twenty-something

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Three: "Something"

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The phone was ringing for the fourth consecutive time that morning. Neither Rich nor I made any attempt to get out of bed to answer the call, exercising our neatly honed ability to ignore alarm clocks, noisy suite mates, and annoyingly forgetful individuals who regularly left behind their Zoology book and then screamed up to their fourth floor roommate to toss it down.

The voice mail picked up the call after the fifth ring and I rolled over, wrapping up in my blankets. Soon, Rich began to snore again and I drifted back to the dream that had been so rudely interrupted by the phone.

Then the knocking started. Loud, insistent, it wasn't easily ignored, like the ringing.

"Answer it," Rich mumbled from the top bunk.

I put my pillow over my head.

"Answer it," he repeated, this time louder, angrier, but, thanks to the pillow, muffled.

The knocking finally stopped, but before I could go back to the man of my dreams, the talking began.

"Excuse me," I heard a familiar female voice say loudly on the other end of the door. "Is this Sam North's room?"

I groaned aloud. It was my mother.

I leapt out of bed and threw on a pair of boxer shorts that lay on the floor. I scoured for something more substantial to wear, but my drawers were inexplicably empty and it was too early to recall what had happened to my clothes the night before. I tripped over a box and realized, as my memory of the previous night returned, that all of my stuff was packed up. I recalled drinking myself to sleep, finally winning the battle against insomnia, and I remembered that this was the first morning in weeks that I'd woken up alone.

I could hear my mom still talking on the other end of the door, so I opened it.

She stood, disapprovingly. "You're not awake yet?" It seemed like she should be giving me a disappointed, motherly head shaking. But instead, she just stared, mortified, as if she could see my head pounding from the killer ache contained within my melon, or she could tell the room was spinning like a psychotic fair ride, and at any moment I might toss my cookies -- or whatever I ate the night before in my drunken stupor.

When you're a college freshman, the last person you want to see when you're hung over is your mother. And my mother -- I hadn't seen her in the three months since Spring Break, and she was outside my door, bright and early at 9 a.m., ready to pack the family SUV for the dreadfully long four-hour ride back home. Considering I hadn't gone to bed until five o'clock, and had been drinking up to that point, I wasn't sure if I was actually hung over, or still buzzed.

I'm sure that my mom wasn't too pleased to see the state I was in that morning: disoriented and half-naked in a pair of rumpled (and probably dirty) boxer shorts. I could tell from the look of horror in her eyes that she was now convinced that all her fears about college had come true. The sad fact was, she was probably right.

"Mom, I'll be right back."

At the top of the hill, I faced him. And he looked like hell. I'd never seen Duncan cry before, but I imagine he must've been sobbing earlier. To be honest, it sort of scared me. His eyes were puffy, and it reminded me of the time we got high together.

Neither of us made a move to speak. But suddenly, he swung at me, his fist flying towards my face. Luckily, my lightning-fast sissy instincts kicked in and I managed to duck just in time. It obviously wasn't meant to connect.

"Hello? When did we arrive in a Lifetime movie? My Boyfriend, My—"

"Shut up, comedian. I could've hit you if I wanted."

He was right. And so I shut up.

"You're an asshole. You know that, right?" Duncan asked.

"I had my suspicions, but your face right now pretty much proves it. God, I need a drink."

"Oh, that'll help. That'll make everything –"

"Look," I snapped, "I don't need this right now, Adam. Save it."

He looked up at me, hurt in his big brown puppy dog eyes. We'd fought before, little spats in our five months together, but nothing like this. This was it.

He made me melt. "Adam, I'm sor–"

"I hate you."

"Hello? Not sorry anymore."

"Shut up. I hate you."

"You shut up. You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. I hate you."

"Stop saying that! You're making this hard."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm being inconsiderate. My boyfriend told me just yesterday that he's leaving me. I'm a little out of it."

"Stop. Stop it, you drama queen." For his part, he looked like he'd been slapped across the face. For a semi-closeted jocky frat boy boyfriend, anything remotely queen-y is the most offensive insult you can throw out there.

"I'm not leaving you, or because of you, or forever. I can't be here right now, and you know that."

I looked at him, straight in the eyes, and I launched into my monologue, the one I'd written and practiced in my head countless times every night for the past two weeks. "Listen. Listen to me. I care about you so much. You are so smart and sexy and funny and beautiful. You're so butch and buff. You've got great taste in music and in clothes. You will always be my baseball god. You make me say corny things, you ass. It breaks my heart not knowing when I'll see you next or if we'll ever be together again. But this really is about me, not you. I'm fucked up, Adam. This is my shit. I don't know who I am or where I'm going -- and I gotta find out."

And with that, he kissed me.

Tell me to come back, tell me to come back, tell me to come back.

And the kiss continued.

Just say it!

And then, he pulled away.

"I love you too," Adam said.

No! Not that!

I looked over his shoulder, through the trees, down the hill. My mother waited in the car below. Honk, you impatient bitch. Honk!

"I gotta..."

He smiled a smile of acceptance and contentment. And I hated him for being so well adjusted. "I know."

"Have a good..."

"Yeah. You too. And good luck, with everything." His grin seemed smug, even though I knew it wasn't. I'd made this man fall in love with me and now I was leaving, and he was smiling. He said the words. He had the power. "I love--"

This time I kissed him, hard and deep, kissed him good-bye.

"Bye, Adam."

And as I quickly bounded down the hill, my foot got caught -- on a stump, root, or rock -- and I tripped, tumbling a bit down the small hill. I had been up and down that hill a thousand times, in day and night, snow and rain, drunk and sober, with no problems before. It wouldn't have been so bad except for my landing. I fell into something, an early May spring goop, some mix of dirt, mud, and long-dead leaves. It splattered over my shirt and shorts, over my bare legs. My hand sank in it, the stuff oozing between my fingers. I was a mess.

I looked up at Duncan who, arms crossed, chuckled a bit at me. And then I looked down at my mom, arms folded, who leaned against the SUV, shaking her head.

I stood up, dusted myself off the best I could, and headed towards the car. It was going to be a long trip home.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Two: "The Dress Sock"

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"Oh," I fumed. I was pissed, pacing around Allison's room, Bud Light in hand. "All he said was, 'oh.' I tell him I'm leaving, and all he says is 'oh'? Who says 'oh'?"

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. A simple 'don't go' would've been nice."

"Passive-aggressive shit like that never works. Besides, what would you have done if he'd said to stay? You still would have run."

"No. I wouldn't—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, I took a long, deliberate sip of the brew in my hand. It was cold, delicious -- and finally starting to affect my brain. "I'm not running."

"So is that why you're leaving, then? Him?"

"No. I don't even know what I'm doing any more. God."

"But he's not enough to keep you here."

"Allison, it's not about him. You know that. I... I care about him. A lot."

With a laugh I hadn't heard her use before, she said, "Well, super for you, Mr. Care Bear. You sure do like your boyfriend a lot. Ex-boyfriend, I should say."

"Whose side are you on, anyway? And he's not officially my ex, yet."

She stood up from her bed and glared at me. This was enough to halt my pacing and we stood, face to face.

"'I'm leaving for good. I need time. I don't know what I want.' You broke his heart because what he heard was, 'I'm leaving you. I don't know if I want you.'"

