Tag: young love

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I remember walking down to the old docks, hand in hand. I remember talking about the dumb things dogs do, and I remember the chill in the wind that hinted summer was over. I can fondly recall us sitting on the edge of an old abandoned dock house, watching ducks on the bank of the lake, because this is where he kissed me for the first time. It was the beginning of a high school love that survived growing up and would eventually blossom into adulthood marriage.
More than anything though, the part of this scene that sticks in my mind most of all, is my boyfriend being so distracted and swept up in his amorous feeling for me after our kiss that he lost his balance and tumbled into the lake. I laughed so hard I got tears in the corners of my eyes and my stomach ached as I watched him stomp to the shore line and empty the water out of his new shoes.

Love really does knock a man off feet – or in this case – his seat.

I took him home and bathed him while his clothes went through our washing machine, and we kissed in the shower over and over and over until the water went cold.

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Text is fictional. Source:

free-to-love-and-cherish:

Alex Bischoff and his boyfriend. They look like a really good couple! I hope em the best and if you see this you should definitely go follow Alex. šŸ™‚

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“I can’t do this Kevin. I can’t be your boyfriend. I’m going back into the closet. They wrote "faggot” on my locker in gym class and someone told me I was going to hell.“
"Brazos.”
“What?” he pouts, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
I grasp his jaw in my hand and walk towards him until our foreheads touch. “Brazos, you are stronger than this.”
“No I’m not. I’m a nerdy hockey goalie, not a popular jock quarterback. I’m not made of Teflon.”
“But you are. You don’t even know it yet. You’re gonna graduate in a few months, go off to college, and this whole backwards town will roll right off your back. You’re gonna go and do incredible things, move to the big city, and leave them all in their backwards dust.”
“I am?”
“Yes you are.”
“I’m not so sure about that. They’ll probably call me "faggot” there too.“
"They might. But by then, you’ll be a man. You’ll be educated and employed and you’ll have confidence. Let them. Let the ignorant assholes broadcast themselves so you can avoid them. When you grow up, you won’t be forced to be around them all the time.”
“Kevin that’s in the future but now…” he looked down.

“Who got the student counsel to organize a fundraiser for Ms. Kramer after her child died from cancer?”
“…Me.” Brazos blinked, wondering where this was going.
“Who made that amazing back-handed save in double overtime, giving our team the puck, which lead them to score and win the regionals?”
“…Me.”
“Who got out of bed at 3 am to come pick up his brother from a party that went south?”
“Me.”
“Who brought me their bunny to cuddle with last year, when I was stuck in bed recovering from getting my appendix out?”
“…Me.” The corners of his mouth lifted up.
“Who kissed me first, when we sat on the grass at that music festival and watched your favorite band play that ballad as the sun set behind the stage?”
“Oh man I was so nervous! It was so cheesy.” he laughed. “But that was me.”
“Did you like it?” I ask.
He looks to the side, shy. “Yeah. I did.”
“Who is going to go off to college with me, and is gonna help me pick out our first apartment, and have an amazing first year with me getting into trouble, exploring our sexualities, and making banana bread in the middle of the night?”
“Me.”
“You got that right.” I kiss him, and he reciprocates with a little smile. “And what has Dirk Kessler done worthy of remembering?”

Brazos opened his mouth, then shut it, and furrowed his brow. “I’m sure there are things, but football is an inferior sport to the greatness of hockey so…”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “Then who cares what he thinks?”
“Suddenly, not me.”
“Who is going to be proud and out and be an inspiration to any other kid in our high school still closeted?”
“Me again.” He beams.
“And who is going to prom with me?”
Brazos blinks. “Prom? Prom? Oh my god are you serious? Are you asking me to prom? Like, with other people?”
“Yes, Brazos.”

He hesitates, then looks at me. He takes a deep breath and nuzzles my nose with his nose. “Me. I’m going to prom with you and I’m gonna look like a stud in a suit.”
“That’s my boy.” I kiss him again.
“Hey Kevin?”
“Mmhm?”
“Who is going to be giving me another kiss? Cause I think I’ve been missing out on those lately, being an idiot who doesn’t appreciate how wonderful his boyfriend is.”
I grin. “Oh that is definitely going to be me.”

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Text is fictional. Found a tag that said this is from Helix Studios.

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spacerobotfive:

A midday nap in his arms.

The room had originally been half sun-room, half parlor, a small walled off addition in his auntā€™s Victorian-era apartment for visiting guests to drink tea and gossip. In these recent times, it housed storage, a collection of light hungry plants, and a small bed for over-night guests. It was our home now, and that little niche was our space. After Mattā€™s parents kicked him out for being gay, I ran away from foster care with him to his auntā€™s home two hours away. Matt called her in tears; she immediately bought us a bus ticket and told us to get our butts on it. We arrived with a duffel bag each, hungry and exhausted, but holding hands and smiling.

