Random HSM fanfic - Chapter 3
He was up and out of his chair again - this time reaching for his secret stash of cigarettes. They were his one guilty pleasure. He knew they were bad for him and the singer inside him was appalled at the prospect, but he went through them at a pace of about 1 pack a year so he wasn’t overly concerned.
Ryan leaned on the balcony railing while he smoked, not wanting to pollute the apartment with the smell. It was good to be back in New York. There was a gritty reality to New York that L.A. lacked. There was only so much plastic and fakeness Ryan could stand before he was begging to come back. It was impressive he lasted the entire year there, and most of that was sheer bull-headed determination. He flicked the cigarette butt over the railing and returned to the computer. Now, where to begin…
I am Gay. Ryan took a sip of water and continued to type. I’ve known I was gay for as long as I can remember. My oldest memories involve Shar (my twin sister) and me looking through magazines and gushing over the cute boys therein.
My parents were concerned. They were supportive of any preferences I had (though my dad struggled sometimes, and often found it easier to let my mom deal with me), but they wanted to make sure I was truly ‘that way’ (as my father said) and not just mimicking Shar. That was the first and only time Shar and I were sent to separate activities. Shar took up swimming and I was sent to baseball. We were nine at the time and this kept up until we were thirteen. That is not to say Shar and I were completely segregated. We still had dancing, singing, acting and gymnastics together, and our rooms were connected through the playroom.
Little known fact about me: I was scary good at baseball. I broke the record for pitching no hitters when I was nine (for my age group). Seems all those dance lessons helped me learn the various body motions and arm twists required to master a variety of different pitches. No one in our area could bat against me.
When I was twelve they drafted me into the little league world series. The reason the story of my temporary foray into the world of sports is being told alongside my earliest memories of gayness is because this is when I discovered my type. Everyone has a type after all - some prefer blonds, others prefer eyeliner, I preferred jocks. In what was probably the stupidest thing I could do, I started to be attracted to some of my team-mates. There was something about the rush of a game well played combined with a group of sweaty boys jumping all over each other that never failed to turn me on.
I was sure to keep my eyes averted in the change rooms, kept my blushing to a minimum and ran our as quickly as possible. I wasn’t stupid, I’d heard all the locker room talk, and I’d seen the PBS specials. I knew what they would do if they realized someone ‘like that’ was in their midst. I could never give them any indication that I was any different than them, and pretending all the time was incredibly draining.
No one ever noticed (thank goodness for the obliviousness of the teenage boy). We were champions that year and I got a nifty ring and everything. I still have it in a jewellery box somewhere. Every once in a while, I’ll take it out and look at it, remembering for a moment that I could easily be someone else. Usually around the same time, I would try to teach R.J. some of my easier pitches.
Ryan looked at the last two sentences and then erased them. He hadn’t talked about R.J. in this draft so he couldn’t include him in the story yet.
No one ever noticed (thank goodness for the obliviousness of the teenage boy). We were champions that year and I got a nifty ring and everything. I still have it in a jewellery box somewhere. Then I quit. I gave the team some gibberish about having too many activities and quitting while I was ahead. They bought it, and each and every one of them signed my glove.
Shar was livid. I explained numerous times why I had to let baseball go, but she couldn’t get past the fact that I had to give up something I ‘kicked ass’ at (her words, not mine) over the prejudices of some ‘narrow minded tall people’ (I’m pretty sure this was the root of Shar’s disdain for all things athletic that Zeke fought so hard against all through high school).
I retreated into the world of drama and music. That was my thing, these were my people, and most importantly I had Shar with me and she would destroy anyone who even looked at my funny. I could be whoever I wanted in the theatre, so I chose to sparkle loudly and proudly.
That’s not to say I suddenly developed a taste for theatre boys. It was still the sweaty sporty ones who made appearances in my fantasies. I had the common sense to look and not touch though (and to get to gym early to avoid changing with the jocks).
That all worked very well for another four years, until I played baseball again.
It was such a stupid thing. For the first time in years, I got caught up in the machismo, in the one-upmanship. I was trying to convince them to dance in the talent show, but the truth was, for once, I wanted to show off just how good I could be in their world. I wanted them to know I could easily be one of them and I simply chose not to.