Shrugging off the confrontation, I finished my beer and grabbed another round from the mini-fridge for the both of us. "What do you care about Duncan? You never were crazy about me and him together anyway."

"And apparently neither were you."

I handed her a Bud. "Ally, this isn't about me and Duncan, is it?"

"Why are you changing the subject?"

"This is about you and me."

"You leaving your boyfriend has nothing to do with me." Now she started pacing.

"But I'm not just leaving him."

"What about him isn't good enough?"

"I'm leaving Rhode Island."

"Not cute enough?"

"Leaving URI."

"Not enough of a baseball superstar?"

"Leaving Hopkins."

"Not good enough in bed?"

"Leaving the crew."

"Not the imaginary dream man you've pinned after for years?"

"Leaving you."

She stopped her pacing, and we finally looked at each other, finally listened.

Her face was flushed. I'd never really seen her like this. And she wasn't even drunk yet. "The fact that you can't love another human being has nothing to do with me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you that incapable of love?"

"Incapable? That's a very harsh word."

"Truth hurts."

Oh, we were in a fight now. "It's not the truth."

"You said it yourself. You never loved Duncan. You've never loved anybody."

"I have and I do."

"Who?"

It was a no-brainer. I quickly said: "You."

"Then say it."

"What?"

"That you love me, asshole."

"I do."

"Say it."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Say it!"

I looked at her for a moment. Angry. "No."

"No?"

"It's silly. You know I do."

"I told you so."

I sighed.

"You sure like to play the part of Mr. Sensitive, Mr. Gay Best Friend, Sam," she said, "but you are such a typical male. Those three words terrify you."

"I am not incapable, not afraid of love. I'm not typical. I'm normal."

"Prove it."

"I'm going to say it somebody. This summer. I am going to fall in love and say it before school starts."

"What a heartfelt vow. When August 31 rolls around, you'll be searching from the first schmuck you can find to whisper sweet nothings to. But they'll be nothing. Anybody can say I love you. Can you mean it?"

I stared at her for a long while. Then I finished my beer and threw the can away.

"Yes," I said and I left the room.

We soon found ourselves in Carly's forth-floor RA room. And we soon found ourselves on her balcony. Just Allison and me, in the pouring rain. And we screamed at the top of our lungs. We stayed out there until we were soaking wet and our voices died. When we came in, we were so cold, and our throats burned, but we were cleansed.

Everybody thought we were crazy. We couldn't stop laughing, but no one else got it. We understood. Would this be our last inside joke together? In that moment, I think we both realized what exactly we were leaving behind.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section Three: "Caught"

« Previous (2.2: The Allison and Sam Variety Hour) | Next (2.4: What a Heartfelt Vow) »

The knock on the door was loud, insistent, and it surprised Allison and I so much we both jumped. We looked at each other with fear, knowing that this was not good. The knock was sinister, ominous, and both of us assumed it signaled the arrival of an RA or a cop to bust us, yet again, for underage drinking in the dorms. Though it was my last night there and I had nothing to loose, my guilty instinct -- a holdover from my first days experimenting with alcohol in middle school -- still took over in times like this.

We quietly, carefully, hid our Corona bottles (we'd moved past cider by then), careful not to clink them. There was another knock, louder, angrier. I glared at the door.

"It's your room," she whispered, motioning towards the door. "Answer it."

It was Duncan. And the instant I saw him, I wished that he were a cop, reading me my rights. He had a paper bag in one arm and a scowl across his face.

He knew. I could tell he knew.

I welcomed him in and, after he and Ally shared polite greetings, we all stayed in a long moment of extreme awkwardness. Here was my frat-boy-friend, my journalist girlfriend, and there was me, the coward who was leaving in the morning. I didn't know exactly what to say to anybody, but it seemed I should say something. I stewed in the silence -- well, silence except for the MP3 rotation on the computer -- contemplating that very difficult moment.

Before I could even try to speak, Rich arrived with Carly, both all smiles and afterglow.

Carly said, "Duncy, baby, you made it to the celebration!"

"Celebration?" he asked, knowingly. "Celebration of what?"

"Sammy's last night in town!"

"No, I just was dropping off some stuff," he said coldly, pointing to the paper bag he'd placed on my cluttered desk. "I have to get to study hall."

He took off for the door and I moved to go after him. "Duncan, wait –" But he was gone.

So he left in a huff, and I was left standing, with my two best girlfriends and roommate, to observe the pieces.

"Did we just break up? Was that it?"

Nobody made an attempt to answer.

"I hope not. You're in love with him," Carly observed. She was the optimistic, pseudo-hippie chick. Sometimes I wanted to strangle her for her earnestness.

"I am not."

Allison emerged from her silence on my bed. "Sure, you say that now, but you were totally obsessed with him not two months ago."

"Obsession is completely different that love. I like Duncan. I'm infatuated with him. Maybe I was even obsessed at one point. But I'm not in love with him."

"That's gloomy," Allison deadpanned. "But maybe you're right."

"You're getting better at admitting you're wrong, Ally. Must be all the practice I've given you this year."

I smiled. She hit me square in the face with a pillow.

"Ok, so you have this perfect boyfriend?" Rich pondered. "And you like him. But you're just going to leave things like that?"

Up until that moment, it all made perfect sense to me. Sure, I felt guilty, I was torn up inside, but I never once thought that maybe I was being stupid, that I was making the wrong choice. I never once questioned my decision, or my actions. Yet the calm words of Rich, the roommate who never seemed to notice or care about any of the details of my life, made me realize just how foolish I was being.

"Go after him," he instructed. "Before you regret it."

And so I did. I went after Duncan. In my head, it should've been the epic, climatic moment of the story, where our hero finally finds the folly of his ways and, with the sweeping score swelling in the background, runs after his true love, stopping them moments before they'd get on a train or plane and leave his life forever. I had to find him, before it was too late! -- even though I had no idea what I'd say or do when I did.

That reality set in quickly. I had barely stepped out of my building before I literally bumped into him. I found him outside of Hopkins, under the overhang by the main door. It had started pouring out and he was pacing, puffing on a cigarette.

Suddenly, the sweeping music died, as did the urgency of the moment. I forgot all the things I might've said.

"You're smoking?"

"I'm entitled."

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Guess we both have secrets." He was trying to be all badass, but it wasn't working. "You're allergic, aren't you?" he asked as he threw the butt to the ground and stomped it out. "I'm sorry. You know I never smoke. There was just a guy out here... and the moment... and I thought one wouldn't hurt."

He was kind of cute when he babbled, though he rarely did. It was characteristic of me. I guess we were at the point in our relationship where we'd adopted each other's characteristics. We were also at the point where I couldn't hide things from him anymore. He deserved to know the truth.

And so I sat on the cold, wet stone bench and he followed suit. We didn't face each other. He just waited for me.

"I'm sorry, Duncan."

That was all I could offer in that moment, and he knew me well enough to know that.

"You're really leaving in the morning. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Do you want to go for a walk, or a ride? To the beach maybe?"

"No."

"OK."

"When were you planning on telling me?"

"Two weeks ago. I just couldn't..."

"It's really not a big deal. You're leaving three days early. I'm sorry to be such a freak."

It was one of those moments where I felt I needed a cigarette, even though I'd never smoked. "Adam," I said. "It's not just that -- I'm not coming back next year."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm taking some time off."

"You're serious."

"Yeah."

"What? Why?"

"I need to. I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going... what I want."

