Page 25 of Brought By the Storm

“Will be if I can ejaculate. Would you mind?” I shook my head, though unsure what he wanted to do. He shocked me by reaching into my pants and rubbing his hand all around my cum. “Enough to feed an army,” he joked.

“The Yastarus military has an unusual cuisine selection,” I commented.

“We try not to waste,” he deadpanned. He then took his cum-filled hand and slipped it into the front of his shorts. “Eric lubricant,” he explained.

He started jacking while resuming our kissing, and I found it thrilling he would be okay with using my emissions as a means for slicking himself. Within seconds, he pulled his face away and began panting. A vein in his forehead became prominent when he was starting to orgasm, and he dropped his face onto the pillow while grunting and gasping. I held him tight through his release, stroking his back then rubbing soothing circles on it when I knew he was finished.

“Are you okay still?” I asked, fearful that now the regret would set in.

He raised his head from the pillow to look at me. “I am. Don’t worry. I’m not going to have a straight man freak-out. In fact, I dare say, I’ve never felt anything that intense.”

I felt a surge of pride, even though I know I didn’t do much of anything. “Me too.”

He brushed back the hair from my forehead, gazing at me affectionately. “What are you doing to me, Eric Turner?”

“Whatever you want,” I whispered back.

He smiled. Then he reached over to the box of tissues I had on my nightstand, grabbed some and threw a wad at me. “You clean yourself, and I’ll clean myself. Then, let’s cuddle. Or do you not do that?”

“I do that,” I replied with eagerness. He chuckled. After we both wiped ourselves down, I told him to just throw the tissues on the floor and that I’d pick them up in the morning. I didn’t want him to leave the bed. Once we had discarded the cum rags, he rolled to his side and pulled me up to him. “Mm, this is nice,” I admitted.

He put his strong arms around me, kissed me on the forehead and rubbed my lower back. “Sleep well, sweet Eric.”

* * * *

Five years earlier

My newest college friend, Troy, had just left my parents’ Caldwell, New Jersey, home to head back to NYU. He had come to stay as a guest for the Thanksgiving break since the dorms were going to be closed, and Troy’s parents didn’t want to pay for him to travel home to California for such a short school vacation. Troy had taken the train so he could get back when the dorms reopened on Saturday, but I had stayed behind and would be driven by my parents the following day.

My parents had been quiet the entire time Troy had been with us, bordering on rudeness. They hadn’t said much to me either, so I knew they were upset about something. I was embarrassed and angry with my mother and father for making my friend so uncomfortable. We were now sitting down to dinner, and the tension was palpable.

Once the three of us were seated, my mother addressed me without eye contact. “You’re at an age where we would have thought you’d be bringing a girl home some time. Are you still not seeing anyone?”

There was a tone that signaled where the conversation was heading, and bile rose in my throat. “Um, no, I haven’t met anyone.”

She stabbed at a piece of meat, but didn’t eat it. “You’re not going to meet a girl when you hang out with people like Troy.”

I looked to my father, but he was eating with a scowl on his face, avoiding eye contact with either of us. I knew what my mother meant by her comment, but I thought it would be smarter to play dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.” I forced a piece of meatloaf into my mouth, but felt like my throat would close if I tried to swallow it.

“He’s not the first friend you’ve had that’s one of them,” she snarled, pushing her fork into mashed potatoes then dropping it to the plate.

I knew she meant gay people, but I hoped staying silent might encourage her to change the subject. I shoved another piece of meatloaf in my mouth, wanting to finish as soon as possible so I could leave the table.

“I don’t hear you denying your friend is a queer,” my father snapped, also dropping his fork on the plate, then wiping his forehead. I was wishing he would at least look at me, but he didn’t. It was becoming clear that both he and my mother were certain I was gay, and they couldn’t bear to be around me.

Since both were just staring at their uneaten food, I knew they were waiting for me to speak. “Yes, he is,” I confessed.

My mother looked like she was about to cry, but I found it elicited from me irritation as opposed to empathy. I hated that their bigotry made me the bad guy in the scenario. “I’ve been sick since that…boy…got here, wondering if you’re like him,” she muttered with disgust.

“I haven’t slept with Troy, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” I protested, thinking it might be enough to slow down the inquisition.

She looked like she was about to vomit. “I don’t want to think about that. Are you attracted to any girls?”

I tried to be evasive once again. “I’m not attracted to anyone. I’m just trying to focus on school.”

“So, you don’t like boys?” she pressed.

“I don’t like anyone,” I reiterated.