High School Hero

Beth and I were arguing, and she’d given me hell about trying to make waves at this late a date.  She did have a point, I decided.  About wearing the costume, and being too uptight about it.  I could walk on stage, toss the bundle of letters in the window and walk off; maybe even 15 seconds were more than I’d need.  There couldn’t be all that much ogling going on in that short a time, and I could mostly keep myself in profile to the audience.  I just had to hope my dick would cooperate and stay home.  I still hadn’t put the costume on.

In the back of my mind, however, I couldn’t forget my unhappiness about her having told the lunch table I hated being called shy as a ruse in her conspiracy to get me to accept being in the play.  I still needed to get back at her for that.  So, school was still out as to whether I’d get the bundle of letters through that window on my first try that night.  I’d see how things went before deciding that.

We finally parted with my agreeing to wear the damn costume but not agreeing with anything about anything else.  Let her worry a bit, that was my plan.  I knew how devious she could be, and in order to maintain some respect, I simply wasn’t going to meekly cave to her wishes.

I was to learn just how devious she was by accident.  I overheard her at the cast party after the play.  She was talking to the faculty adviser, the one who went along with the risqué aspects of the play.  The advisor was complimenting her on the job she’d done, and asked how she’d managed to sell out the auditorium, something the school had never done before with a student-written and directed play.

“It wasn’t hard,” Beth had answered, her smugness both obvious and obnoxious.  Well, to me it sounded obnoxious.  “I just told a bunch of girls to keep it secret, but that I’d have Whit on stage basically naked for them to goggle at.  I told them that if he found out that people were expecting that, he’d never go on, so they had to keep it quiet.  The word got around, as I knew it would, and the place sold out.”

Of course, by then, I’d had my own revenge, even if it was inadvertent.  Things have a way of evening out.

But, back to Saturday, and to the time right before the play.  When I got to the auditorium and was backstage, everyone was nervous.  I wasn’t.  My appearance would be very brief, and it wouldn’t come till near the end of the play, and so I was relaxed and in a decent mood after all the arguing Beth and I had done earlier.  I never liked fighting with her, but had learned how to calm down afterwards, and I was still in that mood while all the other cast members around me were excited and nervous and fidgety.

I wouldn’t be getting into costume, if that’s what you could call those two ounces of material I had to wear, until we were into the second and last act of the play.

  I watched the first act from the wings, and when the second act began I made my way to the dressing room.  Several other people were there, including a few freshmen boys wearing Speedos.  I’d never seen the whole play and had no idea what that was all about.  Then Dean came in, saw me, and beckoned me to follow him.  He was also only in a Speedo.

He led me to a smaller room that was obviously a private dressing room because it had a mirror with bright lights over it and some makeup containers on a shelf in front of it.  Before we entered he hung a sign on the outside doorknob reading Do Not Enter; then we went in and he shut the door.

“Why the Speedos?” I asked.

He looked just as nervous as he had that morning, and I didn’t know if it was because of my presence or because he’d be going on stage, too.  But he answered well enough, even looking me full in the face for the first time as he did.  “We’re all supposed to wear them.  We’re angels.  Beth designed the costumes.  They’re robes, but designed to open up as we move to show skin.  Legs and chests.  The whole play is a bit risqué for a high-school production.  I don’t think anyone but the faculty advisor knows how risqué; the advisor doesn’t mind.  She’s like that.  Anyway, we have to wear Speedos so when we’re showing skin, there’s lots of skin to show.  All our Speedos are like this.”  He pointed at his; it was the same color as my shorts, skin color.  And tight.

I just shook my head, and wondered about Beth.

“Anyway, I need to put on your body makeup.  You’ll have to undress.”

I looked at him hard, and he blushed, and I took off my clothes.  All of them except my boxer briefs.

“Okay,” he said, “but those will have to come off eventually.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the legs of those will show beneath the Speedos.  They’re shorter than the, uh, costume.  And I don’t think it’ll fit over them anyway.”

I frowned, then picked up the Speedos from the counter where they were waiting for me and pulled them on.  He was right; they were too tight to fit over the boxer briefs, and I could see the bottom of my briefs extended below the bottom of the costume.

I took them off, dropped my boxer briefs, and, with my back turned, asked if I should put on the costume before he did the makeup.  He said, “It’s better if you don’t.  I don’t want to get the makeup on the costume, and I need to make sure the make up extends above and below the costume’s top and bottom.”

I grimaced, but, having no choice, said, “Okay, go ahead with the makeup, though I don’t understand why I need it.”

