DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


Chapter 12


"OH, GOD! Yeah, baby, SUCK IT!" the guy moaned in between deep, throaty intakes of breath. The smell of his sweat, mixed with the overwhelming scent of the locker room, and the heady musk emanating from the thick pillar of flesh slipping in and out of his classmate's mouth flowed into his classmate's nostrils---acting like stimulants, making his classmate slurp his juicy meat deeper into his classmate's willing throat. "Oh, yeah. You like that, don't ya?"

A throaty chuckle was all that his classmate could muster, and if his classmate's mouth wasn't already filled, his classmate would've been grinning like crazy, with eyes shining with nothing more than ravishing lust for the ultimate jock that he was. Without answering, his classmate tightened the suction, giving him satisfying results. He groaned and fisted his classmate's wavy hair, pulling them from the scalp with such manly force his classmate thought they would break and snap. His classmate didn't protest, though. He knew that his classmate wanted this the moment their eyes met. His classmate wanted more.

His classmate pulled back, enough to keep his 'head' in his classmate's mouth. "Oh, yeah, keep doing that," he gasped as his classmate then mercilessly swirled a soft, yet also, rough patch of tongue around the most sensitive part of his manhood, the shaft now shiny with spit. "God, baby, you're going to make me cum!" His classmate stole a glance and his classmate could see from the expression on his sweaty, gorgeous, All-American face that he was trying his best not to yell or shout of the painful pleasure that his classmate was getting him through. His classmate only smiled.

'It seems that I'm in control.' his classmate thought with delight. His classmate grabbed his tightening balls and pulled them away from his body, away from his shaft, and his classmate sucked harder.

"OH, GOD!" he groaned as his classmate completely engulfed his mighty, throbbing column as deep as the other being's throat. Grabbing hold of his classmate's head, he trapped it in a vice-like grip, keeping it there---steady. His legs trembled; his classmate felt his shaft throb harder. And suddenly, "OH, GOD! OHHH, GODDD!" he gasped---keeping his rejoicing shouts as minimal as possible---making his face flush with blood, his veins popping like branches of trees. A second later, he exploded deep in his classmate's esophagus, lining it with thick, sticky semen, enough to drown his classmate with it. His classmate did as best as a cocksucking whore could at swallowing the salty-sweet, precious nectar; which, for a fact, was what his classmate did best, and he continued twitching, his muscles strained and dancing under the skin, as his classmate juiced him to the end.

Minutes passed before his classmate got off his flaccid member. He laid on the bench, sated, drained. His classmate smiled at the crooked grin plastered all over his face, and all his classmate could say was "Come on. It's late. And you still owe me dinner."

"I thought you were already full," he said innocently as his classmate tossed him his scarlet-and-gold football jersey.

"Well . . . as what the Bible said, 'Man does not live on meat alone.'" his classmate retorted with a shrug.

His eyebrows shot up as if in disbelief from what his classmate have just said. Through his grin, he said "I thought that was bread---not meat! No wonder I've been confused my whole life."

"Yeah, whatever. Now, come on. This 'man' needs something more substantial than just your thick, sticky fluids!"

He finally laughed. With a great heave, his classmate pulled him up to his feet. As he stood, though shakily, he bent down and gave his classmate a peck on the cheek. "You got it, baby!" he breathed.

Just outside the slightly ajar door to the locker rooms, one boned-up, sweat-soaked voyeur frantically pulled up his jocks and pants up and hurriedly went out of the gym and into the September dusk. His hardness not quite concealed by the denim of his jeans.

"Fuck! That was hot!" he swore both anxiously and amusedly once he got into the night, "My son surely knows how to suck a fucking cock!"


