Smoking - Chapter 10
Title:: Smoking
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: A story, reaching back to the beginning like a twisted, curling whisp of smoke from a slow burning fire.
Disclaimer::Most characters are property only of themselves; I own the storyline and the writing. This is a work of ficiton; treat it as such.
Links
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
He was born on a Friday in late September. A fall baby, his grandmother said; fall babies were always the good ones. He’s a Libra, she said, he’ll be a good boy, so long as you do right by him.
His mother took comfort in her mother-in-law’s words and cuddled her new baby boy to her chest, her older boy perched in her husband’s arms. It was a few weeks until they could decide on a name; until they did, he was called Angel. Angel, because he was a Libra, he’d be a good boy, a cherub, a blessing.
By his fifth birthday, his grandmother had taken back every word she had said after his birth, and his mother raced around the house, inwardly cursing the demonic spirit that seemed to reside in her child. Or perhaps it was rather more impish than demonic. Either way, it seemed to be the bane of her life.
Brandon Cole Margera had been the prophesized calm, peaceful September baby until he reached the age of one and a half, and everything had gone downhill from there. And now, on his fifth birthday, he had discovered that by hurling his small body at the wall, he could make the most resounding noise he’d ever heard, a noise that echoed through the whole house, and a noise in which he delighted.
“Listen, PopPop, listen!”
His grandfather, the husband of the woman who had told his mother that he would be a veritable angel-child, watched with twinkling, amused eyes as his grandson threw himself once more at the wall for his own particular viewing pleasure.
“Didja hear it PopPop? Didja hear it go BAM!”
“Yes, Brandon, I heard it. Do it again, it’s a great noise!” He laughed to himself as his grandson did as he asked, ignoring the disapproving glares he was receiving from the women-folk. This time, as Brandon’s small five year old body crashed into the wall, a bloodcurdling screech was let off from his mouth, to the effect of a loud, wailed, “BAMMMMMMM!”
He loved the noise so much, he kept doing his act all through the day, until he wore himself out and fell asleep on the couch, his head in his mother’s lap, his thumb quite determinedly stuck in-between his cherub-like lips - the only part of him, his mother thought, that remained anything like angelic.
His grandfather chuckled at the sight of him as he eased himself onto the couch next to his mother.
“You know what he looks like, of course, April.”
“The little devil-child that he is?” she asked in return, fondly smoothing his brown hair away from his sweaty face.
“No. BamBam, from the Flintstones, you know? The one with the club, that goes around yelling “BAM” all the time, smashing things up?”
April looked at her little boy, resting in her lap, and she had to smile.
“I guess he does, doesn’t he? Certainly sounds like BamBam…” They both smiled as their impish angel thrashed around on April’s lap in his sleep, presumably trying to get comfortable. And when he muttered the single syllable, “bam”, under his breath, they chuckled together - the name stuck.
----------
My story isn’t the most interesting of all. It may seem that way to some people. To the people who sit in their dreary houses watching my TV show, it may seem like my life is the most interesting that could ever be.
But in reality, it’s not. It’s not anything like what it could have been - my life, I mean. It could have been so much different. So much more… fulfilling. Satisfying. Gratifying. Worthwhile.
Unfortunately, I learned much too late that thing which I now know is the most important quality of all - pride in who and what you are.
And I promise you, I promise all those people who watch my mediocre attempts at being remotely interesting from the comfort of their sofas, that my life would have been much more worth the telling if I had learnt that lesson more than 10 years earlier than I actually did.
----------
It happened when I was 12 years old.
My friends - a motley bunch of ragamuffins, the outcasts, a ragged, spastic bunch of idiots - had started talking about sex months before. Girls were the only things on their minds. We were neighborhood friends, we had no secrets; they were comparing sizes before we ever even got to the 6th grade, talking about their bedroom experiences with their own hands. And whilst I joked around with them, anything I told them was a lie. I was too ashamed, even at the age of 12, to admit that I had never had a hard-on, with the exception of a few mornings, when, by the time I woke up, the show was long over with anyways.
