Tag: gay captions

Gallery
by ccallenreese

neweygn:

I need a houseboy to do my ironing. Don’t we all?

Hamal presses a cup of tea into his hand. “Come upstairs, I gotta finish the ironing.”
Dan nods and follows him, still trying to get used to the fact that his friend is a nudist. They go up the stairs and into the secondary bedroom, everything in pause from when Hamal went downstairs to greet Dan at the door.
“So how’s your brother?” Hamal asks, turning on the iron again.
“He’s doing a lot better, thankfully. Working out in the country has done more for him than any city rehab clinic did. Mom wants to see him for Christmas but we’re not sure bringing him back to Springfield is a good idea, cause it’s where all his drug contacts are. We might have Christmas in the country.”
“That actually sounds better than Springfield.”
Dan chuckles. “Yeah it does. I’m happy for him though. I hated seeing my Dad worry about him.”
“I hope he stays sober too. Are you still working for that accounting firm?”
“Yeah, I am. I am up for a promotion next year. I think I’ll get it, considering the last audit I did for a client turned up a couple hundred thousand in extra money.”
Hamal smiles. “Way to go, Dan! You must be their favorite person in the world right now.”
“Considering the bear hug their CFO gave me, I would say so.”
“You were always good with numbers.”
“Mhm.”

The conversation hit a dead end. The hiss of the iron and the sound of the metal plate swishing over fabric was the only noise in the room.

“What happened to you man?” Dan blurts out, watching Hamal iron.
“Excuse me?” Hamal replies, looking up from working on a shirt sleeve.
“You’re standing there, butt naked, ironing some guy’s workshirts in the middle of a Sunday afternoon like you’re his servant girl. What does he got on you to make you do this?”
Hamal sets the iron down with a bang, making Dan jump. “What does he got on me? William doesn’t have a thing on me. Are you implying he’s blackmailing me into doing his laundry?”
“Well, it’s the only explanation I can think of. You used to get higher grades in class than I did – you were like the top student in our engineer department. You could have been at JPL or Boeing by now, instead of…” Dan gestures. “This. What gives? Everyone wonders what happened to you after graduation.”

Hamal presses his lips together until they were a thin line. “You’re just like my parents. Ever since I was little, it was study study study study. Science camps in the summer, tutors in the fall, flashcards before bed. My father wanted me to be an engineer or a doctor or a lawyer. Those were the only choices they gave me. They sent me to a magnet high school. They never let me take an extracurricular that wasn’t somehow "good for me”. I never even owned my own soccer ball, Dan. You bet that I had very little choice over where to apply for college, or what program I applied to.“
"But you were good at it! You were good at numbers, and at math and science. You can’t blame your parents for trying to nurture that,” Dan counters.
“But no one ever asked me what I wanted!” Hamal nearly yells, pointing at himself. “No one EVER asked me if I wanted to be an engineer! If I wanted to spend my life stuck in a cubicle doing math and science for big faceless corporations. Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I have to have a career in it. I wanted to take home ec and learn how to bake. You know, once I tried to take a quilting class at the local YMCA but when my dad found the papers, he beat me and threatened to kick me out of the house.”
“….What?”
Hamal huffs. “Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. It’s ~gay~ or whatever you deem it to be. But I liked it. I like sewing, I like cooking. You know, fifty, sixty years ago, it was expected of a woman to do these things for her husband. We all just assumed they were all repressed now. My grandmother was a housewife. She loved being a housewife. You know, when we were downsizing her house before she died, we found this album of old photos. She was a tennis whiz. She won all these trophies. Could have easily gone pro. She chose to get pregnant and stay home…. and we all pitied her, you know, because we thought she sacrificed her career after an accidental pregnancy. She always insisted she got pregnant on purpose. When she was 90, and half senile, her home aid would find her in the kitchen at 3 am trying to bake apple tarts for her kids. She just wanted to be a mother and housewife, and no one could understand that.” Hamal continues ironing angrily. “I don’t see why a man can’t want the same thing.”

“….And that’s …what you want?” Dan asks slowly.
“Yes,” Hamal replies firmly. “I find it much more satisfying. I would go insane in a cubicle.”
“I just…” Dan puffs his cheeks and runs his fingers through his hair. “I just had no idea. It’s hard to fathom that what people consider tedious chores, you prefer over anything in the world.”
“But it’s not just chores,” Hamid explains patiently. “It’s because I do them for William. William was the first one who really understood me. I made him cookies once, when we started dating, and he thought it was awesome that I liked to bake. I did his laundry once and the look on his face told me he was thinking of marrying me right then. William loves his job in the DA’s office, and has no time for like, life stuff. He hates chores, cause he grew up in a family of eight. So the fact I anticipate what he needs and do it for him is hugely flattering. Makes him feel like a million dollars. I like that.” Hamal smiles.