"Oh."

"Come back with me. Hang out with us."

"I can't. I just..."

Those frigging eyes. Now I knew what all the fuss was about, all those songs.

"So this is –"

"Good-bye, Sam."

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section Two: "The Allison and Sam Variety Hour"

« Previous (2.1: Belongings) | Next (2.3: Caught) »

Allison Flannery is my Lois Lane. I never told her such, but in my mind, that is how I will always think of her. I'd heard a lot about Allison Flannery before I officially knew her. Preceded by her reputation, she was the big, bad sophomore Assistant News Editor for The Good Five Cent Cigar, URI's unfortunately named student newspaper. I was a lowly Freshman Journalism major, a cub sports reporter on the paper's staff, more Jimmy Olsen than Clark Kent.

I first met Allison on my second day on the staff of the Cigar, my fourth at URI. She walked in late, a little flustered, but ravishing. The blonde sat across from me at the staff meeting and I was instantly, homosexually smitten with this woman.

In staff meetings, we vaguely acknowledged that we lived in the same dorm, the same floor even, but never took things beyond the professional level. It was Columbus Day when we finally got over ourselves and got together. We were two of only a dozen people left in the hall over that long weekend. Most had taken the opportunity to go home or away for the first time all semester. There was a knock on my door around 11pm. I opened it to find her standing there, with my two favorite things in her hands.

"Do you like pizza and beer?" she asked with a grin.

I of course said yes and immediately invited her in. The pizza was pepperoni and black olives, and the beer was Cider Jack. Already, I knew the girl had taste. That night, we got drunk and watched Cary Grant's Arsenic & Old Lace together. We discovered that we had everything in common and, from that moment, became inseparable.

Our mutual love of old movies led to weekly trips to the video and liquor stores. Arsenic proved to be too slow for us, so we stuck to Hitchcock's old classics until we wore them out. After we rented Psycho, we both went out and bought clear shower curtains and chain locks for our bathroom doors. After The Birds, we visited a pet store and squawked at all the caged creatures. When we had watched all of Alfred's films at the campus video store, we decided to move onto more lightweight fare: Doris Day movies. The far and away best of all the movies was Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson. Ally, like Doris, was the bright and beautiful blonde and I, like Rock, was tall, dark, and, well, gay.

She said she'd known since the moment she saw my CD collection. No self-respecting straight guy would openly claim ownership to Natalie Merchant and Duncan Sheik CDs, she insisted. And yet the simple fact remained unsaid. My sexual orientation was always there out in the open -- I was out, potentially obvious -- but never stated. I never tried to "come out" to Allison, or Rich, or Carly, or any of my other friends at URI -- nor did any of them ask. I just lived my life, openly, but carefully, cautious not to explicitly let the cat out of the bag. Without a "very special episode" of Sam North's life, in which our hero gathers his friends and emotionally reveals, "Guys, I'm gay," they were left to ponder, speculate, and assume.

The stalemate continued for a few months. It was about two weeks before the end of the fall semester, right before the on-set of finals, and the gang gathered together for some late night drinking. Somehow, truth or dare came up, and somehow I ended up spilling my guts. I said the words they wanted to hear -- "Guys, I'm gay" -- and, with an audible gasp from Carly, all weight was lifted off our collective shoulders. Allison and I only became closer from there. I could finally be open about my crushes, and she could finally trust me as the gay best friend she'd always wanted.

I'd secretly wished that somebody would pick up on the gay guy-straight chick dynamic of us and dub us "Rock & Doris," "Will & Grace," or something equally moronic, but no one ever did. The closest we came to being truly campy was being called "The Allison and Sam Variety Hour" for one short week in February. To my dismay, the nickname didn't last.

We were close friends but the Object Of My Affection dynamic really never existed between us. On some level, I wanted to be in love with Allison, and I wanted her to be in love with me, on some level, in return. But that wasn't the case. We were just friends. Best friends.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section One: "Belongings"

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The room was silent and largely empty for the first time in many months. A more typical dorm room had never existed. The small, 10x12' box had a matching set of everything: two miniature windows; two beds, bunked; two desks; two dressers; two cramped closets; and two roommates. The beds had complimentary plaid flannel comforters. Laundry baskets overflowed with dirty clothes from the bottoms of the closets.

The ugly eggshell colored walls were covered with posters. I glared at Rich's -- of Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead, and that special black light one of Jim Morrison, which seems just as uncharacteristic of him now as when I first met him.

I looked up at my additions to the walls -- the rare Dave Matthews one I special ordered for college cred, the Scooby Doo I got as a going-away present, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer (what the hell was I thinking with that one?). I removed the sticky tac from the back of my new-ish Guster poster while roommate Rich sat on the floor nearby, attempting to unhook the room's makeshift entertainment center, tangled in a mess of wires.

This was not how I envisioned my final night at the University of Rhode Island. The walls were depressingly bare, although I had only taken down that one single poster so far. And almost everything seemed packed up into boxes, ready to be hauled away the next morning -- but in reality, nothing was ready to go. It was 7p.m. -- and not a drop of drink in sight. Already, Hopkins Hall was far too quiet, far too empty -- like we didn't live there anymore.

"Shit!" It came from Rich and was followed by a loud crash. In his fooling with the stereo wires, he had accidentally knocked over our carousel of CDs, spilling hundreds of discs across the floor. Without a word, I quickly joined him on the floor to pick up. We sorted through our joint music collection, separating mine from his, without much chatter, aside from the occasional question or verbal jab.

"Blue Rodeo -- that's yours."

"This is your God Street Wine, right?"

"Here's your Sarah McLachlan," he said with a snicker.

While we were sorting, the door must've quietly crept open as she slipped in unnoticed. She remained invisible until she exclaimed, "Oh, boys, what happened?"

We turned to find Allison in the doorway, a smiling, blonde vision in her infamous tight red GAP t-shirt (my favorite) and a pair of well-worn (or is that worn-well?) comfortable khakis. Both hands were behind her back and she had a mischievous grin on her face.

"Hubba hubba," I commented.

"Yeah, what he said," Rich added.

"Want some help?" she offered.

"You don't have to."

"I've spent all year cleaning up your messes. Why stop now?"

I stuck out my tongue as she came in the room and closed the door behind her.

"I brought some friends along, for old time's sake." And with that, she revealed the surprise hidden behind her: four beautiful, chilled bottles of Raspberry Cider Jack. I was sick of the stuff after the untold gallons we had consumed during that year. Our desks, dressers, and floors were stained with sticky, reddish-purple rings left behind from various celebrations, like dorm parties or Tuesdays. My taste buds cringed at the memory of the overly sweet taste, and my stomach cowered with similar thoughts. But this was our drink, Allison's and mine. And, like she said, this was for old time's sake. "Hope you don't mind."

"Baby, you're the greatest," I told her.

She passed out the brews and joined us on the floor. She held up the extra cider. "Where's Carly?"

"In her room. Packing," Rich answered quickly.

"This is no time for packing. Go get her."

"We have to be out of here by Friday. It's the perfect time for packing."

"It's Tuesday! And it's Sammy's last night in town. There is no way she's wasting it up in her room!"

Rich, convinced, got up to leave. "I'll see if I can talk her into coming down."

"Tell her I miss her already," I said.

"And don't be too long. I know you two."

Rich left, smiling.

