Ping Pong and the Lost Checkbook

[testudfan]

First of all, greetings. This is, indeed, my first time publishing anything I've written (indeed, I've barely shown my work to anyone before now, much less, MANY people, hence the "Newbie" icon) and welcome and strongly encourage your support and criticism, via either posting in this thread or by sending me a PM. Remember... words inspire.

Writing in and of itself is not a new venture for me, but going beyond a short poem or quick story is. I'm proud of the work I've accomplished thus far on the story and hope you enjoy it as I have enjoyed writing it.

That being said, not everyone will enjoy it ("it" referring to either the story or my writing style, haha) and those looking for something a little more provocative should look elsewhere. This is not to say that the characters will not engage in sexual activity; however, it will not be immediate.

I've worked and reworked a lot of the story to make the characters a lot less unidimensional than they sometimes appear/end up. Even when I have a clear picture of the person I'm writing about, sometimes they don't ooze any depth, and I've done my sincerest best not only to combat that, but to make these characters someones you'll care about. If you don't, I won't be hurt or offended.

The first several sections of the story are fairly expository (surprising, no doubt, judging by my now five-paragraph preface...) but I hope that you find something you enjoy and will continue to read. I will post more later, even if the demand is not there. Though the story arc is finished, the intermediaries are not, and eventually I will fill in all my gaps.

I profusely and profoundly apologize for any and all typos, as I hate them hate them hate them, and have done my best to eradicate them.

Here is Part 1 of "Ping Pong and the Lost Checkbook"

Special thanks to gsdx for his guidance and support

__________________________________________________


It had been, relatively, a boring summer. When I was at school, I was around friends and actual things to do; but, when I was at home, I was back where time seemed to stand still. I worked, which was almost more fun than what few leisure activities could be found in my undeniably small town. I was definitely glad to be back at school.

I had staked out my apartment long before re-arriving to begin the new school year and had spent all summer mentally decorating it. When I arrived with the few things my car could hold, I immediately set to work moving what sparse furnishings had been left by the previous occupant—including the ugliest settee in the history of the world—where they needed to go: out to the curb. I started unpacking my car with the things I couldn’t live without until the next weekend when my parents brought up the rest of my treasures. I found my poster box (completely avoiding everything that was less superfluous) and set to work putting up the posters I had found over the summer all around my bedroom. There were only a few, as I am, at heart, a minimalist, but the ones I owned I had sought out fervently. “The Tudors” with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers looking devilishly—and appropriately—sexy; a poster of the DVD box cover of “Brokeback Mountain” that was by no means original, but I wasn’t going for trendy; a charcoal still-life-esque drawing that my brother did and framed for me (I wonder what he was up to at this moment?); a couple of smaller pictures of my favorite tennis players—Steffi Graf and Roger Federer; and finally, the large black-and-white artistic male nude. This last one I really contemplated not putting up. The relationship hadn’t lasted much longer than it took to make the photograph and turn it into a poster, and putting it up did seem to evince a certain vanity I didn’t really feel I possessed. I stared at it a long time before deciding against hanging it up, choosing to rather store it in the closet.

I continued unpacking the rest of what I’d brought when I remembered that I was supposed to call some friends of mine to hang out when I got into town. I didn’t really need a break—I hadn’t done anything that you would call strenuous—but I decided to telephone my best friend Craig to see what he was up to. He had stayed in the city over the summer, “gainfully employed” (his words) at the Borders just outside of town. He picked up on the third ring and used his normal salutation:

“’Sup sexy?”

Craig and I had never kissed, never dated, indeed never even considered it, but that didn’t stop him from constantly telling me how hot he thought I was. That’s why he’s my best friend; he’s so deep like that. Not to mention great ego fodder.

“So you back in town yet?”

“Yeah, I got in this afternoon. I’ve put away, like, eight things and now I’m bored. You still want to hang out tonight?”

“The choirboys are going to Wayside tonight to play pool. And eat buffalo wings. We’re going to meet up there at ten. Stefan will be there,” he added in his best you-should-definitely-come-meet-the-cute-boy voice.

During the summer semester, Stefan joined the university choir that Craig was a member of, and Craig had called me the minute he had met him. His enthusiasm bordered on madness as he’d gotten the immediate impression that we’d be perfect together. Of this he was certain. To be completely honest, I was a little apprehensive. Not only was I not actively seeking someone to date at the moment, but the last time Craig had set me up with a boy, the kid started the date by grabbing my junk and telling me that Craig wasn’t lying when he had told him I was a “fucking hottie” (his words). In the 90 minutes I could stand to be around him, he asked—nay, begged—me no fewer than seven times to let him blow me. When I dropped him off at his dorm, I vowed never to go out with someone Craig set me up with without meeting him first. Preferably with a large group of other people, all of whom I knew, so I could lose the guy as soon as possible, if necessary.

“Okay, I’ll come out with you guys tonight. Are you going to meet on the upper level by the pool tables?”

“Yeah. Bring quarters. And be sexy. You’re gonna love Stefan, I promise.”

“Fine. I’ll see you later.” I hung up and raided my wardrobe—meaning that I looked through about eight shirts and a few pairs of pants—before deciding upon a simple, orange, collared shirt and jeans. Craig always says I look best when I don’t try too hard, which to him means spending less than an hour on my hair. I took a shower, spending a long time languishing under the hot water and fully enjoying the water pressure that I couldn’t enjoy at my parents’ house. The house is nice, but the shower sucks. A lot. One of the things I had made sure of when I was looking for apartments was a shower that wasn’t terrible. I had loved my new apartment the minute I saw it last spring.

About nine-thirty, freshly washed and cutely clothed, I drove to Wayside, one of the very popular off-campus bars (though Sunday was never a typically busy night) and made my way up to the pool tables. There were several people there and it actually took a few seconds before I spotted someone I recognized: Jason. One of Craig’s most odious friends, we’d never gotten along really well. He was in the choir with Craig and he liked to treat his girlfriend Christine (a friend of mine) like shit. I had been working (not at all furtively) for years to get her to leave him, before finally giving up. Thankfully, all pretense has been dropped between Jason and me—I was not in the mood to feign not hating him—and I saw another of our friends, Andy, who I had always loved.

“Hey Andy, I’m so glad that you’re here. I thought it was just going to be me and Jason until Craig got here.”

“Buddy, what’s up? Yeah, he’s a real shit. I will never understand why Craig still hangs out with him... or why Jason hangs out around us, at all.”

“He’s just a fucker. On the plus side, I’m here to celebrate being back at the big W. It was a lame summer. So are you here with anyone?”

“Yeah, she’s in the restroom with Christine. I made her promise she’d talk to her. I haven’t given up the hope. You’ll like her a lot; she plays tennis, too.”

