The summer between, p.10
The Summer Between, page 10
Big feet. Lucky her, I thought.
I stripped out of my cover-up sweats to the aqua Speedo I had recently purchased. I plunged into the nearest speed lane.
As I propelled through the overly chlorinated water, I tried to empty my head of the stress of the Ollie situation. No luck. Before I knew it, as I kicked through my lane, I imagined Ollie Stork standing in front of the classroom lecturing with that clever look on his face, like always. But this time, he was naked. None of the other classmates seemed to realize he was naked. Only me. So I could look at him without anyone thinking I was a fag.
I looked him up and down so I could have a sneak preview of our night together. His body was a mix of several things. He had firm shoulders and arms with medium-sized muscles from his surfing days. But because he was a shameless glutton at meals, he had a bit of a spare tire around his middle. Not gross but it interrupted the firmness everywhere else.
I looked at the light scattering of chest hair that led downward to his belly flab and then down farther to his pubic area. Looking around to make sure my classmates were still seeing Ollie clothed, I took time to look closely at his penis.
It was soft. But as I stared, Ollie smiled at me. He knew where I was looking, even if nobody else did. In response to my staring, his dick began to slowly swell and thicken. I stared a bit longer, and it began to rise until it was standing up flat against his stomach. It looked a lot like mine but maybe a couple of inches longer.
“Andy,” Ollie said loudly from the front of the classroom, “I need your help. Come up here, please.”
I shook my head side to side in the water, and the daydream—Ollie, the class, the whole room—quickly evaporated.
But that crazy fantasy told me one thing: Ollie may not be much to look at—certainly not “sex on a stick,” as one of my gay magazines had described someone—but fuck it, he was my only sexual option right now. And I was horny. I would take it. I would make it work. And then I would think about the consequences later.
On Monday morning, I was walking the hallways of Maple High again, surrounded by scores of classmates and faculty. Suddenly I panicked. How could I have sex with my teacher? Someone was bound to find out. A neighbor. A passerby. A classmate who by chance followed me in their car and saw me park outside of Ollie’s home. Anything was possible. If word got out that I was preparing to shag Mr. Stork, it would be a scandal of epic proportions.
Over the subsequent days, my stomach stayed knotted and my mind did flip-flops. My position wavered between proceeding full steam ahead to faking a last-minute stomach flu.
But alone at night, feeling horny and unable to scratch my itch sufficiently by jerking off, I went back to my original position. Your first didn’t have to be your best; it only had to be your first. You had to start somewhere. Even with someone like Ollie. Fuck it. Get the sex out of the way. Then move on.
I came up with an excuse to give Lia for the Ollie sleepover. I hope it was convincing. We were catching an eleven p.m. showing of La Semana del Asesino, The Cannibal Man, a Spanish thriller, at the Eighth Street Playhouse. She agreed to the sudden plans with a catch, but a small one: I had to promise to call her from Ollie’s, regardless of what time we got back from the city.
When the day finally arrived, I receded with a serious case of the jitters—but differently from the day Elena and I decided to have sex. I knew if I had bowed out with Elena, she’d get over it. But Ollie? What if my dick didn’t get hard? He’d be insulted. He had a thin skin. Liquor was going to be necessary. Maybe weed. Both.
Just after lunch period, I passed Ollie in the second-floor hallway. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Ollie pantomimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “Looking forward to a magnifico film,” he called out.
The scheme was a rush, yet something about it also felt creepy, as if I were hooking up with Elena’s dad or Lia’s hunky boss. I started to feel like a high school girl when an aggressive guy sees her as a piece of meat. Not a person. I started to feel suspicious of Ollie’s ulterior motives. But it was too late to back out.
Too anxious about running into Ollie again before the evening, I decided to go home to paint for a few hours. Inspired by the Andy Warhol Campbell’s Soup Can prints I’d seen at the Museum of Modern Art, I started my own series of jumbo-sized food paintings: two fried eggs, a carton of milk, and peas and carrots in a blue ceramic bowl. Artists steal from each other all the time, right?