"He's hitting on every girl who's got a 'rockin' bod' . . . he's constantly picking on loners and twerps and dweebs and nerds," I caught my breath. "Just for the fun of it! And then he's doing and saying every possible excuse just to show off his freaking 'guns'! He's turning into the worst possible type of jerk to ever walk the halls of this school. . . ." I took another gasp of breath. "That's not him, Stace! You may have only known him for at least a year but you know that that's not him!" I heard myself growl with annoyance. "Every time I see him, I have this nagging urge to fucking hit him with something! It's like he's become---"

"A totally different person," Stacey sadly muttered, cutting me off. Her tone made me stop PMSing (not that she knew, of course) and I gathered myself and sat beside her, pushing off the litters scattered on the seat. "I totally get what you mean, Daniel." she said momentarily.

"Yeah," I stated morosely, "Something like that." We were on the bleachers watching the members of the newest football team line-up awkwardly swerve and maneuver their way across the field.

'Dick move, Danny! Real smooth!' My subconscious scolded.

I totally forgot. Stacey was Keith's ex-girlfriend! Urgh. Me and my big mouth! It was one thing that she and my best friend were dating for more than six months before I heard news about it, but totally forgetting that she sucked faces with him---that she was his very first girlfriend. . .

"Um . . . uh . . . sorry for going off like that, Stace." I mumbled shamefully, my heart tightening, "I simply forgot."

She slowly turned around and gave me a semblance of a smile and said, "It's okay. No matter how I look at it, it's all in the past now, anyway."

"Yeah." I blankly uttered. Then thought, 'It's all in the past now.'

A totally different person. Hmm. The idea makes me shiver. I can't let this happen to him. I can't let him do this to himself.

"Anyway," she said in a brighter tone, "In light of recent events, congratulations!"

I turned to her and gave her a questioning look.

"You know," she said, indicating the customized shirt that Coach Connor---er, Doug---gave me.

"Oh. Thanks," was all I said.

With all the conundrum that's happening to my life, I haven't even celebrated---so to speak---my acceptance to the swimming team. The shirt that Stacey was indicating was a bright golden-yellow and had IRVINE HIGH SWIM TEAM on the front and my family name on the back, with a large scarlet number 7 below it, front and back. Coach Connor started with the try-outs weeks before classes started and I was so glad when I passed the Swim Team's bulletin board and I saw DANIEL MOCKINS: #7 posted along with the other lucky newbies. I was glad for it. At least I had something other than my depressing life to drown myself in.

I was so deep into my thoughts that I didn't notice the commotion going on on the field. Only when someone got punched and tumbled over, and a groan echoed towards us that my attention was caught.

"Oh my God!" I heard Stacey gasp. "What just happened?"

I followed where Stacey was looking and squinted my eyes and watched as one team member was held back by four others---restraining him, it seems. They were on the opposite end of the field from us so Stacey and I could not be sure on who was who and what was happening. I focused my eyes at the guy sitting on the ground. I saw the guy's jersey number---Number One.

Number One. That was Jesse Porter's jersey, I thought. Back when he was Quarterback. He graduated last year with Luke and the twins so I have no idea who it belongs to now. Jesse gave up his jersey to someone? Hmm.

I watched the guy who, assumingly, punched or hit or jabbed or whatever as he was blocked by his team members, so not to add more possible damage to the already knocked-over guy. And as soon as he straightened up and turned to spit, I saw his back. There was no mistaking the bold, white Number Sixty-Three stitched onto the player's humongous back.

"Hey, that's Bruce, right?" Stacey asked me. "Number 63?"

My eyes narrowed into slits and something clawed at my insides. "Bruce," I hissed. It certainly was. 'What the hell! Now, he's picking fights with his own team members?! What a dick!' I told myself. 'I'll have a word with him!'


Though my muscles were already protesting, I decided to continue anyways. I willed myself to take another lap. 'Just one more lap, Danny, then you can go home.'

In here I have a definite task at hand---to get to the goal, to finish the required number of laps. Not like in real life. In here I have a sense of direction---straight ahead then back again. Not like in real life. In here I can glide and purge and make my way through obstacles without the fear of facing the consequences; the fear of hurting other people, the fear of exposing myself. Not like in real life.

Not like in real life.

I'm a swimmer now and I can do all of those when I am in a pool. It's a whole new world in there. A world that's entirely mine for the taking.