“She any good?”

“She kicks my ass, but that doesn’t say a whole lot. I ever win a set off you?”

I had to laugh. “Not likely. Unless I have some amnesia or something.” I’m not a fantastic tennis player, but Andy... Andy is very enthusiastic about the game, and he and I always watch tournaments together and he is a really talented and coordinated guy, but he has never gotten tennis. His natural ability makes him a better player than your average neophyte, but for as much as he loves the game, his talent has never really improved. We play a lot when the weather’s nice and we have the free time, and I have worked with him on becoming better, but I’d wager he is exactly as good now as when he first picked up the tennis racket six or seven years ago. Most of it is his lack of instinct on where the ball’s going. You can’t teach that, and he doesn’t have it. Regardless, he is my tennis buddy.

“Yeah, you definitely do. Remember that time I--. Oh wait, no. Not even in my dreams can I win,” he smiled. “Here comes Jessica, I want to introduce you.”

After meeting Jessica, who did, indeed, ooze loveliness and kindness at first meeting, Craig arrived with several other guys and girls I recognized from the choir (who I’d met on numerous occasions, but never for long enough to remember most of their names) including one very cute guy who I found myself actually hoping was Stefan.

“Luke, come here!” Craig shouted from a few tables down, and I made way over to where he had decided to sit. “You know everyone. Except this,” he emphasized, drawing out the i as though the announcement would be the single-most important one of the night, “is Stefan. Stefan, this is my very sexy friend Luke, who will dazzle you in, like, seconds. He’s so amazing.”

Stefan walked over and started to sit down next to me when I realized that the six or seven people around the table couldn’t possibly have been more obviously staring and waiting to see what was going to happen. As though there were many options. Likely, we were going to exchange pleasantries and talk some. Had this been an artsy foreign movie, perhaps something would have had the effect of melting to show the intricate way in which we might meld upon first meeting, but I was pretty certain it was going to be fairly uneventful, especially since I was determined to make it so. That is, at least until I came to a realization that the guy wasn’t creepy. When he sat down, I noticed that his hand immediately was going toward my lower half, and the coincidence was not lost on me. However, he grabbed my hand that was on my lap and squeezed it gently, saying only:

“It’s really nice to meet you. Craig talks about you all the time. Literally. You’re his favorite subject of discussion. Even more than his hair.”

I had to laugh. I also wanted to get away from the table, as it seemed more people were now staring at us, if that were even possible. “Do you want to go get a drink?”

 

[gogetter]

I think this is gonna be a good one; can't wait for the next chapter

 

[harry113]

Thanks Testudfan. Great first chapter, very well written.
If you are aiming for the quality of Neil's writing you certainly wont go wrong.
Please tell us more
Harry

 

[testudfan]

Hello again!

I am going to aim for posting a new part every day (until I run out of parts that are completed or un-proofread) so here is part two (2).

_________________________________________________


I spent most of the rest of the time I was there with Stefan, including several games of pool that we played together on a team and dominated. He was easy to talk to, but for some reason I didn’t find him that interesting. I know for a fact that I’m picky; that’s a given, but if I don’t share the same sense of humor as the other person, it can be difficult to hold a conversation, as that conversation will be punctuated by pauses where I think something should be added. When we talked, it was awfully mundane. I’m not saying that Stefan wasn’t interesting; he just didn’t set me off the way others have in the past. There has to be some sort of passion for me to see, and I never got the sense there was one. I also had the suspicion that neither of us were as interested in meeting one another as Craig was that we meet. I dreaded telling him how I felt, but I made up my mind to call him the next day.


“’Sup Sexy? Didn’t you just love Stefan?”

“He was nice, yes, and I had a good time, but no, I didn’t love him.”

“That’s fine. I got the same impression from him; I don’t think you’re really his type, either.”

I laughed, “Did you talk to him, or did you decipher it all on your own?”

“To be honest, I didn’t actually feel you were going to be that compatible, but I thought back to last time...” he trailed off and paused. I bring that instance up a lot when I want to win an argument with him. He hates it. Eventually, I’ll stop because it’s annoying. I think he was waiting for me to say something snarky, but when I stayed quiet, he continued, “and I had been so certain you two would get along that time—which of course ended in utter failure—so this time, I really thought that you two didn’t seem that compatible, but I was wrong last time, so I thought I might be wrong this time, too. You see?”

“I think so, yeah. And for the record, that other guy may have actually been compatible with me in other ways. I was just resentful of how he was ho-ing himself out and making me uncomfortable. I still think you actually do know what my type is. Trust your instinct,” I entreated him, being completely sincere. “At least Stefan was a nice guy. It could have been worse. You could have decided that Jason was my ideal potential lover.”

“Ewwy. Not a chance. Even if he did like boys. I’m glad he doesn’t.”

“I know, I know. Hey, listen, I was going to go take a walk on campus, just check out what’s going on, see if there’s anyone by the flagpoles, et cetera, you wanna come with?”

“Sure. Can you pick me up?”


I was actually pretty excited about classes starting the next day, as I was walking around campus. I really do enjoy school: I like the atmosphere of the campus, I like the art and architecture, I like learning, I like the sense of community the campus offers, and I especially like the twenty outdoor tennis courts, half of which are lighted at night. Especially at the beginning of the year when the weather is agreeable and the classes haven’t become too difficult, I frequent the courts, mostly hitting with Andy and winning or battling against my friend Ryan and losing. The latter keeps me modest. Theoretically.

Craig and I meandered about, as we made our way toward one of the back corners of the campus where we both spend a lot of time: he because the music building is there, and I because the English building is kitty corner from it. There is a very pleasant little courtyard with a fountain, lots of benches, lots of places to lie out on the grass, a small café. It is my favorite place on campus. We stopped at the café and bought some water and sat on one of the benches and surveyed the people around us: several scantily-clad girls were stretched out on blankets on the lawn in front of the campus auditorium, clearly enjoying the attention from a couple of Frisbee-wielding fratboys; two teacher-types carrying briefcases were walking toward the office buildings next to the café, a student wearing a long coat and carrying a tackle box (presumably holding art supplies) entered Brown, the language building, outside of which a student with a cool yellow backpack sat reading in the shade with his back against the wall of the building.

“When’s your first class tomorrow?” Craig asked, interrupting my gazing.

“Eight A.M. chem. Yours?”

“Ouch. I have some poli sci class at 2 in Knauss over there. I’ve never even been in that building; I probably won’t again. I had to take this one class before I graduated, in addition to all of my major classes. I’m very un-excited about it.”

“At least mine is something I enjoy.”

“I still don’t get how you’re majoring in chem and English. How long are you going to be here?”