While mixing a palette for the colors of fried bacon, I allowed Ollie’s narrative to creep back into my head: “I don’t want your first time to be with a stranger.” I told myself this was a paternal type of protection. This was just a trial run. Nothing serious. My fantasy plan was to find a guy closer to my age who I’d get to know, and then we’d experiment. A male Elena.
Distracted by the jumble of my thoughts, I fucked up the painting. The three slices of bacon looked like a soggy river raft made of logs. I quit.
I scanned the closet for threads. As I did, I realized something weird: I was dressing for another dude for the first time. What might Ollie find sexy? And did I really want to look sexy for him? I mean, he was gonna do me no matter how I looked, I figured. Did guys like the same things chicks liked? Starching a button-down for dinner at Ollie’s house seemed forced. I cut the tags off a new pair of dark Sasson jeans that fit tight to the crotch and threw on a rust-colored pullover. White Stan Smiths, no socks. It was kind of a date, after all. Dinner and a guaranteed sleepover. And a guaranteed whatever sex-wise. What would he do to me? Would I be able to handle it? Would he do that thing up my butt? Did I even want him to?
We agreed to seven o’clock. Leaving my house by six thirty would guarantee I avoided seeing Lia and rehashing the late film lie. Instead, I scribbled a short note and left it atop the day’s mail: See you in the morning. Love, A. I clipped three pink roses from the garden and arranged them in an Archie and Veronica jelly glass to accent the note.
It was the sort of late spring evening when the yellowy light and mint-tinged air united to elevate all five senses. As I locked the side door, the abundant stillness of the yard amplified the shakes in my hands and legs, like I was somehow moving quickly and slowly at the same time. I sat inside the Blue Whale and took a minute. Ollie will be a skillful pilot, I told myself. He’ll be easy on me. If he isn’t, I’ll let him know so loudly that the neighbors will hear me. That idea calmed me down a bit.
With the windows closed, it quickly became apparent I’d overdosed on Aramis spray; the scent was so strong I gagged. “Fuck,” I yelled. I rolled down all four windows and set sail.
The just-released Hall and Oates album with live versions of “Rich Girl” and “Sara Smile” sat on the passenger seat, a gift for Ollie. Twelve miles later, I pulled into the spot in front of his fairytale cottage, the dark shingles trimmed in white, paned windows bracketed with steely blue shutters. Bordering the picket fence was a line of pale blue Virginia day-flowers and a goldenrod or two. I heard Neil Young warbling as I walked toward the side patio.
I’d been to Ollie’s house a handful of times—with Elena one evening for a yearbook meeting and to pick up cassettes for the homecoming dance, but never for dinner. Ollie existed in a tequila sunrise world; everything was brown, orange, and blue. His carroty Honda, pukka beads, and billowy linen V-neck shirts reflected his Laguna Beach upbringing. I remember being dazzled by the decor of the house: a group of brightly painted ukuleles centered on a wall the color of the ocean. Down the hallway were two surfboards and a collage of stolen road signs from Malibu, Pacific Coast Highway, and Veracruz. Flowing from the fieldstone patio into the living room was a seamless cascade of flowering bushes and plants in Mexican pots. I imagined Ollie’s cottage was a blueprint for the apartment I’d have in the city one day, but mine would have stacks of books, a library of music, and walls covered with drawings and paintings.
“Halloo,” Ollie said, waving me in while rubbing spices into a bloody slab of meat on the kitchen counter. He was dressed in a nut-brown V-neck and drawstring pants. His center-parted hair and his thick ’stache were still wet. He was one part Jesus Christ Superstar, two parts Godspell. His wireframes, dotted with cooking oil, needed a wipe.
“I thought we’d grill steaks,” he said, and I almost grinned to see he was exhibiting a case of jitters comparable to my own. “Make yourself at home. You know where everything is.”
As I entered, Ollie sniffed the air. “Let me guess, Aramis?” he teased. Too jumpy to respond, I just nodded.
“Drinks,” Ollie said. “You’re in charge of beverages. And we’re having grilled steaks. Oh, I already told you that. That comes with asparagus and salad … and wine, lots of wine,” he said, rinsing his fingers of a soy sauce marinade.
So this is my date, I thought, my maturity lesson. The idea of the sexual side of Ollie still terrified me.