“You’d look pasty white under the spots without it,” he explained.  “And Beth made sure the makeup is the exact color of the shorts.  It’d be my ass if I don’t get you made up just as she told me to.”

I frowned again, but submitted.  I sat naked on a chair in front of the mirror and watched as he began rubbing makeup onto my skin, starting on my face and working down.  I opened my legs and he stood between them, close to me.  His chest was in my face, and I could smell his scent.  I tried not to as I found it something of a turn on.

Not only was his scent turning me on, but his hands sliding over my torso, over my nipples, had the same effect.  I was afraid it was becoming noticeable when he told me to stand up and turn around, which I did, and he began doing my back.

That didn’t do much to quell my hormonal response, but it wasn’t nearly as sensual as doing my front, and so while my growing tumescence didn’t continue growing, neither did it subside.

He did my back all the way down to my feet, only missing what the shorts would cover, which wasn’t much, basically only my butt and hips.  Then he had me turn back around and sit again.  He kneeled and began the front of my legs, doing the tops of my feet first, then working up.

I could see him well, and as he got to my knees, I saw that I wasn’t the only one having hormonal difficulties.  He was wearing a tiny Speedo, and it was being stretched out farther than I thought it was built to stretch.  I looked at Dean’s face, and I saw he was sweating.

Seeing he was as hard as I was—yes, rubbing my legs and moving past my knees to my lower thighs had caused my delay in erecting to no longer be a delay.  I had now become as hard as I could get.  He couldn’t help but notice it, too.

“Stop a moment, Dean,” I said.  My voice was husky, and I cleared my throat.

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and dark.  I couldn’t tell if he was scared or excited or both.

“Looks like we have the same problem.  I don’t know about you, but I’m damned uncomfortable with the whole situation.  Look, we’re both guys.  We both know about hard-ons.  What I suggest is we you take off what’s giving you so much discomfort.  Okay?  And it’ll make me more comfortable if I’m not the only one exposed.”

His eyes grew wider, which I hadn’t thought could happen.  I smiled at him, trying to look as innocent as possible, hoping that would defuse the tension.  It—the meaning of ‘it’ was obvious—was pointing toward my chin, something that almost never happened.  I doubted I’d ever been harder than this.

He looked at it, then at my eyes, really looked at them, then stood and pushed down his Speedos.  He was built pretty well for a kid who was probably only 14.  He blushed again, but left his hands at his sides, not covering himself up.  I gave him points for that.

I took a deep breath.  “Okay, that’s that,” I said.  My voice still didn’t sound right to me.  I wondered what it sounded like to him.  “Go ahead.  Let’s get this done.”

He kneeled again and edged forward so he was just in front of my knees and began slathering on the makeup.  In just moments, he was inching forward as he rubbed the makeup up higher on the front and insides of my thighs. 

I was watching him, and the sweat was back on his forehead, and I saw his hips twitching.  Then I saw him bite his lower lip.

I felt for him.  I knew what he was going through.  Boys that age can climax without even touching themselves if they get horny enough.  I knew the signs.  He was ready to burst, and for the life of him he didn’t want it to happen.  It would be humiliating.

“Stop,” I commanded.  “Stand up.”

He did so, and I saw he was trembling.

“Turn around and back up to me.”

Without demur, he moved back until his naked butt was up against me, forcing my erection back against my stomach.  I felt him shake when he realized what he was touching.  Without pause, I reached around him and took his erection in my hand.  I held it firmly, just held it before whispering in his ear, “Is this okay?”

He was too tense to speak.  He just nodded.  I gave him two gentle strokes.  Just two.

He exploded; he spasmed again and again, then finally sank back into me so I was taking his full weight.

He took some gasping breaths, trying to regain control.  I could feel his heart where his back was against my chest.  Eventually, I could feel it begin to slow down.

I whispered in his ear.  “That was good and fine.  You needed that, and I’m glad I could help.  You should be able to finish your job now.”

He moved forward out of my arms, then turned to look at me.

“No blushing,” I said, softly.  “Just a friend helping a friend.”  I picked up the makeup jar and handed it to him.  “You’re almost done.”

He was about done.  Just a couple more minutes and he’d be finished.  The thing was, his problem had been resolved.  Mine hadn’t.  I was still like an iron rod.  I was still a little embarrassed, too, but what we’d done together made me less so.  He knew I was human, now, and compassionate, and I knew he knew that.  That knowledge helped.