“Just two more years. It was too hard to choose between the two. Thankfully I don’t have lots of extra classes. This semester I have two chem classes, a bio class, and two English classes. I’m really excited about ‘Multicultural Adolescent Lit’. I had to buy eleven novels for it.”

“That’s just ridiculous.”

“It’s fine; they’re not all that long. Except for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. That one’s over 500 pages. The rest are more manageable.”

“I should hope so. So... I’ve been watching those Frisbee players. The one in the blue shorts is cuuute.”

“He has nice legs,” I drily responded.

“I know, not your type. You need a boy,” he added, rather abruptly.

“I’m okay, really. It’s kind of all about me and my education and not overdoing anything at this point. I’m leaving my options open. If I want to become a spinster with cats, I’m okay with that.”

“You don’t like cats.”

“Regardless. It’s always an option.”

“I suppose,” he responded, questioningly. “So I kinda like this guy in the orchestra. He accompanies the choir on violin sometimes. He likes me, I think because at one time he seemed like he asked me out. He’s a little intense for me, though, you know, very into his music. Maybe I should try and see where it goes. What could it hurt?”

“Nothing. But you know me, as long as you’re passionate about something....”

“...And not apathetic.”

“Right. There’s this song...”

“Luke, I know. Whenever you’re in a mood like this you tell me about the song and how you don’t agree with the singer who says that sometimes he wishes he could feel that way, or whatever, and be apathetic about everything, and watch “The Rockford Files” and do other shit like that.”

“Sorry. I wonder if it’s self-sabotage sometimes.”

“It’s not. You just need to find someone that you can be with that respects how you feel, maybe someone who feels the same way.”

“You know, every time we have a talk like this, we both end up finding someone soon afterwards.”

“Yeah, except the last batch was soooo unspectacular.”

“At least your guy liked music.”

Craig laughed loudly, “Who doesn’t like music?”

“I don’t know. He was awfully weird. I’m ready to go home, I think.”


I awoke at seven the next morning, caught a quick shower, and ran outside to drive to school. I realized as I was driving to campus that I had forgotten to pick up my parking permit and hoped that, like normal, they wouldn’t be ticketing cars the first week of school. I liked parking in the auditorium lot because it is the quickest exit from campus, it’s somewhat near my last class, and there’s always ample parking. The sun was attempting to break through the clouds, making it slightly chillier than I’d been expecting, so I walked briskly halfway across campus to the decrepit chem building. We’re all pretty sure it’s going to fall down any day now. Hopefully no one gets hurt when it does. The one thing I love the most about the first week of school is that a lot of my teachers seem very intent on getting out early; several of my classes in the past have consisted of little else beyond disseminating the syllabi and talking about them, before dismissing the class.

The professor, who I’ve had for three classes prior to this one, did let us out early, which gave me time to buy a muffin before my next class: advanced biology something-or-other. I decided to use this time to surprise my mom by calling her at work. I could also guarantee that since she was there, she wouldn’t be able to keep me on the phone for an hour, a “luxury” I didn’t have the time to afford at this point.

“Hi honey!”

“Hey there. Just wanted to call and say everything was alright. I just had my first class. Lots of fun.”

“Good, I’m glad. When are your classes on Friday, so that we know when we can come bring the rest of your stuff?”

I debated lying and saying I had a morning class on Friday, since I knew that if my schedule was free, my mom would take the day off work to come drop things off at an ungodly hour, and I cherish my sleep too much. In the end, though, lying seemed really lame. Plus, I had Saturday and Sunday to sleep in. “I don’t have any Friday classes this semester.”

“Oh good. Then your dad and I will finish packing the truck and we’ll leave early. How does nine sound? That way, we can go get breakfast, too. Tell Craig he can come, too, of course.”

Nine. I was expecting earlier, so I jumped all over that opportunity. Also, I’m pretty positive that my parents think I’m dating Craig. And have been for a couple of years now, despite the fact that we’ve never lived together and I’ve corrected them countless times. I guess I should be grateful they like my friends. “Okay, Mom, sounds good. I’ll see you then. I have to go; I have another class. Love you.”

“Have a good day. See you this weekend.” I hung up the phone and walked to class to eat my muffin, before the next three hours of class.


As I was walking back to my car after classes, I took my time and surveyed the area, as I’m wont to do on nice days, since I’m never in a hurry to leave. What I observed was remarkably similar to the scenes we’d witnessed the day before. Instead of a Frisbee, there were several guys passing a football, as the seemingly omnipresent bikini-ed wonders lay out on the grass. Students milled about—a particularly large group was practicing something involving dance, making me hope it was for the music school and not a random artistic expression—one girl carried an umbrella which was hilarious due to the lack of rain in the forecast for the whole week, a few kids were smoking directly outside the entrance to Brown (they couldn’t have moved a few feet one way or the other?) and there was a guy with yellow shoes, sitting against the wall, reading. I remembered yesterday afternoon and how someone had been reading in that spot, but that person had a yellow backpack, I thought. The coincidence was too great, however, to think that a different person was reading in almost the same spot, sporting the same color. I brushed it out of my mind and instead looked forward to the prospect of playing tennis later that day with Ryan, and left campus for home.


My week was uneventful, despite the fact that I played tennis four times. I won all four times, including twice against Ryan, who got hot over the summer. I didn’t let that ruin my concentration, however. I don’t usually win against him, so it felt really good. Even though my parents were going to be coming over that weekend, the only thing I did to prepare was clean the bathroom. It’s not like I made a huge mess in the week I was there. When my parents showed up at eight-thirty (not a surprise) Friday morning, Craig (who had spent the night) and I were “ready” to meet them and we got in my car to go to breakfast. I drove us to my favorite breakfast place, The Country Kitchen, where I ordered the special (my usual): a six-egg omelet (I got sausage and cheese) and my parents stared at me like I was kidding.

“Leftover omelet is one of the greatest things in the world.”

They still looked puzzled but eventually we started talking about school and other bits of randomness, until Craig got going on his choir pieces and performances, which my parents have always been really interested in—traveling sometimes six hours in one day just to see a performance. He mentioned how the orchestra is really good and that reminded me that I had wanted to ask about something:

“Hey, Craig, how are things going with that violinist? Have you asked him out yet?”

“Not in so many words, no. I keep wanting to but then he’s so intense that I lose my nerve and I just start talking about something like my new shoes or how I hate my classes and I sound so stupid that I just stop talking and walk away. It’s really unnerving.”

“You just really need to ask him on a date. Yes, no, or maybe, at least you’d have some communication in that vein.”

My mother interjected at this point, “So who is this violinist? Someone in the music school?”

Craig caught her up with the not-so-tragic tale. I smiled when he embellished how much time he’s forced to be in his vicinity and how tough it is. For the record, they might see each other for about 20 minutes a day, twice a week, tops.