“But …I mean…what comes after? I mean, this has to wear off sometime. Are you still going to be a houseboy when you’re 50?” Dan asks. “You’re gonna get bored.”
Hamal moves on to another shirt. “Don’t think I’m so simple, Dan. I tutor low-income kids struggling with math skills. I keep busy. I volunteer at animal shelters. William and are talking about fostering or adopting soon, so I’m dreaming of a house full of kids. Then after? Who knows. I’ll get a part time job until William retires, then we will travel the world together. We already travel a lot. We also go to the ballet, movies-”
“Kids? You never mentioned wanting kids.”
“I always wanted kids,” Hamal says, sounding a bit sad. “Just no one ever asked me what I wanted. Being a stay-at-home dad sounds so much fun.”

Dan looks at his old college friend sideways, trying to see the real Hamal instead of the one he thought he knew his entire life. “So you’re…really happy just…ironing? You’re happy being his houseboy? His, um, naked houseboy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you want?”
“Yes. And I like being naked. It’s comfortable. Plus, William likes it, and when he’s wound up the sex is amazing,” Hamal mutters.
Dan turns red.
Hamal smirks.
Dan sips his ignored tea and watches Hamal iron. “Well if that’s…what you want, then I’ll try and support that.”
Hamal’s face softens. “Thank you. That means so much to me Dan. I know it’s hard to comprehend, but thank you for at least trying. Also, when the kids arrive, I am totally making you babysit.”
“Hey!”
Hamal chuckles. “I’m just about done here, and I gotta get the towels off the line outside. But if you want to stick around…I am baking chocolate chip cookies afterwards.”
“…Chocolate chip cookies?” Dan perks up. “Any chance we could put peanut butter in them?”
“Oh, I think that is definitely doable. William loves peanut butter too.”

William comes home that afternoon and finds two cute boys making cookies in his kitchen. He nibbles one and wonders why on Earth more people didn’t have houseboys. He watches Dan and Hamal lick the beaters clean, and admired how happy they were. It is a relief for William to see that Hamal still has companions outside his own circle. It also makes William a little jealous though, and he smothers down his lust for Hamal in an apron for hours until Dan finally leaves after dinner.

William and Hamal don’t even make it to the stairs before the lust overwhelms them. Hamal still smells like cookies, and William devours him.

_______________________________________________________
Text is fictional. Long ranting houseboy story, ahoy. Also JPL stands for Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“Awww lookit the puppy. What a beautiful baby. Is it a blue mix?
I nod.
"Hi there,” he coos. I watch as Zach takes off his glasses and gives the pup a little scritch. My eyes wander over his suit tailored to his body. Blue looks fantastic on him; he could almost be a fashion model posing with a prop dog. The two of them are far too beautiful for my shabby living room.

“So you finally got a real dog huh?” Zach asks.
“Well…”
“He’ll be a good companion for Smokey huh? Say, where is your pup boy anyway?”
“You’re looking at him.”
Zach blinks. “What…?”
“Look at the name tag.”
Zach does. “It says Smokey. Wait.” He looks at me, then at the dog. “What?”
“My pup boy liked being a dog so much, that I woke up one morning and discovered he had turned into a real, live pup.”
Zach is staring at me sideways now. “Not sure if you’re joking.”
“I assure you I’m not. I’ll prove it. Try to get him to do a trick. Something complicated.”
Zach thinks about this a minute. He goes through the basics – “shake”, “bark”, “roll over”. He then makes a gun with his fingers and says “bang!”. Smokey rolls on his back and puts his paws in the air, head lolling on the ground.
I laugh. “Good boy Smokey!” Smokey gets to his feet and comes over to me for a belly rub.
“There’s no way you could have trained a pup to do all of that in such a short time.” Zach says hesitantly.
I shrug. “As I said, my pup boy turned into a pup. Unbelievable as it is, that’s what happened.”
My friend looks at the puppy, silent.

Then, as if right on cue, my pup boy saunters into the room. He’s just woke up from a nap and was wondering where everyone was and who took his collar off while he was out.
“Hey!” Zach cries.
I burst out laughing. “Busted! You totally believe it!”
“I did not!”
“You absolutely did!” I fall back into a chair, clutching my sides. “God your face…Jesus Zach, that was fantastic!”

