Harrington, the voice teacher down the hall, is going to have a party fixing.
Once the ice is broken, the rest of the class introduce themselves one by one, more and more eager with each passing student. Some of them are quite funny, inspiring laughs from the others with their quirks and snarky quips. One at a time, I mark them off so as to keep track, noting the Theatre majors.
Soon, there’s just one left. Of course it’d be him; so above the class, he can’t bother with this simple assignment. I’ve only been teaching for five years, but I have about eight years of college in my brain and I know his type all too well. I’ve seen this kind of guy, over and over.
“One more left,” I announce, narrowing my eyes to focus on the freshman in the back.
His name must be Justin Brady, according to my student roster and a simple process of elimination. He’s nineteen. Undeclared major. I’m guessing he’s only here for the required Fine Arts credit. This Justin Brady doesn’t have an inch of interest in acting. He must think it’s some blow-off credit. Just look at him. He’s had his feet kicked up the whole time, his arms slung over the backs of the seats next to him. He’s already over it; I can see it in his glassy, lazy eyes. He’s just waiting for the semester to end so he can snatch his A or B based on his good looks and charm. You’re going to need more than good looks to get through me, Mr. Brady.
“Justin Brady,” I announce. “You’re up.”
As if casually rising from the chair to fetch a can of soda from the fridge, he slowly hops down the steps, runs a hand through his short, messy hair, then stands before his peers.
“Hi,” he says flippantly. “I’m from Austin. I’m nineteen. I like cars, they’re pretty badass. Gets you from one place to another, which is convenient.” The words just roll off his tongue like a mindless joke, like thoughtless rambling. He couldn’t give less of a fuck. “That’s me.”
“How about a name?” I ask coolly.
“You already introduced me,” he says in a tone that suggests I’m an idiot.
> “I’m not going to be at your job interviews or your board meetings or your dates,” I say, with just as similar a tone. “So, unless you plan for me to be there to introduce you, I suggest learning how to do it yourself.”
The class ruffles a bit at my reply, a meek titter or chuckle here and there. Justin, despite it, remains entirely unfazed. He thrusts his hands into his pockets, the muscles in his arms flexing as he does, and his half-opened eyes turn to me. His eyebrows are lifted and pulled together, crinkling up his forehead.
“We’re waiting,” I state calmly. “By all means, continue.”
He faces his peers. “I’m from Austin. I like cars. My name is Justin Brady.” He turns his face, lifting an eyebrow as if to ask whether or not that’s what I wanted. When all I return is a deadpan stare, he figures his obligation to be done and carelessly hops up the stairs, swinging into his back row seat at the top.
I can’t say I’m proud that I was spot-on about that cocky little shit. A part of me, albeit buried deep down in the murky recesses of my cynical being, was kind of hoping I was wrong and that the hot shit kid in the back row would actually turn out to be my star student. Every now and then, I do enjoy to be proven wrong.
Oh well. Wouldn’t be the first time I was let down. I rise from my chair and face the class myself. “My name is Thomas Kozlowski. Call me Professor Kozlowski, or just Thom will do. I performed in New York City off-Broadway for two years after my undergrad, then returned promptly to finish my master’s. I’ve taught acting for five years. Don’t let my youthful face deceive you; I’m older than I look.”
No one laughs. No one ever does. I wonder why I still use that same lame joke.
“I may already have a certain reputation for being intimidating and strict, but I assure you, if you participate and give me everything you got, I can be your best friend.” I study them. “You want me to be your best friend.”
They share the same look all my students have on their first day after my little speech: scared and silent and sheet white. I will ignore the obvious exception in the back row. He’ll have it coming; that much I can guarantee.
“I don’t tolerate tardiness, except for this first day when freshmen are finding their way. As none of you were late, I’ll assume you all found your way well enough. Every morning at ten, the doors to this theater will be locked, and you will not be permitted in if you are late. I look forward to seeing you for an hour every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at ten o’clock. I expect you to choose, work on, and have memorized four dramatic monologues that you will work on for most of the semester. Each one must be no longer than 25 seconds. Next class, we do exercises. Dismissed.”
The students take a solid ten seconds to gather themselves, their eyes wide and their nervous systems thoroughly provoked. That’s just the way I like to see them on the first day.
I’d expect nothing less.
Without waiting, I toss my notebooks into the box of props, then carry it out of the auditorium. I make a special effort not to pay witness to the cocky back row freshman strolling out of the class ahead of me, backpack slung over his shoulder.
I reach my office, drop the box onto a table, then lift my gaze to find the short, thirty-something voice professor seated at my desk.
“Harrington,” I say shortly.
“Done your terrorizing for the day?” He chuckles lightly, twirling a pencil between his stubby pale fingers—one of my pencils. “Never mind, I already know the answer. Seriously, Thom, these stiff formalities, gross. My name’s Jeff, please use it.”
“Jeff.” I cross my arms. “That’s my desk.”
“And it’s comfier than mine. How do you like your babies this semester?”
I make a choice to be kind and friendly for a moment. “Hmm. Too soon to tell, I guess. How do you like yours?”
“Abysmal. Hey, wanna grab some lunch?”
Moment’s over. “What do you want, Jeff?”
Jeff drops his jaw, playing offended and drawing a limp hand to his chest. He’s got his contacts in today, so his light blue eyes sparkle. “My feelings! Ouch! You sting me so!”
He doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. We’re the youngest professors, and ever since I started teaching, he’s clung to me desperately. Our pesky colleagues insist that because we’re both young, gay, and single, we obviously are meant to hook up. But if there’s anything anyone knows about me, it’s that I don’t like to be told what to do … or who to do.
“And I’ll sting you again.” I move to a cabinet, stowing away folders and pulling new ones for my afternoon advanced acting classes: Improv at one o’clock, then Emotional Truth at three. Those classes are only twice a week, hour-and-a-half, making my Fridays mercifully short. “You here to ask to trade classrooms already?”
“No, no. Much prefer the rehearsal room. The black box is too … stark.”
“Funny. I find the rehearsal room stark.” I slam shut the cabinet, flipping open my folder to remind myself how many students I have in Improv. Damn, only eleven?
“Let’s grab some lunch.”
“Not hungry.”
“You don’t have any first years you want to despair about? C’mon, Thom. It’s basically our tradition to sit over college fast food on the first day and spill our woes.”
There is the subject of one particularly cocky freshman I could chew and spit out, but I’d rather not. “We’ve never done it before.”
“Hmm. Your point?”
“You can’t call something ‘our tradition’ if we haven’t even done it once, Mr. Harrington. You’re still in my chair.”
“Name’s Jeff, and your chair’s cozy. So let’s make it a tradition! Starting today.” He leans forward, smiling stupidly. “Tell me which of your fish you’re gonna fry this year.”
Jeff’s always had a kind smile. Why am I so awful to him? “His name’s Justin Brady.”
That’s the name that’s on my lips later, when the sun’s fallen and my shower’s had and I’m lying naked in bed. I move a hand beneath the sheets and I imagine an empty auditorium. I’m at the back, coming up the aisle. There’s a sexy guy on the edge of the stage in this dream, his legs dangling, his biceps bulging, his hair perfect. “Justin Brady,” I whisper aloud, filling my bedroom with his name, moving my hand. I draw closer and closer to him, my heartbeat in my ears. His eyes have tiny flames in them, like some exotic fire demon. When I reach the stage, I put myself between his legs because I belong there. “Justin Brady.” His red-and-white high tops glow. His sexy smile spreads across that flawless face of his … that flawless, smooth skin. I listen to him breathe—his little lifts and falls of breath are all I can hear. Or maybe it’s my own as I lie in this bed jerking off. “Justin Brady.” He doesn’t move from the edge of that stage and he doesn’t have to; I lean forward and put my lips against his. I can do this because it’s a dream, because it’s not real, because I’m living in the fantasy world of a play in my mind. It’s a play without lines, a play where Justin Brady and I are the only characters. Fuck all the others who might’ve been cast in this role. Fuck all the others who would’ve beaten me in an audition … This is my moment.
Our lips are locked in a kiss that’s more powerful, more fierce, more heartrending than any kiss in real life could ever strive to be. I feel the force of his jaw in the kiss. I feel his nose as it breathes against my cheek.
I feel his heat like a hundred candles.
“Justin Brady,” I whisper into the night. I’m so close, but I hold off; I want this to last for hours … I want to lose sleep over this boy.
Suddenly I’m on top of him, exploring every inch of his muscled body. “Justin Brady.” My mischievous hands find his firm biceps, his chiseled abs, his pecs with their pointy kisses for nipples. “Justin.” I push my mouth on his again, grinding my hips against his. “Brady.” Our cocks wrestle through the thick fabric of our jeans, pushing a pleasant sickness through my being. I’ve never wanted anything so badly. All my life I’ve been shut
away. All my life, roleplaying, acting, observing … For just this one moment, for just this one beautiful boy, I don’t want to act anymore. I want to live it.
“Justin Brady.”
Abruptly, the kissing ends. His eyes open—smart, keen, hazel eyes—and his mouth spreads into the biggest shit-eating grin. His lips wet, cheeks flushed, teeth shining and bright …
He whispers: “I own you.”
And then I cum.
[ 2 ]
The weeks seem to drift like dreams. For the first few weeks, I take my Basic Acting students through exercises and script-reading skills. Baby steps. I literally feel like I’m teaching them to read. “This is what a character is,” I hear myself say. “Find your motivation.”
“Don’t highlight your lines,” I say once. “Every word uttered by every other character is important and vital. Highlighting your lines tells your brain that the only important thing in this play is you and your pretty face. ‘Oh hey, look at me, I’m so fucking important.’ If I see a highlighted script, I’m burning it.”
Through the simple exercises, I have them stand in front of the rest of the class. One exercise involves them telling a personal story and the class having to decide whether it’s made-up or real.
I take deep pleasure each time it’s Justin Brady’s turn. He always takes the stage like he already owns it, but when he starts to perform, I spot and take note of a hundred different things to fix. I feel stings of pride when I see his flaws, no matter how pretty he is.
Each time he finishes, he gives me a piercing look, then smiles like the cat that’s just caught the fish. “Joke’s on you,” I mutter once under my breath after class. “You’re the fish.”
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I don’t have but one advanced acting class to teach, so I have lots of time to plan and catch up on paperwork before the evening rehearsals. Auditions for the first shows have already come and gone, but I’m unconcerned, as I don’t have a show to direct until the spring, and my auditions aren’t until the end of October.
