Matt felt the mercury rising, knew his crisis was nearing. He gritted his teeth, tried listing the prime numbers between one and fifty. Anything to allow Todd to ascend to Elysium first.
Matt felt Todd’s orgasm before he had visual confirmation. Todd’s rocking grew frantic. His moans were almost prayers for relief. Then came the spooge, spilling out like lava.
Matt’s cock had its own eruption—less Vesuvius, more Mount St. Helens—this being its second of the evening. It was good enough to put a smile on his face.
Chapter 22: Manic Monday
9/15/’95
Adam:
Which doyouprefer? Mustang? Or Matt?
What a coincidence! I recently started watching “All My Children” too! I grab a sandwich in the cafeteria and race back to my room to watch it. I hope Haley and Mateo get married.
Speaking of TV, are you planning to watch the O.J. Simpson trial?
I’ve never met a graphic artist but am sure you’ll be a great one. Do you have a favorite one? Can you send me a sample of your own art?
I had to look up “auburgine” in the dictionary. Your favorite color is eggplant? Like the vegetable? So, purple to the rest of us? Is there any particular reason why you like auburgine/eggplant/purple?
Okay, I gotta get to soccer practice. I’d love it if you could come to one of my games. I’d show you what a striker does.
Matt
Monday, September 18, 1995
Matt would never forget the moment his life went to shit. It would henceforth be divided into the Before Man Panties (BMP) era versus After Man Panties (AMP) one.
The last few minutes of his happy BMP life were spent in the locker room—about forty-three hours after he’d cum in Todd’s ass for the second time, which still put a smile on his face just thinking about it.
The day had started normally enough. Breakfast. Classes. Chapel. Eating a sandwich while watching AMC for the second time. Matt had never intentionally watched a soap opera until now but planned to make it a daily habit if that was what it took to share Adam’s world.
So, there Matt sat, kitting out for practice, same as everyone else. He was lacing his shoes, watching Caleb wrestle theKrakeninto a jock strap, enjoying the show, secretly rooting for theKraken. Hoping it would borrow a trick from its Pufferfish cousins and swell up, as in pop a boner. A guy could dream, couldn’t he?
Elsewhere, guys were talking about Cal Ripken’s recent feat of surpassing Lou Gehrig’s record of 2,130 consecutive games. And girls. Always talking about girls.
Coach stormed into the room. Banged open the door, a sort of acoustic exclamation mark accompanying his entrance.
“Caleb, put that thing away!” Coach barked. “Play with it on your own time! Everyone, gather ‘round!”
Matt and his teammates shuffled into a fidgety semicircle. This did not bode well.
“One of you is in deep dookie,” Coach snarled. If they’d been on the field, he would have said “shit.” He held a small, plastic bag in one hand.
He tossed the bag’s contents onto the floor. “Have a gander at what I found this morning. In this room.”
A pair of men’s black, thong underwear and a lone fishnet stocking landed on the cracked linoleum. Skidded into a crumpled pile. Matt didn’t know it yet, but that was the BMP/AMP demarcation, like the whole B.C. versus A.D. concept in reverse, where a baby’s birth hit reset on the whole counting years thing. Where, hey, at least if you lived in the A.D. part you had a smidgeon of a chance of spending your eternity in Heaven, assuming you managed to get yourself born in a Christian country and managed to get yourself saved, which was tricky considering everyone disagreed on what exactly that entailed.
That was still better than the alternative, the whole “drew the short straw” and got born in those B.C. years—whole millennia actually, in which case you were just shit-out-of-luck salvation-wise. Socrates? Buddha? Shit-out-of-luck.
Matt knew shit-out-of-luck. It came in the form of thong underwear and a fishnet stocking. These were Todd’s! Matt stared at them in disbelief. How was this even possible? He was certain he and Todd had policed the room before leaving. Hadn’t they?
“Only fags wear man panties like those,” said Roger, pointing to thethong underwear.
Several guys snickered.
Matt winced. A few weeks earlier Roger had used that word. Fag. Matt had heard the word myriad times over the years, but few people had mastered its elocution as well as Roger, sneering it, spitting out the “g” like rancid meat.