It was a hard fought game. I hadn’t practiced in years so I was relying mainly on muscle memory. The one person I couldn’t strike out was Chad Danforth (Yes, that Chad Danforth - NBA superstar and gay rights activist). Little known fact about Chad, he could have been just as successful in baseball. I revelled every time he would step up to the plate. The competitive part of me was loving every moment of it. I had found a true challenge. Always throwing my best pitches, I put my heart and soul into every throw. He would strike once, often missing completely. Strike again, a little closer this time, and the third time he would always compensate and the ball would sail overhead. He loved the challenge too; I could see it in his eyes.
I lost that game, but it was incredibly close. Gabriella got what she wanted; the jocks were in the talent show.
I don’t remember why, I guess we were cleaning up the equipment, but Chad and I were the last ones in the change room. Everyone else was long gone.
Adrenaline running high, having just played the best game of our lives, it was not really surprising what happened next. Instead of looking away and keeping my eyes averted like a good little gay boy, I locked eyes with Chad on the way to the lockers. When we stopped, I pulled my T-shirt over my head without breaking eye contact. I wasn’t really sure what was going through my mind in that moment, but I was challenging him, daring him. Our eyes were locked and I was dying to see what he would do.
Chad pushed me back into the lockers and all but stuck his tongue down my throat. His hands were on my bare sides, holding me in place while he pushed and ground against me. Maybe it was residual antagonism from the game, but instead of just enjoying it. I shoved back. Never breaking lip-contact, I forced him across the aisle until I was the one pinning him to the lockers. There was a lot of shoving and rubbing. It was sweaty and smelly and dirty. Afterwards we were spent and badly in need of a shower. It was perfect.
That was the only time I ever fooled around with a jock in high school. School started again and Chad went back to very publically dating Taylor (a girl) and he avoided being alone with me at all. I treated him like anyone else and generally left him alone…
Ryan picked up Bast and pointed him towards to screen. “What do you think? Too personal?”
The cat mewled in a tone which Ryan interpreted as affirmative.
With two clicks, the entire content was gone.
“So kitty, what should I write about now?” He asked ironically.
The cursor continued to blink at him. “I need a drink,” he said, hurrying to the kitchen to escape the eternal blinking.
Ryan leaned on the balcony railing while he smoked, not wanting to pollute the apartment with the smell. It was good to be back in New York. There was a gritty reality to New York that L.A. lacked. There was only so much plastic and fakeness Ryan could stand before he was begging to come back. It was impressive he lasted the entire year there, and most of that was sheer bull-headed determination. He flicked the cigarette butt over the railing and returned to the computer. Now, where to begin…
I am Gay. Ryan took a sip of water and continued to type. I’ve known I was gay for as long as I can remember. My oldest memories involve Shar (my twin sister) and me looking through magazines and gushing over the cute boys therein.
My parents were concerned. They were supportive of any preferences I had (though my dad struggled sometimes, and often found it easier to let my mom deal with me), but they wanted to make sure I was truly ‘that way’ (as my father said) and not just mimicking Shar. That was the first and only time Shar and I were sent to separate activities. Shar took up swimming and I was sent to baseball. We were nine at the time and this kept up until we were thirteen. That is not to say Shar and I were completely segregated. We still had dancing, singing, acting and gymnastics together, and our rooms were connected through the playroom.
Little known fact about me: I was scary good at baseball. I broke the record for pitching no hitters when I was nine (for my age group). Seems all those dance lessons helped me learn the various body motions and arm twists required to master a variety of different pitches. No one in our area could bat against me.
When I was twelve they drafted me into the little league world series. The reason the story of my temporary foray into the world of sports is being told alongside my earliest memories of gayness is because this is when I discovered my type. Everyone has a type after all - some prefer blonds, others prefer eyeliner, I preferred jocks. In what was probably the stupidest thing I could do, I started to be attracted to some of my team-mates. There was something about the rush of a game well played combined with a group of sweaty boys jumping all over each other that never failed to turn me on.
I was sure to keep my eyes averted in the change rooms, kept my blushing to a minimum and ran our as quickly as possible. I wasn’t stupid, I’d heard all the locker room talk, and I’d seen the PBS specials. I knew what they would do if they realized someone ‘like that’ was in their midst. I could never give them any indication that I was any different than them, and pretending all the time was incredibly draining.
