Monsterhearts

[All characters in this story are 18. In fact, everyone in the world is 18. Happy 18th birthday, because everyone's 18th birthday is today.]

*

"I'll kill you after school, faggot," I whisper to him as we take our seats. And it's the last class of the day.

He gives me a tiny smile and a nod, like it's all his plan not mine. Class starts. My notes are all doodles of guns. This class I'll put the finishing touches on an M-60. I saw Die Hard 3 last week.

I didn't make the swim team. I didn't make any of the teams. I knew I had to get into one this year. Lunch has been difficult. Even impossible. The swim coach said "I don't know why you're here. You can barely swim." The other tryouts laughed at me. I was there because it was my last chance.

I'm not like everyone else, okay? I don't have anything special going for me. I'm just a regular guy, but I have to prove it. They say your life is a symphony but high school is the overture. If I'm not a real man the girls will laugh at me, and I've never had a girlfriend. It's senior year. I need to fix this. I don't want to be a loser for the rest of my life.

Beating up a faggot proves you're straight and macho. I know Quentin is a faggot. Everyone does. He bleaches his hair and waxes his arms. He has a pretty little face like a girl and sometimes I'd swear he's wearing makeup. Not a lot, just a little, a really subtle lipstick or something.

What kind of name is Quentin? This time of year all his shirts are mesh tank tops. He doesn't have back hair, doesn't have chest hair, doesn't have stomach hair, and his armpits are so clean and smooth and simple it's like they're airbrushed on the cover of those supermarket checkout magazines. He has to be plucking them or waxing them. No shave is that perfect. Everyone can tell.

Believe it or not, there are still goths at my school. Quentin's not popular, but he gets along with the goths. I don't get it. They're goth enough not to go emo or scene with the rest of the goths, but they hang out with a little blonde queer, and his name even starts with queer, who mostly wears white and doesn't have any jewelry. You'd think he'd have jewelry. He should wear a little faggot earring or something. Left is right, right is wrong.

The M-60 is coming out okay. I'm doing it two colors, black pen and blue pen. The blue's running out. With a red pen I could add a muzzle flash or blood. I wish I had an M-60. That might even be better than joining one of the teams. Fucking gun grabbers. I need to talk to that army recruiter again.

Class is over, finally. I can hear 35 backpacks zipping up. I put the M-60 away, the pens in the pen pouch. Quentin walks over to the front of my desk and leans on it. These are chair-desks, so it's only going to be stable as long as I'm sitting down, balancing him out. If I get up, it will flip over. Is he starting the fight like that? That's clever, but I think I can still beat a faggot.

"Are we still on for later?" says Quentin seriously.

"Just about now," I tell him with my jaw clenched, glaring at him, eyebrows down all the way.

"The room will clear out in a minute."

Oh god, I think some people are noticing us. I know what this sounds like. What this looks like. What this faggot looks like. I am almost going to say something to make what's really going on obvious, like that I'm going to break his face wide open. But I catch myself. If the teacher catches on, he might try to stop the fight.

I need this fight. I look into his eyes, his tender face with the big eyes and the small mouth and the skin, like everywhere on his body I can see, so perfect that I can't see a single mole or freckle or hair or even pore. Anywhere on it.

When that face is crying and bloody and ruined I'll be a hero. Every girl in this school will want to talk to me. "I didn't know you were so strong," they'll say. "So manly, so brave. You really got that little faggot, he made me sick. Do you think I'm pretty enough to touch you?"

The teacher has packed up and left. We can fight now. I want an audience. I want everyone to see me do it. They'll tell stories about it. That's how heroes are made. But Quentin is still leaning on my desk. I don't know exactly how to get up without taking a spill and making a fool of myself, at least at first. Even if I win the fight, and of course I will, what if I have a bloody nose or something and people think I look like a loser? I can't afford to spoil this.

About ten of the class are still in the room, but then somebody flings open the door and yells that two goth girls are making out in the parking lot. The place empties.