"Well, he's gone for at least two hours. They've got to practice saying good-bye some more."

"They're both here until Friday."

"Sick, isn't it?" I joked. "I get his beer."

"Bitch."

● ● ● ● ● ●

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Six: "Perfect Gentlemen"

« Previous (1.5: Curdled) | Next (2.1: Belongings) »

Many of the best memories of my relationship with Duncan took place in bed. I suppose that's one of the pitfalls -- or advantages, depending on your perspective -- of dating a closeted baseball-playing frat boy. Plenty of alone time, secluded behind closed doors, snuggled up in bed.

He slept over in my room, on my futon, with me about two weeks after our first date. Being perfect gentlemen, we both wore pajama pants and matching white tee-shirts, but our carnal desires got the best of our good intentions. We lost the pajama pants and went to second base. (Though I'm not entirely sure of which base is which in things of that nature, Duncan assured me that's where we were, and since he was a baseball player, I believed him.)

We lay together, talking. We talked about many things, little things, and Duncan recalled a funny anecdote about his father that had both of us in stitches. I don't remember the story he told at all, so I can't recount it here. I also can't remember if I genuinely found it funny, or if I was just being polite. Regardless, there was a story, and some laughing, and when it stopped, Duncan breached the subject that I'd desperately tried to avoid.

"What's your dad like?" he asked.

Admittedly, I'm a freak when it comes to my dad. I don't like to talk about him much at all, even in proper company. But nearly naked, post-heavy make-out/petting session with my new boyfriend was not the time or place for this discussion.

I stiffened up, but my grip around Duncan probably loosened. "My dad. He... died," I confessed.

Duncan rolled over to face me. My arms loosely draped on him.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't..."

I managed a weak smile, more of grimace, to show him that I was all right. "It's OK. It's been a while now." Dunc placed his hand on my chest and slowly brushed his fingertips over the light blanket of hair. "I was fifteen. Henry, my brother, was eight."

I paused.

"There was... a fire." I instantly felt regret.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I'm good. Really." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Just hug me," I murmured.

And he did. We hugged and held each other for a long while. I had nearly drifted off to sleep when Duncan spoke again.

"So... remember when I said that thing... um, to thank your dad for certain, um, 'genetic endowments'? I didn't mean to be offensive."

I pulled back and looked at him, puzzled, for a moment. Then I cracked up. He followed suit.

It was a Thursday in March, maybe two or three weeks after our first sleepover. My roommate Rich was at a party with girlfriend Carly, and thusly Duncan and I again had my room to ourselves. He ditched his fraternal obligations and I gave Allison the night off. We claimed we were going to watch a DVD, but we weren't even past the opening credits before I jumped him.

We made out for a good hour, rolling around on my tiny dorm bed in only our boxer shorts. And then, without warning, Duncan broke our kiss. Lying atop me, he looked into my eyes. That look. I could tell what was on his mind.

He started kissing me again and I knew I had to stop it. "Duncan," I moaned. "Adam. Stop." I tried to be firm, using his first name to stress my point. I pushed him away weakly and he stopped his kissing. His bare chest pressed hot against mine.

"Sam, I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

Oh, how I wanted him to fuck me.

"I can't have sex with you."

And I wanted to fuck him, too.

"Who said anything about sex?"

"But I thought that you wanted—"

"Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. But –"

"I'm a virgin," I blurted out. As soon as I said the word, I felt pathetic, like the good little Catholic girls I dated in high school. There I was, an eighteen-year-old gay virgin, out since the age of sixteen and intentionally uneducated in the school of male-to-male love. Was I the only such creature to ever willingly exist? In bed with a sexy, smoldering stud, who drove me completely crazy, who I wanted to do things to that I'd only seen in Falcon porn movies, I began to wonder just what I was holding onto my virginity for.

"Yeah?" Duncan replied, breathlessly. He looked right at me, expectant of some elaboration.

"I mean, I've done some stuff with guys before. Made out, fooled around some. But no sex."

"That's OK," he said. He started kissing my neck, driving me crazy. "You're not ready for all that." More kissing. "And neither am I." And for his part, he seemed genuine.

"Really? Are you a...?"

"No," he said sheepishly. "Wish I was."

"It doesn't matter."

"I know. But when we -- it's going to be special. It's going to be different from the other guy. It's going to be love."

I suddenly remembered what I was holding onto that pesky virginity for. But was it what I was waiting for -- or afraid of?

Things calmed considerably between us just then and we settled into a soft, snuggly sleep in my tiny twin dorm bed.

That was the one time that word came up between us. We never made it past second base, never did have sex. Never said "I love you" either. I cared about him a lot and I knew I was falling into something. But love? No. Never love.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Five: "Curdled"

« Previous (1.4: I Know a Place) | Next (1.6: Perfect Gentlemen) »

Allison and I cheered along with the crowd as my boyfriend, the third baseman, tagged out the runner, scoring the third out. At least I think that's what happened. I've never been into baseball that much, and I was starting to feel buzzed.

I took another sip of the Kaluha-and-milk in my travel mug and nearly gagged. We'd recently discovered the drink earlier after ransacking my roommate's liquor stash and fell in love with its sweet taste. Without much thought to the weather, we headed off to the game with two mugs full of the stuff.

It was a hot May day, and that was a bad idea.

With a gurgle in my tummy, I turned to Allison and, over the dull roar of the other spectators, revealed, "I haven't told Duncan yet."

She turned to me and slapped my arm, twice, hard. "Sam Spencer!" I deserved it, and worse.

"Yeah, I know. I'm the devil."

She moved herself tight next to me on the bench and put one arm around me. "Look at him, Sammy," she said, pointing as Duncan waited on deck. He saw her, and us, so she waved and he gave a little smirk out of the side of his mouth. "He looks really good in that outfit. And he looks really happy."

"I know."

She hit me again. Harder. "And you leave in the morning!"

I rubbed my arm. "Gee, I almost forgot."

"I don't know about your memory, but there's something obviously wrong with your brain if you're leaving school forever and you haven't told your boyfriend."

We both became aware that some of the sports fans surrounding us were giving looks. "Stop saying forever," I whispered. "It's not forever. Just... for now." And with that a pause set in, a pause that became a silence, which became uncomfortable. I could stand it no longer. "Well, it's done now."

"You did it?"

"Withdrawl? Yeah. I stopped by that office after I left his place."

"We're officially college drop-outs, eh?" She pulled a familiar-looking yellow carbon copy out of her back pocket. "Nice souvenir. Although I wish it was orange." We had done it, fulfilling our late night vow to both "take time off" from school and find our true paths. Neither of us seemed as excited about this as I suspect we thought we should have been. Withdrawing seemed much less glamorous while drinking warm milk-based mixed drinks in the half-empty stands of a college baseball game.

Duncan was on base now. I had been so caught up with Allison that I didn't even notice him at bat.

"I meant to tell him. I did." I took another sip from my mug and then spit it back in. "I think my milk's curdled."

Allison rubbed her stomach and groaned. "Oh, thank God. I thought it was just me."

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Four: "I Know a Place"

« Previous (1.3: Perks) | Next (1.5: Curdled) »

In my mind at least, the flirtation continued for about two weeks after our "meeting." He'd always sit "next to me" and we'd always nod vauge acknowledgements. Later I'd always sneak glimpses of him during the lecture. But we never talked. I started noticing him in the dining hall and spotting him around campus. I stole his name from the class sign-in sheet and, unable to read his first, took to calling him by his last: Duncan.

