All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at pjalexander1753@gmail.com
A Very Ordinary Boy (Part 1)
From Chapter 1:
Straight people don't have to `admit' to liking the opposite sex, so why should gay guys? Anyway, if and when anyone else is gonna know, that will be up to me to decide and that's why I don't want my mum doing the same 2+2 arithmetic and coming up with the right answer. So as of now no-one, not even Dyl and Si, know the dreadful truth -- except you, of course - and I am more than happy for things to stay that way. So don't go round shouting your mouth off, okay? I'm trusting you. Don't make me regret it.
Chapter 2: Pressure.
Okay, we've done the introductions (though you haven't told me much about yourself), so a question for you: What is it with on-line porn? -- and don't try to tell me that you never watch `cause I won't believe you. I s'pose like most guys I have my favourite sites, college types mostly, so a bit older than me, toned but not overly muscled, smooth, though I can go for some hair but not too much, and definitely no bears. I'm not a fan of skinny twinks or femboys but am cool that there are guys out there who are into that sort of thing. Lots of kissing REALLY turns me on (it must be my romantic side!) and rimming looks exciting but I'm not sure I'd want to be the one doing the tonguing. Obviously you have to be super-clean down there, but what if the guy farts when you've got your face half way up his butthole? And fisting? Eugh, that grosses me out, and so does most of the BDSM stuff that gets posted, so I try my best to avoid it, though that's not always easy.
Anyway, like I said, I have my favourite sites, but sometimes I like to mix it up a bit and click on some unfamiliar site at random. Yesterday I opened up one called Small Dicks. Well, how to make a guy feel totally inadequate! The models they showed had dicks that were the same size as mine, sometimes bigger, but I know that mine's average (I Googled it, remember?). I know they say that on-line porn isn't normal and you shouldn't use it to judge yourself or expect your own sex life to match up, but really? It was such a turn-off. I even went to sleep without rubbing one out and that hasn't happened since I was about fourteen, in fact not since that time when dad walked in on me when I was watching porn, though I don't think he got a clear sight of it. I hope not.
And while we're on the subject of porn, there's something I need to make very clear, crystal in fact. If you're thinking this is gonna be like one of those so-called `erotic gay story' sites, geared up for a good old wank-fest, think again. Apart from what goes on when I'm alone in the privacy of my bedroom at the top of the house, there's absolutely no sex in my life (sad but true) so there's very little chance of any boner-inducing or load-blowing material for you here. Sorry if that's a disappointment to you, but there it is, like it or lump it!
So, like I said last time, Dyl has his board game buddies and Si hangs-out with the basketballers, so they've decided (I bet it was basically Si's idea really) to "get me a life" outside of our little gang. I tried telling then that I'm not unhappy or feeling left out or lonely, but that's not good enough apparently. I've got to "get out there" and "scope out new possibilities" whether I want to or not. Which explains what happened when we all got to school this morning. This week it's Dyl's mum's turn to pick me up and drop the two of us at Greenside. To be honest it wouldn't be hard for us to walk to school but the turn-and-turn-about pattern of the school run was established pretty much as soon as we started high school and it has just sort of continued ever since. Weirdly our two families have no other contact, it's just my mum picking Dyl up and taking him to school or Mrs. Peplar picking me up. The mums don't ever meet for coffee, the dads don't play golf together -- I know, dreadful stereotyping, my mum would kill me -- they don't even have each other round on the rare occasions the weather's good enough to barbeque. You probably didn't need to know all that, it's got nothing to do with what I'm gonna tell you -- sorry. I do that, you know, go off at tangents so, if you're gonna stick with this, you'd better get used to it.
Anyway, we arrive at school and go over to our usual first-thing hang-out (round the side of the cafeteria) to wait for Si who has this seemingly in-built ability to turn up every morning, looking amazing and with exactly three minutes to spare before the first bell. This morning was no exception, and after the usual kissy kissing and huggy hugging (she's a very touchy-feely girl is Si) and just before we start to make our way inside, she hands me this envelope and says, "This is your passport to a new and more interesting life. Put it in your bag and don't open it till lunch." And that was it, no explanation, nothing. Dyl looked a bit sheepish so it was obvious he was in on it but, equally obviously, he wasn't going to give me even a little clue. Great friends eh? So at lunch we took our food to one of the outside tables and as soon as we sat down and before I could get the first forkful of pasta bake into my mouth Si is demanding I get out the envelope. So, of course, I follow madam's orders and open it up. Inside there's just one sheet of paper and at the top it says:
Food for Thought, wholefood café and bookshop
and under that:
Job application form
Obviously I must have looked puzzled (which I was -- very), so Si explained that she and Dyl had been in town over the weekend (while I, of course had been at home "being boring"), when they'd noticed a job vacancy sign in the window of the little café place at the far end of High Street and had decided, the two of them (mostly Si), that this was exactly what boring old Jack needed in order to get him "out there", seeing more of life instead of choosing to be "hiding away at home" with his books and paintings. Did I mention that I'm really into reading? - biographies of famous artists mostly but also novels and history books, but no poetry -- it's always so serious and it makes my brain hurt.