Quentin breaks eye contact and walks over to the door. We were staring at each other, like a staring contest. He looked away first. I broke his will. I get up, thinking about how I'm going to fight him in the classroom. I didn't plan on all these chairs being in the way. They're not good pick-up-and-hit-somebody chairs either.

Quentin flips the bolt on the door and pulls the shade down over the little window in the door. "Hold still," he says, walking toward me, "I'm gonna mess you up." But he doesn't say it like this means the fight started.

"What?"

"Just gonna tear your shirt a little," he says. "Otherwise how will anyone know you were in a fight? This way it looks like I fought back." And he grabs my collar with both hands and jerks one downward. It rips about a third of the way down. His knuckles on my skin tickle a little.

I am suddenly terrified, because I can feel a little extra heartbeat in my crotch. I can feel myself trying to uncoil out of my briefs. Am I still thinking about earlier, when I imagined what life's going to be like after I win? It's not visible yet, right? If Quentin sees it... who knows what he'll do? That faggot might kneel down and wrap his girly lips around it, and stroke it with his narrow little tongue.

Oh no. I think it's getting harder. If I was alone it would definitely be hard enough to start jacking. Not rock hard, but rubber hard. I can't tell if the tip is wet, but sometimes it's tricky to tell. What's happening to me? Maybe as he was sucking me off, Quentin would have one soft hand on my shaft, pumping it roughly up and down, his grip hard but nowhere near as hard as me, and maybe his other hand would be gently kneading my sack, carefully cherishing the balls inside, working me up to fill his mouth, or maybe it would be stroking my thigh, or tracing the inside edge of my leg with one finger, or playing on my stomach or chest, or slyly moving down from the top of my butt crack...

How the fuck is this happening to me. This is why I need a girlfriend. I am deprived and it's not right. It's warping me. Maybe knowing that Quentin is definitely a faggot slut is too much temptation or something. You're not supposed to be a virgin when you're 18!

And he's seen it. He's definitely seen it. He glanced right at it. I couldn't stop myself. It's straining so hard now, pulling everything forward so that the elastic on my shorts and briefs is barely even touching me in front. It's going to be rock hard and straight up the instant I let it out.

But maybe he didn't realize, because he just walks to the front of the room and shoves the lectern thing off the center table. It hits the floor with a cheap furniture bump, fiberboard and formica like everything else in school. He pushes the thing laptops hook up to for powerpoints off too, and that makes a quiet plastic breaking noise.

I move to the front of the room, fists clenched, arms straight down. Time to get control back.

Quentin takes off his shirt. Kicks off his pants. I didn't even see what happened to his shoes. He was, no this isn't possible I'm not seeing this I'm not looking at this, he was commando under his pants and his dick is soft and uncut. He is hairless. Not a single pube. I think mine is a little bigger but how can I tell when he's soft?

He sits on the edge of the table, lies back, and raises his legs. As if all that wasn't enough, his hands pull his ass cheeks apart. There's no dark ring around his asshole, no hair, and it looks as clean as his mouth. Pink, sealed tight, so pure and feminine it ought to have a clit in the center. Even glistening a little.

"What," I manage to say through my clenched throat, like it wasn't obvious what.

"Come on," says Quentin, and then he says something mean, which surprises me coming from him. "Or does a homo like you need a kiss before he gets off?"

I can't explain. There isn't a decision-making process for what I do next, none of it. There are no decisions. "Fuck you," I said, "I'm gonna fuck you."

I go to him. To the edge of the table. His smooth calves are against my shoulders. My torn shirt is half falling off but I'm dressed apart from that. I reach down, unzip, fumble with the fold-style fly in my briefs and finally just yank the crotch aside. My cock is screaming for attention. It's so hard my whole stomach feels tense along with it. It's trying to pull itself out of my body.

"Hold still," I say, my voice shaking, my hand on my base, my crown touching him, hot skin to hot skin, "I'm gonna mess you up."

"Go," says Quentin softly, his eyes on my face. I can feel how flushed I am.

