The Jock

by Paul Schroder

This story unfolds a few decades back. It's a simpler time and kids have more freedom to explore the world around them. The hero of the story is a nerdy kind of boy named Harold. This is his story and so we will let him tell it.

I'm twelve, nearly thirteen, and my family has moved us to a new house in a different town. This entails that I change schools once again and try to make new friends. It's the making of new friends part that I didn't like so much. Shoot, the new house is great. My room is huge compared to the old house and the back yard is enormous! Dumb Shit, my dog, is really happy with that yard. Heh... my parents actually named him Shep, but I call them like I see them.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah. The new school and new friends part has always been sucky for me. I've always been a good head shorter than any other boy in my grade. It's been that way since 2nd grade and continues to the present. I inherited my size from my Mom's side of the family, according to my parents. My Dad is as bald as the head of a dog's dick. (I don't mean to infer that you've inspected many dog dicks but...) Now if I inherit that baldness trait too then I may as well just shoot myself. Also, dickhead was just one of the insults handed to me by assholes at my last school.

We do tend to move around a lot, due to my Dad's employment. He's an auditor for government agencies and gets transferred from agency to agency. That also means moving from town to town. I just manage to find some friends when it's time to move again.

My Dad says the moves have been good for me. Because, he says, I'm now able to whine and mope and complain with the best in the business. Like the comedian, Rodney Dangerfield says, "I don't get no respect."

I don't think I'm bad looking or anything. I just kinda have baby looking features. Now that I've started puberty though, I'm expecting my face to start filling out and looking more mature. I can't wait until the hair on my upper lip has turned into actual hair and not just fuzz. And speaking of hair! I've got a couple of doozies growing above my "Gad-to-meet-you". I call it that because lately he's been wanting to stand up on his own and shake peoples hands and introduce himself. The little rat bastard really tries hard to embarrass me.

I think I'm likable enough and other people eventually get used to having me around and warm up to me. It's just a slow process is all. And that's because, as my Dad explains it, boys all have an intense desire to fit in and be one of the crowd at my age. That means we are supposed to have a hive mentality. We dress alike, talk alike, wear our hair the same and stuff like that. It's also important who we hang around with. It's definitely best to be one of the "cool kids". And if you can't be one of them you look for people that have similarities to you so you fit in with some group or other.

I asked him when people start to change and be less concerned about image and become more accepting. This just caused him to chuckle and look at me with a smile. Then he realized I was actually asking a serious question and his eyebrows shot up. "Umm... well they don't, actually. You will find clicks everywhere when you grow up. It just seems to be human nature to band together for protection or, for some, to stand on top of the herd in order to be noticed and just to be dominant." Some times my Dad impresses the crappola outa me. You wouldn't think a darn accountant would be so in touch with the human condition. I guess he needs this second sense while ferreting around in books and ledgers to uncover wrong doers and idiots.

So here I am, walking up to the front doors of this, my fifth, new school of my life. Kids are standing around in twos or small groups and a few take notice of me as I approach. "Hey kid," one pimple-popping inbred intones, "this is the Junior High school, the Elementary School is two blocks south... Har, har, har." The girl standing next to him guffaws right along with him. I just give him my 'I've heard that before' smile and keep walking past.

I get a few looks from some girls that simply says "oh, isn't he just an adorable little sweety?" Come on, gag me with a spork. I get a couple of "heys" or "how's it going" comments from a few guys. I sense that these are the guys that live in the shadowy world that I tend to inhabit. I quickly memorize their features as I walk by because it's these same faces I'll search for in the lunch hall later on.

I check into the office. I get to meet the principal and listen to his "welcome to my school and don't piss me off" speech. We will get along because he will never see me again. There's a lot of commotion going on in the office. From what I can gather, someone set a trap to spray a couple of boys with ink. Well, it's past first period so some gal finally leads me to my 2nd period classroom. For the rest of the morning I follow the sheet the office gave me to find my way to my classes. Lunch is slow to arrive but, when it does, I'm kind of nervous I'm not going to spot the cheering section that I saw on my arrival. Or, if I do, they may not welcome me to sit with them.

Well, I've got my tray with meat-like loaf, green beans, dinner roll and green gelatin with grapes in it. As I step out of line I do some rapid looking around the room. I've learned, over time, that you just don't casually pick an empty spot at any old table. This can lead to verbal, and occasionally, physical abuse if you are perceived as invading someone's territory. Christ, these are just animals of the Serengeti with clothes on.