So between them -- though mostly Si -- they explain that it's a part-time job, two days a week for two hours a day after school and Saturdays 8.30 -- 5.00. I try telling them that I have no need of money, `cause my allowance is more than enough for paper and paints and other art stuff (especially with regular top-ups from Granny Smith), not to mention the fact that I have nil experience of working in a book shop, much less a café. In fact, I have zilch experience of any sort of paid work, so I wasn't going to stand any chance of being chosen for the job even if I wanted it, which I didn't. And besides, if I'm gonna be spending so much time at this job that I don't want and am not gonna get, when will I find time to do my art stuff or even hang-out with the two of them? Well, obviously (according to Si), I'd have time after school on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well as all day on Sundays, and as for hanging out with them, they'd be very regular customers of the café so I'd be able to hang-out every time I served them with their staff-discounted skinny lattes and mochaccinos. They'd got it all worked out, all I had to do was fill in the form and drop it in at the shop before the interview that they'd lined up for me after school on Friday. Great friends, huh?
All of lunch I tried talking myself out of the whole stupid idea but Dyl and Si wouldn't budge, at least, I think Dyl might have come over to my side if I'd been able to get him on his own, but with all glowering six foot of Si sitting next to him there was no way he was gonna change sides. Now I'm sure you're wondering who is this spineless waste-of-space, Jack Smith, who allows himself to be bullied into going after a job he doesn't want and knows he's not gonna get? The answer is that, yes, he is someone who allows himself to be bullied, and not just by his friends but also by the home help. When I got home I did my usual thing of raiding the fridge on my way upstairs to my room, but then I made the mistake of sitting down in the kitchen to eat one of Rosa's famous raspberry brownies (two actually). Before I sat down I had got out the job application form intending to throw it in the recycling but had put it down on the counter top while I concentrated on re-fuelling. Big mistake. When Rosa appeared the first thing she noticed was the form. Straight off she was in field marshal mode -- the job was a great idea, it would be good for my self-confidence (I never knew there was anything wrong with it), I'd be mixing with new people (what had she got against the old ones?), it would get me out of the house (I like the house), and, the trump card, all her kids and grandkids got a job as soon as they were old enough so what was so special about me, and what was I waiting for?
And so it was settled, in Rosa's mind at least, which meant, of course, that it was settled, I would be filling in the form and she'd be dropping it in when she went into town tomorrow. Orders given, off she went, steering all of her five foot one inch, plus oversized laundry basket, in the direction of the washing machine, leaving me to, "get on and fill in that form". Yes, ma'am!
Once I've started -- full name, age, contact details -- I'm beginning to think that perhaps it won't be such a bad idea to have some sort of part-time job, not for any of Rosa's reasons but for the chance that, just possibly, maybe, you never know, it might be a chance to meet (whisper it) another gay boy. After all, lots of people go to cafés and bookshops so some of them at least, have to be the one or two out of ten who aren't boringly straight, and, surely, at least a few of them have to be male (okay, just to be clear, I've nothing against lesbians and this apparent discrimination is based entirely on sexual preference and not on knuckle-dragging prejudice), and within that number there have to be some who are kids near my age, don't there? And even if I don't find myself deluged with possible boyfriends, getting this job at least has the potential to make my life, and by extension me, the smallest bit less ordinary, possibly even a tad interesting. And that would not only be a major bonus for me, but it would also get Dyl and Si off my case. Result!