I extended the Hall and Oates album, which I had jokingly covered in Christmas wrapping. He tore it open, laughed, almost kissed me but decided against it, and then he pointed to the stereo. The oak dining table was set with orange woven mats, taupe and white checkered napkins, and chunky wine goblets. Spicy candles of clove, persimmon, and bamboo sat on the coffee table.
Prepping the grill, Ollie quizzed, “Feeling good? Remember—there’s no pressure tonight.”
I nodded excessively, trying too hard to please my seducer.
“How was your day?” he asked as if this were an ordinary visit. It was anything but.
“It flew,” I said, lying. “I left school early—the best part of graduating is there’s not much to do. Rehearsal, graduation, party!”
He gave me a grin that caused his pitted, crepe-paper skin to wrinkle up. He looked less foxy every time I saw him. I shuddered within. Would this even work? I wasn’t sure anymore. But I also knew there was no backing out.
Shifting gears, I asked, “Are you stoked for Madrid? Duh, of course. You leave in what … less than three weeks?”
“Yes. So much crap to do before I go.”
Guzzling cold white burgundy to calm my nerves, we gossiped about my classmates (who happened to be his students) and about the latest controversy: parents flipping out over the yearbook’s Bowiesque cover depicting a strung-out alien tripping the universe.
By the time we plated dinner, my inner butterflies were shitfaced. I asked nervously, “Are we on a date? You’re putting out, so it must be a date, correct?”
Shaking his head, Ollie chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
The charred fat of the steak hung over the edge of my plate. Ollie told me they were medium-rare, but as I cut into the T-bone, a stream of bloody juice oozed out.
“The iron in medium-rare steak increases the oxygen in your blood,” Ollie said. “Good for stamina and strength,” he added, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
I laughed, uncertain if the comment was a preview for what was to come later.
He made me feel special, serving a dessert of vanilla ice cream with blackberries. When we finished, we cleared the table, loading each rinsed plate into the dishwasher. The stereo abruptly shifted to Parliament’s “Flash Light.”
In a boozy gesture, still feeling nervous but also playful, I shot Ollie a hip bump. He shimmied in place and hit me back with one, then another. Like two white boys pathetically miscast on Soul Train, we danced until I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. Then Ollie fell to the floor, holding his stomach, and I expected chunks of raw steak to come flying from his mouth. Ollie got up and excused himself to the bathroom for a good five minutes before returning with a flaming matchstick.
“Setting the mood,” he cracked.
We were both smiling sheepishly, aware of the sweet absurdity of what was about to happen. Ollie inhaled the scent of each candle he lit. I loaded six albums onto the turntable for extended play.
“Aja,” Ollie whispered, “Good choice. I love Steely Dan.” He stepped behind me, twisted me around to face him, and then planted a gentle, short kiss on my lips.
“Icebreaker,” he said, smiling.
I suppressed a giggle because it didn’t seem romantic. But was this supposed to be romantic? Or just one item being checked off a list?
It was my first kiss not only with a male but with one who was also my teacher. The simple gesture stunned me. It was pleasantly warm, not bad actually, but I pulled away. The odor from Ollie’s short, stocky body was robust. The patchouli stung my nostrils. The texture of his cheek was rough, his whiskers coarse.
“Come with me,” Ollie whispered, leading me down the hall into a room dominated by the largest bed I’d ever seen. On the nearest wall was a circle of five carved masks Ollie had brought back from a trip to the Amazon. On the table beneath the display sat five flickering candles. Beige sheets turned down to a perfect fold were accented by a tropical print comforter, reminding me of a Venus flytrap.
Ollie, buzzed by wine, stepped clumsily out of his flip-flops. I kicked off my sneakers, equally clumsily. Ollie moved closer to peel off my jersey and then slithered out of his shirt. He removed his wireframes and then his watch. I trembled, not sure if I was supposed to take off my pants and crawl into bed, so I waited for direction. His pale torso, with a smattering of light hair, was smooth in contrast to the gravelly texture of his face.
I watched Ollie drop his boxers. Under a bush of yellow pubic hair rose his pink dick, stubby even at full attention. Like a good student, I followed his lead and tugged at the elastic waistband of my underwear, dropping them to my ankles. Naked and an arm’s length away, I stood, ridiculous with panic.
