Discovering Love

Chapter 3
Pool Anyone?

Pool wasn’t something I excelled at but Greg certainly did. He could run the table at will but he chose to miss a shot from time to time so he could take stock of his balls. He had a habit of leaning his stick so it ran up the inside of his thigh. Where his conspicuous bulge got into the game, making a bigger impression on the perfectly faded jeans, I got a bad case of dry mouth.

Since he’d tucked away his erection before stepping onto the shoulder of Old Highway, he’d remained in various stages of being erect. Concentrating on pool didn’t cool his passion for the game. Greg had no shame and didn’t mind my eyes spending too much time on what was a very large presentation. I wondered if he could trip over it.

When he caught my eyes lingering too long just above the table’s bumper, and about a foot below his belt buckle, he pressed the bulge tightly again his cue, until it lengthened to make the view a little longer, If I dared to look up at his face, there was always the knowing little sneer waiting for me. Greg knew what he had and he knew what I wanted, but I wasn’t as bold with my thoughts as he was with his enticing display. He put everything into his game, when he played pool.

He watched my technique. I guess having a pool table in his basement did give him an advantage. I’d have done better but for some reason I couldn’t keep my mind on the game, not the pool game anyway. I mostly watched him shooting pool. His air of superiority was obvious as he danced around the table calling his shots. He was smooth. His lovely blue eyes pierced into the balls. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him.

Greg had facial hair. It wasn’t stubby coarse hair that interrupted his perfect complexion. The hair under his nose and along his jaw line was silken and blond. It was the same color as his hair in general. Greg was sculptured. He wasn’t chiseled out of stone. He was more lovingly caressed into the most lovely being the artist ever created. Greg had it all and he wanted me to see it all.

Half way through the second game he unexpectedly took his T-shirt off. He extended his arms straight up over his head. The fluffy tufts of hair under his arms showed for a second. It was a lighter blond than the hair on his head, perhaps a shade or two lighter, but it was a quick look and the sweat might have changed the natural color. I’d call it a dusty blond, adequate but not over done.

There were tracks of similarly colored hair running just below his belly button, the “honey trail” disappearing at his belt buckle. They were sparse but evident. His pants hung low on his hips well below the waist I wasn’t sure was there. His stomach was flat and refused to hold up his pants no matter how tight they were.

His shoulders were wider than what I would have expected, considering he was only two or three inches taller than I was. His arms had a fine definition with little or no bulging and they fit his thinner build perfectly. His chest showed surprising definition for his age and I found myself self-consciously looking at my own fixtures, noticing this boy was way better built than I was.

His nipples were the size of nickels, darker than light chocolate but not as dark as the bittersweet. They weren’t completely round, being more oblong with an odd shine to the flesh when I caught more than a passing glance. They perked out a bit in an exciting display of boldness, but they weren’t ostentatious or the least bit feminine, ample but not too large.

“Get comfortable,” he said, pressing his package against the table as he considered his next shot.

The invitation was subtle and he didn’t seem to care if I stripped off or not, but of course he wouldn’t. Greg was a stud and he had everything a well-equipped stud needed, and he wasn’t afraid to show it off. In fact he liked showing it off. Most of the guys my age were just then getting some kind of separation between chest and waist. Greg was already built like a man, lacking only a few pounds here and there to take his body over the final hump into manhood.

My eyes lingered for too long in places where I’d never let them linger before. Knowing what I knew about him, I knew that was stupid, but for some reason I didn’t have the self-control around him that I’d always exercised around the boys I knew all my life. When I realized he was watching me watch him, I tried to stop looking at his chest, the bulge, those lips, and the deceptive warmth in his clear blue eyes.

I watched as he stood with his legs spread apart with the pool cue running up between them and it ran up alongside the bulge, and up to where he held it in his right hand. He used his hips on the stick from time to time, pushing the bulge hard against the wood, rubbing it up and down to be sure it was completely hard, his cock not the pool cue. The expression on his face told me it wasn’t an unpleasant exercise.

Greg even strutted while he was standing still. I sheepishly looked at the table wondering whose shot it might be when he caught me watching him rub himself on the stick. My diverted eyes somehow ended up on his pool cue again. I knew it was part of the game but I didn’t know what happened next. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be stripping off so he could use that thing on me.

Each time he came away from a shot he was in a different state of arousal. The more difficult the shot and the more he studied it, the more likely he was to come away with a maximum display. Other shots were quick and it slid around in his jeans when it wasn’t extending down the leg or pointing out to one side. He caught me staring at it on numerous occasions and I stopped trying to hide the fact I was enjoying the view. My own display rose and fell with the intensity he showed. He didn’t seem to notice or if he did I never caught him, but the game wasn’t him pursuing me. Greg didn’t play that game. He put out the goodies and let the competition make the moves that got him where he was going. Greg wasn’t queer. The world was queer for him and teenage boys lacked the experience to ignore his come on, but how did he get so good at making himself available to those who were vulnerable to the sexual suggestiveness he made no attempt to hide?