Smokey the pup boy tilts his head in confusion. “Roo?”
The real pup, whom I actually named Greybeard, goes to sniff him. Within minutes, they’re playing. I watch them, still chuckling. Zach looks sullen and miffed.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“No, it really wasn’t, but the opportunity presented itself. I’m sorry. You do look bloody good in that suit you know.”
“Well,” Zach smirks, “I expect all you’ll get out of is a good look, because you are never gonna undress me out of it.”
I groan. “Aw, Zach, that was just harmless fun, why are you being hard to get? You know you came over here to get laid.”
“I did,” he admitted, ‘But you have two pups that need your attention.“
"They can amuse themselves as you see – hey, Smokey, watch out for the coffee table! Good boy.”

Zach folds his arms. “It’s gonna cost you an expensive dinner. THEN, I’ll think about coming back home with you.”
“Alright, alright. I can handle being owned by three boys.”
He grins. “That’s more like it.”

_______________________________________________________
Text is fictional. Couldn’t find the model but the clothier is Patrick Johnson Tailors.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

My sister stuck her head in my room. “He’s here!” she hissed, a huge smile on her face. “Hurry!”
“He’s here?” I repeated, jumping up.
“Yes! Hurry!”
I grabbed my sunglasses off the nightstand and picking up my leather bag from behind my bed. “Has mum seem him yet?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said, looking around. “Here.” She thrusted a basket in my hands. “Going away present – your own picnic basket set. I packed you two a lunch so you don’t have to stop for a while.”
“Oh Samantha, you’re a darling,” I cooed, kissing her on the cheek.
“How often do I get to be a part in a dashing escapade like this? It’s soo romantic.”
I can’t help but laugh a little. “But life is not a fairy tale.”
“It can be if you try! Come on, stop dawdling. He’s waiting”

I followed her to the upstairs landing; she stopped there and watched me go down the grand stairs to the lobby. Then, we heard our mum.
“What the heavens was that ….is that the Culver boy? I’d recognize that hideous orange automobile anywhere. Americans! No taste! Walter, call security, I told this man he is not allowed on my property and no where near my son! The things they did at boarding school! Soiling my precious boy’s reputation. He’s a heathen!….Aldred, honey, where are you going?”
“Out, mother,” I say briskly, my heart caught in my throat. I just had to keep moving, I reminded myself, one foot in front of the other. Down the stairs. Out the door.
“Out?” she cried. “With that boy? I won’t allow it! I forbid you from seeing him again!”
I forced myself to pause. “Mother. I’m 18. You can’t forbid me to do a thing.” I enjoyed the stunned look on her face. I delicately picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “Good day, mother.”

I heard Samantha whoop upstairs as I stepped out of the house and onto the cement walk to the driveway. My leather soled shoes made little noise. For the first time in my life, I felt like an adult. “There you are,” Mathias said, his face lighting up. “Oh gods I missed you.” He looked so stylish  in that his navy slacks and combed back hair, posing against his beloved car. I sighed, smitten. He was marvelous. Dashing, even.
“What are you staring at …?” he says with a smile.
“You. Just…missed you so much since my mum pulled me out of Essex School.” I stepped up to him and nuzzled his cheek. “Thought I’d never see you again.”
He put a hand on the back of my head and kissed me. My knees felt like gelatin. Mathias whispered in my ear. “Wait until you see what I’m going to do to you tonight. Then you’ll known how much I missed you back.”
I had to resist just pouncing him right there. God, did I love American boys and their Yankee accents.
“WALTER! CALL SECURITY!” My mother’s screeching voice snapped us out of our cuddle.
Mathias rolled his eyes. “Get in the car before the calvary arrives. What’s in the basket?”
“Lunch! Samantha packed it for us.” I threw my bag into the backseat and slipped into the front seat with the basket. Mathias joined me on the driver’s side and made the engine roar to life.
“Oh your sister? I’ll have to meet her sometime. Seems like a nice lady. I should introduce her to my cousin. Perhaps she could come for Christmas?”
“I think that’d be delightful, Mathias.”

We sped off down the street, bound for the main road to the highway. We had planned to head up the New England coast where we would eventually take a ship to London, where my aunt was waiting for us there. The window was open. I couldn’t help but whoop myself as the wind cut through my hair. My mother was likely furious, but I felt not a drop of guilt. She was going to be even angrier when she found out I turned down acceptance at Yale to go to the School of Oriental and African Studies in the UK. But her life was no longer my life now. I was free – finally, finally free, with a boy I truly loved.