“Well, I think if you asked him out, you might find that he does really like you, and maybe he’s a little too intimidated himself. If that’s the case, then one of you needs to get over being scared.”

I laughed. Craig usually isn’t scared of asking anyone out if he thinks he has a chance with them. This was kind of the biggest deal I’ve encountered with him in... I don’t even know when.

“She’s right, Craig. And then you have to tell me exactly what happened, you know, so I can ‘Save the Date.’”

“You know your kid turned awfully bratty when he left home, don’t you?” Craig retorted, causing my dad to choke on his water.

Good old Craig, calling me out on every attempt at humor. No wonder we get along so well.

 

[gambit2212]

Wow! I really like this story. Please, please, please (gets down on knees and....begs) keep this one going. BTW, when will we finally find out what the title of the story means?

 

[testudfan]

Wow! I really like this story. Please, please, please (gets down on knees and....begs) keep this one going. BTW, when will we finally find out what the title of the story means?

Thanks for the kind words I'm really glad you're enjoying it, and I promise to keep it going. Like I said in my intro, I'm really proud of it, so I have resolved to bring it to completion Unfortunately, the title does not come into play until several sections in, and, at the moment, it's the part of the story that I've written so far that I'm least proud of, sooooo... I'm spending a lot of time working on it. I mean, it's the scene that lent itself to the title, for goodness sakes. It better be "brilliant". Haha.

Part 3 will be posted late tomorrow, as I am in the middle of re-reading and editing it and it's about time for bed.

 

[hardreader]

It's always nice to cum across someone who takes pride in his craft. Take your time and do it right. Once it's posted and out there for all us critics to see, you can't get it back. We can wait a little longer, if the story is well told. And so far your doing just fine.

 

[musicalgenius14]

Your pride in this work really shows. It is amazingly written, and very coherent. Your characters (what little we've seen of them so far) seem really well developed!

Congratulations and keep up the good work!!

 

[harry113]

Well done, well written chapter. Most enjoyable.
Look forward to the next one
Harry

 

[testudfan]

Wow, I have to admit I do love all the kind acknowledgments.

I am posting the next part of the story, and I'll admit that it was ridiculously difficult to figure out where I wanted it to end this time. I am most happy with the part below which does contain, in and of itself, a very small story arc.

Enjoy!

___________________Part 3__________________

I was in unusually high spirits Monday morning, which I attributed to carryover from my enjoyable weekend: my parents had moved the rest of my things into my apartment, Craig and I started unpacking my things, we went out for martinis at the piano bar downtown on Saturday night with some friends, and I spent Sunday alternatively vegetating while watching movies and playing tennis with Ryan and Andy. Even my classes seemed to go spectacularly well in the morning, and, buoyed by my happiness, I walked toward my car to go home, before I saw him.

He was sitting, again, with his back to the stone wall in the shade of the building, reading. Always a novel, never the same one twice that I could see, and again completely engrossed in it. He never looked around to see who was coming or what anyone else was doing, the way everyone else looks at everything around him. Even the students sitting on benches chatting with one another might stop mid-sentence to check out a passerby, but he never raised his eyes to anyone.

It was only the third time I’d seen him, but it was regularly enough that I’d taken notice. I found myself wondering how long he’d been there and how long he’d be there. Were the books for a class or was he just antisocial? I settled upon my immediate decision easily.

It only took me twenty steps or so to cross the small area outside of Brown to where he sat.

“Hey there.”

His eyes moved very slowly from the pages of the book upward. He’d seemed so interested in the read and unaware of his surroundings that I half-expected him to have been startled. He was not.

“Yes?” Nor was he amused.

“I’m Luke,” I plodded on. “I’ve noticed you here a few times and thought you looked kinda lonely, so I thought I’d come introduce myself. What are you reading?”

“I looked lonely?”

“Well, you’re always alone s-“

“Lonely and alone are two different words. Of course I’m alone here. Everyone who’s not with someone at a precise moment is alone.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“And so it is. My solitude still didn’t warrant intrusion.”

I didn’t have a response. That didn’t mean he was through, though.

“Furthermore, if it wasn’t obvious that I didn’t desire interruption, the fact that I’m always out here reading—which you would have noticed if you had noticed me several times here as you claim— should have been reason enough not to bother. If I’d been wanting interaction, I would have refrained from bringing reading material.”

That was the proverbial punch to the stomach. I wheezed out a “sorry” and turned around. I’d never been so deftly attacked by words before.

“Hey, Luke?” Amidst everything, he had retained my name, so I turned around. “You’re probably not as bad a guy as I just made you out to be. I am sorry. Just-” at this, he set his hand very gently against my forearm. It was neither malicious nor unwelcome, but rather comforting. “Try not to make snap judgments about people, okay? There’s too much of that going on around us, and it’s disheartening. See ya.”

He walked off then, toward Brown’s front doors. I watched him go and was surprised when he turned back to me and called out.

“By the way, it’s Madame Bovary. In case you were actually interested.”

I smiled and started to walk to my car. I had been so angry for a second. So angry that someone would talk to me that way and be so accusatory to something so benign. But I realized quickly enough that nothing he had said was at all false. He’d called my every pretense. And even though it was never meant to be antagonizing, I realized that I had never for a second cared about what he was reading. There was one thing that he was wrong about, though; not every snap judgment is bad. I thought he was attractive and I was right. To me, he was beautiful.




Tuesday rolled around and I found myself strangely exhilarated by the prospect of seeing… damn. I never got his name. At least he knew mine; so that when I approached him later, I wouldn’t seem the stranger I was last time. I felt like I was back in high school, planning a “chance” encounter with someone just to talk to him, or passing notes with friends about who we thought was cute. I’d decided on what I thought was the best plan of action and was ready to implement it.

Class seems unusually long when you have something to look forward to and biology was no different. What the professor was lecturing about was completely lost to me; I was in such a different place. When the professor finally let us go, I hurried out of the lecture hall and stepped out into the cool, rainy outdoors. Damn, it was raining. He wouldn’t be sitting outside, and my plan did not include pretending to “find” him elsewhere; I’d have to wait.

On my slow trot to my car, I glanced toward the doors of Brown in hopes I’d catch a glimpse of him and I was quite astounded. He was there, sitting against the wall, reading, with a huge umbrella propped over his head. The only difference was that he’d moved closer to the doors to also be under the eave of the doorway. A part of me thought that he had decided to continue his tradition with the selfsame hope that I’d show up again, but I knew better. I was not, however, going to abandon my plan.

I continued to jog, now in his direction. Upon arriving at the stairs, I pulled my backpack off and rummaged through it. Pulling A Tree Grows in Brooklyn out of my bag, I put my plan into action.

“Hey there. Mind terribly if I sit here?”