My mom always says that if you live in California, you should definitely know how to swim. That was why, since I was seven, I taught myself how to swim. Just so you know that was the first thing that my father taught me---the basics of swimming. I spent that single day with him swimming on the beach; him carrying me in his strong arms, letting me paddle my way above the salty water, my mom smiling and laughing in the background, cradling an exhausted little Stephanie on her lap. That was one of the greatest days of my life. The one of the two days that I have spent with my father. With my dad. God, I missed my dad!

The nearing end of my lap brought me back to the present.

Coach Connor told me last week after handing me my shirt that the competition when it comes to the sport---swimming---is not like any other. In swimming, it's just you, your enemies, and your playfield. In swimming, you only get one chance at taking that golden medal. Not like in Football, Baseball and Basketball where you have teammates to count on to reach victory; or even in Tennis and Badminton where you get a longer span of time to get even with your enemy, to be able to surpass them; or in Wrestling where your main goal is to outlast and outlive your opponent; or even in Gymnastics where your only concern is to look pretty, flexible, sexy, and petite.

In Swimming? Well . . . it's just a completely different type of competition. Swimming is a race where you get a goal that you have to reach before any of your opponents does, and while doing all of that, you have to look pretty, sexy, flexible, and petite while you move through the water.

It sounds easy enough, but, really, it isn't.

Here's one thing that we, swimmers, can be happy about, though---after every practice, however thorough, muscle-tearing, and bone-breaking it would be, we would never stink. Never.

Anyway, that's just me talking, okay? Opinions, you know. You can simply ignore me if you want.

I kicked and kicked until I reached the end and as soon as my nostrils cleared out of the water I took a great lungful of air. Reaching out for the steps, I got a glimpse of someone seated on the poolside bleachers.

I got out of the pool and headed for the swim team's locker room. I got in and quickly began to change, donning on my after-practice clothes. The moment I got out of the room, I saw that he was still on the bleachers. I went for his direction. Well . . . it's not like I have any choice, really. The only way out was by passing through him.

"Hey, I just heard you got in the team! I just came from practice when I ran to Stacey and she told me everything," he stood as I approached him. The nerve of this guy! Did he really think I wouldn't know of what he was doing when he thinks he's not in my sight? "Congratulations, Daniel! I just don't understand why you would keep it a secret from me---"

"Why did you do it, Bruce?" I snapped as I passed by him.

I stopped just enough to see his expression suddenly change from fine amusement to utter confusion.

"Do what, exactly?" he asked.

"Oh, don't you dare play dumb with me, Bruce Adams! You know what I'm talking about!" I retorted with a pointed finger. "I saw what you did yesterday. Even if we're not on really good terms nowadays that was still my best friend that you punched, you knucklehead! Why the fuck did you have to do that? Was that some kind of initiation, huh? Like the 'beat-the-new-kid' kind of crap that you and your team mates seem to be so fond of? Huh?"

I waited for his reply. An angry retort, maybe? Or maybe an elaborate explanation. I didn't know what to expect. It only came to my knowledge that it was Keith who was wearing Jesse's jersey---the one numbered One---last night, after Stacey texted me that Garrett, one of the football players, texted his girlfriend Tessa, one of Stacey's friends, who texted her that Bruce punched Keith---the team's newest Quarterback---for no apparent reason, whatsoever. I didn't know what to do, then. Confront and condone Bruce, who has been nothing but good and patient with me for the past ten months. Or comfort and congratulate Keith, who has been avoiding me since . . . since February . . . since my birthday.

"Daniel, he was threatening me. He's been threatening me since he got into the football team." he breathed wistfully, looking at his feet. "He got over the line and I just got really pissed. So, I hit him." He explained as if punching someone was the most natural thing to do. What the fuck! "He fucking deserved it!"

"What?" I held out a palm to stop him, confusion dominating my features. "Keith was 'threatening' you?" I echoed.

