A Work of Art
Not a journal
Eighth Entry
At school, there was a growing undercurrent of murmurs of discontent. It came from the freshman boys. The general feeling was that they were being treated as guinea pigs and didn’t have any say in the matter. Many of us didn’t like the nudity that seemed to have been forced on us and no one else, and even if our parents had been brainwashed or seduced into thinking it was okay, it wasn’t okay with us. We were the ones who had to put up with it, not our parents. They only heard about what their sons were going through after it had happened to them, too late to do anything about it.
What was happening with the school nurse and Missy was bringing it to a head. Naked swimming wasn’t so bad, nor were communal showers with other boys. Separating gym classes between rowdy and more peace-loving boys was fine, too, and many felt it was better than fine, that it was long overdue. But being measured by a young girl wasn’t. Being manipulated into getting boners in front of her—something that was now being discussed and found to have happened with every group of ten boys that had met with Missy so far—also wasn’t fine.
Some groups hadn’t had uncircumcised boys in them. Even then, Missy had managed to fumble around doing the measuring so at least one boy had got hard. That had had the domino effect I’d wondered about. In one case, she’d dropped her tape a couple of times and while still holding onto the boy’s penis, she’d had to lean over to pick it up, putting her head directly over the penis, and it had been necessary to squeeze it a few times as she reached for the tape. Then, after breathing on his most private part and squeezing it a bit more, only that little more manipulation during the measurement had been enough encouragement. It probably hadn’t been that difficult to do the same in each group of boys. After all, Missy was a professional with lots of experience with penises; she’d proudly told us that. In any case, difficult or easy, it had happened. Every boy so far who had been measured had also been seen and measured hard.
I felt the same objections. This wasn’t right, but what could we do about it? Freshman boys have no power at all. Many of the upperclassmen were getting a big kick out of hearing what we were going through. They weren’t going to help put a stop to it. They were enjoying it, teasing us about it, and thinking how lucky they’d been.
If we were going to do something about it, and something was what it seemed we all wanted, we’d have to figure it out for ourselves.
Most of us ate lunch with our own age group. There were several tables of freshman boys, and this became a common topic of conversation. How do we get this stopped? Everyone was talking about it, and ideas were being generated. Being 14, which most of us were, many of the ideas were way out in left field. That’s how kids our age think. But some of us were more practical, and some of the crazy ideas led to saner ones. And with all of us working on it, we hit on a plan that seemed foolproof. It was very clever, I thought. One of the best things about it was that I didn’t have to be involved. Okay, I felt better about myself these days; I wasn’t nearly as shy even if shy didn’t really define me and never had. So, was I still reserved? Well, yes. I still didn’t talk much in groups, and I still felt most comfortable on the sidelines. But it wasn’t as bad as before. I was getting better.
The band was a pretty close-knit group. Mario’s idea had worked in that regard. He told us that was why he did it; there was a lot of speculation, though, that he just wanted to see us all naked and wanted to embarrass us to the max. He didn’t have a girlfriend, and boys his age without one were always wondered about.
Marching-band practices had continued, clothed, of course. We had a new routine to learn for each football game. We had the next one ready for our upcoming game on Friday. The way it worked, the JV team played an afternoon game against the school the varsity team would play in the evening under the lights. The evening game started at 7:30, and we were all in uniform in the band room by then. We used the time we had to practice the music we’d be playing. Just before halftime, we marched out in a progression formation, twenty-two rows of kids, five per row.
For the performance, we didn’t get into formations of people or objects like some bands do. We just moved into different performing blocks after each number we played. This made our music sound fuller, with the instruments not being spread out all over the field. Usually, we were on the field for about fifteen minutes and sometimes mostly played marches, but sometimes music that would fit a theme, like Western TV shows, or Sci-Fi movies.
We were marching into a different playing setup that Friday night when it happened. A streaker came onto the field. It was Isaac! I’d thought he was with us in uniform, but no, here he was, running onto the field naked, waving his arms and starting to dance. A couple of policemen on the sidelines ran out to get him. And then, in a moment, they were lost among a whole sea of streakers: the entire freshman boys’ class, minus those of us in the band. They all were naked and all running onto and around on the field.
Mario was conducting the band as usual. He saw what was happening, got a huge grin on his face, and began waving his arms at us. He wanted us to ignore the melee and play! This was our final number, and it was an apt piece for the pandemonium occurring the field. It was the William Tell Overture. So, while the field was covered with gamboling, naked boys, we were accompanying their antics with the Lone Ranger theme. I started laughing and couldn’t play. Didn’t matter. No one could hear the flute anyway.
When we’d finished our number, Mario had us line up in formation again and march back to the band room. We could hear the PA announcer pleading with the boys to clear the field. I guess they eventually did because, later, we could hear the ref’s whistle letting us know the game was resuming.
