Whole Lot of Nothing

This is the third chapter of the stories by Author Agent-N-. You can catch up on PART I and PART II. He now progresses into teen years when life gets mega complicated. Especially when you meet someone, and you know they want the same thing you want........but getting to the part when it might happen, makes for huge challenges. It's awesome, but it scary as hell.

-Eric

Story: “Whole Lot of Nothing”

There was a Senior in my class who sat next to me, and he was absolutely enthralling to me.  He was everything I was afraid to be; this blatantly gay guy who was banging a sleek girl Senior who looked like she was all of 30.  He was just fucking her to fuck her even though he was gay.  He wore whatever he wanted

without caring, his hair was a beautiful rich blond (dyed from dark brown), tall, self-confident but clearly disturbed.  His name was so mundane, but he was so exotic and expertly toxic.

 

John had these scars up his arms that I noticed pretty early on.  I was always naive, so it didn't occur to me that he was a cutter/burner.  I figured that, John being such a square peg, someone had inflicted these wounds on him, and I became incensed.  I wrote him an anonymous letter vowing revenge on his tormentor, and expressing my devotion and raptness with him, put it into an envelope, took it down to the office and used the secretary to call him to come pick it up during class change (I thought it was pretty hilarious to be using the office to deliver my faggotry).  I was, of course, certain he'd have no clue who wrote it, otherwise, I wouldn't have ever written it.

I sat next to him at a table of four, and couple days later, John leaned over to me, whispering, "I got your note."  His tongue flicked my ear as he leaned away again.  I thought I'd have a heart attack. How did he, wait how dare he do this, right here right now. But holy crap he knows!

For a while after that, things were pretty much the same as they had been. John sat there telling outrageous stuff to we three, I sat there enraptured, the other two Juniors at the table were generally astounded or disgusted.  Then, the teacher--and even though this is anonymous I just want to put in print that she was a goddamned bitch--changed the seating arrangements at the end of the semester.  Some self-impressed macho turd got put next to John, and he immediately objected, so I said I didn't mind sitting next to him again.  Oh, coy boy.  The teacher knew exactly what was up and she gave me the most disdainful look she could muster, but really it wasn't any more disdainful than every other look she gave me; she hated me and my sister.

Now I remember why things were different the second semester sitting next to John that the first: My sister was at the table with us in the first semester, but not the second.

 

So, at the back-center of the class, there we were.  We flirted almost constantly, but so discretely that only the teacher knew.  I really don't know how no one else noticed. Oh, they all knew John was gay, and they had all been calling me a faggot for years, but no one ever caught us.

John was the more adventurous of us, and he was constantly screwing with me. We'd be going over the FOIL method and suddenly his hand would be on my cock, rubbing over my jeans as I squirmed and tried to look nonchalant.  Once, he was biting his finger (a hangnail or something) and it started to bleed.  As I

watched him nursing it, he grabbed my worksheet and made a little blood blot on it, circled the stain, and wrote his initials followed by "HIV neg"--I shuddered with pent-up desire; he could've done anything to me.

I'll never forget one thing, when he leaned over like he was getting a pencil off the floor and licked my hand, right there with 25 homophobe kids and one disapproving bitch teacher in the very same room.

We almost always had one or the other of our hands on each other's thigh. When I thought the coast was clear, I'd cop a feel on him, but much less often than he did to me.  One day, I was just over the caution, and moved my hand around to his inner thigh, stroking and fingering his cock pressed against it in his tight jeans.  He sort of let out a long breath, but we were silent.  I moved my hand around to the small of his back, and got up under his shirt.  For all his devil-may-care about fondling my crotch, he'd never touched my skin and I'd certainly never touched his.  It was everything I thought, supple, tender. I moved down, under the elastic of his waistband, and ran my fingers up his crack for several minutes more.

When I sobered-up I removed my hand, realizing the-- hahaha!  realizing the danger of the situation.  The direness?  I don't know, you figure it out. Anyway, I got my hand off his heavenly ass, and he leaned over and whispered, "I loved it."  I turned my face into his leaned-over head and inhaled the scent of his hair.

Looking back that episode is so silly.  Neither of us got off, there can't be but so much pleasure in getting a finger run up your crack, but he said "I loved it" and it was the first time I had ever done anything quite so far. I figure he was lying.

Later, one day he'd been feeling me under the table, and I got a pass out of my binder.  I filled it out for the restroom, gave him a look, went to the teacher with it and looked at him again over my shoulder as I left the room.  I waited a few minutes, but he didn't arrive after me.  Most teachers didn't allow two students out of the room at once, but I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't come just because he didn't want to.  I was physically beyond the point of no return myself, so I went into the stall and jerked off furiously, the first time

I'd ever done it in school.  Whether he couldn't or just didn't come, I didn't care, I knew he had all the fuck he could get from his girlfriend and I was a doormat in every other aspect of life, anyway.

At one point, John had his wallet out, and I got him to get out his license so I could look at it.  The bell rang, and I ended up left with his license.  A certain percentage of you are giggling--oldest trick in the book, you're

saying--but I was (again) naive. It was Friday, I had no other classes with him since he was a Senior.  I started feeling bad he wouldn't have his license all week. So, I used his address to find his phone number online, called a few times and got no answer.After a few hours I decided to just take it to him (the ones who weren't giggling before now see what I mean, but I didn't put it together until 5 years later when my uncle was telling me about a girl who used the same trick on him).  He lived in a gated community, but I explained to the geriatric guard what had happened, and he gave me a knowing look (more knowing than I knew).

I found his house, and from the porch I could hear loud music. I rang the doorbell. Rang it again.  I guess I spent just under 10 minutes trying to get an answer, but in the end the music was too loud for him to have heard the bell. I balanced the license on top of the banister. What a retard, I should've just gone in.

I alluded that John was kind of disturbed, and he was. He had pretty wide swings, and eventually toward the end of the year Instant Messenger drama put an end to our fumbling fondling.  

 The closest I ever got to what I really wanted came a year after I graduated when a mutual friend forwarded me photos of John's dick that he'd sent her.  It wasn't really everything I'd imagined, but I'd still let him do anything to me. Pathetically, these little passes over the course of 18 weeks about 10 years ago are the most action I ever had before or since.

Submitted, Agent-N-