He nodded. "Daniel, I don't want you to go through the things that I have gone through." He said above a whisper. "It's horrible."

"What?" I snapped at him, "How can he be threatening you? What the hell are you talking about?! What could he have on you that you would really risk your reputation protecting it?" I almost growled, blood rushing to my face.

"Not on me, Daniel. . ." he said impatiently, then looked up and stared at me, his face suddenly filled with all the tension, the sadness, the sorrow of the world, and then he added, "He has something on YOU."

"WHAT?" I asked sharply. "What do you mean he has something on me?"

"He told me he would---"

"BRUCE!" someone suddenly called and I had the sudden urge to throw books at that someone. I think the sound came behind me, so I turned around and gave a little shriek of surprise at what I saw. "Do you want to ride me home?" he joked as he walked---no, sauntered---towards us. I don't know what made me sound like a freaking cheerleader who was just caught by the team captain and the entire cheerleading squad eating too much carbs and plucking hair from one of my underarms. Was it because of what he just asked Bruce? Maybe. But it must be because of the guy's . . . feminism . . . that caught me off guard. I shivered involuntarily.

As if just noticing my gaping mouth, the guy rolled his eyes at me then offered me his hand. Porcelain. Silk. Those were the first things that came to my mind as I saw his proffered hand. SHIT! No guy should have those kind of hands! It's criminal! I'm jealous!

"Um. Hi." he sang sweetly, much to my annoyance. "I'm Richard. But, please, do call me Richie. Not Rich, Rick or Ricky. RICHIE," he added with emphasis---as if those other names were scandalous and unacceptable. "And . . . judging by the way my poor, little cousin was looking at you while you were having your Little Mermaid extravaganza awhile ago . . . you must be Daniel."

Ignoring his "Little Mermaid" comment, I just nodded as I took his hand in mine, shaking it twice. 'He definitely must be gay!' was the only thing running around my mind.

So, this was Richard Connor. Guidance counselor slash Swim Team coach Douglas Connor's son Richard.

Richie was what other or most people would describe as 'scrawny but cute.' He was taller than me, but he was definitely slimmer. IF he WAS gay, then another word coming from the Gay DICKtionary that would perfectly describe him was 'Twink.' He was such a twink he was wearing a bright, hot pink long-sleeved shirt and a pair of the most ridiculous burning purple skinny jeans that I have ever seen. A fedora---yes, a coal-black fedora---sophistically decorated with shimmering beads and feathers was seated on top of his wavy, auburn hair. An aquamarine scarf coiled around his slender neck. All of those, added to his very pale complexion, he looked like the gay version of Kurt Hummel. Well . . . gay-ER version, to be exact.

"Nice to meet you," he chirped in a way that would only be too girly. Then he gave me an all-over look---which, by the way, lingered longer on my crotch, making me blush annoyingly. I was only wearing my sweatpants so I know that he can clearly see the outline of my dick. His mouth shot up at one side, satisfied? SHIT! HE IS GAY! Then his eyes travelled back up to where mine was, not a tiny hint of shyness etched in their gleaming pools of dark brown. "Anyway, Bruce has told me---"

"That Daniel was just about to go home. Right, Daniel?" he gave me a look that I knew Richie could see.

"Oh, come on, Bruce! Don't be such a kill joy. We just met!" he explained, "Give us more 'Girl Time' to explore each other's . . . each other." he then chuckled at Bruce, who seemed to have choked on his own saliva. "Though, I wish Daniel would just talk more. . ." he smiled cheekily at me.

That woke me up. "Oh, shit!" I apologized. "It's just that . . . I forgot that you were transferring here in Irvine this year." was my lame excuse.

He laughed at that. Not mockingly or sarcastically, but pure, genuine laughter. Which made lines appear between my eyebrows. "Oh God, I forgot how un-liberal most high schools are here in California." he sighed with a dismissive gesture of his hand, "Back in New York, I can say what I wanna say, do what I wanna do, and be who I wanna be without the fear of someone punching the shit out of me! Come on, Daniel . . . I know that that's not the reason why you were gaping at me . . . am I right?"