_________________________________
Text is fictional. Source: Drykorn Fall/Winter 2013

Gallery
by ccallenreese

captionstojerkby:

Nah. He’d put the jock on because—well, because he was a jock, right? I mean, he didn’t play anymore, but he had, he used to, and so wearing it was a habit, something he’d just never given up. This little piece of bro-hood that he kept with him, even as he’d grown and changed and moved on. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t at all a function of his new identity, the one he felt like he was still trying out sometimes, like a new pair of kicks or a new pair of sweats or, yeah, like a new jockstrap. It wasn’t that it framed his ass just so, wasn’t that it divided his body up, managing to emphasize both the rear he’d been starting to work so hard on (“It’s motherfuckin’ squats, man,” he’d said with a laugh when he got his first whistle at his new gym) and the dick he kept coiled in the pouch, the dick that (it turned out) liked locker rooms, athleticism, and bros just as much as he did. It wasn’t that he wore one so that then he could feel the fabric of his shorts sliding over his skin all day like a caress, wasn’t so that he could caress it himself, just run a hand along a cheek nonchalantly, you know, touching it, the same way other guys constantly and unconsciously scratched their nuts.

And it certainly—definitely, definitively—wasn’t that it made him feel so, so sexy.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

holdmelikeiwanttorunaway:

Everyone wants to have someones arms wrapped around them when they fall asleep at night. 

You hear the cries first. It pierces your rest like a sharp piece of glass. With great difficulty, you pull yourself away from the warm embrace of sleep. The baby is still crying. Your lover stirs under you, but you speak up first. “No, I’ll go.”
“But itsh my turn,” he slurs, mostly sleep still.
“Go back to sleep,” I say firmly. He worked a long shift today.
He doesn’t need another second to reconsider this and immediately dozes back off. You sigh and extract yourself from your comfort spot – latched onto his back like a koala. You sigh again as you get out of bed and your skin prickles in the cool air. You find your way into a bathrobe and stumble down the hallway like a zombie.

The baby is red faced and flailing. You smile when he stops crying to look at you with big blue eyes. He’s really cute, even when he’s waking you up in the middle of the night. Those cheeks! Those dimples! The tiny fingers! You transport the infant to the changing table and with practiced motions, whisk away the soiled diaper, clean the infant, and fix a new diaper in place. During the day you use cloth, but at night, you use disposable ones. Thank god, you think, yet again congratulating yourself on that idea.

The baby is still fussy, so you amble to the kitchen with the kid latched on your shoulder. With your eyes mostly closed, you wash your hands. Then, you prepare a bottle, test it on your wrist, and let the child nurse pressed up against your bare chest. You nod off but snap to attention when you remember what you’re doing. A long yawn follows. The baby burps in a timely fashion and is put back to bed; despite your fatigue you tuck him in carefully and make sure he is comfortable. You linger over his crib until he falls asleep.

It’s only then are you free to return to the paradise that is your own warm bed, complete with the thermal body of your beloved Sam. You slip out of the bathrobe and dive in, hurrying to be attached to him again.

Sam stirs. “Hey, e’rythin ok?”
“Yeah, the Goober’s fine.”
He smiles and chuffs through his nose. “I love that you’re such a good father to our baby. Its sexy,” he says. Or you think he says, as it all comes out as one long, slurred word.
You pause a moment, wondering if you heard that correctly. He said “our”. He hasn’t said that before now. It was always “his” baby, or when Sam was speaking, “my” baby. Technically, it wasn’t even his.

For a while, you two and Sam had an open relationship after years of waffling between on and off monogamy. Sam made the mistake of having one drunken night with a ex, only to wake up sober and discover she’d gotten six times more crazier since he’d left.

Not long after, Sam found out she was pregnant. They were gonna make it work. She had gotten her fix of attention during the nine months of pregnancy, but was over the whole motherhood thing an hour after a rather uncomfortable delivery. When she found out Sam was bisexual, and his lover had been a man, she said the baby boy was “tainted” and planned to leave town. Since Sam had used a condom, he had gotten a paternity test. The baby wasn’t his. Sam went over to her house to confront her the night she was leaving and they had gotten in a huge fight. She was going to be leaving town with some deadbeat that had blond hair suspiciously like the baby boy. Sam took a hair he found on the sofa, the baby, and left. The DNA in the hair matched the infant’s profile.

