Jake shook his head. “No. Sorry. I was just explaining that William’s the only rich kid in our group. As far as this room and the clubhouse go, those costs are covered by our Alumni Association.”
“Alumni Association?” Matt did not even try to conceal his skepticism. “For the GM at MCU?” This seemed like a badSaturday Night Liveskit.
Jake shrugged. “Okay, so it isn’t a real association. It is just four guys. Two were MCU GM. One of the others went to MCU for a couple of years, then transferred to OU. The fourth was expelled from MCU for sucking cock. But, yeah, there’s a fundraiser each October. It’s a lot of fun and raises enough cash to keep us afloat.”
Matt considered the facts—and the numbers. MCU had been in existence for forty-five years, during which tens of thousands of kids had attended. Statistically two percent of those had been gay and had first-hand, intimate experience with the Christian love and grace MCU extended to fags. It was not outside the realm of possibility that four such gay kids—now adults—would donate a few hundred bucks a month to make other kids’ lives more bearable.
He felt relief washing over him. The fuck was back on!
Oddly, though, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Gone was Cocky Matt, who had confidently carried William to the back of the Jeep and made him lick his pits. In his place was Cocky Matt’s shy doppelganger, Wallflower Matt, a guy who almost wished he had a towel to wrap around his naked torso. He stood timidly, hoping Jake would make the first move.
Jake smiled reassuringly. “You must be thirsty after that long interview,” he said. He went to the mini fridge, retrieved a bottle of wine, and hunted for glasses. Matt ogled him the whole time, mesmerized by the play of light against the hairs on his ass cheeks.
Jake returned and handed Matt a glass. “To new friendships,” he said.
“To new friendships.” Matt sipped the yellowish wine. It was cold and crisp on his tongue. The only other alcohol he had ever tasted had been a Bud Light someone smuggled to a soccer team party.
Matt’s mind scribbled furiously, trying to write a script for this moment, but it was gibberish. How many times over the last five years had he imagined a scenario like this, played it out in his mind’s eye step by step, stroke by stroke until he spilled his ink into his hand?
Mercifully, Jake came to the rescue—again. “Let’s just chat for a bit. Enjoy our wine.” He reclaimed the wingchair he had occupied during the interview. He draped one leg over the chair’s padded arm, his blue clad foot hanging lazily. “Tell me about the first time you remember being attracted to a guy,” he said.
Matt sank into his previous hot seat. He had a full-on view of Jake’s loveliness.
“Is this more of the interview?” Matt asked, worried. Earlier, as Clown, Jake’s questions had focused on his sexuality. (Why the Dallas Cheerleaders poster? What had Matt done withgirls?) Now this.
Jake laughed. “The interview’s over. I’m just making conversation. I’d like to know you better. That’s all.”
While Jake spoke, his draped leg swung hypnotically.
Matt’s gaze went from the swinging blue shoe to the brown, hairy, nest that framed Jake’s cock and trailed into his ass. These hairs were darker than those on the rest of his body. Matt ached to explore the valley between those cheeks.
He sipped more wine. “I was six or seven years old. My dad took me to watch a high school basketball game. Wellston, Oklahoma. The ‘Tigers.’” It was the first such game he remembered. Wooden bleachers sticky from decades of spilled soda. Whistles and shouting and buzzers echoing off the walls. Players scrambling from one end of the court to the other, seemingly at random.
Jake leaned back in his chair as if settling in for a good conversation. It was not lost on Matt, though, that Jake’s ass edged forward, spreading his legs a tad more, allowing light into the hidden crevasse Matt longed to explore.
“We were seated right behind the home bench. Towards the end of the game, one of the players got substituted out. He’d been running hard. There was less than a minute on the clock. Their team was winning. This player absently stripped off his jersey and started mopping the sweat from his face and neck.”
“Go on,” Jake said. In his semi-reclined position, his pink ball sack was beautifully framed by his dark pube and taint hair, a friar’s bald pate rising above his fringe. Jake’s scrotum was exactly the kind of plump coin purse a prowling cat would have, with just enough room for its two kidney shaped testicles and no more.
Matt’s throat went dry with desire.
He sipped more wine. “The only shirtless guys I’d seen until then were either kids my age or older guys like my dad. You know, paunches, spindly arms, saggy chests.”
“Scary stuff,” Jake agreed.
Matt continued. “I was too young to know about sex. I just remember thinking that kid was beautiful. It confused me because I’d never heard anyone describe a guy as beautiful. Girls were the ones who were supposed to be beautiful or pretty. I’d never thought of a girl the way I did that guy. I just wanted to hug him, to connect with that beauty in the only way my little mind could imagine.”
“Aww, that’s a wonderful story,” Jake said. “Thank you.”
Matt asked Jake the same question, about the first time he knew he was gay.
Jake met Matt’s gaze and held it. “I’ll be glad to answer that if you really want to know. But eventually you’re going to have to make the first move here.”
Matt gulped.
“You have to venture out of the shallow end of the pool, baby,” Jake said. “Eventually we all do. Not everyone gets a friendly swim coach like me.”
Matt took one more sip of wine, then set the glass on the floor. He gave up on the idea of scripting this scene, remembering William’s advice when they had hooked up in the cargo area of Matt’s Jeep. “Throw the script away,” William had said. “This is Improv.”