Duncan's fashion sense had regressed a bit since my first sighting. Gone were the wool sweaters and white dress shirts. He'd taken to wearing beat-up jeans or cargos, long-sleeve tee-shirts, and sneakers most days -- a look which he pulled off well. At that point in the infatuation, he could've worn almost anything (or nothing, really) and I would've been pleased.

One Friday he removed his puffy North Face jacket to reveal a garish, gray sweatshirt emblazon with three Greek letters. I cringed.

I was having a mental relationship with a jock and a frat boy.

I'd spent enough idle time on the Internet to know that frat scenes were hot. And I had my share of frat boy fantasies -- but the man of my dreams? I was treading into dangerous territory here and I --

"Hey man."

It startled me back to reality, as I realized I was still staring at his chest and the letters on it. It was Duncan who'd said it, but I looked up to find that he wasn't talking to me. He was addressing another jock, a somewhat handsome, non-descript athlete who sat in the row behind us (on the rare occasions he made it to class). By this time, I had deduced that my guy was a baseball player, and his friend was on the football team.

I immediately snapped my head forward and just stared at the front of the lecture hall, for the first time wishing that Dr. Hagerman would start class on time. Caught again -- well, sorta.

Though I faced front, my ears tuned into the conversation. Boring jock chit-chat. After Duncan asked nonchalantly about his girl, Non-Descript (the football player) droned on about Nicky (or perhaps it was Nickie or, worse, Nikki).

"She's still a bitch, but I love her," Non-Descript repeated, ad nasuem, with small variations. I pictured a nasty brunette with attitude, from New Jersey, with a blue convertible of some sort, and a membership in some brainless sorority, the epitome of the URI girl I detested, if only out of jealousy.

Duncan remained silent during his friend's monologue, which disappointed me (he wasn't talking, ergo I couldn't hear his voice) yet gave me hope (there was no mention of a "bitch" of his own).

As Non-Descript was about to delve into the details of the hoops Nicky/Nickie/Nikki was making him jump through to make up for a drunken incident, Hagerman thankfully entered the lecture hall to save both Duncan and I from his drone. Five minutes late as usual, the joyless professor instructed the class to take our seats and listen up as she began her latest tangential tirade against the school's administration.

Non-Descript concluded his rant and Duncan, as he moved to face front, offered his friend an invitation.

"There's a party at the house tonight," he revealed.

He said it loud enough that I would've heard even if I wasn't eavesdropping, so I justifiably turned my head back toward the boys, finding a slightly different scene. Non-Descript was now back in his seat, rummaging through his backpack, and if he was listening, he gave no indication. And Dunc, facing front, had his head cocked slightly to his left.

He darted his eyes to meet mine. "You should come."

I blinked a couple times as I realized what was going on, and then the eye contact was gone.

"Thanks, man," Non-Descript muttered.

Duncan watched the front as I attempted to inconspicuously study his face. It was expressionless, offering no clues to whether what I thought had just happened really did. Finding nothing, I stared at his chest one more time, committing those letters to memory. I joined his gaze on the professor and kept it for most of the class, except for a few more stolen, fruitless glances at him.

That night I dragged my reluctant best friend Allison out to the party with me. It was our first official function as gay man and wife, as I had only officially come out to her at the end of the fall semester. Before that, she was often -- well, always -- my platonic date to parties like this one. This was the first time I had purposefully sought her out as my "beard." With such a beautiful blonde girl at my side, I was likely to slink around the frat party with ease, pretending to be one of them, effectively camouflaging myself amongst the breeders in the frat house, that averagely-handsome straight guy from my psych class with the pretty girlfriend. Hopefully the whole charade could score some cool points with my crush.

When I spotted him across the drink line, I got giddy. I tried not to act too gay in such a hetero-male environment, but in that moment I blew my cover and wasted my beautiful blonde façade. I just couldn't contain my excitement as I pointed him out to Ally.

"There he is. There's Duncan."

"Him?" she asked, incredulously.

"Don't tell me you don't think he's cute."

"Sam," she laughed. "That's Adam Duncan."

"So?"

"He's from Melrose. He graduated a year before me."

"No way." I smiled. "So what's his deal?"

"Sammy." She rested her hand on my shoulder. "I sorta dated him in high school."

In Allison's retelling of the night, I actually dropped my red plastic cup of nasty-ass frat-keg beer. I have no memory of that particular incident. I do recall being shocked by the revelation, feeling betrayed by my best friend. The irrational thought crossed my mind to toss the beer into Ally's face and storm off, throwing in a "You Bitch!" for good measure. But I contained it all, managed to control myself.

Still, I was shocked, disappointed. My mental relationship with the jock and frat boy was suddenly over, and it was because of my best friend. How could I not be devastated?

"Well?" I finally managed.

"Well what?"

I took a moment to take in my surroundings, the impossibility of my little situation. And, even though I knew she wouldn't have an answer, and if she did, I wouldn't like it, I asked anyway.

"Is he...?"

She chuckled a little bit. "Oh, I don't know."

I grilled her for details on our ex. Turns out she and Adam dated for almost exactly a month around prom time -- his senior year, her junior -- after he asked her to the dance. I knew she was a respectably popular girl in high school -- a basketball player and occasional student council member -- and I learned that Duncan was quite similar to his current persona.

Most of their dates consisted of prom preparation, although they did go out to the movies once, and spent some time together, both at school and outside of it, getting to know each other. The big night came and went, and apparently Adam was a perfect gentleman. They had a respectable time and went to a killer keg party afterwards. That night, like the rest of their brief romance, Adam didn't try to get in her pants and offered kisses only sparingly. He brought her home a good half-hour before her curfew and Allison knew that was the end of it. They were friendly to each other -- even went on another movie date -- but Adam was always busy with baseball or graduation.

My mind immediately speculated on the meaning of all this -- that two attractive high schoolers had not mated on prom night -- and I began to wonder if my Duncan had used my Allison the same way I was using her now, years before I had met her. Was she his cover? It was the first time Ally had ever considered the possibility. And it was the first moment I had ever truly thought that Duncan could be anything other than a straight, unattainable crush.

"That's it?"

"That's it." (I would find out later, however, that'd she'd held back key details about his kiss and how he looked in a tux.)

"Hmph," I said, just as its spelt, and let the topic die verbally, although Duncan remained at the back of my obsessive little mind the entire night, even as alcohol started to affect it.

Hours and beers later, drunk and desperate, I begged Allison to introduce me to her high school boyfriend. She was resistant, but eventually caved, of course, but I really don't think it was out of a desire to please me. I think she was just curious to see what would happen, if her high school prom date could be a homo, and if her gay boyfriend could make it further with him than she did.

We spotted him again, and she moved in for the kill.

"Hey stranger," she shouted over the beer line and loud music. They stood face-to-face, a little too close for my liking, and began their exchange. I loomed on the perimeter of their connection, an outsider looking in.

"Allison, hey." It wasn't the first time I heard his voice, but it might as well have been; its soft, deep timbre, even over the roar of the party, resonated.

I gazed upon the scene in jealousy as he offered Allison a hug and she accepted (a little too gladly for my taste). His strong arms wrapped around her, and he patted her back with the hand not holding a red plastic beer cup. Her breasts mashed against his broad chest and I noted, perhaps for the first time, that Allison had a great rack. As the hug lingered, I realized how much a straight, unattainable frat boy would love to have a rack like that to call his own.