Again, no immediate answer. He actually seemed to be finishing the part he was reading instead of looking up at all. I abandoned this tactic posthaste.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I know you don’t mind, so let me start again. Hi there. I’m glad you’re here today.” It felt refreshing to have been honest and I began to feel as though this is how I should act around him. “I’m going to sit here and read, myself. Except I will be under the doorway here, out of the rain. I’ll be right here, in case you want to chat or something. Not that you’re here to chat, I know, but, you know, if you decided you wanted to, or something, I’ll be,” I continued, pointing to my right, “right here.”

“You’re likelier to get splashed by students sloshing through the puddles right there--” he indicated the standing water in the front of the building-- “because they’re running to get to class to get OUT of the rain, whereas I am positioned so that I won’t get splashed by said students. If you’re seriously intent on reading, then you should join me over here; my umbrella is plenty large.”

At this point he actually looked up from his book for the first time and gazed right at me, seemingly challenging my claim that I was, indeed, planning to read. Luckily for me, I actually had to read the novel for English class, so I didn’t feel nearly as chicane as I may have otherwise.

“Thanks, I will join you. You really have this ‘reading against the wall’ thing all figured out, don’t you?”

At this, he smiled. And it was beautiful. For the first time, he looked a little off his guard; or rather, he looked like I imagined he must always look when he’s doing something that invites laughter. His eyes were turned down softly, not really focused on his book, but rather at some point on the ground while he processed my obvious humor and unmasked marveling for his obvious appreciation of fine literature. I thought I saw the faintest reddening of his cheeks (though I could have been imagining it) but the happiness I felt was astounding.

“You could say that. I just like really like to be outside. Call me a faux-transcendentalist or something. I’ve also found that this part of campus tends to be quieter than others, so I always make sure that when I schedule my classes, I leave some time before the class I inevitably have in this building.”

“You must be a language major.”

“English Education. And French.”

“French? That’s pretty sweet. But I bet that’s a common response.”

“Indeed it is,” he chuckled. I melted. “I’m used to it. It’s French, though. It’s not as exotic as, say, Japanese, but when I mention that I study it, it always makes people reminisce about their often ill-fated, high-school language classes and they tell me how they just never got it, or they only remember one thing. This one time, I mentioned that I studied French and this guy responded back, ‘Ah vraiment? J’aimais beaucoup étudier le français!’ in perfect French and then I of course responded in kind, but he held up his hand to stop me and said ‘Whoa whoa. I just learned that to weed out the ones who don’t actually know any French at all but are just saying it for attention. I don’t actually know much more than that.’ We became great friends, incidentally. He’s my roommate now.”

I laughed at the story and noticed his quizzical expression that seemed to be gauging my reaction, perhaps at his last statement. Unless he had told me that this friend of his were his boyfriend, I would have continued to pursue him. He was becoming even more entrancingly enigmatic and the kind of person that I often sought out as a friend, though in this case I would not have preferred to settle for that relationship.

“So, are you reading that for class, then?” I asked, indicating his Flaubert text.

“Oh no. I never do any homework out here. You never know when you might find yourself wandering off, mentally, because of your surroundings. You also never know when some random person’s going to come up to you and tell you that he looks lonely.”

“About th-”

“I’m just kidding,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I promise I won’t keep bringing it up. C’est fini. I figured you could handle it. I’ve got class now. Enjoy your day.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“You’ll see me, but I’m sure I won’t see you.” And he departed, folding up his umbrella and swinging his backpack over his shoulder with a fluidity I found mesmerizing. I found myself wondering how many times before he had read his books leisurely, rain coming down all around him, and I wondered if anyone had ever stopped to talk to him the way I did, and did they ask him lots of stupid questions like I did, or did he act completely composed and ward off visitors with a series of well-constructed and vicious rebukes? And did he ever touch their arm sympathetically and ask them, without malice, to not be so stupid? Not so secretly, I hoped I was the only one who got “the touch”.

 

[harry113]

Thanks, quite enigmatic!!
Where can this lead ??
Harry

 

[testudfan]

Okay, I can't promise I will be able to post anymore before this weekend, so I'm posting a larger section of the story today.



Enjoy



_____________Part 4______________



In pure stalker form, I decided that I would pack a lunch and my novel for English class and spend a good portion of my day in the courtyard outside Brown. The sun shone brightly and I set out for the grassy area in front of the music department building, so that my line of sight was directly focused on the shaded area in front of the building. Because my attentions for now were solely focused on actually getting my reading done for class, I quickly became engrossed in my novel and looked up only infrequently to people-watch. Crowds of students and randomly-dressed professors congregated in the common area, or sat by the fountain, or hurried to class, but I saw no one I knew.

I became hungry after about 90 minutes of being out in the sun and realized I had gotten through a significant portion of my novel. I also hadn’t brought anything to drink. So much for a self-contained picnic lunch. I packed up my book and went across the courtyard to the small café to get some water when I realized he was there. By the wall. Exactly where I had meant to be looking for him. I quickly hurried to the café to buy my water and, upon leaving, walked over to where he still sat, reading... something not Madame Bovary. I doubted very highly he had just started something new for the hell of it and figured he was on his next project. Again, I had a plan.

“Hey, I brought some lunch to enjoy this fine day. I’m gonna sit right here and read, and anything you want from this bag, you may take.”

He laughed, ironically, and said, “I’m Chris, by the way. And I am giving you permission to sit here whenever you’d like. And also, you may resume asking mundane questions in an attempt to invite me into conversation with you. I’m really not unfriendly, and neither are you, so... have a seat.” He closed his book and stared at me, waiting for me to sit down. I was right to expect he was going to continue talking when he added, “By the way, I appreciate the fact that you didn’t come right out and ask for my name or—God forbid—phone number or try to make a date or something. You used your brain. Not that it was hard, since it was a pretty fair bet that I wasn’t going to stop coming here to read, but still. You’re alright. Do you have anything to drink?”

I missed the change in subject, as I was caught up in the melodious tenor of his voice and the subtle humor mixed with purposeful and sincere intent, and I really, though listening, missed his question.

“Okay, I get it. Two can play my game. I’ll look for myself.”

“Oh, sorry. Did you want something? I missed it.”

“Yeah, I didn’t transition very well, that’s my fault. I’d asked if you’d brought something to drink.”

“I didn’t actually, but I went and bought some water. Here,” I responded, handing him a bottle.

“Thanks. By the way, I love that book. Johnny is so flawed, but you want to love him. You really do. His character is so endearing, but you want to throttle him. Especially the way Francie loves him so. He knows what he needs to actually do, but he’s incapable. When the family “plays Antarctica”—or whatever she calls it, I forget— you just wish you could do something as the reader. It gets better, though.” He stared far off and I knew without doubt that he was imagining it all in his head, completely transported by the words of Betty Smith.