Sam knew he was not legally obligated to care for the infant, but to do so was a great miscarriage of justice. Turning that sweet, perfect baby over to a drug-dipping deadbeat with Aryan facial tattoos and no GED was a textbook recipe for trauma. Sam kept the baby as his own, and it brought his relationship with you to a new place. A closer, more intimate place where you were now a family instead of just a couple.

Then Sam had proposed. You said yes. The wedding was in a few weeks, and you could barely wait.

You snuggle up to your beau, infatuated with him and lovesick. The magnitude of passion you feel toward him and that small helpless baby in the other room overwhelms you sometimes. You’re tired, and part of you just wants to cry with bliss. Sam presses back against you.

He keeps pressing. You’re surprised he’s still awake. Your groin begins to stir as his round little butt keeps brushing against your silk boxers, right over where your cock has nested for the night. You grunt.
“Sam…” you say.
“Mnnng…” he replies, still rubbing. You reach over and down and feel for his cock. It’s hard and jutting straight forward. Not hard to miss. Sam makes a content noise when you play with it.

You’re not quite sure if you are dreaming all of this, but you have to be, because there’s no way you can stay awake. Yet, you find yourself reaching backwards for the nightstand drawer. In the dark, you fumble, and find a condom and lube. You tear it open with your teeth and roll it on; you open the lube one handed and drip it everywhere. You slick up your own cock, then toss the closed lube bottle on the floor.

“Hold still,” you whisper. Sam stills. You put a leg over his hips and position the blunt tip of our cock against him. In one motion, you’re in him, and Sam moans. He hasn’t gotten laid properly in two weeks. You’re in him, and he’s magnificent. Sam undulates against you and you make love to him gently. You kiss his shoulder and reach again for his impressive cock. The pace accelerates from zero to sixty in three seconds. You work your hips quickly; you both tense, and then it’s over. Sam cums into your hand; you fill the condom. It takes a tremendous effort to move again. You wipe your hand on a tissue and rip off the condom. You just leave it open in the trashcan, there’s no energy left in you to tie it.

Sam is asleep again, smiling now. You can tell, his breathing has changed. A feeling of comfort settles over you, of paternal belonging and satisfaction in your roll as a man of the house. You’ve taken care of your offspring. You’ve pleased your man. All is good in your house and domain.

The night is now yours. You cling to Sam, and fall back asleep.

__________________
Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“I can’t sleep,” he said, messing with his toes. “I dozed off but I had this bad dream and now I can’t get back to sleep.”
I exhaled through my nose and sit down on the edge of the bed. I awoke due to his cries, which echoed through-out the entire house.
“I’m really sorry to disappoint you,” he added in that soft, delicate tone of his, sweet as treacle and fragile as the skin on top of cocoa.
“It’s quite alright, Caleb. I expected there to be a period of adjustment.”
He looked down and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t quite believe me. After a moment, he spoke again. “Everything is different here. The bed is higher, the night sounds are strange, the sheets smell different.” He sniffed. “I miss home.”
“Oh sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you homesick?”
“Yes,” he replied, big crocodile tears sliding down his pale cheeks. “I want to sleep in my old room again. I’m so far from home!”
“Caleb…” I scooted across the bed and opened my arms. He crawled to me, sitting half in my lap, legs all over the bed. I enfolded him in my arms as he cries into my bathrobe. I rocked him, soothing him.

“I know it’s scary. But you have to be brave.”
“I don’t want to be brave!”
“I’m sure in the next couple of days you will learn a lot about my house, you’ll adjust, and discover Yellow Ridge is not a terrible place to live and I’m not a terrible person to live with.”
He sniffled again. “I’m not going to be a good husband to anyone.”
“Oh that’s not true, that’s not true. Shhh… relax. Breathe now.”

I continued to rock him, feeling more that I was rocking a little boy than the young man who was betrothed to me. It was, on paper, a good match. My family blood line is one of the upper seven or so distinct names, a historical name of wide influence in society and business. Caleb was from a lesser family line. Heterosexual marriage between blood lines is not encouraged amongst our people due to blood mixing. The only way for a family to gain a higher standing is to be lucky enough to have a gay son or daughter to offer to an upper family for their own homosexual son or daughter to marry. From the perspective of Caleb’s parents, he was a golden child. They were eager to abide by even the most conservative traditions. They had insisted Caleb be sent here to be my houseboy until the wedding, when he turned 18.

Even calling it a wedding was a broad term – it was more of a political ceremony. I had heard about wedded couples that each kept their own lovers; I however was a traditionalist, and hoped my bride and I would be true to each-other and monogamous.

