Zinger

Part One

I met Teddy Azinger - "Zinger" to almost everyone who knew him - the first day of my freshman year in high school. Zinger was the BMOC from get go. He looked older than the rest of us, and he had the bluest eyes any of us had ever seen. They were shockingly, almost frighteningly, blue. If I had not known differently, I'd have thought they were fake. They were that liquid. And, they danced when he smiled, which was almost all the time. Zinger had a big, broad smile, framed by full, red lips. And, it was simultaneously knowing and mysterious. Zinger may not have had a tiger by the tail, but he sure acted like he did.

For the next four years, he listened to music none of us had heard of, mixed drinks none of had tasted, and took drugs none of us could have gotten our hands on. And, he had whatever "it" is that makes people say "he has it." I do not know what that is, as I have never had "it." I have always been a little too furtive, a little too eager to please, a little too enthusiastic, a little too harried.

Zinger was none of those things. He was casual, always seemed comfortable, languid almost, and never hurried. He sat back and soaked it all in. He moved slowly and surely. He seemed like he knew stuff none of us knew, like he had experienced things none of us had, or ever would.

For most of high school, I hovered near Zinger's orbit. Both smart, we shared most classes. We studied together a little. We hung out together a little every now and then. We were friendly, but we were not really friends. I was the kind of person he nodded to in the hallway, not the kind of person he stopped to talk to.

Too many times, he caught me staring at him. Often, it was at his eyes. More often, it was at his body. Zinger was a committed runner and weight lifter, and his body thickened, thinned, and developed throughout high school. While I stayed small and shapeless, he filled out beautifully. By the time we were 18 year old seniors, he was 6 feet tall, weighed 180 pounds, and had virtually no body fat. He was both muscular and lean. He had masculine hands and feet that he kept up properly. The only thing that separated him from Adonis was the mat of hair that covered his chest and the path that flowed from it into his pants. I loved that mat and that path. I desperately wanted to follow it. I hoped with all I was that he did not sense my desperation.

Spring semester of our senior year, the Honors German students who could afford it traveled for three weeks to Germany. In our group, there were three boys and nine girls. Once we got to Frankfurt, we were joined by two groups from Minnesota, one from Blaine and one from Jackson. We shared the same bus and hotels for our three week trip.

The first night, we were in Rothenberg, a small village with a wall surrounding it. Zinger asked me to walk the wall with him. I went. It was snowing and beautiful, and it took us a long time to circumnavigate the village. Our walk was oddly intimate, as we both talked, but also felt no need to fill the stillness with talk. It made no sense to that Zinger had invited me, not his friend Steve or one of the girls who was pining for him. When the walk was over, Zinger shook my hand.

"I really enjoyed that," he said as he smiled into me.

"Me, too," I responded as I smiled back.

By design, Frau Lucinda put me, Zinger, and Steve in the same room that night. Surprisingly, the room had only a king bed, so we would be sleeping three across. Germany had no drinking age, so we were likely to be too drunk to care.

All of us went out. The German barkeepers responded to the American invasion with David Bowie's "This is not America." Zinger drank German beer all night. I did not like beer, much less warm, bitter beer. So, I drank vodka and orange juice. Steve did not drink at all.

By the time we returned to the room, Zinger and I were smashed. We both tugged off our shirts, pulled off our jeans, and collapsed onto the bed, wearing only our traditional white briefs. Steve climbed in to my right, leaving me in the middle.

Steve was objectively better looking than Zinger. He was a long-distance runner, and he had long, sinewy muscles that were covered in light blonde hair. He also had a chiseled jaw beneath dark brown eyes and wavy blonde hair. When he was out of school, he looked like a surfer. When he was in school, he looked like a scion.

But, Steve never moved me the way Zinger did. Steve just did not have "it." I would have blown him, but I was not hungry for him.

The hotel's steam heating system was banging away, and our room was hotter than Hades. Being drunk teenagers in Germany, we made lame gas chamber jokes and then laughed our asses off before passing out. When I woke up at 5 or so, I was covered in sweat. So, I kicked the covers off all of us. I immediately noticed that Zinger had his right hand tucked into his white briefs and was holding his dick. I watched him the rest of the night, as every once and again he gripped and then released his hard on. The next day, everyone assumed I was hung over, and I probably was. But, mostly, I was tired from watching Zinger squeeze and release his dick, when I should have gone back to sleep.