“You want a sandwich? I made a couple of different kinds.”

“A couple of different kinds? Huh, it’s almost like you were expecting someone...”

“This was my attempt to drop the façade. It was also a chance to have a meal with you without asking you out for one.”

“What made you think I’d agree?”

“It was never going to not be worth it to ask.”

“Touché. And yes, I’d love a sandwich. I would have said yes to a formal invite to go eat, by the way. But I like this more. What kind of sandwiches did you bring?”



When I got home that afternoon, I had a date. The urge to go back to campus and wait for him to get out of his class was palpable, but I didn’t want to seem as desperate as I felt. Instead I was going to wait until the next night when we had made plans to go see a movie. It had been my idea, since there was a movie I really wanted to see, but I was disappointed in myself. It was so... generic. Also, it wouldn’t permit me a lot of time to just sit and talk to him. Truth be told, I would have rather watched a movie at home with him. If I didn’t at least ask, I’d feel even stupider, so I called him (yes, I got his number!), wondering if he were out of class or if I was going to have to leave a message.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Luke.”

“Wow, no three-day rule for you, huh? Rather, a negative-one-day rule? I like it.”

“Nice. No, I was actually calling because I didn’t love my idea to go the movies. I’d rather stay in, so we can, you know, talk and stuff, actually have a conversation since I just met you and everything. Does that make sense? I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

He was already laughing quietly before I finished the sentence. “It’s fine. I like the idea. What do you want to watch?”

“I want you to bring your favorite movie of all-time. Whatever it is. And we’ll watch.”

“That might actually reveal more about me than I want it to.”

“That’s the point. Or at least, one of them.”

“You’re too sly for your own good.”

I laughed.

“Okay, I need directions to your place.”



My cooking abilities aren’t the greatest, but I give myself an A for effort. I planned a nice meal of stuffed chicken marsala with homemade pasta and some wine. And candles. Not for eating, of course, but for ambience. And then I nixed the candles. I still wanted to keep it seemingly benign even though my emotions were roiling. If this didn’t go well, I was out of options. About ten minutes into my little culinary escapade, I realized I was in a little too far over my head, as the recipe I had chosen was not for novices. As I was trying to stuff small chunks of Fontina cheese into a chicken breast I had not been able to hammer thinly enough, (I used a book covered in Saran Wrap, for goodness sakes. I’m such a spazz.) my phone rang.

With my hands covered in raw meat and goodness knows what else, I used my elbow to press the “talk” button and leaned over the counter to talk into it.

“Hello?!” I practically yelled, to be heard over the oven fan.

“I’m here. I think I need you to buzz me in.”

Great. He was early. By twenty minutes. I felt myself starting to get emotional because I wanted everything to be perfect, but I just calmed myself down—reassuring myself that the reason for his being early was because he couldn’t wait to come over and see me—and said, in an even tone, “Okay, give me a minute and I’ll let you in.”

“No hurry. Take your time”

I finished preparing the chickens and stuck them in the oven. I threw the pasta into some boiling water and washed my hands. I checked myself in the mirror and nearly cried. I was covered in kitchen. I finally pressed the button to open the downstairs door, opened my front door, and ran into my bedroom to change.

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late. I got lost.”

“You’re not late, you’re 20 minutes early,” I said incredulously, through the closed door.

“Oh. I thought I was supposed to be here at six-thirty. I guess I forgot.”

“No big deal. Dinner will be done in about 20 minutes. I’ll be right out.”

I changed into a brown-striped, button-down, dressy(-ish) shirt and a pair of nice jeans. I felt overdressed and underdressed at the same time. In my own house. I was going nuts. I took a deep breath and opened my bedroom door. Chris was at the stove, stirring the pasta.

“Hey there!” he said brightly. Then added, “You look nice.”

“Thanks. And thanks for tending the food.”

“I honestly didn’t expect you to be cooking. I was figuring we’d do pizza or something a lot less exotic. This is nice.”

“I’m a faux-gourmand. I don’t eat a lot of pizza unless it has interesting ingredients on it, like feta or artichokes. I know, so wild.”

“Sounds good to me. So, what kind of pasta is it? Did you make it?”

“Yes. It has sun-dried tomatoes and olive oil in it. I got a pasta maker for Christmas last year from my parents; I use it all the time. How about I give you a tour of the apartment while dinner cooks?”

I gave Chris the grand tour which consisted of showing him the living room he could already see from where he was standing, the guest bathroom, the spare room which has a small day bed and lots of still-unpacked boxes, and finally my bedroom.

“You live alone?”

“Yeah. I can be picky and I’ve never lived with someone at college with whom I really gelled, living-wise. When I got the opportunity to live away from home and on my own, I took it.”

“That must be nice. I can’t afford to live on my own, so I’m sharing an apartment with these two other guys. One’s my good friend, the other is his. We get along just fine, but I really feel like I get in the way.”

“They together?”

“I think so?” he asked with an obvious questioning tone. “I never know with him.” This last statement was spoken with a hint of despair.

The oven alarm sounded and I walked to go take the chicken out of the oven. Saved by the bell, I thought. “Ready to eat? I promise the pasta will be good and the chicken won’t kill you. Probably.” He laughed and followed me into the kitchen. I pulled the newly-purchased bottle of wine from the rack and handed it to him. “The corkscrew’s in this drawer. Go ahead and open it.”

I checked the inside of the meat and the tenderness of the pasta before heaping them onto a plate. “I have some French bread, if you’d like.”

“Where is it? I can grab it.”

“In the silver bread box in the corner.”

“Fancy.”

“It was a gift. My aunt got it for me when she got me the bread maker that she decided she wanted to keep for herself. Hence the reason the bread is store-bought.”

“She kept your gift?”

“Yeah.” I had to laugh, because it really had been funny. “She got me a couple of other things, but she told me that when she was wrapping them, the bread on the package looked too good. But she wrapped it anyway. And then she opened it back up. Surprise! What a great gift!” I gave a grandiose wave of my arms and he laughed. It was really endearing. “Shall we eat?”



Dinner was an unfortunately quiet affair, marked by short bits of conversation. The typical exchange consisted mostly of a question, asked by me, responded in a few words by him, and then ended. I was surprised because he seemed to be the perfect conversationalist (based solely on just a few meetings by the wall, but I had hoped) but he was awfully quiet tonight.

“How is everything?”

“It’s really good, thanks. The pasta is excellent. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.”

“It wasn’t a problem; I wanted to do it. I’m really glad that we didn’t just go see a movie,” though I added to myself, good thing, because this conversation I was hoping for is super-enchanting.

“I, um... never mind.”

“No, please, go ahead.”

“I’m sorry. For being so... laconic.”