I began to suspect that Caleb wasn’t going to be ready at 18 though. His parents had mollycoddled him and babied him. Freshly 16, he was still very much a sheltered child. I glanced down at the bundle in my arms. It was difficult to imagine that in two years, I was expected to consummate that marriage. Our five year difference suddenly felt wide as a chasm. His parents had likely taught him nothing about sex. I wondered if Caleb ever played with himself at all before his chastity device was affixed. He was still probably adjusting to that too. I pondered if it would be better to have it removed and let him explore.

More than anything, I felt pity for my bride. Thrust into a strange world, into strange arms, at a time when his body and its hormones were transforming in the most awkward ways. I also felt a bit of anger and disgust that the temple elders had clearly not sensed Caleb was a vulnerable creature – if I had been a man of lesser morals, I could have violated Caleb terribly. I made a note to call the Temple Counsel in the morning to file a complaint.

I would not send him back though. It would not benefit Caleb to go back into the womb at his age. As he got older, this behavior would be more difficult to correct. He was going to be a man soon. There were going to be expectations of him. I hoped keeping house and receiving home schooled lessons would keep his mind occupied. I kissed the top of his head and tried to remove Caleb but he’d worked his fingers into my bathrobe.

“Are you going to send me back?” he whispered.
I wondered if the boy could read minds. “No,” I said firmly, “You need to fledge from the nest. Every duckling and songbird falls a little when learning to fly. You’ll get used to things. You’ll find happiness in your work. Once you turn old enough, I will teach you the most wondrous pleasure your body is capable of. Are you feeling pain in your device?”
I felt the heat of his cheeks through my clothes. “No,” he says. “It’s snug, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Ok, let me know if it does.”
He nodded.
“Will you try to sleep now?”
Caleb eyed the bed warily. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
I thought. “Just this time, duckling”
He seemed satisfied with that. I cleaned his face, made him blow his nose, and have a sip of water. I then tucked him in lovingly and then spooned up next to him, me on top of the covers. Caleb had exhausted himself and was asleep within minutes. I lingered a moment, watching his eyes move under his eyelids, marveling at how long his lashes were. His face still possessed some of its babyfat, especially in the cheeks. He was going to be stunning all grown up.

I just had to make sure he would grow up. I was sure once he got a taste of his new found freedom he would thrive. Tomorrow would be a most interesting day.
“Good night, duckling,” I murmured, as I turned off the light and went back to my room.

_______________________________________________________
Text is fictional. This is model Graeme Metz photographed by Cecilie Harris for Boys by Girls magazine issue 6, titled “The Truth About Boys”. The T-Shirt by American Apparel and Underwear by Calvin Klein. This caption is not a projection or assumption of Graeme’s personality or sexuality.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“Well, now what do we have here?”
“Oh! Um, Coach that’s …well I- I…”
“Wearing your best brand jock strap to boxing practice? I think you want to impress someone, Richie.”
“Gosh Coach, I’m so embarrassed you found out this way…”
“I think you wanted me to find out. You have a cute butt. I was right about that.”
“…You really been checking me out, Coach?”
“Well not as much as you’ve been checking out me,” he said, releasing the elastic and cupping Richie’s left cheek.
“You could tell??” Richie said, sounding shocked.
Coach tried to suppress a laugh. “Your eyes always lingered in certain places, boy. You are a tremendous flirt and are always trying to get my attention. Too shy to take the first move? Have you worn these for me every time, hoping one day I’d notice?”
“I- I- well -um-”
“You have a hot body, Richie. I mean, I sculpted it myself, but I’ve never gotten to taste it. Why don’t we hit the showers early?”
“Oh wow, Coach, you mean it?”
He reaches around and squeezes Richie’s cock between his shorts. “Unless you want everyone to see you get fucked over the weight lifting bench.”

Richie gulps. “No, Coach, I want you all to myself!”
“You are one of my best students Richie. You know why? Because you listen and respect your superiors. Come on, let’s go. We’ll finish up your lesson later.”
“Yes Coach!” Richie asks, pulling off his boxing gloves in a hurry.

________________
Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

My frat brother woke me up at two in the morning.