My eyes sweep past and then snap back to a table in the corner of the room. Someone is waving a hand in my direction. I gulp and look around me to see if the wave is meant for someone else. But no one around me or behind me is paying any attention. And now a couple of the people at that same table, with their backs to me, turn their heads to look in my direction. Ah ha! I recognize them and so I start walking that way. I get about half way there when some guy, seated at the end of a table, reaches up with his hand in a "stop" motion. "Just wanna tell ya that the cooks can poor that carton of milk on your tray into a baby bottle for you if you prefer it that way." This dick-wad has 'jock' written all over him. So do the guys sitting at his table that snicker at his witty remark. There are a few pretty girls at this table as well. This must be the "in-crowd". These are the kids that try the hardest to fit in. They have always reminded me of those Russian dolls that stack inside each other. I just tell him not to give up his day job and walk on by.

Well, I get welcomed at the so-called Nerd table and am made to feel right at home. Two friends who seem the most supportive of my arrival are named Michael and Jeremy. Call me Jere the one boy says. They are both kind of on the short side too and are all involved in planning a paint gun battle over the weekend. Lunch goes pretty smoothly and I now have people I can talk to at school.

My last period is gym. I'm given a list of the gym clothes I'm expected to have for tomorrow and am forgiven for dressing out this day. But every day in the future, I'm told, I am to dress out and then finish with a shower. This has always been the class I hate and love the most. I hate it because my "glad-to-meet-you" is so darn difficult to keep under control. If he had his way he would try to shake hands with everyone in the shower. He wants to tap you and say "howdy". So, to keep him under control, I have to think of things like liver and onions or eviscerated kittens and such.

So that's why I hate gym. Now, the reason I love gym is the same thing. So much smooth, sweet skin. Lovely nipples and wonderful inny and outy belly buttons and, of course, the piece-d-resistance, the sweet boy parts that makes them truly boys.

So, now you know my secret. It's a secret I tend to exercise quite often. At night I've taken to "whip my doodle, it's a dandy", as the song goes. Or, "pump the stump" as I visualize "humping the rump". Anyways, I think you get it. Lately I've felt the need to do those exercises two or three times a day. One day my Dad carried a couple of boxes of Kleenex into my room and said "the message from Mom is that you no longer use dirty socks when you play wack-the-mole. Got it?"

So, I'm spared from dressing out at gym on this day at least. And I'm glad, because the jock boy that stopped me in the lunchroom is in this class. And he is freaking gorgeous! I manage to wander into the locker room during shower time, ostensibly to look for my locker. Jocky boy is walking in my direction, naked, with his towel around his shoulders. It's obvious he enjoys guys seeing and admiring him. And I do. Oh brother... I do. Damn... I do!

He ends up at the locker next to mine and grins down at me. "So, looks like we're locker neighbors there baby boy." Even his condescending attitude doesn't turn me off. But I can't help coming up with a rejoinder. "You're some kind of a jock, right? That means you're one of those guys that can sit a spell but just aren't able to sit AND spell. Right? You dribble on the basketball court and drool at the dinner table, right? Tell me if you want me to speak slower."

I'm not sure that's something even close to intelligent to be saying, especially when I seem to have caused a cone of silence to envelope us for three or four lockers in each direction. People are looking from me to him and back to me again. There is definitely a pause of anticipation. What hath hell wrought, so to speak.

The grin sort of fades off of jockey boy as he stares down at me. But he is quick to regain it as he says "good for you. You've got spunk. Even though you probably aren't old enough TO spunk yet." This brings some laughter from the surrounding guys who go back to dressing, thinking that a crises has been averted.

"So, what's your name, new kid?" Ah ha! He didn't call me baby boy! Score one for me. "Harold," I reply. "What's yours?" "Stew" he says, "Stewy to my friends."

"Well, am I supposed to call you Stew then or Stewy?" I ask.

"That's yet to be determined I guess, he says."

"Well, Stew or Stewy, your standing there naked, waving that thing in my face. Could you like NOT"?

"Ha ha ha, Harold. I can't help it if you don't come up much higher than my dick. If you'll let me get into my locker I'll put some clothes on." That's when I noticed that I was standing in front of his locker and not my own.

"Whoops, okay then. There you go" as I slide over a ways. He just grins back and then he says. "I like you, Harold. You can call me Stewy."

I take a leak, wash my hands and comb my hair. (Please Dad, no recessive genes, okay?) When I wander back to my locker, Stewy is dressed.

"Follow me out, Harold" he says. And I do because I pretty much would follow him anywhere. We step out into the hall and there is this pretty blonde girl waiting there who wraps her arms around him as he emerges from the gym. He gives her a peck and says, "this is Harold, my new friend. Harold, say hello to Denise, my girlfriend. "

"Uhh, hi Denise" I manage to get out in a monotone. She's cute, has a good figure and is an obvious cheer leader type. "Yeah, hey" she replies to me, between gum snaps. "So babe" she says, looking up to Harold, "since we don't have practice tonight take me to a movie."