Sheā€™d set us up in this tiny room and let us have our privacy. It wasnā€™t going to be easy. I needed to finish my GED since I failed my senior year; we needed to get our footing and pick a direction for us to go. My baby, Matt, Iā€™m so proud of him though. Heā€™s from a wealthy family and never had to want for anything, but the morning after we arrived he went and got himself a job serving at a diner. I knew it couldnā€™t have been easy on his pride, his confidence. Did I mention how much I love him? Itā€™s hard to know at this age if ā€œloveā€ is ā€œforever loveā€ or just ā€œstupid loveā€, but I think itā€™s a little of both.

Matt got back from working the early breakfast shift and went right to bed for a nap. He was so worn-out. I took a break from doing chores, intending to reward him for his hard work with slow, lazy sex, but he was already asleep. My poor Matt. I spoon up next to him, wiggling my arms around his shoulders.
“Hey,” he mutters, more of a grunt than anything, but the corner of his lip goes up.
“Sorry didnā€™t mean to wake you,” I say, kissing the back of his neck, “Youā€™re so nice and warm though.”
“Mmm, itsh nice. Love you,” he smiles again, before drifting back off. Itā€™s the beginning of a wonderful afternoon nap together, like two lazy cats in the sun. When heā€™ll stir a a couple hours later, I intend to greet him with lube and a condom and make slow love to him. Wake him up with my hand between his legs. He loves that, when heā€™s in just the right mood.

Of course, my chores might not get done in time, but we need to make sure we take time for each-other. I worry that weā€™ll become so obsessed with ā€˜making itā€™ on our own that weā€™ll lose focus of why weā€™re doing it. Matt is my reason. I am his. I sniff the back of his neck. It smells faintly of strawberry conditioner, diner coffee, and him. God, I love this boy. I hope this really is the start to the long, long story of us.Ā 

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Text is fictional. Been trying to caption this picture for months and am pleased with the results.

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“Well I got that splinter out of your hand…” he examines my palm.
“You sure did, didn’t even hurt really. When MacKenzie does first aid on me it always ends up being a giant bruise the next day…”
Ross snickers as he sets the tweezers on the counter.Ā  Our eyes lock. In this tiny bathroom there’s no where else to stand but close together. He brushes his fingers over my arm muscles upward, then slowly engulfs the back of my head with his palm as he snakes his digits through my shorn hair. My flesh raises goosebumps.
“…Ross?”
“Yes?” he whispers.
My heart is so beating furiously in my chest I can’t even breathe. Our lips drift together into a warm, open mouth kiss. I had no idea men could have such soft lips. Instead of floral perfume and fabric softener and waxy lipstick, there’s a faint mint lipbalm taste, a musky vanilla aftershave scent, and those large fingers against my scalp. My cock begins to swell.

“Ross…did you just kiss me?”
“I did.”
“Do it again.”

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I kiss his head and rest my hand on his skull protectively. “Good night, babe.” He’s already asleep after such a long day. It was nearly 1 am when he called me in tears because his mom got evicted (again) and they’re homeless (again). There wasn’t enough room in the car for her and their stuff, so he was going to be sleeping on a bench in 30F degree weather.Ā  He said that he only had change to call me because he found it under a McDonalds drive through. I got in my El Camino and drove for an hour through sleet to come rescue him.

We had been best friends growing up, but family problems drove us literally further and further apart. There had been fleeting moments of intimacy, a kiss goodnight, love unresolved through distance and drama and his mom’s crack habit. I used to worry about him, but he’d always pop up once in a while, unharmed but skinny. That call tonight confirmed my worse fears. Now, he’s warm and safe. Tomorrow he’ll start a new life with me. He needs someone to care for him and love him, and I vow he will never feel suffering like that again.

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This post is fictional. Source is undetermined.

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Willard squeezes my hand with such force, my knuckles crack. He was trembling in anticipation as we leaned in closer…and closer until our lips were just a centimeter apart. We hadn’t even declared we were boyfriends at this point, just two young men that had grown close over a summer holiday in the Hamptons. His mother came from old Chicago money, my father owned a hospital in Indianapolis. 3 hours apart at home, but 3 streets away here. There were so many single college kids at the Hamptons over break, but I was attracted to his boyish charm, down to earth nature, and his obsession with identifying every single bird at the feeder. As the days drifted on we slowly pulled away from loud, drunken parties and bored rich girls, spending more and more time with each-other. His parents didn’t approve of “his gay experiment”, so we spent most of the time at my house.