“Max, wake up! Wake up. Come on, it’s an emergency.”
I flailed. “Wh- what? What’s going on?”
“You need to come downstairs right now. It’s your friend, Gordy.”
“Gordy…?” I asked. “What is he doing here?” He lives two hours away.“
"Oh you’ll see.” I squinted in the light coming in from the hallway. Steve was pale as a sheet.
“Shit, what happened?” I asked, throwing off the sheets. I was glad I decided to wear boxers to bed that night.
“You’re gonna puke,” was all Steve said. I bolted down the hallway and ran down the stairs. When I saw Gordy standing in the entrance way, I gasped. He was covered in blood; one eye was starting to swell shut and his nose was crooked.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Gordy…Gordy what happened sweetheart?”
When Gordy saw me, he began to cry. “Max!”
“Shit.” I walked up to him and embraced him a solid hug, letting him sob on me, not caring about his blood getting on me.  Steve was hanging back on the stairs, with a couple other bros who were curious about the fuss.
“Gordy who did this to you?” I asked through clenched teeth. I felt rage and bile rise in my throat.
His voice kept hitching from his fit and it was hard for him to talk clearly. “My – my- my dad, he be-be-eat me up after catching me kissing another guy.”
“Oh Gordy,” I sighed, rocking him. Gordy had been out to me for years. I’d always been somewhat worried how his father would take it when he found out, and I was furious that my premonition was right. I was seeing spots in front of my eyes from how angry I was.
“Is the other boy alright?”
“Yes.”
Did you drive all the way here…?” I asked.
“Yes,” he hiccuped. “I stole my dad’s car. Mine died a while ago.”
“Good god. Ok, let’s get you to the hospital, Gordy.”
“No,” he whimpered.
“You’re hurt and…jesus, I think your finger is jammed or broken or something.”
Gordy glanced at it, then looked up at me. “No, I want to go to sleep with you. Don’t leave me alone please.”
“Shh shh. I’m not,” I whispered. “We’re going to the hospital, then you can come back here with me.”
Steve piped up. “It’s totally cool if he stays here.”
“Thanks man.”

I got my keys and my wallet and my flip flops. Steve gave me his shirt. I walked Gordy to his dad’s car and put him in the passenger seat. There was blood all over the place, but I didn’t even care.

The emergency staff were horrified to hear what happened. They called the police and we filed a report. I mentioned how the car was “borrowed” and we’d be returning it in the morning so we could get Gordy’s things from the house. I asked the police officer not to his arrest his father until that was settled, and the Detective graciously said she’d work with us. The doctors set Gordy’s nose, braced his finger, and cleaned up the blood. We slept together in bed that night, him pressed against me, my arms around his trembling form. It took a while for the white anger to fade enough so I could sleep.

The next day, after breakfast, we drove back to Fishers to return the car. Steve drove my truck down behind us, it’s bed full of empty boxes we scrounged up under a tarp. The plan was for us to all carpool back. Gordy was quiet most of the trip. His bruises had darkened over night and he looked terrible. I held his hand when he seemed to need it most. Gordy and I had grown up together, best friends. He was a year younger than I was. I went off to university and he stayed local to earn money as his family was not well off. I hadn’t expected for us to see each-other again like this though, and I was not happy.

When we pulled up to his father’s house. I told Gordy to wait in the car. I waited until Steve pulled up, then I got out and walked over to tell him the same thing. I then went into the trunk and got the shotgun out of the back.

Steve saw it first, and yelled at me to put it away, but I told him to sit his ass down. Gordy was staring at me with wide eyes from his dad’s car.

I knocked politely on the door, and waited until his father answered.
“Oh it’s you, you faggot piece of shit that corrupted my son. What do you want with that? Gonna beat me up with it? I bet you don’t even know what to do with it. Here’s a hint. You don’t stick your dick in the hole.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I cocked the trigger and shot him in the leg. Behind me, Steve screamed. Gordy’s father collapsed to the floor, baying like a wounded dog. The bullet had lodged right above his kneecap. I kicked him aside, then turned around. “Alright, Steve, bring the boxes in. Get Gordy. Pack his stuff and any photo albums he wants to keep.”

Gordy got out of the car and threw up. He looked better afterwards. I dragged his father in to the living room and sat there with my gun trained on him while Steve and Gordy wordlessly packed up his belongings. His father was still making a terrible amount of noises, crying and cussing at me. Adrenaline and hatred suppressed any guilt or fear I felt. No one hurt my Gordy. Absolutely not, and especially not for kissing a boy. Not on God’s green earth. I had to resist shooting him again, and settled to just telling him to “shut the fuck up, pussy”.

I waited patiently, singing folk songs under my breath as the boys packed. Boxes came down first, then full laundry baskets, followed by bags. Gordy rescued his favorite mug from the kitchen, and a picture of his deceased mother from the living room only mere feet from where his father had been rendered immobile. They raided the coat closet and the basement, and within an hour, Gordy’s presence had been erased from the house. I whistled happily as it all went along.