The thing was that whenever I sat down with them to watch their smuggled porn tapes or look at their dads’ magazines, I just couldn’t get as into them as they did. They didn’t excite me, and I certainly had no desire to go home and spend hours in contemplation of the plastic breasts and shining legs of the nameless beauties in Playboy magazine. I was far more interested in making things explode.
And that passion - the passion for loud noises, dirt, and making my mother scream - was exactly the reason why I didn’t even stop to think that there might be something different about me. I just took into account what my mother said with reference to the baby fat that I still had and vehemently hated - that these things took time, and that everyone grew at different rates, but that I’d be grown up way too soon and I should relish my childhood as much as I could. I agreed wholeheartedly; I liked being a kid.
But when I was 12 and a half years old, something happened to me, and I was never the same kid again.
My brother’s best friend was two years older than me, and he was from Ohio. He’d moved to West Chester with his family that year and had instantly attached himself to JessJess. And, since Jess’ friends were my friends too, Ryan and I spent a good deal of time with each other. I liked him, because unlike the rest of Jess’ friends, he treated me like someone of his own age, and he was even older than Jess and his other friends.
Ryan was funny, but he was smart too - and I respected that. He also seemed to like me a lot, even though I was two years younger than him. He’d call up, even when Jess was out, and come over to hang out. We were pretty close. He was probably the closest friend I had - the others were close, but we had a rather more destructive relationship; in other words, the main thing holding us together, besides loyalty, was our mutual love of wreaking havoc.
But Ryan actually listened to my opinions on things, my thoughts… which everyone else I knew, including my own mother, dismissed without even considering.
It was the best half-year of my life… until I finally realized what was wrong with me.
I’d been outside all day, skateboarding, until Ape called me in for dinner - on the one condition that I showered first.
So I ran upstairs and into the shower room, thinking nothing of just barging in.
Until I realized that the shower was already occupied, and that the glass was very see through, and that Ryan was very naked behind it.
As my young, ill-favored luck would have it, he shut the water off just as I turned to make a silent escape, and saw me standing there, staring open-mouthed, not really knowing what to do.
“Uh, Bam?”
“Dude, I’m so sorry, I didn’t… I mean I thought it was empty and… gotta shower, ya know, Ape told me to, and …”
All I could think was, why isn’t he putting a towel on? Cover up, cover up, cover up, I can’t stop staring!
“I mean, yeah… sorry for… you know… I’ll go now…”
But Ryan just snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Dude, Bam, chill. It’s not like you ain’t seen it before.” And then he proceeded to step, still unabashedly naked, out of the shower and into the small space of the bathroom next to me, rummaging around for a towel. And so help me God, I couldn’t stop staring at him.
And that’s when it happened. That was the first time I really felt my blood start rushing downwards, my temperature rise and my pants became unbearably tight.
“You gonna get in the shower or what? I just need to brush my teeth and stuff… if you don’t mind, that is?” Ryan was acting like this was nothing, acting like he hadn’t noticed the growing bulge in my pants. I gulped, prayed that he hadn’t, that he wasn’t interested, and half nodded, half squeaked my answer whilst I pulled my clothes off and hastily jumped in the shower as fast as I could so that he had no chance of seeing me, of seeing my reaction to him.
I think I tried to drown myself under the showerhead whilst he was still in the bathroom with me. I couldn’t understand it. Why now? Why because of him? Ryan Dunn, of all people?! The gruffest boy we knew - from Ohio, for Christ’s sake.
But as soon as the door shut behind him, I was grabbing for myself, pulling as hard and fast as I could, eyes clenched shut, the image of Ryan’s body behind the glass of the shower playing over and over again in my mind, the picture of him bent over in front of me, searching for a towel, his skin glistening with droplets of water, his cock lazily at half-mast - uninterested and yet alive and oddly delicious looking to me…
And for the first time in my conscious life I came, shuddering into my own hand, as tears started to leak down my cheeks, mixing in with the water from the showerhead.
Because it had all become suddenly and shockingly clear to me in those past 10 minutes: I was gay. Undeniably, unquestionably, indisputably gay.
