Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica Read Free Page A

shoes. His dad and sister were in the kitchen carving a pumpkin. On his socks were black burrs from the woods. They were dark and insectlike, with twin prongs that attached themselves to the fabric. He picked them off one by one.
     
     
    What ended Carl and Nate’s friendship a year or so later was unremarkable, being merely the period on a sentence that had well since finished its thought. Their sleepovers had tapered off, as their flirtation had begun to carry too much weight. They’d gained new friends, Nate with boys and Carl with mostly girls. They ignored each other throughout high school.
     
    Carl wanted to walk to his house sometimes, just ring the bell, and see if it could be like it was. He wanted to ask Nate about the shack and parse its mysteries. He wanted to parse Nate’s mysteries too, Nate who’d developed into a wholly handsome and desirable young man, even if he never seemed to have a girlfriend.
     
    Instead Carl walked into the alley behind Nate’s house at night, holding a paper bag. There was a small factory just across the alley from Nate’s backyard. The factory made burial vaults, those thick concrete boxes that encase caskets when they go into the ground. The gate to the lot was open, the periphery cordoned off by six-foot concrete walls. Most times the lot was deserted.
     
    Several of the vaults—rejects, maybe—lay in rows inside the lot, glowing gray in the moonlight. Carl perched on top of one and opened the bag, removing a pair of binoculars. He directed them across the alley at Nate’s house. There was Nate in his room, shirtless, staring at his computer. There was Nate’s dad in his pajama pants, closing the curtains to his bedroom. And there was Carl, watching, suspended on the burial vault like a ghost.
     

THE VIKING
     
    Rob Wolfsham
     
     
     
     
     
     
    I t was freshman year. I had just moved into Branch Hall, a pretty shitty dorm on campus. But the whole college experience was exciting. I had met my roommate Dustin at new student orientation earlier in the summer. It was a coincidence we picked the same session, and it was a great chance to get to know each other. Dustin’s hot, a nicely built shorter guy, blond Irish, with an annoying upstate, upscale New York accent, foreign out here in West Texas. I made fun of him for the way he said “shower.” It came out “shar.”
     
    This story isn’t about him.
     
    But it was Dustin who, the first week of school, invited me to a party—the party that changed everything. To set the stage: I was a nerd in high school, and while I was now a fledgling hipster in college—at least, I was trying—the scars still showed. Literally: the after-effects of adolescent acne lingered. I’m a pasty guy, real skinny, about one hundred and fifteen pounds, five nine, brown shaggy hair that I usually cover with a black beanie, hazel eyes, sharp nose, long goatee. I’m always messy.
     
    When Dustin described the party, I knew I’d be out of place: he promised a bunch of older, dumbass wrestling and football friends from his hometown—or, I should say, home-rich-fuckelitist-suburb. But it was college. I was one week fresh, with few friends. I was up for anything.
     
    “Awesome,” he said, spraying a retarded amount of Axe body spray on himself. “I’m gonna get you drunk on all kinds of beers, man.”
     
    If Dustin had known I was gay, he might not have promised both hunky men and lots of beer. Too suggestive.
     
    “Rock on,” I deadpanned, checking myself in the mirror and adjusting my tight green military jacket. I pulled the usual black beanie onto my head, and my hair flipped up around it. I didn’t like the look much, but I wasn’t gay enough to care about hair. Hence the beanie. I just hoped I stood out among the frat-tards and their polos, khakis, and loafers. I put on comfy cords with bright red Chuck-T’s. They’d know I was a fag the moment I stepped through the door. I’m not sure why Dustin