They're going to get back together, I thought. I'm a re-matchmaker.

"How the hell are you?" he asked.

"Not much," she said without much thought. "You?"

"Not bad. God, I never see you any more. We should get together sometime."

I couldn't tell if it was one of those meaningless comments that you throwaway to long-ago acquaintances, of if he meant it, but I wasn't taking any chances. If Allison and Adam Duncan were to reunite, it wouldn't be without a fight from me. She had dibs on him from high school, but college was a whole new ballgame.

At that moment, I acted like someone knocked into me from behind, pushing me into Allison, breaking her exclusive little bond with Duncan. Don't judge -- if you had the balls, you would've done the same.

"Oh, sorry," I said to no one in particular. "So crowded."

I had not-so-seamlessly joined them. I quickly eyed him and admired his choice of attire for the party: a brilliant blue polo over a long-sleeve white tee-shirt, along with a pair of worn-out jeans that hugged his hips. Outside of class, this was the closest I had ever been to him -- and he didn't seem to be reacting to my presence at all. His face was expressionless, just as it was in class, giving no indication that he recognized me. Allison gave me a pitying look for interrupting. The three of us stood there, not talking, in a close, awkward triangle in the basement of his frat house. And I realized that nothing was going according to my fantasy.

He had invited me to this party, hadn't he? That look, those eyes -- it hadn't been all in my head. Had it? I realized, with some panic, that I was completely out of place. Duncan wouldn't know that I was friends with Allison, his high school girlfriend. And I, the gay boy from his psych class, certainly didn't know him well enough to join their conversation. I was just some freaky stranger interrupting their little chat.

Then it dawned on me. His non-reaction to my presence -- he gazed around the room, looking in every direction but mine, as he took tentative sips of whatever brew his cup contained -- was his uncontrollable reaction. His refusal to acknowledge me, to even look at me, was more suspicious than anything. He had invited me to the party, and he was terrified.

I cocked my eyebrow a little at Ally and pointed my gaze at the fratboy. Thankfully she took the hint as, thankfully, Duncan still refused to look at me.

"Adam Duncan," Allison presented, mocking me a little. He looked right at her. "This is my friend Sam."

He spun his gaze upon me and offered a nervous grimace. "You're in my psych class, right?" It was a fake gesture of sudden recognition, but it was a gesture nonetheless, so I nodded. He quickly extended a hand, which I gladly accepted. I admired his firm, albeit shaky, handshake. "Nice to meet you, Sam."

I took a moment to ponder my name, spoken in his voice. Sadly, it contained no syllables that could be enhanced -- or murdered -- by his slight accent, but still, I liked the sound. He broke our handshake, but not our gaze. He looked expectantly at me, with some combination of confusion, excitement, and fear, I supposed, and I suppose that the look I returned was a reflection of his. How had I really expected this moment to play out, our first official meeting? That he'd see me across a sea of faces and call out to me, proudly greeting his friend from class? That he'd find me in a dark corner and confess to me his deepest secrets? That he'd ask me out on a date, or at least up to his room?

"You too," I finally replied, a few moments too late. The silence had lingered too long. "Nice to meet you, I mean." And now, officially, I was a freak. My bumbling wasn't cute, like some love struck lead in a movie starring Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts; it was just embarrassing and truly pathetic. I quickly downed whatever was left in my red cup and then raised it slightly, for their acknowledgement, pretending to be drunker than I actually was.

"Oh, great," Allison sighed loudly, staring off into some dark part of the room at something neither Duncan or I could see. "I've got to go check on Lindsay."

"Lindsay?" I questioned. She was Ally's roommate, who had stayed in that night, drinking wine alone in the dorm, listening to Sarah McLachlan with only the Christmas lights illuminating their double room. Sure, Linds was stuck in a depressing scene, but there was no need to check on her. I knew that Ally was reluctant to return to her room at all that night.

"My roommate," she told Duncan. Then to both of us: "I just saw her over there. With some sketchy guy." My eyebrows crinkled with confusion, and then went up with revelation. This was a part of the plan we hadn't discussed. She was going to leave me alone with the fratboy. "She looked pretty tanked and probably needs to go home."

"If you want to stay," Duncan offered, "I can have one of the brothers –"

"No!" Ally protested. "No thanks. I have to get up early-ish tomorrow, anyway." She turned to me and, with a wink, instructed: "You stay here. You're good to get home, right?"

I nodded, sobering up from my exaggerated stupor.

"Adam, good to see you." She bid him adieu without any physical contact. "We'll get together soon," she promised. The good-bye barely caused a twinge of jealousy within me. She was off. And I was alone with Duncan.

I noticed that the basement suddenly seemed louder and more crowded, and I was closer to him than I realized. We both held our empty cups high, close to our chests, and, in Ally's absence, we drew nearer to each other, almost touching. I was surprised that he hadn't run off after her exit. But he stayed. And he even attempted small talk.

He mumbled something, completely inaudible over the atrocious hip-hop record the amateur DJ was spinning. The heavy bass beats made the floor tremble.

"What?" I shouted.

He repeated, in a slightly louder voice, what I thought was: "You know Allison."

"So do you," I answered matter-of-factly.

He leaned in closer and corrected me. "I said, How do you know Allison?"

"We both work for the paper. And she lives across the hall from me."

"Oh, cool." A moment later: "She and I went to--"

"I know. I mean, I didn't before tonight. Sorry if that was--"

"Is she your...?"

"She's my best friend."

"Great girl."

"That she is."

The lull returned, but he stayed. We both gazed around the room some, checking out the party, and then our eyes met again. He smiled nervous, knowing, and as the corners of his lips curled in acknowledgement of the awkward moment, my own mouth did the same. He was so damn cute and close to me that I didn't care where things went from there, as long as I could keep that moment in my mind forever. I looked into his eyes for really only the third time in the three weeks I'd been infatuated with him, for the first time allowed to. They told me all that I needed to know.

"Do you have any Guinness?" I asked, suddenly thirsty.

"Fresh out. But I need to go on a beer run, anyway."

"It's like 2a.m.. Nothing's open."

"I know a place." He looked down for a long, deliberate moment and then back up at me. Boldly, he blurted out, "Want to come?"

Within five minutes, we had wrestled our way out of the party and were reunited out in the cool night air on Fraternity Row. I'd forgotten my coat inside the house, but I dared not go back for it. I ignored the cold like I ignored my reservations. I didn't know this boy's intentions, and I didn't care.

We didn't really talk as we crossed the street and headed down the hill, through campus. I didn't mind the silence now that the sounds of the party faded behind us. We encountered random pockets of drunk people as we walked side-by-side to the mystery location, hands shoved in our pockets, breath steaming out in front of us -- but it was just Duncan and me. In my head, I practiced things to say to him on our trip, but ultimately I remained quiet, just like him. I let him lead the way.

"Bressler?" I questioned as we approached the destination. It was an upperclassmen dorm, not far from mine.

"This is the place. With the beer. My room."

So there we were.

"You made it tonight," he whispered. "I didn't know if you would."

"I did."

"I'm glad." And then he just went and blurted it out: "Come up?"