Two nights later, we were in a room with three twin beds. Only there were four of us: Me, Steve, Zinger, and Katie, a blonde from Jackson. Katie was in bed with Zinger. And, from the sound of it, she was having a good time. Zinger had the decency to wait until he thought Steve and I were asleep, but I had only pretended to be. Not long after he whispered my name without answer, I heard Zinger whisper "slip your panties off." Then, I heard some shifting around before Katie gasped, which I took to mean Zinger's hard dick had entered her. The room was too dark for me to see exactly what was going on, but it was light enough that I figured out that Katie had her legs almost straight up in the air as Zinger fucked her. As he did, her breathing quickened, and she started to make small, ragged noises. I gripped my own dick, imagining I was the one he was fucking. Listening to the slap of his dick slamming into her wet pussy, I was not going to last long. When Katie muttered "oh . . . oh . . . oh," I shot. When she whimpered "yes yes," I shot again. When Zinger grunted, I could almost feel his orgasm building in my own balls, and I shot a third time. Zinger collapsed onto Katie, exhaling loudly as he did. Before too long, she climbed out of the bed, and went to the bathroom to clean herself up. After she had, Zinger rolled onto his side and stared in my direction. For some reason, I thought he was staring right at me, and that he knew I had jacked off to the sound of him fucking Katie. But, I hoped not.

The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful. We toured during the day, drank ourselves silly at night, and passed out drunk here and there, only to repeat the same general pattern the next day. It was that way in Salzberg. It was that way in Heidelberg. It was that way in Munich.

It was that way until the last night, in Frankfurt. That night, we stayed sober, as we had a very early flight home the next morning, and none of us were seasoned flyers. Hungover for an 8 hour flight seemed like a bad plan.

As we checked into our hotel room, we were beat from a trip of drunken debauchery. Our room had one full bed and one twin bed. Steve immediately claimed the twin, leaving Zinger and me to share the full. When we climbed into bed in only our underwear, Zinger did what he normally did, sliding his hand into his briefs and gripping his dick. I had to ask.

"What's the deal with that?"

"I like to hold my dick as I go to sleep."

"Every night?"

"Every night."

After Steve flipped the light out, Zinger leaned his face close to my ear. "You can hold it tonight if you want."

I had no idea how to respond. I was gay, but I thought I was the only person in the world who knew that. I longed to touch a dick other than my own, but I feared the blowback if anyone ever found out I had. I was not the most popular kid in school, but I also was not an outcast. If people found out I was gay, then I would be. Gay was not okay at my high school, which was the kind of place that rewarded conformity and disdained difference of any kind. With all that swirling through my head in the split second I had to respond, I ignored Zinger and pretended to be asleep. When I woke up, it was light, and Zinger's hand was still in his underwear and holding his dick. I wondered if I had missed my chance.

Part Two

We caught our flight, and hopscotched our way back to our Missouri town. Neither Zinger nor I mentioned our last night in Frankfurt, at least not until we were in Minnesota together later that summer.

During the remainder of our senior year, Zinger and Katie kept in touch via long distance and letters (this was before cell phones, email, text messages, and snapchats). Mid-summer, Zinger suggested a trip to Minnesota to "catch up" with (i.e. fuck) our friends.

Steve could not get off work, and we did not invite any of the girls to go. So, after work the Thursday before the 4th of July, he and I took my mother's featureless (no radio, no A/C) red Escort and started the 10 hour drive north to Jackson, MN. I had not seen Zinger since graduation, almost two months before. Freed from our high school's grooming strictures, he had let his sandy blond hair grow long, and he had it pushed back behind his ears. His face was stubbly with whiskers. And, his eyes were the clear blue that comes with carelessness and rest. Years later, I realized he looked exactly like Curt Cobain would. He was hot. Sexy. Intoxicatingly so.

A few hours into the trip, I noticed that Zinger's grey gym shorts were tenting. He noticed me noticing.

"Sorry. It happens when I am a car. I should have worn underwear."

"No worries."

I was driving, so I needed to keep my eyes on the road ahead. But, I found that virtually impossible, as I could see in the periphery Zinger's hard dick down the right leg of his shorts. Periodically, he pushed down on it as hard as he could. It did not go down.

