Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica by Unknown Read Free Book Online

across the coffee shop at Sundelin behind the counter he didn’t look at me. I stared out the window and saw a mom spank her kid. I saw a man drop his cell phone. I saw a garbage truck, someone driving a convertible Corvette, top down. I saw two people kiss. I put my head down on the table and sort of fell asleep. At two fifteen I scratched random thoughts on a napkin. Why is it the sun shines when you sit by a window? At two thirty, I remembered Jack. He had the sweetest face possible. Mom’s friends had teased her. You have two sons? Jack hadn’t been that much younger than her but he’d had the face, you know, a sweet face, and one afternoon I’d acted like a twerp at an ice-cream shop; my ice-cream cone had melted faster than I could lick it, and so I’d gotten frustrated about the ice cream, about the heat, about Jack and Mom, and so I’d said, “I hate this ice cream, it’s stupid.”
     
    And then Jack had said, “You’re the one who asked for a large.”
     
    So I’d said, “I didn’t ask for strawberry, Mom got me strawberry,” just because I’d wanted to test boundaries or something, and then Jack had taken me by the arm and pulled me out of the ice-cream shop before shoving me over the hood of the nearest car, in broad daylight, and hitting me on my ass. Smack .
     
    “So,” he said. Sundelin stood at the table.
     
    I blinked my eyes. Yeah, it was him. Maybe I even flinched. “Huh?” I said. Then, “Hi,” I said. My computer was still on, file open. I closed the lid on the laptop.
     
    Sundelin smiled. “Let’s go,” he said.
     
    “Where?” I’d already stood and turned off the laptop and put it into my bag and then gathered everything else and put my phone in my pocket even though it was vibrating, probably my roommate. I scooped up my empty coffee cup and felt how full my bladder was.
     
    Sundelin put his hand on my cheek. Under his nails he smelled like coffee. “Tell me your name,” he said.
     
    I told him. He liked it. I followed him to the bathroom. At the urinal, I felt myself smile. My piss was bright yellow before it disappeared down the bowl.
     
    “I need a roommate,” Sundelin said.
     
    “Oh, really?”
     
    “You’ll do the dishes,” he said.
     
    “Oh, right.” And then I stood at the urinal, unsure what to do with my dick.
     

AUGUST
     
    Michael Rowe
     
     
     
     
     
     
    O ne August evening just before sunset when I was twelve and he was fifteen, I came upon Angus Treleaven making love to a girl in the dunes. Or fucking a girl on the dunes. Fucking sounded manlier, more like Angus. It wasn’t a word I used then, and my twelve-year-old’s mind reached for making love , a phrase I’d heard my mother use to describe how she and my father made me and my sister. It sounded reverent, which is how I felt, watching. Fucking sounded dirty, and what I was seeing from my hiding place on the bluff above the dunes wasn’t dirty, it was a miracle.
     
    I didn’t know who the girl was, nor did I care. What I cared about was the way Angus looked as he lay on top of her, between her legs, holding her extended wrists in his chapped hands as he kissed her neck and her breasts, the way his white Adidas shorts with the red stripes gathered at his thighs. The way I could see the striated muscular indentations on each mound of his pale ass as he pumped, flexing with every thrust. The way the girl cried out in tandem with every gyration of his hips, every flex. Her every moan pierced my brain. Her slender tanned legs were wrapped around his bucking hips, drawing him in, urging him to push harder, deeper. I couldn’t see his face, but I’d seen him before, in town, and I recognized him from the shape of his head and the thick shock of red hair.
     
    Angus was a fisherman’s son, the eldest of the family who ran the fish and chips shop on Selkirk Street, near the wharf in Prothro, where my grandmother had her summer house. He had the hard muscles of a townie boy who