By the time I've got down to education history, employment experience, relevant skills, the shine of my new-found enthusiasm has been muddied by the unavoidable fact that I've got a big fat zero in terms of employment experience and no skills that might be relevant to working in a book shop or a café, unless, that is, they're looking for a very amateur part-time artist-in-residence or a token gay boy. As neither of these options is gonna look good on the form I've made up my mind to give up on it and I've pulled my phone out of my pocket to check on messages (not that there's likely to be any) when I hear Rosa coming back into the kitchen. Now I know she's not gonna be impressed when I have to tell her (and I will have to tell her) that I've given up before I've even properly started -- the field marshal will be less than impressed - so I quickly switch to the internet and type in Food for Thought so I can pretend to be doing research, you know, finding info to support my application. Lucky I do, not just cause it keeps Rosa off my case for a bit longer, but because of what I read on the website. Turns out there's more to FfT than you might think (definitely more than I thought). Yes, it's a café as well as a bookshop, but it's not an ordinary bookshop, at least, not only an ordinary bookshop, cause it sells second hand as well as new ones. "Big deal!" you think. Maybe that's your opinion, but the website says they specialise in second hand books about the visual and performing arts and artists. Straight away there's a picture in my head of me spending hours every week, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of amazing art books and checking out everyone from Robert Adam to Larry Zox, and being paid for it. Cool or what?
Talk about motivation. Two minutes ago I've pretty much thrown in the towel, now I'm the answer to a shop-owner's part-time prayers, with an unbelievably long list of transferrable skills (hopefully not unbelievable skills) and enough initiative, enthusiasm and commitment to run the place single-handed. No experience? I can learn on the job. Too young? I'll be eighteen in nine months so almost an adult. I live too far away? Five minutes on my bike -- ten tops (more like twenty but who's counting?) Almost before Rosa can be impressed with my diligence and application (yes, they're written on the form somewhere too) the form is in the envelope and the envelope is in her hand, ready to be delivered when she goes into town tomorrow.
With Rosa's blessing, in the shape of a third raspberry brownie -- I'll work-out later, believe me -- and a can of diet Coke (other brands of soda are available), I'm on my way up to my room. I get there and get comfortable on my bed (I know, brownie crumbs, but what the hell) feeling a weird combination of excitement, nervousness and confidence. Could someone as ordinary as me be just who they're looking for to fill those part-time hours? Possibly, but only if I somehow convince them that I'm half the things I wrote on the form. Do I actually want the job? What, in an emporium of art books, are you joking? This job could be my ticket to a Brave New World (I told you I don't just read art books, novels too).
Okay, time to dump thoughts of a new world and get on with today's homework in this old one. English and history can wait till the weekend, so that just leaves this term's art project. Instead of being given a topic title by Mr. White (universally and unimaginatively known as Chalky) we've been given free choice, and I chose `Death'! For fuck's sake don't tell my mum, her psychologist brain would think it had found a goldmine, especially as I've narrowed down my area of study to just one historical character -- Saint Sebastian. If you've never heard of him, look him up. He was a Roman soldier hundreds of years ago who was secretly a Christian and when the emperor found out, poor old Seb was sentenced to death, first by a firing squad of bows and arrows (no guns or rifles in those days) and when that didn't work out, he was beaten over the head -- classic blunt force trauma. Yeah, I know, doesn't sound great stuff for an art project but there's a shed-load of paintings of him and in every one he's virtually naked -- usually with only a loin cloth to spare his blushes and leaving very little to the imagination -- and a body to die for (excuse the pun). Now do you get the attraction? Look up Getty Images and find the pictures by Giovanni Guercino and Andrea Vacairo (exactly what I'm doing now). Who knew death could be so hot? In fact, hot enough to get me boning up. There will now be a short interruption to this narrative while I take care of business, and no, I'm not gonna go into details -- I get hard, I rub, I cum, I clean up -- it's all very ordinary, and you've done it a million times so use your imagination.
Sorry, the interruption turned out to be longer than I expected. Blowing my load (a pretty big one thanks to Saint Seb) must've taken it out of me cause the next thing that happened was being woken up by a text from my mum telling me that dinner was ready. And then it was the usual evening stuff of eating, trying to think of something interesting to talk about (I didn't say anything about the FfT job cause I know I'm not gonna get it so there's no point in getting the parents all excited and asking questions), clearing away (my one daily chore), an hour or so of TV with mum and dad (a pretty lame but mostly harmless sit-com) and finally back upstairs to actually do some work on my art project, and no, that's not a euphemism for another jerk-off.
It's late now and time to not be awake, so goodnight.
As an author, it's REALLY encouraging to know that there are people out there who are taking the time to read what's been written, and then bothering to send a response. So please do feel free to write to me at the email address given at the top of the chapter. I welcome all comments and guarantee to write back. PJ
To keep this amazing resource open and freely available to readers everywhere, please consider donating to:
https://donate.nifty.org/