When we stopped for gas, he hopped out of the car and bounced inside, his hands covering his hard on. After pumping gas, I went to the bathroom. I saw his shoes under one of the stalls. From the slapping I could hear, it was clear he was jacking off, and pretty rapidly. I stayed at the urinal as long as I could, listening to him jerk his dick and his breath coming hard. I got hard as I listened. I left before he came, although I did not want to. I waited as long as long as I could, but I did not want to get caught.

When he got back in the car, he announced, "I should be alright now. At least for awhile." He smiled at me as I said it.

"Why?"

"You know. You just listened to me jack off."

I blushed crimson.

The rest of the drive to Jackson was tedious. As it got late, we both got very tired. We stayed awake by talking. Zinger shared his life with me, both where he had been and where he wanted and thought he would go. He shared his secrets with me, both good and bad. And, I shared my life with him, both where I had been and where I hoped I was going. I also shared my secrets with him, including childhood secrets I had not shared with anyone else. I laid myself bare. It was way more intimate than I had been with anyone else, and way more intimate than I expected on a drive in an Escort to Minnesota. It was an echo to our walk around Rothenberg.

We rolled into Jackson well past midnight. We were staying at Cari's, and she put us in her divorced mother's room, where we would share her king-sized water bed. We were both beat, but it still took time to wind down. We continued talking. As we did, I noted that Zinger had his hand in his briefs. As always. I fell asleep as we talked, imagining what he was feeling with that hand.

We slept long into July 3. When we awoke, we joined Cari in the kitchen, and Zinger got a surprise. Katie, who he was looking to spend the weekend fucking, had a new boyfriend and so would be off-limits.

Still, Katie joined the rest of our friends at Cari's that afternoon for a pool party. Zinger was surly from the get go. He clearly wanted to get laid, and he was pissed he was misled into driving 10 hours only to be thwarted.

I, on the other hand, was having a blast. It was July 3rd, it was only 80 degrees, there was an unlimited supply of beer, and the boys were mostly naked, showing off their muscled chests, perfect nipples, and rippled stomachs. I spent most of the day in the water. I barely saw Zinger.

Having started very early, the party broke up when everyone got hungry. Cari grilled burgers for the small group of us left over, which included her, me, Zinger, and Darryl, a somewhat unkempt dude who seemed cool as shit. After the burgers and a few more beers, Cari and Darryl joined hands and headed into the house. It was obvious they were going to fuck. Their exit left me and Zinger poolside, alone.

"Do you smoke?" he asked.

"No, my mom smokes, and it has always grossed me out. I can't stand the things."

"Pot, dork. Not cigarettes."

"Oh. No, I never have."

"Wanna try?"

"I dunno. I kind of thought that was something I would never do."

"Suit yourself, but you live only once. At least, that is what they teach us. I have nothing on my list of 'something I would never do.' I want to do it all."

With that, Zinger stood up, walked to the shallow end of the pool, dangled his legs over the edge, and lit a joint. He raised it to his mouth and inhaled deeply. As far as I could tell, he never exhaled.

I stood up, adjusted my trunks, walked the length of pool, and sat down next to him. I touched my foot to his as I dangled my legs in the water. He did not pull his foot away. Instead, he offered me the joint again.

"Just try it, dork."

"What do I do?"

"Hold it to your mouth, suck in as deeply as you can, and then hold your breath for as long as you can."

I tried. I choked and coughed almost instantly, expelling the smoke almost as fast I tried to take it in. Zinger laughed, his smile illuminating his crazy blue eyes.

"Here, I'll help you."

He put the joint backward in his mouth, put his hand on the back of my head, and moved his face toward mine. For some reason, I opened my mouth, and he put the small end of the joint in my mouth. When I closed my mouth, our lips touched. He blew out, and my mouth filled with smoke. I started to swallow, but then stopped and just breathed in, as deeply as I could. I felt the smoke fill me. I held it as long as I could. I wanted to exhale, but my lips were still pressed to his, and I was not about to pull away. We were not kissing, but we were also not not kissing. He opened his eyes and looked into mine. I looked back, deeply. I held the look as long as I could, before I finally pulled away, choking.

