This is a short piece I found recently in one of my notebooks about a school friend (let's call him J) and a particularly frustrating teenage attempt at seduction.
It was summer. We walked to my house one afternoon although I not sure from where. J and I were not best friends but our orbit at school had some overlap, both of us in the performing arts clique although he was more technical than me. The lead up to that day was a brief period of experimental friendship, hanging out together a few times, I think both of us surprised by it. One night I stayed over as his house, sleeping on a matress on the floor beside his bed. We talked a lot about sex and I outed myself as bisexual (which, at fifteen, I think I believed at the time). He didn't quite shy away. Perhaps slightly intrigued. One image of him that night: climing out from under the covers, moving across his bed on all fours in his underwear to reach for something on a shelf. I remember his tan on what seemed a perfectly taught skin; I remember the briefs were grey and how they stretched over his arse and I remember being sntranced by the surprizing size of the bulge in the front.
I must have been trying by that time because I remember him saying 'No!, I know what you really want" - and although I don't remember what the question was, it was only years later that I realised he though I wanted to fuck him. At the time I hadn't thought about it.
The day that we walked to my house together from somewhere unremembered it was warm and sunny. I was bolder and bolder. Contrast the upfront questions I asked of him, 'try it, try it, you'll never know until you try it,' with the naivite that took years to understand his basic responses. He said, he didn't want to but I kept going until I guess I was pestering him. He had large brown eyes which balanced nicely with large brown nipples. After some hours in my room - doing nothing in particular - he said, 'why don't you stop talking about it and just do it?' I had him lie on the bed, I knelt beside it and unbuttoned his jeans. I took out his cock and sucked it. More years had to pass before I realised he had been circumcised, and even then not because I remembered the fact but because somehow I finally became aware, long after we lost touch, that he was Jewish. As I think about his cock I get a sense of clean lines and vigorousness, a fresh smell and wiry pubic hair which stopped dead at its edges to leave hairless, light brown skin.
My cock never left my pants. I blew him for some time before he said he was nervous (my parents were downstairs), he said he wasn't even properly hard (which seemed less than the truth from where I was). He buttoned up after a few minutes of failed persuasion. He was kind about it, perhaps because of his role in making it finally happen. There is an utterly inexplicable fragment of memory attached to this event: a daisy with melting petals. We were civil afterwards but the experimental friendship ended there.
Three pieces of remembered dialogue:
"No! I know what you really want"
"Why don't you stop talking about it and just do it?"
"I can't even get it properly hard"
Later: I have a vague recollection of J going to America one summer to be a camp counsellor. There he met an older woman, the camp nurse, with whom he had he first proper affair and to whom he lost his virginity. As I write this I am doubting. It may have been a dream I had about him. It may be that it was true, that I heard the story and dreamed-in the details.