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Three: "Perks"

« Previous (1.2: The Dress Sock) | Next (1.4: I Know a Place) »

This was the moment that made suffering through insomnia worth it: the morning shower. It was the official start of the day and the end of the hours-long battle to sleep. Sure, it was conceding defeat, but there was the nakedness involved, the warm water and soap, and soon breakfast and inevitably video games. I could run on lack of sleep if there was a Pop Tart and some Mario Kart in my immediate future.

I rarely sing in the shower. But today, "Eleanor Rigby," of all things, was stuck in my head.

"Waits at the window," I sang lightly to myself, "wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door, who is it f–-"

The shower curtain was suddenly drawn open and before I could turn to face him, Duncan was behind me, his lean, fuzzy body pressed tight against me in the tiny shower stall.

"You're naked," I observed. And he was.

"Of course," he said, nuzzling my neck. "So are you."

"But we're in the dorm."

"So? Tuesday's your light day, right?" He snuggled his mouth against my neck, kissed. "There's no rush."

With a grin, he spun me around to face him. He was always like this in the morning. Out of control. Usually, I didn't mind. Sleeping with an upperclassman with a single room and private bathroom had its perks.

He hovered his smiling face just inches from my lips. He wouldn't kiss me. "You're back early," I said.

"Lifting got out. You're up early."

"I have a --" Stop looking at me like that! "-- a meeting with my professor at eight." It wasn't a lie. Professor Mullen, one of my journalism teachers, was giving me my final three days early. It was my last academic obligation as a student, and I couldn't be late.

"Plenty of time." He finally planted a rough, passionate kiss on me before I could argue. Suddenly, and for the first time all morning, I wasn't thinking about leaving.

"Besides, in a few days, I won't get to do this to you every morning. Summer break's going to be painful."

And there it was. A reminder from the very lips I just wanted to kiss and caress me, make me forget, surrender, stay.

He playfully pined me against the slippery shower wall. I let him kiss me, and I kissed back, gave in, eyes closed, hands held at my sides by his. Our wet bodies mashed together and I tried to get lost in the moment.

He broke our kiss again, but didn't release me from his clutches.

"Something's wrong," he said into my mouth. I couldn't breathe.

He was right, of course. Despite my body's reaction, despite my obvious desire, I wasn't there. Naked, breathless, defenseless, fingers shriveled into prunes, pinned against that wall, I couldn't hide from him, try as I might.

"Nothing's wrong." I tried to reach for the soap, but he wouldn't budge. "When's your game?"

He frowned a bit. "You're not coming."

"Yes, I am. Ally and I are."

He perked up some. "It's at two."

He gave me a kiss and hoped out of the shower, leaving me to finish up. The shower curtain remained open. I admired his dripping, muscular physique as he reached for a towel and began drying off.

"You're hiding something, Sam. And whatever it is, I bet it's not worth the insomnia." He wrapped the towel around his waist. "Just tell me." And he left.

Maybe he wasn't so clueless after all.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Two: "The Dress Sock"

« Previous (1.1: Pieces) | Next (1.3: Perks) »

Back in January, less than a week into the second semester, I first met Adam Duncan. And by first met, of course, I mean first saw. The winter was fairly cold and not very snowy, mild by my Vermont standards. I was very pleased to be back in the wimpy weather of Little Rhody after an uneventful month-long stay back home in the bitter north during the semester break.

Because none of my friends would sign up for it with me, I sat alone in my psych class. 103, with Dr. Parnell Hagerman, called "Towards Self-Understanding," or something like that. An intro-level course, it was held in a gigantic lecture hall, but the number of students that showed up on a regular basis barely filled a third of the room.

That day, the first, was full. I strategically picked my seat in the middle of the hall, exactly seven rows back, three seats from the left. Though still early in my college career, I had already acquired academic manipulation skills far beyond my years. Here Dr. Hagerman was likely to see and remember my face from each class, but unlikely to call on me. And, in my peer's eyes, I wasn't geek enough to sit in the deserted front rows nor anti-social enough to inhabit the back.

I had my desk up, my notebook out, and my travel coffee mug -- filled with chocolate milk instead of java --in hand. Since I recognized no one in the room, I stared alternately down at the blank lined paper and up at the slowly ticking clock, taking greedy sips from my mug, trying to look cool, confident, and not as entirely vulnerable as I really was, alone in that lecture hall, listening, in those pre-class moments, to the chattering and laughing behind me, which registered only as clicks and squawks in my ears as I worried -- nay, I knew -- that everyone in those thirteen or so rows saw through my façade, noticed me despite my perfectly-picked seat, and were judging the poor, awkward freshman in his aloneness.

The clock hit 2:28 and, with two minutes to spare, Hagerman arrived, a short, stocky black woman, in a fluster of syllabi and TAs. The clicks and squawks behind me grew to a roar in some places and silent in others. And then, to my left, somebody cleared his throat loudly.

I glanced over and barely noticed a pair of khaki pants standing beside me. Some asshole wanted to sit in the middle row and in order for him to do so, I had to move my carefully constructed defense. With a sigh and a refusal to even glance up again, I pulled my desk up and my feet in, utterly annoyed.

He ended up just two seats away. And since no one sat in those seats, it was basically like he sat next to me. He was close enough to burst my defense bubble and far enough away to make it known that we didn't know each other. Now it was clear I had no friends. Bastard.

The clicks and squawks, for the most part, stopped from behind me and started from the front, as Hagerman began a patronizing lecture supposedly about the self-help nature of the course we were about to embark on, but it seemed to me more self-serving for her, as she touted her credentials, massaged her ego, and discredited the university.

My selective A.D.D. kicked in barely five minutes into it all. I stopped taking notes and instead I focused my attention on A.J. the T.A.. He was sorta-cute, just as his reputation claimed, the same reputation that let me know he was gay and quite attainable. My mind danced with thoughts of a heretofore untapped T.A. fantasy I had tucked away somewhere in me. It proved to be better left buried as the daydream wasn't illicit enough nor was the T.A. sorta-cute enough to hold my attention. I was beginning to think I was better off in "Human Development" with Allison.

So halfway through the lecture, sick of staring at my still-blank notebook and the still-slow clock, I decided to step out of my defenses and glance around the class.

I looked to my left first. The two seats beside me remained empty and the students across the row were either note-taking or napping.

Then I looked to my right. And I noticed the dress sock.

I admit, I noticed Duncan's clothes first. I'm not into fashion much -- at all, really, and neither was he, which is the funny part -- but his outfit was what got my attention. He had his foot pulled up on his right knee, pulling the pantleg of his aforementioned khakis far enough up from his boot to make his argyle dress sock -- a tan base with a green-and-blue pattern -- clearly visible. My eyes tracked up his pants, past the notebook resting on his thigh (he was too cool to use the fold-away desk), to a pleasantly snug blue wool sweater that gripped his well-developed torso and arms. He was pleasingly preppy, tapping a deeply seated fetish for boys from GAP ads and John Knowles novels. It was the collegiate look I'd dreamed about for years, the fantasy that got me through to high school graduation. If clothes make the man, then this was the man of my dreams.

I finally got around to looking at his face. A strong jaw, a suggestively large nose, black hair, and beautiful sideburns. He was, to me, devastatingly handsome. Most would've acknowledged his good looks, but few would've had the same reaction I did, with the lust and the breathless and the drool. He wasn't perfect. I knew it in that moment, I knew it always. But I never cared.