Steve called my name.
“Yeah?”
He drank from a water bottle he found in the fridge. “We’re ready.”
“That’s everything? Bathroom, closets, cabinets, etc?”
He nodded. “Gordy is fitting the last of it in the truck. It’s gonna be a tight fit. Good thing you got a truck. Boy has a lot of stuff.”
I chuckled. “Yeah I figured. Not a lot of furniture though right?”
“Nah, just a lamp he liked.”

“Alright. Bring me his dad’s car keys would ya?”
Steve did. He threw them to me, and I caught them with one hand. I looked down at Gordy’s father, who was staring at me with utter hatred from a fetal position. I threw the keys onto his ground. “Here’s your car back. Sorry it’s got some blood in it, but that’s your fault. Listen to me. You ever come near Gordy again, I will aim for your head. Got it?”
His father spit at me.
I cocked the gun and shot him in the ass. The howls began again. “You know, Mr. Miller, being gay really isn’t all that bad. Having a little soreness in the ass is actually pretty nice.” With that, I collected the shell casings and left the house.

Once back by my truck, I called the police department back home. “Detective Mitchell? This is Max Tucker. Yeah it’s about Gordy. You can arrest his father now, but you’re gonna have to do it from a hospital.” I then hung up and called 911. I didn’t stay on the line like they asked.

By the time the ambulance arrived, we were gone. Three of us, crammed into the cab of my truck, the empty shotgun in the back. No one said a word, but Gordy cried on me the whole way home. It was a long drive back to the university, and my entire body ached from the tension and adrenaline mixing with testosterone in my veins. I drank my water and kept silent too, thinking about my actions. I did not regret what I had done to his father. I vowed to never again let Gordy stray far by my side, and that was a vow I kept.

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Text is fictional. The model is Evan Peters. This story in no way intends to depict Evan Peters or make projections on his personality or sexuality.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

The beach is supposed to be relaxing. No noises, no distractions. Nothing to do except swim and bask in the sun, which we were doing now after having gorged on a big lunch. We rested next to eachother, sharing my enormous towel, listening to the waves lap at the shore. Sometimes a gull would careen overhead, cawing. Perfect calm. There weren’t even that many children out here on a weekday.

I wasn’t relaxed. I couldn’t stop thinking about how close we were out here on this vast beach with plenty of room. A foot maybe. Less, possibly. I was thinking of the way my sister gave me a suspicious look when I told her I was going to the beach with David. “One of your guy dates huh?”
“What do you mean by that?” I said accusingly.
“You just spend a lot of time with him, that’s all.”
Yeah, that was true. Every time I wanted to go somewhere, David was the first person I called. Or he called me. We were bros. Perhaps not just bros… my time with David had helped me realize something about myself though. I wondered how many people “knew” and was waiting for me to find out about myself. I wondered if David knew or had guessed.

“Hey um. David?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
“Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something personal?”
David turned his head toward me. I could see his deep green eyes staring curiously at me through the brown-pink glass of his sunglasses lenses. “What’s up bro?”
The knot in my stomach was so tight I almost couldn’t find the courage to get the words out. “David I …I’m gay,” I said softly. “I wanted to tell you first.”
David’s jaw fell slack. He kind of stared at me, digesting this, as I held my breath. I could not handle rejection and felt rising anxiety as I waited to find out if I was going lose my best friend.
“You are?” he said after a moment. “You’re gay?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Girls never did it for me. I just had to sit and think about it for a while…it was um. Obvious.”
“Oh,” David said, turning his face up to the sun again. My heart began to ache, and I feared it was about to be broken. I never took my eyes off of him. I watched his chest rise and fall, his breathing a bit rapid.
Minutes passed.

“David?” I said, my voice barely a squeak. “Please say something.”
David exhaled slowly. “Sorry I just…needed to think. You’re gay. Ok that’s… that’s fine. It’s good.”
“That’s good?” I repeated, unsure if there was sand in my ears or something.
“Yeah,” he said with that casual little smile of his. “That’s very good.”

“Ok,” I said, dizzy with relief. “Good.”

A moment later, I felt David’s hand bump against mine. I wasn’t sure was he was doing until he worked his fingers between mine and squeezed. I squeezed back, letting him tether me. I felt like a huge weight had lifted off of me. Without his grip, I might have just floated away.

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Text is fictional. Apparently today is Coming Out Day or something, so I wanted to do something appropriate.