Then there were the times my chair was in the way and he’d brush me with his arm or his leg as he posed or positioned himself. Only once did he pass behind me when I was positioning for a shot and I felt it as he rubbed it against me in a slow motion move that he apologized for, but only if he’d broken my concentration.

I had no concentration as long as he was around. I looked back to check its condition and position in his pants once he’d worked himself to the other side of my rather small ass. Our physical contact was no hindrance to his ongoing arousal as far as I could tell. I wondered if my ass was better than the pool cue, but I figured it didn’t matter to Greg, as long as he rubbed it against something.

“You’re low balls?” he said after one particularly long eye engagement.

“I was thinking you had the low balls,” I said, when he looked at me as though he was serious.

“Low enough,” he said. “Your shot. Take the balls you like.”

“Yeah,” I said, with a bad case of dry mouth.

“We could make this interesting, you know, since you get to play free. We ought to have a bet or something to make it interesting,” Greg suggested.

“I only got six cents left from lunch,” I said.

“Not money. I’ve already got my shirt off. We’ll play strip pool. I’m at a big disadvantage. You’ve got enough clothes to hold out until it’s time to quit. Who knows, you might get lucky and get a real good look, Martin.”

“Strip pool. Isn’t that a bit of a reach?” I asked.

“It’s a version of the game the older German boys taught us. Nudity isn’t as big a deal in Germany, you know. They got nude beaches. People sunbathe nude. Wasn’t unusual to pass a park with naked folks walking around with their kids.”

“Bet that worked out nice for you,” I said.

“It was odd at first. Then we got acquainted and when in Germany, being naked is no big deal. Once I was willing to get naked, I learned to play strip pool.”

“Strip pool?”

“If you’re too shy. I got nothing to hide.”

“Obviously,” I said.

He smiled.

“I’ll throw in my jeans and you’ll really have an advantage.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone has an advantage over you.”

“You’re no fun, Martin. At the party we’ll be playing strip pool. You don’t want the guys thinking you’re… funny, do you? Real guys don’t mind getting naked.”

“You’re serious. You learned it in Germany?”

“It’s the only way the German boys would play with us. They were older. They figured they could get over on us. They asked us if we were afraid to play with them. The benefit of being thirteen is you don’t get the joke, especially when you’re the punch line. They said if I was ashamed of being tiny, that they wouldn’t make fun of me. I was already pretty big. I planned to show them about tiny.”

“Someone got over on you, Greg? You’re making this up. No one has ever gotten over on you.”

“Maybe one time. I took it like a man. I wasn’t going to welsh on a bet. Like I said, I was thirteen and sixteen year olds saw me coming. I set myself up… only once. When I went back, I had been playing pool night and day for months. They were the ones doing all the bending over after that. They called me the king when I showed up.”

“They paid up?” I asked, trying to picture it.

“Had to. It was a matter of honor. You can’t take what you aren’t willing to give. They let the new guys play me, once I got good at the game. They were honorable but they weren’t fools. They were good but I was better.”

“So there is more to it than stripping?”

“Whatever you like. Whatever you want to do. I go along with the table. I’m easy.”

“Guys I know wouldn’t go for it,” I said, thinking it over.

“When in Germany do what the Germans do. Your friends probably won’t be up here looking to play. That makes it good for you. You go as far as you want and no one talks about it. You can be as busy as you want.”

“Busy?”

“Use your imagination, Martin. It’s a game. Everyone plays games. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. Once you lose everything, you pay other ways. The German boys were big on paying up. Us military brats wanted to fit in.”

“Strip pool anyone,” he said, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, watching me watch his hand.

I knew the answer was no, but then did I leave and if I left when would I get the chance to be this close to him again? I thought about the day I met Greg, and how I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He knew what I was thinking all right. Greg had been around. He was a year older and a light year ahead of me in experience. I just wasn’t sure what his game really was.

I knew the answer was no. Knowing what no might mean to the hope I’d get to know Greg better, was another story. I searched for a polite way to decline this suggestion without creating the idea I wasn’t interested in going where the strip pool game might be taking us.

While the idea of what Greg was after bother me, it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it should. I wanted more but not knowing what more was kept me cautious but not too cautious. He was ready to take off his pants and I had no objection, but there was what he wanted to do with what he had in those pants that worried me more than a little.

“Is this what you do with Alfred and the farm boys?”

“Something like that. Everyone wants to be a winner. Some guys like high stakes. Makes the game more intense.”

“Something like that? There’s more than stripping?”

“That’s up to you. Some people like more. Some don’t like so much. You decide what you like. I like everything.”

“Strip pool straight from Germany.”

“The German boys say it breaks up the boredom, while solving an ever present problem. Funny how getting naked lightens everyone’s mood. They do it while guzzling beer.”

“The party this weekend. This part of that?”

“Usually. Depends on the mood and what guys want to do, but someone will want to bet someone else. It’s a matter of pride.”

“Farm boys?”

“Not usually. One or two come up now and again to try his luck without witnesses. Mostly air force brats like me on weekends. They’re all cool enough. We all took lessons from the German kids.”

“No one I know probably?”

“Maybe Alfred. I haven’t decided. He’s cool but a little much at times. There is a point when a guy seems to want to lose. It’s not a good idea at a party.”

“Alfred?”

“Alfred.”

Greg didn’t seem to mind the questions. For the first time we talked normally, no stares, and we didn’t create some super strain of energy that demanded you collide with something. I was communicating with a guy that threw me for a loop. I didn’t have a clue what love was and I wasn’t sure about liking people. It was all very complicated and painful. He knew I didn’t know anything more than I was drawn to him like a cat is drawn to catnip.

I wasn’t sure what the rules were or how you decided which people to like and which to leave alone. With Greg there were no decisions. It wasn’t a question of yes or no. It was the question of how do I get to spend more time with him while looking like I wasn’t too willing, which I was sure he thought I was, but that didn’t seem to be a problem.

“Sure, I’m game.”

Greg took his time before breaking. He sunk the eight-ball, along with the cue ball. I don’t know if he was that good and did it on purpose to break the ice or if it was by fate. I expected him to toss one of his shoes aside but instead he carefully unsnapped his jeans, sliding them down on his thighs as he watched my face. He peeled the jeans off over his shoes and tossed them inside out into the corner.

His boxers were sparkling clean. The bulge was obvious and moved around when he moved. Each time I lost something, I was in more distress. When I finally lost my T-shirt, my own excitement became evident. There was no way to keep it from showing. It was no match for his show. He got a good look at my skinny boy body with a tiny waist and a bulge that would not die.

It was then I felt like the fly that had just discovered this shiny silvery landing strip was actually a spider’s web. I kept trying to hide my erection, but it just refused to stay put. He found my attempts at making it less apparent humorous. Every time I bent to take a shot, when I stood up, it was saluting him. He looked at it long enough to let me know he knew I was horny as he was. There was no prolonged interest beyond that or if there was he wasn’t showing it. Greg was plenty cool.

“What happens when you win them all? You gonna make me go home naked? You know you’re going to win. I know you’re going to win. I could just strip so we don’t need to go through the motions.”

“How would we know who won?”

“It’s important?”

“It’s the only reason to play the game.”

This is the kind of question that comes to you as time goes on. I hadn’t considered what the result of losing these games to Greg might be, but with only my pants and underwear left between me and glory, I wondered about what losing meant. Until now it was a word. I’d lost things before, but I’d never bet anything before. I could lose without losing anything. When you lost to Greg, you owned him.

At the rate my clothing was dropping by the wayside, it occurred to me that he might have learned a strategy the German boys taught him. Humiliation is a potent weapon in the hands of someone who knows what he wants.

“No. No. I’m not that cold hearted. We’ll see if we can’t work something out. You can do something for me to get me to give them back. Fair enough? I mean I could make you walk home naked if you lose them to me.”

“Is this how the farm boys escape your basement with their clothes? They do something for you?”

“They aren’t very good pool players. Play you got to pay don’t they say. Farm boys always pay up. A farm boy never goes back on a bet. It’s the law.”

“They’ve got to perform for you to get them back? Some of those guys look like they could get pretty mean, Greg. They aren’t all thirteen.”

“Perform? That’s a neat word. I like that. Sometimes they... perform. They’re honorable guys and when they agree to terms, they pay up when they lose. The point is they don’t plan to lose.”

“Alfred?”

“He’s too easy. He knows he’ll lose, but he isn’t sure how far he wants to go.”

“In front of his friends? Alfred doesn’t seem the type. He’s small compared to you. That’s hard to believe. What I think you mean is hard to believe.”

“Hard is the word. You’d be surprised how adaptable a small guy can be if he wants to try. I don’t force anyone to play.”

“No, Alfred isn’t the type to let you force him to do anything, especially in front of his buddies.”

“They mostly come up together and so it limits what they’ll do. It’s when one of them comes back for a grudge match. They’re the most fun. Farm boys just want to have fun, you know? They already know where everything goes and they know what they want.”

“You always win? They always perform?”

“So far. A few come back claiming what they really want is a rematch. Those are the ones who truly love the game. It’s what makes it all interesting. Them wanting to play with me and coming up without their buddies. That’s when I shoot my best pool.”

He hadn’t smirked in a while. He was smirking now. He knew what he was saying and he knew it would excite me to hear about other boys coming up to play with him after learning what the game was. He didn’t have to use ugly words or tell tales about which boy did what. All he had to do was put the proposition on the table for me to examine. It’s the way things were at Greg’s.

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