The movie we were watching had just ended and we were talking over cream sodas when he caught my gaze in a particular way, and I knew he wanted to know what it was like to kiss with a man for the first time. I sought out his hand and he clung to it like a life preserver as we moved towards each-other. The kiss was a shy, sweet affair, just a little pressure with no tongue. I titled my head a bit for a better angle and we held the intimacy for a long moment before withdrawing for air. I marveled at how hard he was blushing. We nuzzle a little, cheek to cheek, to seal in the memory.
“So…not bad?” I asked after a bit.
“…Nice,” he answers, “Your lips are really soft…”
I give him a little peck and he nips me back.
“I like kissing you more than the girl my parents want me to date back home."Ā 
"Well, kissing boys isn’t all that different. It only really detours once you hit second base and third base.”
“Aaaand you know about these things?”
The corner of my mouth slides up into a crooked smile. “I do. Never been to homeplate though.”
He bites his own lip and looks at me, contemplating this perverted version of a baseball game. “Hey I just noticed something…”
“Hm?”
“You’re gay and your shirt…it says Ball on it.”
“What?” I burst into laughter at the complete 180Ā° change in topic, “It’s a University! It’s where I go to school!”
He still hasn’t let go of my hand. “Yeah but… it’s funny! You know, because…because of balls!”
Hearing such a profane word come out of his virgin mouth causes me to lose it. He sputters, trying to save face as he watches me dissolve into hysterics. “It’s not that funny!”
I’m laughing too hard to reply in a proper fashion, “It IS funny! It’s not a school named after testicles, it’s named after the Ball Brothers-”
This sets him off and now both of us are acting like we’re on nitrous oxide. After a couple minutes of laughing like hyenas, we regain composure. Willard wipes the tears out of his eyes. I’m surprised when he’s brave and kisses me again, but I cannot help but spoil the moment. In my lowest, huskiest voice, I whisper, “Balls,” and it sends us writhing on the sofa, grasping our sides again.

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It’s just past dawn, almost 6 am. He looks over at me to see if I’m awake. I am barely, but enough to see him attempt a trace of tired smile. To say we’re both exhausted is an understatement. It’s been three months since we ran away from home together. Both of us wanted to stay in West Virginia but after the incident with the baseball bat and the car fire, we knew we had to go.

We spent the last month harvesting cranberries in Wisconsin and two months in Michigan harvesting apples and working on an organic pig and chicken operation working sun-up to sun-down until our backs ached and arms cramped. The fatigue may never leave us.

Winter is almost here. We’ve been hitch-hiking for four days now, racing ahead of blizzards. Last night, we befriended a lady truck driver that hooked us up with a free motel room here in rural Minnesota on the border of the Dakotas. Sleeping in a bed again was fantastic, even though it was freezing and there were mice in the walls. Before this, we slept in a shelter, on a heating vent in a park, and in a manager’s office trailer at a construction site.

The nice woman we met is going to pick is up in about an hour. There’s jobs waiting for us in the next state over – me, hard labor for a fracking company, and him as a parking attendant at a ski resort. We’re excited. It’s going to pay well. In the spring, if we have enough money, he’s talking about getting his EMT or white water rafting training certificate… me… I don’t know. I don’t even have a GED.
I also don’t know if we’re going to survive a winter in North Dakota. I don’t know if we’re going to make it to Oregon. I know, I know, everyone runs to Oregon. He’s been obsessed with making it there ever since he learned about the Oregon Trail in middle school. Westward, he says, is where home is. One foot at a time, or in our case, one mile at time.

I comb my hair as I watch him brush his teeth. There isn’t much to eat around here. I make some coffee. I discover apples, mini cereal boxes, and milk cartons in the lobby. We feast in our motel room while watching cartoons like little kids. We might be constantly near broke and desperate and crazy, but as long as we’re with each other we would be happy digging ditches. I look at him with a spoon in my mouth. He smiles fully this time. “We have a good fifteen minutes until she picks us up”, he says, “And one last condom.” I blush. “15 minutes? Is that enough time?” He says it is. It is.

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[ed note – the man in this photograph is Bartek Borowiec, a Polish fashion model famous for his stunning red hair and natural androgynous beauty. Most of his photographs are artsy and saturated as a quick search shows, but once I saw this picture, the story wrote itself.]

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I watch from behind as he takes mincing steps over the harmless flat rocks and sand. Silly city boy, probably thinks there’s piranhas in there. This is the only way to the swimming hole, so he’s just gonna have to get used to it. I linger behind him, observing how the sun dapples his skin. I love the angle from his neck to his shoulders. All I can think of is that he would look perfect standing there completely naked, just another element of nature. The water is a bit cold, yes, and I think I can see goosebumps on his skin despite that it’s nearly 100 degrees out here. Fuck it, why are we wearing clothes anyway? When we get to that swimming hole, I’m going to go pull his shorts down. He will probably never let me touch his body the way I want to, but if I can wring skinny-dipping with him out of a harmless prank it’ll be enough to get me through this summer.

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The chilly water laps at our ankles as we stand close with our foreheads touching. His skin is warm and brown from spending it broiling under the big yellow ball in the sky; he smells lightly of sunscreen, of bug spray, and the lake. I only know his name and he’s from Roxford, about 50 miles from me. We haven’t talked about sexuality. We haven’t asked if either is taken. One look in his eyes is all I need to know about these things. He nuzzles me, then whispers in my ear at a barely audible volume, “Will you be my boyfriend?”

I say yes. He smiles, then giggles. It’s going to be an excellent summer.