The aftermath was what we expected. The town’s sportswriter had a ball reporting what had happened. There were many pictures published with the interesting front parts of those pictured blacked out; tushes were evidently not considered scandalous and were shown. Lots of tushes. The school board members were furious. After the fact, they had several meetings to decide what to do. Some of the members wanted to suspend all the boys who’d participated; there was even talk of expulsions. That would affect the entire male freshman class except for the ones in the band. Such widespread discipline didn’t seem very practical and wasn’t a good response to what had happened. A suspension would certainly stir up a controversy about the nudity in the school this year which some members of that group had approved. That point began a discussion about why the boys had streaked en masse. Was it a prank? Some sort of initiation or dare? It was easy enough to find out; they merely had to ask someone.
To my surprise, or sort of surprise, Toby was chosen as our class spokesman. He was very popular among his classmates, he was on the JV football team, and he had been one of the streakers, he had no problem speaking to adults, and so he was a natural. He attended a board meeting and told the members and senior administrators why the boys had streaked. He said they were fed up with this new system encouraging boys to be naked. Also, the project had to stop, and there could be no more cute girls handling boys’ personal equipment and encouraging their erections with the approval of the school. All questionnaires looking into how boys were navigating their private lives that had already been filled out and turned in needed to be given back. This had to end, and it had to end immediately or more streaking would take place.
And so it ended. I think it was partly because the newspaper discovered and reported what was happening at the school and the people in the town were reacting. The principal and superintendent were both censured but allowed to retain their jobs. As for us, we no longer had to be naked in any school setting if we didn’t want to be. Swimming and showering naked were now both voluntary.
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TJ was still coming home with me for swimming lessons. And make-out sessions, but purportedly for the swimming. We usually stripped naked in my room and, well, we weren’t going to go directly to the pool when we were both naked together and a bed was handy, were we? No, we weren’t. What we did was call it warming up. You’re supposed to warm up before entering into physical activity, so we felt what we were doing was justified and appropriate. TJ told me that what we were doing on the bed was certainly physical and how were we warming up for that?
“Easy,” I said. “Like this,” and I kissed him. We were doing lots of kissing. One of the stories I’d read—I read a lot of stories featuring boys like us; the internet was full of them—suggested that most boys our age who fooled around only did it for the sexual thrill, and many boys didn’t kiss at all; they thought it too gay, and they didn’t want to think of themselves as gay. We kissed. That made what else we did just that more special. We were gay and knew it and thoroughly enjoyed our gay activities.
What I’d done with Isaac hadn’t included kissing. The entire experience had been great but different from what I’d done with TJ. And really, not as great. They were much the same things, and Isaac was very talented, but I felt much more emotionally involved with TJ, and I wanted him to be enjoying it as much as I was. I didn’t have that connection with Isaac. That was what made the difference.
I do feel the need to point this out, however, even if it makes me sound a little conceited: TJ loved my flutter tonguing. Okay, now I’m blushing a little.
We had an unusually romantic session one afternoon. It may have been because of what TJ told me as we were kissing.
“I was in the last group Missy measured before they called a halt to the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I know.” I tugged at his lower lip with my teeth very gently. When he’d worked it loose from me, he continued.
“Yeah, I know you know. But I didn’t tell you this. You know the questionnaires?”
“Yeah. I didn’t fill out mine. None of their business that I’m gay.”
“Well, I’m not as uptight about that as you are. I filled mine out. Even where it asked if I identified as gay.”
“Yeah, but no problem there, huh? You told me you were undecided, right?” I’d been disappointed in that ever since; no way had I forgotten it.
“No. Well, I mean yes. That was what I told you, and it was how I felt. But no, it wasn’t how I answered on the questionnaire. I checked the box for gay.”
I sat up straight; I’d been lying on top of him. But I needed to be upright for this. “You did? You mean you’ve decided you’re gay?”
“Absolutely! Now get back where you were. I like you on top of me.”
“Not till you answer one question?”
‘Well, make it fast, what is it?”
“Will you be my boyfriend?”
Which may have been the cause of the better-than-ever make-out session, and the lingering aftereffects that led to our ardent osculation later in the pool.
We were kissing, all tongues and saliva, and there was some pumping with our hips in waist-deep water when Toby walked out onto the patio.
I saw him out of the corner of my eye and quickly pulled away from TJ’s embrace. Toby stared at us, shook his head, growled, and walked back into the house, slamming the door. That was a hard door to slam. It was a sliding glass patio door and wasn’t built for slamming. Toby slammed it.
I told TJ he’d better head home. I didn’t know what was up with Toby, but I had the feeling it wasn’t good. He was mad, certainly. Would he out us? He was capable of doing that, I thought. If he did, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but I didn’t want it to come out this way, and I hated the idea of my twin brother doing something that spiteful to me. Wanting to hurt me. Just thinking about that made me so emotional that I felt like crying.
I needed to talk to him, but it had been years since we’d done that, talked about anything personal or important. I’d missed that and grown to accept it as just part of growing up. I’d never liked the fact we’d stopped, that we’d grown apart, but there’d been nothing I could do about it. I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do now to placate him.
Was there anything I could do to prevent him from selling me down the river? And it wasn’t just me. He’d be outing TJ as well. How was that fair?
It wasn’t. I had to talk to him. I had to try, at least.
If only he’d talk to me.