"Yeah, okay. If it's okay with Dad. Call me later, okay?" He turns to me and says, "see you later Harold. Welcome to our school." And he turns and walks down the hall with little miss pom pom wrapped around him. Sigh.

Chapter 2

I had traded phone numbers with some of my fellow nerds at lunch time and am thinking about giving someone a call. A couple of them will be involved in paint ball and that's something I know nothing about. But a couple of other guys didn't indicate any plans. It is Friday for hecks sake. Maybe I can find somone to go to a movie with or something tomorrow.

I walk into the kitchen to get an after school snack. Mom is still cleaning and unpacking dishes and arranging the kitchen.

"Hello honey. Was school all right?"

"Yeah Mom, I guess. No one tried to dribble me like a basketball at least."

"That's nice dear," only half listening. "Don' fill up. Your father called and we are having dinner with one of his bosses tonight."

"Gaaawwwd" I mumble under my breath. I hate these dinner engagements with Dad's bosses. In the first place, they really aren't his boss. His job is to look through their books, find irregularities and make suggestions for improvement. Then he implements said changes and calculates the benefits. All told it takes about a year for each department and I think he said this outfit has five departments. This could take me well into high school without having to change schools.

I put on slacks and a polo shirt for the company which arrives about 8pm. Mom meets them at the door and invites them in. She didn't have the opportunity to cook, of course, so we are having Chinese takeout. She ushers them into the living room where I nearly shit my pants! It's Stewy! My freaking, hot, hunky, gorgeous, hetero Stewy!

"Hi Stewy" I say. My 'glad-to-meet-you' bobs out a hello as well.

"Wow, Harold! Dad said your folks had a boy my age and darned if they don't. How ya doin bud?"

I'm forced to meet and greet the parents but I'll be darned if I can remember their names. I might not be able to get anywhere with their boy but he is definitely fuel for my imagination. I do horrible, sexist things to my imagination. I should be ashamed of myself... heh heh.

He's never used chop sticks before so I have fun teaching him how. He finally ends up using a fork because he's a big boy and he needs fuel. He was only able to get three or four grains of rice at a time with the sticks. He's sitting down at the end of the table with me so the folks can talk and we can have separate conversations. I, of course, don't know him well at all, nor he me, so we are kind of feeling each other out. For instance, I mentioned that it was a real pretty girl that met him after gym. "Are you guys in love?"

Okay, okay, kind of a personal thing to ask, but, what the hell. If you don't ask you don't know, right?

"Mmm? Oh, Denise? Yeah, she's alright. I mean she's captain of the cheerleaders but, hey, how about we go to your room to finish this conversation, all right?"

"Mom, Dad, is it okay if I take Stewy up to my room?"

"Of course it is honey. The talk at this table has to be stuffy for the two of you."

So, I'm showing mr super jock my room devoid of pictures or any semblance of personality. "Wow, you did just move in, didn't you?"

"Heh, yeah. We don't tend to stay in one place very long so a lot of this stuff I don't even bother to take out of boxes."

He get's a concerned look on his face and asks "so, how long will you be here, then?"

"Oh, Dad's going to be here for at least five years. I actually get to empty some boxes!"

Stewy's chuckle is so deep and sexy. "Then, I think you and I are going to be real friends, Harold. At least I hope so."

I don't know if my face looks as wistful as my voice sounds, but I reply "me too, Stewy. Me too."

"You asked if I'm in love with Denise. The short answer is no. Denise and I have been friends since 2nd grade. She knows me like no one else. I guess we are best friends but we aren't in love. She knows something about me that few other people do. Something that would make me a lot of enemies if it became general knowledge."

We are both sitting on the edge of my bed at this point. Stewy continues. "I don't know why, but I feel like you are the one other person I could trust with this secret. At any rate, when I first saw you and teased you in the lunchroom I wanted to confide in you. I mean, I teased you on purpose to make a false trail for my friends, but, the truth is, I really, really like you Harold. And if I'm reading things right, you like me back."

My heart is beating like a kettle drum. This sort of fairy tale shit only happens in, well, fairy tales!

"Harold... are you crying? Dude, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you or gross you out. It's just a story, all right? I'm a practical joker."

He can't go on. It's hard to talk when you have my tongue in your mouth. What could be more perfect. I'm gonna have this fantastic guy. We are both going to have Denise to have our backs and lend some seeming normality to the relationship.

There is only one other thing I want to know. I say. "Can you spend the night?"

"Fuck yeah!!!"

So, he did. And we did. And I'd invite you along but... no.

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The Jock

by Paul Schroder

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