“Um, that’s okay? I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to admit I don’t know what you just apologized for.”

“What? Oh,” and he laughed for the first time, “it means that I haven’t said anything worth saying tonight. I don’t really know what’s going on with me.”

“If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay. You can finish dinner with me and then go, I won’t be hurt.”

“It’s definitely not that. I’m plenty comfortable.” He paused, seemingly preparing what he had to say. “If anything, that itself is the ‘problem.’”

“That’s a problem I can deal with. I’m glad you’re comfortable, by the way. I was really hoping I wasn’t weirding you out. By the way, I’m really anxious to see what movie you brought.”

“Oh yeah, it’s my favorite. I’ve seen it about fifty times or so. Of course, I’m ready to watch it again.”

“I’ll take your plate. Would you like some more wine?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s a really nice wine.”

“Yeah, I graduated from box to bottle. Kidding,” I added as I saw the look of surprise cross his face. “My uncle is a full-fledged... some French word that means ‘wine guy’...”

“Sommelier.”

“Yeah, that’s it. He has taught me a little about it. He tells me what to buy, so I of course called him when I planned this meal. He’s so into it. He gave me, like, twenty suggestions.”

“Well, it impressed me.” At that he gave a little smile, almost unwittingly, and turned around. He walked toward his bag in the corner and pulled out a movie. When he walked over to me, I saw what it was and I can’t deny I was a little... well, appalled, to be sure, but disappointed is the word I’d use. “I love this movie. It’s so funny and smart. It’s about these kids who go to this college that this other guy makes up. Ingenious.”

He stared at me animatedly. He really loves “Accepted”. So unfortunate. “All right, let’s put it in!” I mocked enthusiasm. The fact that I knew I’d hate this movie was just going to push plan “get close to Chris” further up on the timeline. Like, immediately. I took the DVD out of the case and put it in the player when he said:

“Oh, play the fullscreen version. I hate the bars on the top and the bottom of the screen that cut my movie in half.”

The look on my face as I turned around must have been too much to handle because he really let loose at that point. He had a beautiful laugh, but I loved that it emanated from a style of humor I could get along with. “That look was priceless,” he said. “Just so you know, I would never have been able to sit through that movie. I’m amazed you were going to watch it with me. You’re sweet, really.” He got up from the couch and walked over to the bag. Apprehensively, I looked as he handed me the DVD. Thank goodness.

“This is much better.”

“That’s a given.”

I took “American Beauty” out of its case and put it in the player, pleased that he went all out on his movie choice. He was right, it did reveal a lot about him. Like that he liked good movies and wasn’t afraid to let me know. I might have balked at “favorite movie” of all time and brought something a little more benign to a first date, but he was gorgeously honest.

“You really did bring your favorite movie, didn’t you?”

“Of course. That’s what you’d asked, and you don’t strike me as the type of person who’d be glib or say things just to say them. You calculate everything pretty well. It was an easy choice. But that didn’t stop me from deciding I wanted to see how you’d handle it if my taste in movies were unarguably terrible.” We both laughed.

“So, how did you decide on ‘Accepted?’ Or did you just choose something that looked awful?”

“Oh no, I went right to the source. I asked my roommate, the one who isn’t really my friend, what movie he’d seen recently that was pretty awful. He came up with that one right away. And his movie taste is all kinds of awful. His favorite movie is ‘Jaws 4.’”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. My friend has refused to watch movies with him. Either he chooses a terrible movie, or he complains that ‘American Beauty’ is about a sick man who wants to have sex with a high school prostitute. His words.”

“So, he clearly got, what, thirty minutes into the movie?”

“If that. I’ve stopped arguing with him. He also thinks that widescreen-formatted movies are a conspiracy invented by movie distributors. He actually said to me, ‘I paid for the whole movie, not half of it.’ It’s ridiculous.”

By this point, I was doubled over. I managed to wheeze out, “That’s awful!” but he wasn’t done.

“He’s a piece of work. Don’t even get me started on subtitles. My friend and I were watching ‘Amelie’ for class and he comes into the room. First, he’s pissed off because we didn’t invite him to watch. And when I tell him it’s a foreign movie so we figured he wouldn’t be interested, he gets pissed off again because we were so presumptuous. Of course he likes foreign movies now, because he wants to be difficult. Then, he sits down and not three seconds later, he’s like ‘Wait. I gotta read this movie? That’s so stupid,’ before storming out of the room to go listen to some music. Rihanna, of course. Then,” he said emphatically, crescendoing himself into a frenzy, “he enters the living room again (and we’ve already rewound the part we missed due to his being an idiot) and stands in front of the TV and asks, ‘Why don’t you watch normal movies?’ because anything foreign is abnormal, apparently, and says, ‘Well, I just hope that they keep making American movies for Americans.’ Oh, by the way, his patriotism is like... verbal ipecac. Everything’s all ‘America this America that.’ No surprise that he constantly asks me why I’m studying French. He wants to know why everyone doesn’t just speak American.” He paused. “I think that’s the real reason I’m saddened by my living situation; I mean, how can my friend want him and not me? That have nothing, and I mean nothing, in common.” He got really quiet as I came down from my laughing fit. “Ugh, I’m sorry. That was really lame of me. Complaining about my problems when you’re right here. And obviously interested in me. And the worst part is, it’s reciprocal.”

I stared into his eyes, hopeful and distracted by his own thoughts, and scooted in closer to him in the couch. “I am interested in you. Greatly. But I’m not going to try to sort your feelings out for you, and I’m not going to push you one way or the other. I’m just going to be here for you whenever you need someone, and you’ll figure it out. You can’t not. Let’s just watch the movie for now.”

“That’s a plan. You have seen this movie before, right?” he asked in a challenging tone.

“Not as many times as ‘Accepted’ but it’s enjoyable nonetheless.”

“Funny.” We were already sitting pretty close to one another on the couch as we were talking, but he started to recline a little more, lengthwise on the couch, which moved his torso closer to me. When his head reached my shoulder, he asked, “Is this alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” I whispered, the feeling of his head against my shoulder left me almost speechless, especially the way it seemed to fit so perfectly, with the short hairs on the top of his head brushing against my neck and chin.

“Good.” His arm crossed my stomach and wrapped around my back and lay there. I will not deny that this closeness was exciting me. Almost too much. I hoped the movie would cool me down some, and even though I wasn’t that uncomfortable, I must have looked it, for he asked, “Do you need to move?”

“A little, yeah.” I moved myself lengthwise onto the couch as well, so that I was in the front half of the couch and he was perpendicular to me, and behind. Though he had to move slightly to accommodate my changing position, his hand never left me. He was good. I already felt so... needed. And close. And necessary.