I push it in. Move my hips forward like hips want to do. It's like nothing, nothing ever before. I can feel my hair standing on end. I can feel my balls doing something. Every muscle in my body quivering with waves of little tremors. I feel like I have no sense of balance anymore, only a sense of what I need to do to stay inside him. My breath is fast, shallow, completely irregular. I'm only halfway in.

"All the way," says Quentin, "I packed it with lube for you."

"W-w-what?" I say, derailed. "When?" I didn't see him do that.

"Fifth period."

In my brain I am trying to realize something, but the pieces aren't clicking, the thoughts aren't moving. Only my dick is moving, deeper into him. It feels like all over my body, patches of heat and cold are moving along my skin. "Quentin," I say stupidly, mindlessly, lustfully.

Quentin grunts as my zipper touches his ass. It's a cute little grunt from a gorgeous mouth, and I want to hear it again, fuck him hard enough to make him do it again. I am realizing that Quentin is being a girl for me better than I ever imagined a real girl being. Real girls can't even do this. How could they be this sexy, how could I need them this much. All my porn was wrong. I am all the way, all the way in. This is my first time that I will always remember.

The doorknob rattles.

I am instantly filled with horror. My life is over. I may have most of my clothes on but there can be no doubt at all that I'm penetrating the delicious male ass of this delicious male boy, this bare naked fag bait tangled up with me, feet around my head. There's nothing to say, no excuse to make to anyone. But he was a tease, how could I resist? Well, if I was straight it would have been no problem.

They say a heart attack is like an elephant stepping on your chest. Is this a heart attack. God, if you're real, please God, please let me have a heart attack or a stroke and die right here. Don't make me live the rest of my exposed faggot life.

"Hey," says a girl's voice from beyond the door, "is there anybody in there?" And I remember that Quentin bolted the door.

Quentin gives me his Mona Lisa smile and holds one finger to his lips.

"Forget it," says another girl out in the hall. "You can get your bag Monday."

"But the DVD's in my bag!"

"Yeah, but in the other case, right?"

"Of course, but what if they look?"

Quentin playfully licks his finger, then bites it. I let a whimper slip out and clamp my hand over my mouth.

"Why would anybody look? Why would anybody open the bag? You're fine."

"I just don't wanna take any chances."

"Well I'm your ride, and I'm not going to spend my afternoon hoping a janitor will come by and open this door."

"What if I get expelled?"

"You won't. You can deny everything. Is there even anything in the bag that says it's yours?"

The voices have gotten fainter and fainter. After that I can't hear them anymore.

"Okay," says Quentin, "let's take it from the top." And he snickers. No girl's sexy giggle compares to that. That dirty double meaning, that dirty laugh.

I put my hands on his hips. His legs are on my arms, making contact all the way down. Skin to skin. I pull back an inch, cautiously, and it's smoother and easier than I thought it would be. Yes, it's tight, but it's so, so slippery.

Oh, my heart is racing so furiously. Like a hummingbird's. It could run a lawnmower. God, don't let me have a heart attack. Don't let me die. Those uncontrollable twitches are worse than ever and it feels like along with my cock in Quentin's butt I might have a finger in an electrical socket too, and my chest in a hydraulic press and my stomach in a centrifuge, but don't let it be a stroke or epilepsy or anything but sex. Let me feel this good and live.

In the middle of my second thrust I stop. I am staring, through my goosebumps and brain haze, at Quentin's dick. It's only half-hard. Dreamlike, I touch it, with the first two fingers on my right hand. It's rubber, not rock. I'm way past rock right now. I can feel the drooling glandular ache of precum leaking out as fast as it can.

Quentin understands, I think. "Don't worry," he says. "That's normal for anal." I am proud to hear a hitch in his voice. He's feeling this too.

I put my hands back on his hips and brace myself. I don't know if I want to finish or I want it to last. The only thing that's kept me from emptying it is that it's too much, too much stimulation to come right away. It's overwhelming. Maybe if I go fast enough I can keep it that way.