No one ever noticed (thank goodness for the obliviousness of the teenage boy). We were champions that year and I got a nifty ring and everything. I still have it in a jewellery box somewhere. Every once in a while, I’ll take it out and look at it, remembering for a moment that I could easily be someone else. Usually around the same time, I would try to teach R.J. some of my easier pitches.
Ryan looked at the last two sentences and then erased them. He hadn’t talked about R.J. in this draft so he couldn’t include him in the story yet.
No one ever noticed (thank goodness for the obliviousness of the teenage boy). We were champions that year and I got a nifty ring and everything. I still have it in a jewellery box somewhere. Then I quit. I gave the team some gibberish about having too many activities and quitting while I was ahead. They bought it, and each and every one of them signed my glove.
Shar was livid. I explained numerous times why I had to let baseball go, but she couldn’t get past the fact that I had to give up something I ‘kicked ass’ at (her words, not mine) over the prejudices of some ‘narrow minded tall people’ (I’m pretty sure this was the root of Shar’s disdain for all things athletic that Zeke fought so hard against all through high school).
I retreated into the world of drama and music. That was my thing, these were my people, and most importantly I had Shar with me and she would destroy anyone who even looked at my funny. I could be whoever I wanted in the theatre, so I chose to sparkle loudly and proudly.
That’s not to say I suddenly developed a taste for theatre boys. It was still the sweaty sporty ones who made appearances in my fantasies. I had the common sense to look and not touch though (and to get to gym early to avoid changing with the jocks).
That all worked very well for another four years, until I played baseball again.
It was such a stupid thing. For the first time in years, I got caught up in the machismo, in the one-upmanship. I was trying to convince them to dance in the talent show, but the truth was, for once, I wanted to show off just how good I could be in their world. I wanted them to know I could easily be one of them and I simply chose not to.
It was a hard fought game. I hadn’t practiced in years so I was relying mainly on muscle memory. The one person I couldn’t strike out was Chad Danforth (Yes, that Chad Danforth - NBA superstar and gay rights activist). Little known fact about Chad, he could have been just as successful in baseball. I revelled every time he would step up to the plate. The competitive part of me was loving every moment of it. I had found a true challenge. Always throwing my best pitches, I put my heart and soul into every throw. He would strike once, often missing completely. Strike again, a little closer this time, and the third time he would always compensate and the ball would sail overhead. He loved the challenge too; I could see it in his eyes.
I lost that game, but it was incredibly close. Gabriella got what she wanted; the jocks were in the talent show.
I don’t remember why, I guess we were cleaning up the equipment, but Chad and I were the last ones in the change room. Everyone else was long gone.
Adrenaline running high, having just played the best game of our lives, it was not really surprising what happened next. Instead of looking away and keeping my eyes averted like a good little gay boy, I locked eyes with Chad on the way to the lockers. When we stopped, I pulled my T-shirt over my head without breaking eye contact. I wasn’t really sure what was going through my mind in that moment, but I was challenging him, daring him. Our eyes were locked and I was dying to see what he would do.
Chad pushed me back into the lockers and all but stuck his tongue down my throat. His hands were on my bare sides, holding me in place while he pushed and ground against me. Maybe it was residual antagonism from the game, but instead of just enjoying it. I shoved back. Never breaking lip-contact, I forced him across the aisle until I was the one pinning him to the lockers. There was a lot of shoving and rubbing. It was sweaty and smelly and dirty. Afterwards we were spent and badly in need of a shower. It was perfect.
That was the only time I ever fooled around with a jock in high school. School started again and Chad went back to very publically dating Taylor (a girl) and he avoided being alone with me at all. I treated him like anyone else and generally left him alone…
Ryan picked up Bast and pointed him towards to screen. “What do you think? Too personal?”
The cat mewled in a tone which Ryan interpreted as affirmative.
With two clicks, the entire content was gone.
“So kitty, what should I write about now?” He asked ironically.
The cursor continued to blink at him. “I need a drink,” he said, hurrying to the kitchen to escape the eternal blinking.