"I . . . uh . . ." I chuckled nervously. Was I that obvious? "It's just . . . Oh, never mind. It's not important."

He laughed harder, "It's okay, Daniel. Just say it."

The sincerity in his eyes, despite their glimmer of someone greatly entertained, gave me the push to open my mouth and let my vocal cords work their ways.

"Richard---er, Richie---are you . . . are you gay?" I said without looking at Bruce, who I know was gaping at my nerve.

"Well, of course, I'm gay!" Richie said instantly, indignantly, again, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He chuckled, "What gave you the impression that I wasn't?"

"Oh." was all that I said. This has to be the most awkward situation that I have ever had. Richard---Richie---has to be the very first 'openly gay' gay guy that I have ever met. He was as gay as any gay guy could be. He just left me speechless as shit.

I went home that day with Richard's number---to which he himself suggested I SHOULD take. It was now safely logged on my phonebook, much to Bruce's amusement.

Though before he could follow Richard, I pulled him close to whisper in his ear, "We are so not finished talking, Brucey." I hissed.

Stunned, I left him by the pool.


I did a double take---opening my mouth then closing it again. My mouth seemed to begrudge me of words once again.

Why does he have to be so . . . Urgh!

I followed my annoying cousin to the parking lot where a deep-blue SUV and a silver convertible sat alone. Richard's lucky he's old enough to have a car. Oh, how I long to be eighteen!

"I like him!" he said as he was strapping himself into his seatbelt. He started the convertible and drove us out of the school grounds. "He's a keeper."

"Oh, shut up, Ricky!" I grumbled. "Besides, who are you to talk about 'Keepers.' You don't even have a love life."

"I told you not to call me that!" Richie sputtered. "My name's Richie! R-I-C-H-I-E! Richie! And I would just pretend that you haven't said what you just said."

"Whatever." I looked out of my window and contented myself with the passing night life. As we drove for the freeway, 'Richie' turned the radio on to his favorite channel. Unfortunately, it was playing a Pussycat Dolls song. He immediately sang along. Thank God he wasn't off key!

#Because I don't want to stay another minute#

#I don't want you to say a single word#

#Hush hush#

#Hush hush#

#There ain't no other way I'd get the final say#

"Urgh. Hate that group." I muttered. I don't know if he heard me above the music, but he continued singing, anyway. So, I turned to him and asked him if Uncle Will was already home.

"Nah, I don't think so." he said. "You saw my father's SUV in the parking lot, right?"

"So?" I looked at him, trying to see his point.

"So, he's deliberately running late tonight because your uncle's still out. He's picking him up, wherever he is right now." he said. "It seems we're in charge of dinner."

"Hmm." I dismissed the topic. "Let's just order pizza, alright, RICKY?"

He stuck his tongue out at me.


". . .all of those things." he explained. "Think about it, Daniel. He was just doing what he thinks was right. And, I think, this time, he was."

I lay on my bed thinking about the phone call that I have just received. Earlier that night, while I was doing some Geometry assignment, someone who's completely reliable reached me through the house's phone and told me all about what really happened on the field. Now, it's given me new things to think of. New facts to reconsider.

FUCK! I hate how much of a mess my life is right now!

Why can't I have a normal high school life like any other normal teenager?


*End of Chapter 12*

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I would just like to thank everyone who reads and appreciates the stories of this eighteen-year-old guy. I really am glad that I can share to you the thoughts that I can't seem to share with my family and friends. Though, I can't promise you more SEX in the up and coming chapters, I really hope you'd still continue keeping up with Daniel Mockins' life story---for every chapter holds certain facts and events that would eventually shape the whole novel. I still am in the process of plotting and re-plotting the plot, so, I hope you'd have the patience to wait for more. And, yeah, it's the holidays, so, everybody's busy. Even me. Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year! - XOXO Nerdy Jock

P.S. Who's glad 12/21/12 never happened? HAHA :D I know I am!


Nerdy Jock

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