All he had to do was finish up, which meant getting right up close to the main stuff, and actually brushing against it now and then.  But he got it done, and now all I had to do was put on the costume.  It was then I realized the extent of my problem.  There was no way in the world I could fit my erection in those Speedos.  It was hard to believe I could fit my flaccid member in them.  I did try, though.  I pulled them up while still hard, but doing that did cause some additional embarrassment because it made my what-was-sticking-out stick out even more prominently, and it was now the focus of what we both were looking at, and it was all too apparent how it couldn’t possibly fit in my costume.

I took the shorts off again, laid them on the counter, then just turned to look at Dean, feeling a bit uncertain.  He looked back at me, and then for some totally unknown reason, we both broke out laughing.  That broke the ice.  Before, even after what I’d done, there had been some reserve between us, perhaps because of the age difference, perhaps because he still was thinking of me as some sort of macho idol.  Now, we were equals.  The laughter had achieved that.

When we stopped laughing, his eyes bright, he said,  “Looks like you’ve got a problem.  I think I can help.”

Then he came to me, sank again to his knees, and to my utter dismay, took hold of my erection, pulled it down to where it was sticking straight out, and wrapped his lips around it.

My God, what a feeling!  And so unexpected!  To be honest, I guess I’d been hoping he’d do for me what I’d done for him, but this?  Never in a thousand years would I have expected this.

After only a moment or two, it was apparent this wasn’t the first time he’d done this.  No beginner could do what he was doing with his fist, his lips and his tongue.

The state I was in, and his expertise, meant it took me very little more time than it had taken him to reach climax.  I warned him, but he just sucked harder, and that was it.

I was spent, literally spent, when he was finished.  I looked at him and asked, “You’ve had practice at that, haven’t you?”

He grinned.  “I had to put makeup on all the other angels.”  Then he laughed again.

He looked at the clock, dropped open his mouth, and said, “Almost time for you on stage!  Damn it, hurry up!”

That statement was followed immediately by a knock on the door.  “Two minutes, Whit.  Get out here!  Now!”

I struggled into my costume, what there was of it.  It was tight, really tight, but I was flaccid by then and did get everything into it.

Then I jogged to the wings, and right then got my cue.

I tried to walk onstage with aplomb, but was still feeling overwhelmed by what had just occurred moments earlier.  My head was a bit spacey, and my onstage-with-aplomb bit was more like a stagger.  I had the bundle of letters in my hand, but instead of focusing on the prop I had to throw the letters through, what caught my attention was the sudden roar from the crowd.  I hadn’t thought ahead to whether there’d be any reaction at all.  It caught me by surprise, and I couldn’t help myself.  I stopped for just a moment and turned to look at the audience.

They rose!  They were clapping and shouting, and I felt like an imbecile.  What could I do?  What should I do?

What I did was give them a little smile, a half bow, then walked to my spot and hurled the letters at the window.  Except my arm felt like a wet noodle, and the letters hit the bottom frame and bounced back.  I strode forward, picked them up and stepped back.  Then, without thinking about it, I became a quarterback again.  I took a couple of quick, short hop steps backward, turned in profile to my target, and with good form and follow through, pitched the letters through the window.

The audience roared again.  I didn’t mug them this time.  I did raise my arm in triumph, made a fist and the arm pump the boy had made in Home Alone, then trotted off the stage, somehow managing not to trip or stumble.

From the wings I saw Dean and the other freshman boys go onstage in their angel costumes.  To say he was cute in that white robe with tactical slits in it nowhere near describes how he looked.  But I was tired of being on display, and made my way back to the dressing room.  There was a small stall shower in the corner.  I showered off the makeup and dried myself off.  I was dressing when Beth stormed into the room.  I was just pulling on my boxer briefs, but she’d seen it all before, so I just pulled them up and didn’t worry about the brief flash she’d had.  Through the door she’d left open I could hear the final applause.

“Come on,” she said urgently.  “Curtain call.”  She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to the wings—me fumbling on my jeans all the way, no shirt at all—and she pushed me out onto the stage.  No one else was there, and I had to accept a solo bow.  I got off stage quickly. Beth was smiling triumphantly.  I scowled at her, and she just laughed.

I saw Dean at the party.  I pulled him to one side.  “I hope you’re not going to spread around what happened tonight,” I said.  “It wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

He put his hand on my arm for a moment, then took it back off again.  He didn’t look at all awestruck, talking to me now.  “That was just between us.  I’ll always remember that, and if I told anyone, it would take all the special-ness away.  It would no longer be something that just you and I had shared.  It wouldn’t belong to just us after that.”