“Smile,” Ollie urged me. “This is supposed to be fun.”
He drew me toward his paunch, holding steady for a second, before pulling me onto the bed.
We rolled, writhed, licked, sucked, nibbled, and fumbled for an incalculable amount of time. It wasn’t magical. At least, not for me. Ollie oohed, aahed, and moaned. I pretended to do the same so he wouldn’t feel abandoned. At times, I felt as if we were two frogs hopping about the mattress. Distracted in thought, I had to repeatedly convince myself to enjoy the orientation lesson.
I must have peeled my mind away from my body for a time because I came to just as Diana Ross cooed the words to “Touch Me in the Morning” from the third album I had stacked on the turntable. I calculated that two hours had passed. I felt like a balloon purged of a lifetime buildup of helium. At long last, affirmation—my inclination toward men was undeniable. The shock of another man’s body was electrifying—even this one. Foreign yet familiar. Touching an erection that was not my own ranked beyond everything I’d ever known. Sniffing this, licking that, fondling there … When Ollie paused occasionally to administer instruction, I laughed nervously and then momentarily softened before I had to will my boner back to life. We nuzzled and sucked, poking and prodding mutually before jerking off onto our bellies.
This was my virgin jamboree. I expected classical music to play to drive home the major moment. But I heard no orchestra. Just Ollie breathing heavily from the effort. As we prepared for sleep, I asked, “Was it okay?”
Ollie nodded. “Indeed. A-plus, Andy,” he answered as if we were in the classroom.
“Mom!” I blurted.
He looked around in shock, as if Lia had just entered the room.
“I promised to call Lia,” I reminded him. “Be right back,” I said, scuttling for my briefs as I hopped toward the wall phone in Ollie’s kitchen. I didn’t feel right calling her naked.
“Mom. We’re back at Ollie’s. The movie was intense. See you in the a.m. Love you.”
Happy, she still couldn’t resist one final scold: “Finally! It’s one thirty. Now I gotta sleep, honey.”
I returned to Ollie’s bedroom, wondering whether there would be a rematch. I hoped not. I had had enough lessons for one evening. Lucky for me, he switched off the light as I climbed into bed. We settled into a snuggle. But I wriggled loose the moment Ollie drifted to sleep.
What was accomplished by sleeping with Ollie? Did it change who we were to each other?
Were we a couple now bound by sexuality? Lovers automatically?
Ollie was still—Ollie. I lay there for hours, wide-eyed, trying to define what I had just experienced—still in a haze. I was taken aback when the window shade revealed a slice of dawn.
Later, Ollie stirred and slowly but insistently initiated a new session. I wasn’t interested but went along. I felt like I was giving a major performance.
I insisted that I take a shower alone, even though he was feeling frisky again. After I washed off the patchouli and cum, we met in the kitchen. Dressed in the previous night’s clothes, I sat at the table and sipped coffee poured through a filter and picked at thick slices of buttered toast.
Ollie stood there grinning as if he had given me the gift of life, like he deserved the Teacher of the Year award. It made him look pathetic.
I thanked him for the initiation. He beamed from ear to ear. But I did not oversell my praise and prayed that Ollie realized I would not need a refresher course in the future.
Buttering his toast a second time, Ollie cautioned me, “Remember, Andy, this is our secret.”
I nodded. I had decided the previous night that I would die of shame if anyone else ever knew about this soggy little adventure.
The following week, it was clear that I had not extinguished Ollie’s flame.
He ticked up the courtship a notch. I went along with it, not wanting to disappoint him. He’d plant salty, unsigned notes in clandestine nooks, through the air vents in my locker door, or under my windshield wiper. In the hallway, there’d be a cryptic high-five or a whack across the butt if no one was looking. Spending the final weeks of school flirting with danger seemed arousing.
At his insistence, we got frisky in Ollie’s Honda following a Saturday hike in the Delaware River Gorge. He gave me a blow job and then jerked himself off.
I was more confused about our relationship. Sex and affection were bound together in a bizarre package as if we were dating. I gave in, hoping my feelings would eventually match his. For the time being, even an imperfect bond met my immature emotional needs.