And I really, really didn’t want to be.
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: A story, reaching back to the beginning like a twisted, curling whisp of smoke from a slow burning fire.
Disclaimer::Most characters are property only of themselves; I own the storyline and the writing. This is a work of ficiton; treat it as such.
Links
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
He was born on a Friday in late September. A fall baby, his grandmother said; fall babies were always the good ones. He’s a Libra, she said, he’ll be a good boy, so long as you do right by him.
His mother took comfort in her mother-in-law’s words and cuddled her new baby boy to her chest, her older boy perched in her husband’s arms. It was a few weeks until they could decide on a name; until they did, he was called Angel. Angel, because he was a Libra, he’d be a good boy, a cherub, a blessing.
By his fifth birthday, his grandmother had taken back every word she had said after his birth, and his mother raced around the house, inwardly cursing the demonic spirit that seemed to reside in her child. Or perhaps it was rather more impish than demonic. Either way, it seemed to be the bane of her life.
Brandon Cole Margera had been the prophesized calm, peaceful September baby until he reached the age of one and a half, and everything had gone downhill from there. And now, on his fifth birthday, he had discovered that by hurling his small body at the wall, he could make the most resounding noise he’d ever heard, a noise that echoed through the whole house, and a noise in which he delighted.
“Listen, PopPop, listen!”
His grandfather, the husband of the woman who had told his mother that he would be a veritable angel-child, watched with twinkling, amused eyes as his grandson threw himself once more at the wall for his own particular viewing pleasure.
“Didja hear it PopPop? Didja hear it go BAM!”
“Yes, Brandon, I heard it. Do it again, it’s a great noise!” He laughed to himself as his grandson did as he asked, ignoring the disapproving glares he was receiving from the women-folk. This time, as Brandon’s small five year old body crashed into the wall, a bloodcurdling screech was let off from his mouth, to the effect of a loud, wailed, “BAMMMMMMM!”
He loved the noise so much, he kept doing his act all through the day, until he wore himself out and fell asleep on the couch, his head in his mother’s lap, his thumb quite determinedly stuck in-between his cherub-like lips - the only part of him, his mother thought, that remained anything like angelic.
His grandfather chuckled at the sight of him as he eased himself onto the couch next to his mother.
“You know what he looks like, of course, April.”
“The little devil-child that he is?” she asked in return, fondly smoothing his brown hair away from his sweaty face.
“No. BamBam, from the Flintstones, you know? The one with the club, that goes around yelling “BAM” all the time, smashing things up?”
April looked at her little boy, resting in her lap, and she had to smile.
“I guess he does, doesn’t he? Certainly sounds like BamBam…” They both smiled as their impish angel thrashed around on April’s lap in his sleep, presumably trying to get comfortable. And when he muttered the single syllable, “bam”, under his breath, they chuckled together - the name stuck.
----------
My story isn’t the most interesting of all. It may seem that way to some people. To the people who sit in their dreary houses watching my TV show, it may seem like my life is the most interesting that could ever be.
But in reality, it’s not. It’s not anything like what it could have been - my life, I mean. It could have been so much different. So much more… fulfilling. Satisfying. Gratifying. Worthwhile.
Unfortunately, I learned much too late that thing which I now know is the most important quality of all - pride in who and what you are.
And I promise you, I promise all those people who watch my mediocre attempts at being remotely interesting from the comfort of their sofas, that my life would have been much more worth the telling if I had learnt that lesson more than 10 years earlier than I actually did.
----------
It happened when I was 12 years old.
My friends - a motley bunch of ragamuffins, the outcasts, a ragged, spastic bunch of idiots - had started talking about sex months before. Girls were the only things on their minds. We were neighborhood friends, we had no secrets; they were comparing sizes before we ever even got to the 6th grade, talking about their bedroom experiences with their own hands. And whilst I joked around with them, anything I told them was a lie. I was too ashamed, even at the age of 12, to admit that I had never had a hard-on, with the exception of a few mornings, when, by the time I woke up, the show was long over with anyways.