That made me feel better.  I wasn’t sure how to ask my next question, and in fact thought I shouldn’t ask it at all, but somehow I found the courage to do so.  “Dean, what you did, that was, well . . . it was amazing, and I couldn’t help but wonder . . . well, I wondered . . .” 

He let me off the hook.  He grinned at me and said, “Yeah, I’ve done that before.  Of course I’m gay.  What straight boy my age would be so good with makeup?  I know you’re not gay, but, well, you needed relief, and you needed it fast, and I got something out of it, too.  I’m the only boy who’ll ever give Whit Chambers a blow job!”

They didn’t have many gowns long enough and wide enough for me, but did find one somehow.  They had the same problem with a couple of my football friends, offensive linemen who were in the neighborhood of 300 pounds.  My head wasn’t much larger than average, and finding a cap that fit was no problem at all.

I sat with the rest of the seniors and listened to the top students give short addresses.  Beth was one of them.  She wasn’t nervous at all.  When had she ever been?  I was proud of her.  She spoke about some of us going on to college and some of us getting jobs, and how all of us would be looking at a future that would involve change and growth, and how we were better prepared for those challenges because of the foundation we’d gained these last four years at Madison, and how appreciative we were to the faculty who’d guided our steps as we’d grown from young teens to the mature young adults we now were.  She threw in some humor, too, like saying that at least some of us were now mature young adults.  I thought it was the best address of all of them.

There were multiple parties afterwards.  I even went to a few, but didn’t spend much time at any one.  I simply wasn’t a party animal and had little patience with the alcohol-induced revelry going on at all of them.  I was more comfortable when around fewer people.

The kids I was closest to were all waiting for acceptance letters from the colleges we’d applied to.  I knew where I was going.  It was a division one school whose football team would run a pro-set offense.  Spread offences that utilized a running QB were big right then, and I didn’t fit that scheme at all, but pro set offense were still in vogue and were being added at some schools.  I’d been offered a full scholarship to one of them after spending some time at their campus and speaking with their coach.  I’d be leaving for fall practice in August. 

I’d be leaving Beth and Jake and all my other friends.  I knew how I felt about that.  I had regrets, and felt uncertain, but also was looking forward to the challenge.  I realized that a year ago I wouldn’t have been ready.  Now I was.

The one I’d miss most would be my dad.  He’d been there all along, behind me 100%, supportive and simply there.  He still would be, but he’d be miles away now.  I had to accept his absence.  I’d been with him every day of my life till now.  That would take some getting used to.

This was a very bittersweet time for me.  Beth had called us mature young adults.  I wasn’t sure I wasn’t one of the ones for whom that title didn’t apply.

Clay came home for the summer, and it was he, Dad and I for a few weeks.  We fell into our old routines.  I think the realization that we’d probably not have too many more times like these didn’t just dawn on me; rather, it dropped on me like a ton of sand.  We were a family and had been together my whole life.  Then Clay had left, and though he was still with us in spirit, he wasn’t in the flesh, and Dad and I had adapted.  Just the two of us, but if anything, it brought us closer.  I’d still lived with Dad, and thinking about it, I’d spent just about every day of my life with him so far.

We were a team now, helping each other.  I’d grown older, and he didn’t have to do for me like he had when I was growing up.  I pulled my weight now.  I worried a little about him.  I’d soon be going away, not seeing him for weeks, months at a time.  How lonely would he be?

We barbecued a lot that summer, hanging out in the backyard.  I threw passes to Clay and he to me, with Dad criticizing us, telling us both how to stand differently and throw differently and the both of us laughing at him and reminding him he’d never gotten past being a high-school second stringer, so what did he know?  He pretended outrage, but we could read his eyes.  He loved the jabber.

He never complained about us calling him that.  He knew we knew: he had been a second string high-school QB, but the first string guy had gone on to be an NFL QB.  Dad had been good; he’d just never had the chance to play.

He knew a lot.  He was smart.  He was where I’d gotten my smarts.  He’d given me my reluctance to claim the spotlight, too.  He was gentle and kind, with steel in his spine when wronged.  I’d learned so much from him and taken after him as much as I had as a matter of pride.

Clay and I both had to leave early for summer football camps at our schools.  We had a long night before we left, the three of us sitting in the summer evening, discussing the things you do when you’re already feeling nostalgic for a past that’s been and anticipating a future that’s unknown.  I do know this: Clay and I both had about the best foundation any two high-school jocks could ever hope for.