I also knew, instantly, he was a jock in disguise, a baseball player in prep's clothing. It must've been a gameday or something, because one look at this guy's face, no matter how good he looked in that outfit, you knew it was a costume.

I don't know whether it was the clothes, or his jock status, or his good-looks, but something about him screamed unattainable to me. And that something made him irresistible.

As I gazed over and into his eyes, those deep, clichéd pools of brown, dark like a pint of Guinness -- I realized he had caught me looking at him.

And he was staring directly back at me.

Hagerman went on about some self-help concept that no one would remember tomorrow, let alone by the final -- and in the middle of her lecture hall, exactly seven rows back, three and five seats from the left (respectively), Sam North (that's me) met Adam Duncan with a single, confused slow-motion look shared between them.

I quickly looked away, but his stare, those eyes, left an aftertaste. He caught me admiring him, practically drooling. I felt horrified, mortified -- and completely alive. For the remaining twenty minutes or so, I refused to so much as glance to my right, even remotely in his direction. But I felt him there, next to me, and the electricity of it all -- the excitement, the embarrassment, the danger -- crackled under my skin.

Before I knew it, our first class was over. When he stood, I finally looked again, carefully getting my fix as I put on my jacket. He donned a puffy-looking parka and his backpack. I further admired his choice of khakis, which showed off his ass nicely, as I watched him walk down the steps. I gave him a five-step lead, then followed him out of the lecture hall.

As I trailed the jock boy out, he turned his head, just a bit, and -- I swear -- deliberately checked for me there. And then, with those eyes, he gave a cautious, knowing look -- and a slight, daring smile. It stopped me. His five-step lead grew to at least fifteen before I could move again.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section One: "Pieces"

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Sunlight made its way through the crack between the closed curtains. It crept into the small, cluttered room, disrupting the quiet May morning stillness. One of those fugitive rays aimed itself directly at my upturned face. I tightly clenched my eyes shut and moved my head from side to side, trying my hardest to escape the start of that day, my last in Rhode Island.

Next to me, Duncan stirred, let out one of the tiny moans I'd grown used to, and I opened my eyes, just a bit. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, my right arm curled behind my head, my left jutting out to my side. He was right there, snuggled against me, his head resting against my bare bicep, his sweaty forehead plastered to my cheek. He was still, very peacefully asleep.

I was crushed against the cool cement wall, trapped by his strong arms. My arm was beginning to cramp, and his raspy breathing slipped through and tickled my pit. The temperature was rising outside -- it would be a day for shorts -- but I didn't mind the body heat just then. A thin, crisp white sheet barely separated us in the tiny extra-long twin bed and the light breeze from his noisy box fan brushed against my arm hairs.

We were like two jigsaw puzzle pieces that almost fit together. Some of the parts interlocked, but otherwise it wasn't a match. The overall shape looked wrong, the images didn't quite connect. The sleeping position was uncomfortable, impossible, but it was my favorite. I'd manipulated him into the position but now wished he'd roll over. I just couldn't bring myself to make him move.

I'd been up for the last hour, trapped exactly like that. This hurts me more than it hurts you, I thought. No. My father used to say that. This is the way it's got to be. It's over. I'm leaving. It's not you, it's --

His alarm suddenly switched on and the sounds of the latest pop hit flooded the room. At last, it was six o'clock.

He lifted his head off me with a start. Groggy, he rubbed his eyes and the back of his head with his palm, like a four-year-old suddenly waking, disoriented, from an afternoon nap. I squinted at him, trying to focus my bad eyes on his shape. He was a sleep-ravaged mess, his face shadowed by his dark stubble, his eyes barely open slits, caked with goop. His black hair was cropped short, in hopeful preparation for summer, but no matter the cut, it always seemed perfect to me, even in moments like those: slick with sleep sweat, stuck up, unstyled.

Duncan reached over and slapped the Snooze bar. "Morning, sunshine," he growled. He ran his fingers through my mop of messy hair and smiled. "What you looking at?"

"You."

"You've got a bed-head fetish, huh? I learn something new everyday."

"I have a thing for morning breath, too. You better watch out."

He kissed me, both our lips tightly closed so that none of the toxic gas could escape.

"It's so early," he whined and hopped out of bed and pulled a pair of rumpled white boxers up his long legs and over his tight, furry ass. Somehow lanky and muscular, his body was like a snapshot of his soul, oozing both masculinity and sensitivity, a paradox, an affront, not to God or Nature, but to society. He stretched his arms towards the sky, yawning loudly, then scratched his chest.

"You staying here while I'm at lifting?"

"That OK?"

"What do you think?"

He searched the room for something, eyeing corners, looking under my backpack, looking through piles of clothes, until he found it -- a dirty t-shirt he had worn for the past week of workouts. He smelled like a one-man locker room.

"You're not going to shower before you go?"

"Or when I get back," he grinned, grabbing a baseball cap from the bedpost and throwing it on.

"You're gross."

He reached across me to open the window a little more, but really, it was an excuse to shove his armpit in my face. I protested and tried to push him away, but it egged him on. Next thing I knew, I was in a headlock, and then suddenly I was in a tight bear hug. I didn't bother to fight back this time.

"You love it," he said. And part of me did.

He leaned in and kissed me good-bye. "Be here when I get back." Then he was gone, leaving me alone in his room.

He really had no idea.

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
An Introduction

Next (1.1: Pieces) »

Starting tomorrow, we're trying something a little different here at Twenty-Something.

Inspired by the "popularity" of 90s-Something, and in an effort to keep more readers (shameless, I know), I will begin posting original fiction on a regular basis.

Every Friday (and some Mondays), I will post serialized excerpts from a story I call MAKE THE MAN.

MAKE THE MAN is a work-in-progress, a labor of love, if you will. It's not quite a novel yet, but it is pretty dang long so far. I'm posting it here for feedback, to keep Yelli happy, and to kick my butt back into writing fiction on a more regular basis.

What is MAKE THE MAN about? It's the story of nineteen-year-old Sam Spencer, his decision to drop out of college in Rhode Island, and his return home to Vermont that summer.

Want more? Fine. Here's the "book jacket description" I put together as an outline when I started writing the story, when I was 20 and the tale was still titled "Meeting Chris Eslinger." Don't hold it against me if this isn't how the story goes:

Sam Spencer has made a big decision: to drop out of college after finishing his first year. He leaves behind a beautiful blonde best friend and a secret "frat-boy-friend," for the comfort of his small town home in Vermont. When Sam finds himself unable to tell his too-good-to-be-true man how he really feels, he finds himself making a drunken vow that he will fall for say "I love you" to some lucky guy before the end of the summer.

At home, Sam's attempts at finding love begin when he reunites with his old buddy Ted (who may or may not still pine away after our hero) and other high school friends -- including Charlie, a newly bisexual senior, and Maddie, his wacky gal pal who suggests they get married for fun. Then there's his family -- his harried mother, sexually ambiguous little brother, and the over-eager family dog.

But Sam's real adventures begin when he meets some newcomers -- like Phil Rayner, the boy who's seemingly replaced him in the hearts and minds of his hometown (and who Sam is ashamedly attracted to), and Ryan, the handsome waiter that Sam can't get out of his mind. On top of all that, there's the mysterious "Chris Eslinger," who Sam knows only through mysterious emails and instant messages...