The light outside was fading slightly, creating a slightly more romantic atmosphere in the living area. Regardless of this, and my ever-increasing happiness at our closeness, I was content to let him make the moves to do what he wanted—or didn’t want— to do. I wasn’t going to start anything. The movie itself was just two hours long, but with all the food and wine in me, I began to tire. I dozed for a short time and I awoke to gentle breathing against my neck. How long the movie had been on the title screen I didn’t know, but either Chris didn’t finish the movie, either, or he was in no hurry to get up and turn the TV off. I was in no rush to wake him up, so I reached for the remote on the table and had just about grasped it when I felt him stir.

“Hey there,” he said, unsteadily and groggily, and as his words vibrated across my neck I felt more turned on than I had in a long time.

Fuck, I thought, but I responded coolly, “Hey. I was trying not to wake you. Sorry. You can always go back to sleep if you want.”

“I was having the best dream,” his eyes and voice penetrated me with their insistence. “I was in your bed with you, and you were holding me. And it was so peaceful. In the best dream of my life, I was having the best sleep of my life. I think that means I need to go to bed,” he laughed softly and it reverberated through his body and it coursed through mine. Normally, I would have felt as though I needed to get off just to stay sane, but here, in this moment, I felt something greater. Wanting to be next to Chris was more important than my body’s fervent desire. In this moment, my emotions were winning a challenging battle and I was thrilled that he’d given me—given us—the opportunity.

“You’d make me so happy if you were in my arms, in my bed. We could make that dream come true.” I was immediately stricken by the cheese factor of what I’d said. “That was totally cliché, but I think you understand what I mean.”

“Yeah. I do” His face neared mine and for a second I wondered if, if he were going to kiss me, I would be able to stop there, in my current state. But such was my overwhelming desire just to make this boy happy, that I didn’t worry about losing control. His lips touched mine and fuck if I didn’t nearly jump. They were as soft as I’d imagined they would be, but he was purposeful. There was a gentleness in his kiss that didn’t disappear when I offered my own tongue to it. His lips grabbed and massaged it as it found its way into his mouth, to be met by his own. With my heart beating insistently and with an ever-increasing pace, he lightly nipped my upper lip and I moaned. Not lightly, not accidentally. It was deep and intense and he forced it out of me. To say this was the best kiss I’d ever had mightn’t be entirely true, but to say it was the best first kiss I’d ever had from someone, well... there was no competition. He felt comfortable controlling how things were going (which was a nice change of pace for me) and I was content to let him go. I was participating, of course, but he was in charge. After what seemed like an awfully long time, but far too short a time, he broke off the kiss. My mouth instinctively followed his upwards, but when the contact ended I opened my eyes and found myself to be looking into his. He kissed my forehead, saying, “Thank you for that.”

Trying not to be flippant, even though I felt like I was the one who should be thanking him, I responded, “Anytime.” He smiled and without thinking, I just said it: “To me, you are beautiful.”

“Aww. Thank you. It’s a cute sentiment, even if it did come from a movie.”

“I know. Sue me. I’d love if you stayed the night.”

“I was hoping you would.”

I stood up from the couch and extended my hand, which he grabbed. I pulled him up off the couch and into me. With his face just inches away from mine, I couldn’t resist giving him a little kiss before leading him into my bedroom. Once in the bedroom, I started to undress, since I was sincere about wanting to go to bed, and noticed Chris was doing the same. There was only a little light coming through the window from the moon, which made the grassy hill area outside my bedroom illuminate each night. Despite the lack of light, I could see his smooth body twist as he removed his shirt and the small hairs on his arms shone, reflecting the light in my direction. We stared at each other for a few seconds before I moved over to him and started to undo his pants. When I saw one of his hands instinctively move toward mine, I whispered, “I only want to take them off for you,” and I knelt (though I felt like I was genuflecting before this wonder) and slowly took of his pants, past his gorgeous, boxers-encased thighs and his calves and finally his delicate feet, which I uncovered one after another. The same short hairs that glistened on his arms, patterned his legs and I ran a hand up the front of his right leg as I stood up. “You are so gorgeous.”

His eyes moved downward and he wasn’t smiling, but rather I could hear his exhalations become more prominent. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

I tilted his head up to mine and kissed him lightly on his cheek, just below his eye, and said, “I really do. Come on.” I shucked off my jeans and hopped into my bed, looking toward him and holding my arms out to him. He followed me and nuzzled up close—almost surprisingly so— to me, with his head in my neck where I noted to myself again how natural it felt for it to be there, and I wrapped my arms around him and lay my head back on the pillow and said, simply, “Good night.”

 

[tomersh]

wow...i love it

 

[musicalgenius14]

Another amazing chapter... keep up the good work!

 

[Craiger]

What an awesome story. The romance and story line are like foreplay before sex. How nice it is to read and witness the beginnings of a young relationship that has led up to this point. I'm sure there will be some twists and turns, but for now I am completely satisfied with the romance. You are a very talented writer. Thank you for sharing this with us.

Craiger

 

[hardreader]

Your writing is so lyrical. The tone so appropriate to your story. Your storytelling is as gentle and thoughtful as your characters. I could go on and on. This is a fantastic story and I suspect will only get better. Please, don't rush the creative process you have unleashed. Better this story be told with grace than haste. You have a huge fan here already. I'm really impressed.

 

[harry113]

Thanks!
What a beautiful romance, moving along nice & gentle.
The longer chapter is great, please continue as you can
Harry

 

[testudfan]

Wow. I'm overwhelmed. I'm just sincerely pleased that I can share this with you all. Writing for me is such a cyclical process and every part of my story gets the exact same amount of attention. To some, it may seem overboard, but a friend of mine once told me that every word needs to make sense. Every word is deliberate, and if I can't understand how every word works together, it doesn't work for me. To say that I can't rush my writing is an understatement, because, first and foremost, I need to be more proud and pleased with what is going out than anyone else who reads it. In this way, I'm a lot selfish Some of you have already entreated me not to hasten, and there are no worries: everything goes out when it has my 13525 seals of approval.

I was feeling really happy today, so during my lunch, I worked on a little more, but it won't be up tonight, to be sure. Look for the next part in the next couple of days, though.

And again, thank you all for the kind words. It really serves as an inspiration; if a story isn't read, does it breathe?

 

[calmhunk]

I hardly ever post on these forums. Guilty of mostly being a lurker; however, I just had to comment on this story. I really do love this story. It is so sweet and amazing. I love your writing! Keep it up!

 

[BlueD]

testudfan, your story is....AMAZING. I love every chapter of it. And of course, like a typical human being, I have the urge of wanting more and more...of your story.

And I am still trying to imagine how this beautiful gorgeous Chris looks like.... is there going to be a description of him sometime or did I miss that part?

Anyway, I love your story!