Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica Read Free Page B

didn’t.
     
    “Yup,” Dustin continued. “This is where our real college education is gonna happen.” He dug through his drawer and pulled out a strip of condoms: Magnums. Typical dreamer.
     
    “Nice,” I said.
     
    Dustin winked. “And this is where the real partying is.”
     
    He looked away and I rolled my eyes.
     
    We were off in Dustin’s shitty black Camaro. It was an automatic, but he still shifted it like a manual. What a poser. On the edge of town, hundreds of duplex one-story homes all looked the same. It would be a nightmare getting out of there inebriated.
     
    It was obvious where the party was. Dustin followed a herd of jacked-up pickups, SUVs with big wheels (small penis), and, oh, yeah, we spotted a girl throwing up in a front yard. Bingo. Dustin’s excitement as he parked the car a few houses down the street and reached for the case of beer by my feet was palpable, even contagious; almost comforting.
     
    I checked my beanie in the flip-down mirror one more time, frowned at the look, and got out of the car. We walked through the yard behind a group of big-muscled fellows. At that point I really felt out of place. It’s one thing to hear the idea of the party; it’s another to see the actual people.
     
    “Yo D-Man!” said one of the blonds, a six-two ogre. He sidled up next to Dustin, slapping his hand low.
     
    “Ace!” Dustin said. “How ya been, man?”
     
    Ace? D-Man? Great. This was some of the faggiest shit I’d heard since Top Gun . