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Blog excerpt number one
There's nothing better than fucking a straight guy, making him like it, and then leaving him while he's still cooling your load in his ass. I should know, I've done it seventeen times since school started, and it's only November. Over summer break, at the country club and camp, there must have been at least seven "converts." Hell, I even secretly webcammed four of them, which are all online now, of course.
Yep, pump up and unload, that's my motto.
Take Jordan, for example. I just did it! I left him half-drunk and completely wasted in his family's basement. Hopefully, he'll remember to pull up his pants before his dad gets home. It only took me four days to fit into those pants. Four days, a new personal record! A little vodka, a little ego-boosting, a few sweet words at the right time, a little playing with his insecurities and curiosity, and BAM! There he is!
What worked with Jordan, though—the key to his back door, so to speak—was simply cuddling. Oh, I was just starting out. I caught him looking at me in the cafeteria in that way that's hard to miss if you know what to look for. I was already close to getting Marty anyway, so I was looking for a new target. Like the song says, "Done! Done! On to the next one!" Jordan was also a few notches cuter than Marty, which didn't hurt my resolve to pursue him at all. I could have just targeted Jordan without going after Marty in the first place, but I didn't. I never give up on a target once I've got it in my sights. My heat-seeking pocket rocket has to go where the target is most vulnerable and pierce deep.
Furthermore, and I can't stress this enough, Marty was such a closed-off guy that I was practically doing him a favor by giving him a handjob. It must have been as if all his most secret, deepest, and dirtiest erotic fantasies suddenly came to life. He needed me for that, and for me to fuck him. He moaned like a fury that day after school, completely absorbed in it. Yes, I was doing him a favor. He understood what I meant, and then he also understood that I was just dumping him. They always did.
But back to the point. The day after I took Marty's virginity, I went to see Jordan, who was sitting alone at a side table against the wall. He's about 5'8", a bit of a nerd, but almost a carbon copy of the boy who plays Harry Potter in the movies. Passively cute, I call it. He has no idea how hot he can be, so of course nobody else did either. There's a lot of potential there.
Luckily, my gaydar is so incredibly focused that I could feel his gaze as soon as I entered the cafeteria. So I gave him a quick smile. And when I sat down next to him that Wednesday after getting my tray, he looked up from his food like a startled rabbit.
Good, I thought, just the way I like them.
I chatted with him for a bit and noticed he was engrossed in his book, "New Olympians." I'd already read it, so it was a good conversation starter. While we talked and ate, two significant events occurred, both perfectly orchestrated. The timing couldn't have been better if I'd incorporated them into a school play and planned everything in advance.
Marty came by first, his face aching with pain when he saw how much attention I was giving Jordan and how casually I was ignoring him. It was the perfect contrast to having him all to myself yesterday, and now simply ignoring him in public. His expression of wounded pride and utter misery was just like in a credit card commercial—priceless. He stormed out, too proud to make a scene and too scared to risk revealing his secret.
Jordan noticed it. The quiet ones always notice everything. Then again, how could he not, when Marty stood there one minute like a remorseful criminal and stomped off the next like a spurned slut?
"I think your boyfriend is mad at you," Jordan whispered, his voice tinged with that socially awkward hesitation. And then the second bombshell dropped, perfectly timed.
“No. He’s not mad,” I said, letting the next subtle step of my seduction unfold in that whispery tone best reserved for spy movies and cheesy cable romances. “He’s just jealous,” I smiled, lightly resting my leg against his under the table. It’s a very, very carefully timed move, but you’d be surprised how effective it is. Most of the guys I sleep with just want to be touched a little. Give them a little bit of skin, and you can tie them to you!
You see, my entire arsenal of seduction techniques and my plan to infiltrate Jordan are based on two simple principles: need and shame. Add to that every man's need for secrecy and maintaining appearances, and every man is available. It's that simple. Still don't get it? Soon you will.
By the end of the lunch break, I had his landline and mobile numbers, his addresses—both postal and email—and all his social media profiles. Small towns like Canterbury have a limited number of streets, and almost everywhere is within walking distance. We talked on the phone until late into the night, and I almost came several times while we chatted about everything under the sun. Sex wasn't on the agenda, mind you. I'd just become so engrossed in him and relaxed so much while talking that I couldn't wait to be inside him, slowly masturbating at the same time. I held back, though, at least until we hung up. Afterward, I ejaculated on my chest to release the tension, even shooting my penis beyond the head. Being inside him was going to be insane!
Jordan invited me to his house after school, and we chatted over lunch the next day. We talked like we'd been friends since elementary school. Marty continued to greatly support my battle plan by acting like a sulking little beast. He walked past the table just as I was telling Jordan a dirty joke. I glanced at Marty, remained completely calm, gave him a quick nod, then turned back to Jordan and delivered the punchline, giving Marty the cold shoulder. Marty shook his head and walked away, muttering a string of choice curses, and slunk off with a smug look on his face. This only fueled my fire. If I hadn't been so hard on Jordan, I might have taken the time to stare after Marty and laugh at him. It took some willpower, but I controlled myself.
Jordan noticed the whole thing again, and Marty's reaction. I don't think anyone ever abandoned anyone else for Jordan. I don't think anyone ever gave him much attention, and he practically inhaled all the time I gave him. It was like a drug for him, one he was instantly hooked on and would never get off. And it brought him one step closer to becoming another notch on my bedpost.
Jordan's room looked pretty much as I'd imagined. It still looked like a thirteen-year-old lived there, not a sixteen-year-old. He was definitely a candidate for trading spaces. Like I said, quiet types. He had curtains with little sailboats, spinning tops, and beach balls on them, and a little red cart full of—I swear—Beanie Babies and teddy bears. I reckon rare coins and stamps were under a plastic sheet on his desk, as a writing surface. Even his PC was decorated with Power Rangers stickers, and his computer wallpaper was covered in X-Men stuff. His unmade bed was covered with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sheets.
Everything about Jordan needed a makeover. His room, his clothes, his haircut—everything looked like he was in middle school. Apparently, the last time he had any sense of taste or style, if ever, had surfaced, it had only been until fifth grade. But I didn't have the time, the willpower, or the desire to bring him into this millennium. I just wanted him to make my cock climax in his ass. And I knew I was going to get him. Once I set my mind on something, it's pretty much done. Trust me!
One of them almost got away from me. Hank. He was a big guy, but in the right way. Broad shoulders, big muscles, big hands, big feet, and, oh yeah, a very big cock. He had this strong, attractive look, classic and rugged. It took me almost two weeks and nearly a whole bottle of vodka to get him alone and willing. I should have known Hank would be a much bigger challenge than the others. The popular athletic types, like Hank, always have a following, and many of them are female. I finally got him properly drunk that night and convinced him that I would never tell if we gave each other head. No man ever admits it, at least not if he's almost done it, but they all have the fantasy of getting a blowjob from a friend. I've never seen it fail.
All else being equal, Hank was a pretty lame bastard. Not that I minded much in the end. I didn't care whether I came in his mouth or not; I was after his ass. My main goal was to fuck him good. So, while I did my part of the 69 action, I slid my thumb into his hole. He came so hard in my mouth that my tonsils rang like church bells on Sunday. But I kept fingering him and sucking him until he was hard again. I had to take a second load down his throat and slurp his cock before I could turn him around. When I finally came in his throat, he was so excited that he came again while I was still egging him on. I didn't care if he liked it or not. I had just turned the school's star tight end into a wide receiver!
Touchdown! The crowd goes wild!
Hank called me several times a day on my cell phone for about a week. Of course, I ignored him, both on the phone and in the hallway. It didn't take him long to understand what was going on. He understood loud and clear. He doesn't bother me anymore. I'm sure he's suffering from secret feelings of guilt and shame; maybe he's even a little unsure of what he felt back then and how much he enjoyed being fucked by another boy. He even avoids simple eye contact in the hallway now.
Not that I would ever do that. I just don't make it seem like I'm ashamed of anything or like I'm worried about embarrassing him or anyone else.
And I have to admit, it's the biggest thrill in the world to dump really hot straight guys after playing them like a cheap toy. You see? Desire plus shame, sometimes more, sometimes less secrecy, equals power. My power. And I get to sleep with some of the hottest guys in school without having to deal with all the emotional baggage and all the awful relationship and lovey-dovey crap that comes with it. It's simply beautiful.
Hank got it, though. He'd run off and been dumped without a goodbye kiss. He was back hanging out with cheerleaders and band girls, trying to fool himself and forget that he'd been fucked by a gay guy and enjoyed every second of it. That's what it's all about for me afterward. Sure, fucking Hank was a lot of fun, but making him still want me is the best part. It's not just sex, it's power.
To get back to Jordan: Another reason for his easygoing nature is his ego problem: isolation. In public, at school and such, he's a straight-A student, a heterosexual but quiet loner. No friends weighing on him. No serious cliques, not even with other loners he spends time with. His bedroom is practically a library full of young adult fiction and toys. He has piles of fantasy novels and even Dungeons & Dragons books on his shelves. He's incredibly smart, but about as socially aware as a seaweed. He simply exists without any real sense of orientation, purpose, or belonging. That said, he has a weakness for sentimentality and the intimacy of unvarnished truth—forgive the pun.
The second day of my conquest mission was a masterful display of boldness and subtlety. I essentially read his mind. I read his thoughts, explored his secrets through what he said and didn't say, and got him to open up to me about little things right from the start. I simply built that false trust that develops in so many relationships and that I was able to fake long enough to get my penis wet. That's a crucial part of the game because it shows me how to proceed, how to break down his homophobic walls, and how to find out what's on his secret fantasy list.
And just so you know: all guys have a secret fantasy list, which is usually way wilder than what they brag about to their friends in gym class. I have to admit, I've rarely been wrong or surprised by the things in their deepest, darkest, and dirtiest fantasies. A lot of them are strikingly similar. I guess it's something genetic or generational or something. If I ever end up sleeping with an older guy, I'm sure I'll find out. We just compare our notes while I leave him bewildered and exhausted.
Most men want to do something sexual with another man at some point, usually a close friend. It's this whole "just experimenting" thing. They just want to see what it's all about, but only with someone they trust not to spill the beans. It's mostly about comparison. Men place a lot of importance on what's "normal" in sex. It's not so much about comparing bodies or penis sizes, although that's part of it too. Don't forget that truth! It's more about figuring out what's normal in sex and in being a man. Women have sooooooo much media stuff telling them how they should behave as women. Men usually aren't interested in much more than sports, cars, or movies, so they don't know, and I think they all crave someone to just tell them if everything's okay. So when men have sex with each other, it's primarily about making sure they're doing everything right and feeling the same way. I guess it's not considered masculine to moan a lot during sex, or that you should be quiet when you masturbate in the bathroom and don't want your mom to hear you hitting. This ideal moment of bliss. And it has nothing to do with emotions or anything "gay" like that. They simply want to know if other guys feel the same way at that moment. They just want to make sure they're not wrong. Some have to fake it, probably to find out if the other person is faking it or if they themselves need to try and catch up.
Crazy, right? But it's all those dirty little things you can't tell Mom, and if you ask Dad, you usually just get a worried look. Besides, it's just embarrassing and gross to ask your parents about sex. I don't even like the idea that my parents might still be having sex. It's just too creepy.
But here, too, the male need for privacy clashes with the need for intimacy and a low expectation of interpersonal care. And that's so damn easy to exploit! Maybe the straight men I'm with still remember their youth, when they experimented, got erections on their own, and talked about it with their best friends. The things they did with their friends when they still went to the playground to socialize, those gentle, tender touches and cautious moments of discovery. Yes, I bet that's why it's sometimes so easy: they want to preserve that feeling of wonder, power, and joy in their bodies and like the attention I give them.
Well, it's a shame that all I really wanted to do was loosen a warm spot between her gluteal muscles, in the old-fashioned, time-honored Greek way. Too bad for her.
So, here we are on day two, and he's practically an open book. I can choose what I want to read from him; it's that simple. For him, we're just hanging out at his place, getting to know each other. Which leads to a lot of those weird, awkward pauses in the conversation. You know, those moments when excitement overwhelms the vocal part of your brain and your speech falters. During one of these pauses, I notice the Xbox on the floor next to his TV. He notices it, like quiet people always do. He asks if I want to play, which is such a delicate question. I mean, my God, do I even want to play, but with anything more than just the racing game he's loading?
But everything's fine. There we are, all huddled together on the floor, our backs against his bed rails, chasing our digital cars down an electronic banked track that any NASCAR fan could probably quote statistics on. And while we're racing around in split-screen mode at a virtual 320 km/h, legs stretched out in front of us, controllers practically in our laps, teasing each other, I decide to spice things up a bit. He's so engrossed in the game that I can use one of my best weapons: accidental contact. And it's not as accidental as it sounds.
Confused? Let me explain. Men like to touch and be touched, it's that simple. But our so-called "masculine cultural identity" tells us we shouldn't. There are so many taboos surrounding touch, even today, expressing feelings toward other men, and simply maintaining the macho image in general, that it's no wonder so many men grow up messed up. Or no wonder we masturbate so much. Don't deny it, you all do it.
Thank you, modern culture! You sometimes make it soooooo easy, I should be ashamed, but I prefer to just take advantage of it.
Anyway! Chance contact. Like I said, it's not so chance, and it's not easy to arrange. The selling point of such casual physical contact is to make it seem completely innocent and meaningless, even if you really intended it.
When Jordan and I were standing there on the court, I had to stay focused on the game while I was flirting with him. In a video game, you have to be competitive, or you get nervous. It just seems too obvious unless you're serious about winning both the game on the screen and the more subtle game you're actually playing. In that moment, it's important to maintain an innocent facade. That way, if the contact is "discovered," you just don't make a big deal out of it. That keeps suspicion low. And early suspicion can mean extra days trying to score.
By the time Jordan finally noticed my leg was on top of his, we'd already been in contact for about ten minutes straight. Mind you, I was still wearing my baggy JNCO and Jordan his khaki Dockers, but don't worry, for Jordan it was like skin on skin, that pleasant, silky warmth of one body part pressing against another. Whether clothed or not, the sensation was what mattered, and I could feel it suddenly and revealingly arousing him. He actually had to adjust his pack during the race, cover himself with the controller, and quickly shift things around so I wouldn't notice. But I did notice. And I was suitably impressed. Not that I'm that into size, but he wasn't a coward when it mattered.
I let him beat me about three times to make sure the final race was close. Hey, some things are still a matter of pride, and I'm a real whiz at video games. I'd give him my elbow every now and then to simulate swapping virtual paint with our virtual race cars. He'd playfully return the elbow. A sort of friendship developed, but it served my purposes just as well. And I have to admit, it was fun being like that with Jordan. We'd both giggle as we tried to push each other around, on the track and on the ground, bragging and teasing. So what? I enjoyed it, and so did he. There's nothing wrong with that. Like so many things in life, the Xbox is so much better when you're not alone. And, by the way, Jordan is a compulsive giggler, almost nervous.
We played another game, but this time it wasn't so serious. Mostly it was a rough-and-tumble competition with clapping and giggling. Eventually, it turned into a "push-break" wrestling match, which was actually my intention. That's the next step in the plan; I call it the "awkward break."
This time with Jordan was almost the textbook example of how to take the "awkward pause" and how it affects both the human mind and body, often in contradictory ways. And believe me, it works... every time. Let me explain. While wrestling, I felt his erection against mine. Nothing accidental, you know. Nothing overtly sexual. Maybe I should say, nothing obviously sexual. Just a man's natural need and desire for skin contact, any skin. And, yeah, just so you know, my erection was pretty hard too. Hey, I was on the prowl, of course I had a semi-hard erection! At least a semi-hard erection, more like three-quarters hard at that point.
His body brushes against mine as we wrestle, of course! That's what wrestling is all about! Just his body struggling and pushing against mine. Occasionally, we both feel a hip or thigh move dangerously close to hard, sensitive body parts, and we dodge it or shift our weight slightly upwards. Every now and then, I feel his thumping brush against mine, only for him to then apply pressure higher up on my stomach, giving me a slight advantage. Right where I want it. Time for my big move. That's what I learned at summer camp. Observe closely and learn.
I maneuver him almost into a pinned position; we both growl and giggle. We're competing, but having fun at the same time. I realize I'm much stronger than Jordan, but that's perfectly natural. I'm an athlete, and he's a nerd. Which means I'm not using my full strength. Hey, I was successful in four sports last year: skiing, diving, cross-country skiing, and swimming. I should be successful in all four again this year, and maybe I'll add tennis to the mix. Jordan is, well, a nerd, just not the gross, pale, computer-obsessed type with pimples. He has a certain sense of hygiene.
So I use just enough force to dominate him, to make him feel like he has a chance, but at the same time, I let him keep fighting. For this to work, I have to make him believe that everything is happening spontaneously and naturally. I deliberately make a "mistake." Just big enough for his body to instinctively recognize a weakness and a chance to win. I make the mistake again and give him enough force to be vulnerable. Instinct, a long-dormant fighting spirit, and the heat of the moment do the rest. I give him just enough room to maneuver on my left side, and he bites. He suddenly turns and tries like crazy to hold me down, partially rolling me onto my right side and back. That's the crucial point. When I did this with Hank, I HAD to dominate him. With Marty and Jordan, I had to let them dominate me. It's an ego thing. You'll understand in a minute.
Jordan pushes me flat on my back so his cock is pressed against my hip and his thigh covers my crotch. His face is about half a foot above mine, we're both smiling, sweaty, still moaning and struggling, and then…
I give up resistance. Every movement between us, except for our breathing, ceases. Our eyes meet. Sometimes I giggle a little at this point, or lick my lips a bit too quickly, so that my stomach jerks against his now heavy, but not yet fully erect, cock.
Our eyes meet. My breath catches. I consciously tense my pelvic floor muscles slightly, making my penis feel like a pulse against his leg. His arms are visibly tense, and I feel his weight above me, trembling. I feel his penis harden even more, pressing against the spot where my abdominal muscles and hip meet.
This is the moment I've been waiting for, the one I've been preparing for. More like, preparing for. This one perfect moment. In this brief span of time, Jordan feels happy, powerful, excited, relaxed, and in complete control—probably the first time in his life he's felt all of that at once. It's addictive. Almost euphoric.
And the next moment he realizes how good his body feels, how good my body feels when he touches his, beneath him. He realizes that it feels pretty good for me too. In the heat of the moment, he smiles.
And in the next moment, just three short heartbeats later, he pauses, reflects on what has happened, and questions everything.
As expected, this is an awkward moment for most straight people. Marty actually said, "Uh, this is really weird," as he rolled off me. Hank, who was stuck underneath me, got really nervous and looked away. Blushing, he pushed me aside and sat up. Jordan froze. It was like he couldn't make up his mind. And that's exactly what I wanted in his case. That way, I could make decisions for him much more easily when it came time to score.
Seduction is pure psychology. It's like poker. You can read a lot in their eyes, but even more in what you see behind them. Jordan was exactly where I wanted him at that moment—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Perfectly trapped, and the best part is, he didn't even realize he was the mouse or that there was a trap at all. He had no idea what was really going on.
You'd think I could just kiss him, get him thinking with his little head, get him wet right away, and that would be that. But it doesn't quite work that way. Or that quickly. He has to think about it and want something to happen more. And he always does.
"Uh, okay, you win there, champ," I say, smiling and keeping the mood at bay. "Will you let me up?"
Jordan rolls off awkwardly, and we stumble through another race to "normalize" things a little. His mother is calling him down for dinner as we start the second round, which is reason enough for me to go home. But the feeling of him on my body, the way he touched me, was clearly in his head now. He probably had to jerk off three times that night just to be able to fall asleep. My own limit was only two, but the second time was long, and I was teasing the whole time, you know, pushing myself to the limit.
Day three flew by, and I began a phase I call "Waiting for the Party." You see, I don't really hide my homosexuality. Nor do I flaunt it. Ambiguity is just another weapon in my arsenal. Besides, I know what happens to guys who act like gays. Apart from it not being my style, I don't feel the need to draw so much attention to myself that I get beat up every two weeks because some straight jerk caught me staring at him for too long. This ambiguity is just another tool I've developed to trap other guys.
They have no proof that I am who I am, so it's in everyone's best interest if I keep quiet about when I'm dating. Oh, there are questions about my sexuality, mainly because I don't hang out with girls much. There's a reason for that, besides the fact that they don't give me anything. They're my sexual competition, after all, and I'm not one for fraternizing with the enemy. Anyway, there are rumors about a lot of people, most of which simply aren't true. Hank is definitely not gay. I think Marty might dance on both sides of the street, but in my humble opinion, he's mostly gay. Jordan doesn't know what he is, which is just another point in my favor.
So, waiting for the party. I call this step that because that's exactly how it works. Seduction isn't about punching someone over the head and dragging them into the bushes, no matter what Hank and his buddies think. Don't be so arrogant, those people! No, seduction is the art of convincing someone they want exactly what you want, so you get what you want because they give it to you willingly, or something like that. What matters is the end result, and since I'm the one who decides when it's over, all this emotional talk is just decoration for the party. I just have to wait for the invitation, then decide when to show up and throw the party. And then leave before I have to help clean up. It's a beautiful thing, I tell you.
For anyone taking notes at home: Here's how it works: the deep, subliminal psychological crap that makes it so easy for me. Up until this point, Jordan thought he knew himself pretty well. However, the last two days have been an emotional, social, and mental rollercoaster for him. His body is speaking a language he doesn't understand. His moral upbringing compels him to hide his physical and emotional feelings, as befits a good American teenager. But the feelings coursing through him feel right, even if he can't explain how or why.
Friendship is probably something he hasn't been used to since elementary school, when his overachieving tendencies took over, despite everything nature and puberty had to do to him. He simply doesn't know what close friendships, the kind that allow for something like trust, are like, since his room was actually age-appropriate. He now questions every little movement and thought in his body and mind, and because he's introverted, like Marty, I had to be the shy, reserved type when we finally wrestled on his bedroom floor. In Hank's case, I had to dominate him so he could finally allow himself to be a little weak. It was part of his secret fantasy anyway.
You see, based on the way his body reacted, how I acted, and how he felt internally, Jordan thinks that the things that fluctuate between his physical urges, his emotional needs, and his mental confusion might all be things that actually come from his own mind.
In short: He's wondering if he really wants what he suddenly thinks he wants. And I have to maintain this illusion until I put my stuff in his trunk.
At lunch on the third day, I'm sitting with Jordan again, and I give him a "manly" slap on the arm while sitting across the table from him. It's typical guy stuff and adds a touch of normalcy. More confusion. Marty comes by again, looking positively pathetic. He seems so hurt when he walks by that he doesn't even have the strength to eat his lunch. He finds a spot where he can watch Jordan and me, and after only a few minutes, he gets up a little too quickly, on the verge of tears, and throws down his lunch without taking a bite. I guess he's still clinging to what he thought we had. Whatever that is. But he's a lot smarter than Hank, so he'll figure it out soon enough. He's probably already realized he got laid and then dumped. You see, the emotional side of sex can be awful if you let it control you. He's learned that lesson. Soon he wouldn't care anymore, and he'd evolve, becoming a little wiser and more careful about who he lets into his world and his pants. So I just happily ignore him. Oh yeah, power!
Jordan looked up at me as I sat down. I offered him the cake with the green icing from my tray. He took it without looking at me, but I could tell he had a lot of questions on his mind, and my presence only made them more pressing. And that was to my advantage. The party was about to start.
"Hey, what's wrong, Jordan?" I asked, trying to sound neutral yet concerned. "You look like your dog died or something." And that was true. Almost. His expression was sweet. I had a mental image of my semen running down his face and that look turning into a smile.
"I'm just thinking."
"About what?"
“Nothing. Homework stuff,” he replied, and lied. Which, in this case, is a good sign. It means he’s being cautious because he doesn’t yet understand himself and his feelings. And, being an introvert, he’s wondering if his feelings are just all over the place or if I had a “moment” with him yesterday. Are you starting to get how this works?
At this stage, I have several options. If I notice he's not responding well, I can ease up on the tougher tactics and ease his anxiety a bit. You can wait a long time, of course. Sure, that means it takes longer to determine the final score, but sometimes the game is better in overtime. That doesn't mean I have to give up, though. I don't let my opponent off the hook until he's had at least one attempt.
Conversely, I could also bring out the big guns and completely turn someone's life upside down. Sympathy, trust, understanding, dreams, fears, sharing "masculine feelings"—oh God, the list of things that heterosexual or almost heterosexual men believe when they feel even a little bit gay is simply unbelievable. And they always fall for it because, deep down, that's what they want. They want reality to penetrate them and replace their own. They let their cool facade slip a little, act a little uncomfortable, a little emotionally insecure and uncertain, and then reveal something, anything that sounds like a hard-hitting grain of truth, seasoned with emotions like fear or longing, and he opens up like it's Christmas morning.
Sure, I have to listen to all her hidden emotional baggage and psychological baggage, pretend to be friendly and deeply moved, swear to secrecy and all that crap, but I don't care. Let her have her Hallmark moments and Nickelback "photo" memories. It's all just part of the seduction. Steps in the master plan.
So we chat over lunch, Marty has his very satisfying little tantrum, and all the while I'm scanning faces. Jordan is too preoccupied to notice I'm looking for my next "good friend." I deliberately keep our conversation lighthearted. My goal is to keep him on edge, to make him think, to make him doubt himself. To that end, I employ another of my sneaky and sophisticated techniques. I constantly shift my feet back and forth, creating fleeting, "casual" touches under the table. This makes him savor my touch and question everything about himself, his feelings for me, and everything around him in general. Just gentle nudges and moments when he notices my knee resting sideways on his. It's such a subtle form of low-level manipulation, but hey, it works.
Meanwhile, my gaydar is on autopilot. I hear the occasional faint ping and ping, but no one's actively responding to my curiosity. I'm patient, though. There are plenty of boys of all ages around. It's kind of odd about this area that Canterbury is still a combined middle and high school, even though the switch to the middle school system happened long before I was born. To me, it just means I have more options. Hank's a final year, Marty's the epitome of the uptight tenth grader. Jordan's a junior, like me. Maybe it's time to try something from the first year, maybe a nice, ripped eighth or ninth. Maxy Perault's really cute and a star on the football team, so he's probably fit and well-built. Could be fun, digging around in his backyard like a farmer behind a mule. And this Simon Grafton might be a little chubby, apparently going through a growth spurt, but his older brother Arthur was cute and firm and totally awesome! I actually came inside Arthur three times that night, twice in front of the webcam. The summer has been, as they say, very productive. I can tell Jordan's about to give up, so I'm back to multitasking and looking for the next sex, the next point on my belt.
"Oh, homework crap," I say casually, but my tone of voice and timing suggest I'm more interested than I actually am. "Lots of homework tonight?"
"Huh?", he replied, absentmindedly chewing some fries.
"I said: Do you have a lot of homework tonight?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. Trigonometry and a term paper for the AP English Comp, and I have to study for a physics exam tomorrow." See, total overachiever. Even his classes are overachievers.
"Ah," I say casually. "Then I guess we'll just have to hang out together tomorrow. Oh well."
"Tomorrow?" he asks, almost squealing.
"Yes, you know, so that you can learn."
"Uh, no, never mind. You can come over... if you want." He has no idea what I really want, but I can see him struggling with himself. I hide my smile so as not to disturb him or upset him. But it's fun to watch him when you know what to look for. It's kind of cute to watch him fidgeting inside. Just a little bit of fun for me.
"Are you sure?" I ask. It's just a little nudge to get him to decide the way I want. But be careful, he'll do exactly what I want without even realizing it.
“Yes. I can do my trigonometry problems while you play Xbox. That shouldn’t take too long. I can write an English paper in my last study session and then read for my physics paper before bed. It’s more of a quiz than a real exam anyway.” He stabbed the cake I handed him with his fork and actually stretched out his leg to meet me. A moment later, he pulled it back and mumbled an apology, but this time it was his move, not mine. He probably hadn’t intended to, but don’t forget, I wasn’t keeping his mind and body in check. Conflicting signals.
"Cool," I smile. Almost party time!
Do you notice what happened when I asked him if he was sure? He immediately re-prioritized his priorities for me, created a plan, and even spoke it aloud to convince himself and me of the idea. That's an indicator of how he thinks.
The next step is waiting for the party. We've arranged to do something together after school, so this time is really important to him right now. He's not even used to casual friendships. Maybe he already thinks I'm his best friend, which, in my experience, isn't the case. Best friends always let you down, and at the crucial moment. Who needs that kind of pain? Still, overachievers don't usually get the attention of popular kids like me. So, in his fantasy world, this is incredibly important to him, and he believes it's incredibly important to me. So, I have to reinforce that belief. Just a little meddling in the insurance world, mind you. Observing and learning—it's masterful.
I pretend I get a call on my cell phone. We're not actually allowed to use cell phones at school, but everyone does anyway. Just put it on vibrate or silent, and everything's fine. Honestly, nobody's actually there when I open the phone and start talking. Jordan only hears what he thinks is my half of the conversation, but it's all just a carefully crafted script. All an act to make him, or the next person, think exactly what I want him to.
"Hello? Oh, hey, Mom... Not really, I was just planning to hang out with Jordan today... Nah, he's cool. A little nerdy, but cool." I wink and smile across the table as I say this, and he growls and shakes his head, digging deeper into his lunch. "Uh, on Lowell Avenue... Yeah, near Fox School..." With that, I'm just answering one of those awkward "Mom" questions. The one that goes something like, "So, where does your mysterious friend Jordan live, Alex?" Next, I bring out my mildly annoyed expression and let it flicker across my face as naturally as possible. I can see Jordan watching me twirl in my chair, staring into space. I can feel his gaze on me as I let my expression shift from mildly annoyed to disturbed and disturbed. "Today? So, what about Angie? I thought she was going to… Really? Is she okay? Oh, good… Yeah, no big deal, Mom. I'll do it… Okay… How long do you think… oh… okay, yeah, no problem, Mom… Yeah, see you tonight… Love you… bye," and I slam the phone shut, furious.
Jordan looked up from his full mouth, hesitant to meet my eyes. Cell phone etiquette dictates politely respecting the privacy of strangers on the other end of a call. But we all know the reality: we can't help but listen in. Curiosity is the most reliable human trait. It's a flaw and an innate survival instinct. Jordan had conveniently overheard every word of my conversation with "Mom," and anyone would interpret the little tap he gave his flip phone as a subtle gesture of transferred aggression.
I know it seems like a minor flaw in an already over-the-top game, but it's so important to sell every detail as if it weren't just an elaborate mousetrap. And it's such a powerful selling point. Stay tuned.
"Uh, what's going on?" Jordan asks.
"Ah! My stupid sister's car broke down in Watertown. Mom needs me to take Grandma to the hairdresser and to Market Basket and CVS so she can do her weekly shopping. Looks like we'll have to hang out together tomorrow after all. Driving Grandma around will take until after dinner." I glance over, then deliberately look away to focus on my tray. "Sorry, man." Then I glance up briefly, then down again, feeling guilty. That was enough, and he's done everything for me!
“Oh,” he says, looking down at his tray, but his expression clearly shows he’s not thinking with his stomach. “Well, how long is this going to take? Seriously?”
“At least a few hours,” I replied, my voice betraying my disappointment. I picked up my small half-liter of 2% milk to drink some while he thought about it. “She’s really old and doesn’t get around so well anymore, you know?”
"Oh yes, I think so."
We're silent for a moment. As I finish my milk, I catch a glimpse of the aforementioned Max Perault entering the café. He looks like he's been dragged twelve miles down a bad road, completely battered. I guess freshmen still fight. I resolve to visit him after Thanksgiving, give him a chance to recover and not look like a broken man before I kick his ass.
"Uh, you could come by later, like after dinner or something. I mean, if you want."
I look up at Jordan and smile. The party's on! I just love these introverts. Their thought patterns are so predictable, constantly revolving around themselves. It's almost pathetic. He knows, or thinks he knows, that the thought of me not spending time with him bothers me. He wants to spend that time with me too and is constantly trying to force it. And that's exactly what I wanted from him.
See? Seduction. Waiting for the party. Sometimes it's so easy I'm almost ashamed.
Almost, but not quite.
But you know, I'm very picky about my victim. I'm not a big fan, but if he's well-built, I don't mind. He just gives me something to play with while I'm inside him. No, what I'm looking for can be summed up very quickly: sweet, intelligent, and genuine.
The cute part speaks for itself. When fucking a guy, the fantasy is mostly about sex. A cute face grunting in pain and pleasure, just inches from mine as I cum, just makes it even better for me. I've fucked a few unassuming guys, and they were really wild and fucked me exceptionally well, but they kind of break the illusion. If I just wanted to close my eyes and pretend I was inside some cute guy, well, I could do that by myself and jerk off. But it's not nearly as much fun. Just check out my webcam files on my website. This summer's highlights are marked in red.
There's a reason for cleverness that you might not imagine. I like smart guys because they're easily fooled, fall for precise flattery, and always think there's more to it than meets the eye. Besides, it's no fun or challenge to talk a dumb guy into your pants. No sport. The chase is sweeter, and the conquest all the more rewarding, with a smart guy. And that look of painful recognition and resignation, like Marty's, is all the more delicious coming from a smart guy. A dumb guy might do something stupid, like spill the beans about what happened between us, ruining our reputations and blowing any chance I have of continuing my winning streak. The smart ones know they've been duped and stay silent to save face and hide their own shame. Think of the equation: need plus shame equals power.
And as for "pure"... well, that should be self-explanatory. You can't catch sexually transmitted diseases from a virgin. Enough said!
Jordan fulfilled all my primary criteria, simply amazing. Everything went perfectly. I could almost feel the pressure on my shoulders as he endured the initial pain of my first penetration. It all went soooo well.
Okay, so he invited me, made special plans that change his personal plans for me, and is basically putty in my hands. I'm pretty sure I'll get in there tonight, right?
Not even close. He has a desire for me. Now I have to transform that desire into an irresistible craving. Into a hunger.
"Sure, I'll call you before I come over." I smile. He's definitely found good taste. Oh yeah, it's almost party time!
Of course, I won't show up that evening, I won't call, and I usually leave him stewing in anticipation for the time it would have taken me to call and come by. But not without fueling his imagination. Just because the invitation has been sent doesn't mean you should be rude and not reply, even if you plan to be politely late.
Much later than planned that evening, I smash a pebble against his bedroom window. It's time for my usual night run, so his parents aren't the least bit suspicious that I'm out so late in sweatpants and a light jacket. It's not far to Jordan's house, so everything is easily accessible. After a few more pebbles, he comes to the window, shirtless, with half-dried hair, as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. Not that it matters much, but for a nerd, he's in pretty good shape. Oh, he's not as ripped as, say, Hank, but he's not bad at showing off his bare chest.
Quiet ones. They always have such interesting... surprises.
"Hey!" I whisper as he opens the window. It's early November, he's just gotten out of the shower and is now sticking his wet head out the window because he recognizes me. If that isn't confirmation of how well I have him wrapped around my little finger, then I don't know what is.
"Alex?" he whispers back. "It's late. I thought you'd call?"
The real answer to that question is that I chatted online with a few people, swapped my personal favorite moments for theirs, updated my website, and just had fun because I'm keeping Jordan so busy that he doesn't even have to comb his Sketchers or tie his hair back. Oh, and I snapped two quick photos, one for the camera and one of me watching someone else be solo.
"After I brought Grandma home, something came up. And my phone was dead, so I couldn't call. Sorry, man." My breath came in gasps in the cold night air, making my apology not only audible but also visible.
"So you came out into the cold to tell me?" he shouted down.
“Well,” I replied, a little louder than someone should be throwing stones at someone else’s window at almost 8:30 in the evening. That, and a quick sideways glance to see if anyone was watching from the street, lent the whole thing an extra air of honesty, which underscored the point.
Jordan stood at the window, his breath catching, one hand holding back his sailboat and beach ball curtains, looking down at me. He wasn't quite sure what to make of my presence, just to show him that I hadn't forgotten him today. It was a moment he couldn't recall. Nothing immediately came to mind.
"I just got out of the shower," he said haltingly after a while. "I should close the window and study for tomorrow."
"Alright, the physics quiz. Okay. See you tomorrow at lunch?"
“I’d like that,” he said, probably without realizing he’d said it out loud, or with that particular tone of voice that told me I was the only thing he’d be thinking about all day until lunchtime. I didn’t feel bad about it. I wanted him to think that way. Besides, he was blowing the bell curve out of all of us, so he could use a few days as a space cadet. Give the rest of us a chance to keep up with his enormous brain.
"I have to go," he said. "See you tomorrow."
“Yes,” I smiled. “Tomorrow.” I waved, turned, and jogged off at a light pace. But I could feel his gaze on me as I trudged home. I risked a glance over my shoulder as I walked beneath an elm tree that was still shedding its leaves. Through the bare branches, I could see him still staring out the window at me. The window was still open, he was still half out, the curtain pulled to the side. He was sooooooo addicted.
Day four, the ultimate test of my skills, began perfectly, as only a beautiful autumn morning can. I already knew the night before that he was ready. I think I knew as early as lunch on day two that he was practically naked, waiting for me every night. But today, on day four, I wanted to unleash all my endgame moves. And I also wanted to tackle my next conquest after Jordan before the weekend. After catching Jordan, I wanted to take the weekend off from the hunt, relax, do the necessary computer work to cover my tracks, and prepare for the next adventure.
As Darth Vader said: "It's all too easy."
To make a long story short: Day four began with a powerful gaydar ping in gym class. And in the shower, of all places! A cute tenth grader with bright green eyes. I think his name is Dylan. I remembered his locker and could see part of him getting dressed. I couldn't really see his whole package, but he definitely filled out his boxers. He also carefully avoided me. A little shyness was perfectly fine with me.
Lunch was another one of those awkward situations where we didn't quite say what was bothering us. Marty came by, lingered long enough to give me a nasty, offended look, and then simply left the café without even bothering to get a tray. Brilliant! He should get a T-shirt made that says "Whine Bastard" with a big arrow pointing upwards.
Jordan was positively bubbly. He smiled a lot, even after being transferred. I guess he did a lot of thinking last night. And probably a lot of cuddling, too. His leg often touched mine under the table; he was practically always leaning against mine, knee to knee. I saw the cute, green-eyed second-year walk past from the gym showers and give me a certain look. That look that starts out deliberate and then veers into an almost too casual randomness to hide it. I made sure he figured out which table he was sitting at for lunch, halfway across the cafe. Oh yeah, target acquired!
"Can you come by after school?"
"Yes. Provided my parents don't make me do anything stupid, like wash cars or clean out the garage or something." Always think of a plausible excuse for why you need to go home. That way, it's easier to just unload and drop everything off, and they'll wonder what happened while you're putting your pants back on. If they know beforehand that there might be a reason you need to be somewhere else, it's much easier to pack up and leave. Not to mention, it adds a sense of urgency to their need.
“You know,” he began cautiously, “I was really quite impressed that you came here last night just to apologize.”
"And?"
"Yes. I've never had a boyfriend who cared enough about that. Last night it was definitely below zero. And there you were."
"I had to do my night run anyway. Running past you wasn't a problem."
"I thought you lived over on Salem Street. My house is miles away from yours. Over the stone bridge and all."
"It's not that far at all. At least it didn't seem that far to me," I smile. In his mind, he's making it out to be more than it is. He doesn't know that I'm an athlete and regularly jog that far. Even further. Sometimes I jog from school to home, and that's farther than from my house to his.
After school, we played that lame game of chase again, this time with his leg pressed firmly against mine the whole time. And that was his decision, not mine. I would have been a bit more subtle, but this time he took the initiative, which is also part of my plan. He wants my attention now, my touch, just as much or even more than my friendship. He's hungry. It's no longer just a desire in him: it's a need.
So there we were, sitting on the floor with our backs against his bed frame, giving each other little elbow bumps and kicks, trying to make each other mess up the game. His parents were both at work. His older sister was out, doing what girls do when they get together in groups and go to the shopping center in Rockingham Park. We were completely alone and would remain so for hours. But I was starting to get a little uneasy. I'd been preparing for this for a long time. Even for this short time, I'd invested a lot of excitement and anticipation into this game.
"Hey, do you want something to drink?" he asks and presses pause.
“Sounds good,” I reply, stretching slightly and tossing my controller into his lap. It bounces off something solid. Grinning, I stand up, turn away from him, unsure if I've really composed myself. As he gets up, I reach into my backpack and take the small bottle out of the pen holder. Something I brought along especially for this occasion.
We go downstairs to the kitchen, where he tosses me a cold Dew from the fridge, but still gets glasses. I smell sawdust in the kitchen and discreetly ask him what that strange smell in the air is.
"Oh, right," he says, turning towards the cellar door. "Dad's renovating the hobby room down there. He's only half finished." And in the brief moment he turns around, I take out the bottle and get "caught" pouring something into my drink. "What's that?" he asks, completely innocent. You see, quiet creatures.
"A little antifreeze for the radiator," I reply, grinning wickedly. He grins a little too; he almost gets the joke. "Do you want something?"
"What is that?"
"Vodka."
"How is it?"
"Try it. It doesn't taste so bad with tonic. It kind of masks the bitter taste. Makes it," I shrug before I say, "more refined."
He nods. I pour half the bottle into his drink. Only a drop ended up in mine, but he doesn't know that. His eyes widen.
"I have never drunk alcohol," he admits.
"It's not that bad. But don't tell anyone. Dad would freak out if he knew I'd taken away his supplies."
“It’s our secret,” he said, clinking glasses with mine. He took a deep swig without choking or trying to spit out the glass. I followed suit until we were both empty.
"Do you want to see the basement? It's going to be really cool when my dad's finished. Big screen TV, surround sound, the whole shebang!"
“Sure,” I say, following him as he enthusiastically leads me to the cellar door. He pauses and glances over his shoulder at me. The door opens, and the darkness disappears.
"Um, the stairs are a bit tricky and the light hasn't worked for years, so stay close, okay?"
"How about I do it?" I reply, placing my hands on his shoulders. He practically shudders at my touch. He's so ready, I practically didn't need to give him any vodka. But whatever, it usually helps them relax.
“Yes, that’s good,” Jordan replied, his voice a little subdued. “Okay, let’s go. Down into the darkness of the fortress!” Okay, he was being a bit cheesy. But at that point, I didn’t care. My target was within range and about to unleash a volley from my main cannon.
At the bottom of the stairs, he pulls a cord, and a bare lightbulb lights up. I pause briefly against Jordan's back, his hips against the arm of a sofa that had seen better days, back when it still roamed the levels. Whoever shot that sofa should be shot. Jordan's lack of fashion sense was probably genetic.
"Um, oops," he says uncomfortably, but excitedly. I can tell he's a little embarrassed. And a little turned on. Instead of simply taking my hands off his shoulders, I stretch my hands across his chest, practically holding him in place. He sighs, stiffens briefly, and then relaxes a little against me again.
“Alex, what are you doing…”
"Shhh. It's okay, Jordy," I coo, feeling his chest and stomach through his shirt. His heart is racing like a freight train, and he's radiating heat like a furnace. His breathing is irregular and shallow. I feel it all through his skin as I hug him from behind. "I've been thinking about this for days. I've seen you watching me. I know..." And I lean my head slightly over his shoulder, bringing my chin closer to his ear. "I know you want this as much as I do," I finish, just holding onto him, barely touching him, while my fingers glide over his body like electric arcs.
Okay, maybe I'll embellish the story a little. It didn't happen quite like that, and it didn't happen that fast, but it went something like this. I got him a little drunk, aroused him a bit, let him try and touch everything I wanted, penetrated his asshole, fucked him really well, and then left him, still a little disoriented but happy, in his family's half-finished basement workshop.
And since this is my blog, I suppose I should say a lot. Jordan was a real ace in bed. The best ever. He enjoyed it so much that I just had to cum! I came inside him twice, once in his mouth and once in the spot I really wanted. Being inside him was like a religious experience. He was like a kid with a new toy, and we both got to play with it. I just wish I had it on video; it was just so damn good. Almost good enough to make me forget about the rest of the chase.
Almost, but not quite.
So I left him, headed home, took a long shower, and updated my blog here with plans for the weekend and the coming week. I wonder if I can catch that cute, green-eyed boy in just three days? Sounds like a challenge. Well, drop by next week if you dare.
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And when I grow up...