The thing was that whenever I sat down with them to watch their smuggled porn tapes or look at their dads’ magazines, I just couldn’t get as into them as they did. They didn’t excite me, and I certainly had no desire to go home and spend hours in contemplation of the plastic breasts and shining legs of the nameless beauties in Playboy magazine. I was far more interested in making things explode.
And that passion - the passion for loud noises, dirt, and making my mother scream - was exactly the reason why I didn’t even stop to think that there might be something different about me. I just took into account what my mother said with reference to the baby fat that I still had and vehemently hated - that these things took time, and that everyone grew at different rates, but that I’d be grown up way too soon and I should relish my childhood as much as I could. I agreed wholeheartedly; I liked being a kid.
But when I was 12 and a half years old, something happened to me, and I was never the same kid again.
My brother’s best friend was two years older than me, and he was from Ohio. He’d moved to West Chester with his family that year and had instantly attached himself to JessJess. And, since Jess’ friends were my friends too, Ryan and I spent a good deal of time with each other. I liked him, because unlike the rest of Jess’ friends, he treated me like someone of his own age, and he was even older than Jess and his other friends.
Ryan was funny, but he was smart too - and I respected that. He also seemed to like me a lot, even though I was two years younger than him. He’d call up, even when Jess was out, and come over to hang out. We were pretty close. He was probably the closest friend I had - the others were close, but we had a rather more destructive relationship; in other words, the main thing holding us together, besides loyalty, was our mutual love of wreaking havoc.
But Ryan actually listened to my opinions on things, my thoughts… which everyone else I knew, including my own mother, dismissed without even considering.
It was the best half-year of my life… until I finally realized what was wrong with me.
I’d been outside all day, skateboarding, until Ape called me in for dinner - on the one condition that I showered first.
So I ran upstairs and into the shower room, thinking nothing of just barging in.
Until I realized that the shower was already occupied, and that the glass was very see through, and that Ryan was very naked behind it.
As my young, ill-favored luck would have it, he shut the water off just as I turned to make a silent escape, and saw me standing there, staring open-mouthed, not really knowing what to do.
“Uh, Bam?”
“Dude, I’m so sorry, I didn’t… I mean I thought it was empty and… gotta shower, ya know, Ape told me to, and …”
All I could think was, why isn’t he putting a towel on? Cover up, cover up, cover up, I can’t stop staring!
“I mean, yeah… sorry for… you know… I’ll go now…”
But Ryan just snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Dude, Bam, chill. It’s not like you ain’t seen it before.” And then he proceeded to step, still unabashedly naked, out of the shower and into the small space of the bathroom next to me, rummaging around for a towel. And so help me God, I couldn’t stop staring at him.
And that’s when it happened. That was the first time I really felt my blood start rushing downwards, my temperature rise and my pants became unbearably tight.
“You gonna get in the shower or what? I just need to brush my teeth and stuff… if you don’t mind, that is?” Ryan was acting like this was nothing, acting like he hadn’t noticed the growing bulge in my pants. I gulped, prayed that he hadn’t, that he wasn’t interested, and half nodded, half squeaked my answer whilst I pulled my clothes off and hastily jumped in the shower as fast as I could so that he had no chance of seeing me, of seeing my reaction to him.
I think I tried to drown myself under the showerhead whilst he was still in the bathroom with me. I couldn’t understand it. Why now? Why because of him? Ryan Dunn, of all people?! The gruffest boy we knew - from Ohio, for Christ’s sake.
But as soon as the door shut behind him, I was grabbing for myself, pulling as hard and fast as I could, eyes clenched shut, the image of Ryan’s body behind the glass of the shower playing over and over again in my mind, the picture of him bent over in front of me, searching for a towel, his skin glistening with droplets of water, his cock lazily at half-mast - uninterested and yet alive and oddly delicious looking to me…
And for the first time in my conscious life I came, shuddering into my own hand, as tears started to leak down my cheeks, mixing in with the water from the showerhead.
Because it had all become suddenly and shockingly clear to me in those past 10 minutes: I was gay. Undeniably, unquestionably, indisputably gay.
And I really, really didn’t want to be.