"Congratulations on your first shotgun, dork."

"Thanks, I guess."

Zinger took another long drag off the joint and handed it to me. I dragged back, coughing again, violently. Soon, the joint was almost gone, and he pulled out another.

"Let's move to the deck."

"Okay."

We stood, pulling our legs out of the pool. We walked to the deck and plopped down in two lounge chairs. He dragged and then passed me the joint. I dragged and passed it back. He put the lit end in his mouth and leaned over for another shotgun. I moved my face to meet his, and I put my hand around the back of his neck. I made sure we were lip to lip before he delivered my second shotgun. I took it all in, as deeply as I could. Our lips remained together. He pulled away, removed the joint, said "blow it back," and put his mouth back to mine. I opened my mouth a little, and blew the smoke back into his. He inhaled it. He pulled back and held it in. Our faces were close. He leaned forward, I opened my mouth, and he blew what remained of the smoke back into my mouth. I was titillated. And rock hard.

We finished the joint like that, trading smoke back and forth and back and forth. When the joint was gone, he got up, walked away, and returned with two vodkas. Mine burned the shit out of me, high or not. He sipped his, casually, coolly.

We both laid back in our chairs, totally relaxed, staring at the equally dark and starry sky. Neither of us spoke.

I was both drunk and high. I suspected he was, too. I am not sure I had ever been more relaxed.

"Let's swim."

"Okay."

He stood up and pulled his trunks off as he walked toward the pool. The moon lit his ass as his hips swung. Nude when he got to the pool, he jumped in. I followed, jumping in with my trunks still on.

"Have you ever skinny dipped?"

"Nope."

"Take your trunks off. Being naked in the water is awesome."

"I'm okay."

"Take your trunks off, dork."

I swam to the shallow end and did as I was told, dumping my trunks on the edge of the pool. Then, I turned and swam back toward him. He was right. Swimming nude was awesome. I felt completely free, the water caressing my dick and balls. We treaded water in the deep end for awhile. When I got tired, I swam to the side, and rested the back of my head against it, my arms spread wide beside me. Zinger followed me. He grabbed the side of the pool, his hands on either side of me. He was right in front of me. He had me trapped. He stared at me and smiled. I stared back for as long as I could, smiling back at him. I finally looked away. I was rock hard.

"Let's go inside."

"Are you sure? It's fantastic out here." I stalled. I did not want to climb out of the pool with a hard on he was sure to see.

"I'm sure." He moved to the side and pulled himself out of the pool, exposing his beautiful ass as he did. When he was out, I swam to the shallow end, clambered out as fast as I could, and wrapped a towel around me in a futile attempt to conceal my rock hard dick. Zinger walked toward me from the other end of the pool. He, too, was rock hard, but he did not care that I saw it. He seemed to want me to see it. He seemed to be flaunting it.

I had not seen his dick hard before. It was awesome. As suspected, he was a shower. His dick was big and thick and pretty, curving gently up. I wanted it. More than I had ever wanted anything.

He picked his towel up, wrapped it around his neck, and walked toward the house, his dick leading the way and his ass swaying in front of me. I followed.

When we got to the room, Zinger moved toward his gym bag, dug out a pair of briefs, and tugged them on. When he turned around, it was clear his dick was still hard, sticking up and to the right, with the head visible above the elastic band. He smiled at me, turned, and went into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, I dropped my towel, put on a pair of boxers, and pulled on an undershirt. I could not sleep shirtless.

When Zinger finished in the bathroom, I took my turn. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and - just in case - smelled my arm pits. They were fine. I turned out the light and returned to the room. Zinger was sitting on the bed, his back to the headboard and the sheet draped over his crotch.

I climbed into the bed, jostling him with the "waves" I created. Once in, I sat like he was, as close to him as I could without being too obvious.

"Are you high?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Me, too. But, I could go a little higher."

With that, he lit another joint and sucked in as much as he could. He offered it to me, but I declined. I had had all the pot I thought I should. After another couple drags, Zinger licked his finger, extinguished the joint, and returned it to his "fun bag."

We sat in silence against the tufted headboard. After a bit, he looked over at me and smiled.

"How's your high, dork?"

"I am having a very good time."

"Me, too." He paused. "My only problem is pot gives me the munchies. And makes me horny."