But trying to pound Quentin as fast as I can just overwhelms me more, to the point where I can't keep a steady stroke, just frantic jabs. I settle naturally into a slower rhythm, and I can feel the slow rise of a climax surging in my pelvis. Slow, but too powerful, not just a wave but the whole tide. Already the toes in my shoes are curled up under my feet. My neck feels like it wants to thrust along with my hips. The way back teeth swim in pee when you need to, my back teeth are swimming in jizz right now.

There can't be any bullshit about this. I am not curious about having sex with this boy my age, I am junkie level needy. I'm not bisexual, I've never felt this way about or with a girl. It's not an experiment, it's the only thing I can think about, maybe the only thing I'll want from now on. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm a faggot.

What if my new thing is about being an out faggot, too brave to care? No. What if my new thing is about flying under the radar and keeping this a secret? I don't have to worry about impressing girls if Quentin will be my secret faggot girlfriend. Only he's not a girl. He may be catching, but girls don't catch. I don't know or care what girls do. If one boy is pitching, another is catching. Both faggots. I am gay for Quentin, my secret faggot boyfriend. This is all I need.

Before I'm ready, it's happening. I am having my climax in him. I am looking deep into his big eyes, and the whiplash of the first shot is bursting through my whole body, the leading edge of the rolling muscle clench in my urethra stinging like a wasp. How long is that going to be sore, I wonder. Weeks?

I am getting goosebumps harder than I thought possible, and in weird places. Up the sides of my scalp, and the hot and cold patches are searing my whole body, shifting wildly as I feel them. Nothing in the world could stop my fuck movements right now, I am slamming it into his rectum completely on autopilot. I can't really see anything but his face anymore. The most beautiful face I have ever seen or even imagined. His expression is calm and in control, but with subtle hints of excitement.

I am covered in sweat, slippery with it. My palms are clammy on him. Salt burns my eyes, but I can't blink. I am jetting it into him, my first time wad. I can feel not just how much of it there is, but how thick it is. All along me, as far back as my taint, maybe even a little in my asshole, the contractions feel good. I imagine the head of my dick held over a lighter, the flame reaching thousands of degrees, but if the pain somehow felt good it would be like now. My balls are clenching up so tight I can feel them at the base of the shaft. It's all still going. I feel sick to my stomach. I don't know if I'm ever going to stop ejaculating.

Quentin jolts forward, off the table, up toward my face. For an instant I think he is about to kiss me. Then blinding pain cuts through my orgasm, cuts it short. I never understood the idea of blinding pain before. My eyes are open but my vision goes away. I can't think about anything but the need to move away from something terrible and agonizing around my head.

The next moment I can really process anything, I'm on the floor, a leg and an arm bent under me. There's blood, a lot of it. The right side of my neck hurts like I have never hurt anywhere before. I am looking up at Quentin standing over me. He is still gloriously naked, but with two important differences. One, his ass is stretched wide open, and I can see a chain of thick white globs stretching down his inner thigh. Those are mine. Two, he has an erection. I was right, it's not quite as big as mine, but it's shaped just right and it looks so horny. I want to kiss it, lick it, taste it. I want it in my mouth. Something bad is happening to me, but please, let me touch that with my mouth and I'll be okay. Everything will be okay. Oh, but three, and now he is smiling, a big perfect open-mouthed grin, his breath through it excited, excited through the blood. My blood. But his eyes, they say that you can tell if a person is smiling for real because the corners of their eyes will tighten and they will have happy eyes. But Quentin does not have happy eyes. They are huge and round and staring, staring, staring. Right at me.

He drops to his knees, one knee on either side of me, nuzzles his face into my neck, and chews. My free arm moves up to push him off, but he grabs it around the elbow and shoves it to the ground. I can't move anything else. I'm not clear on how much time is passing.

He stands up. I can't move my head, but I can feel him rise off me. There are some noises. I hear the door open and close and assume he's gone.

If I was going to survive, this would be the perfect time to get up and call an ambulance.

Impossible.

If I really, really fight to do it, I can just barely focus my eyes on the only thing in my field of vision, the wall clock.

I live for almost 14 more seconds, and then, I don't.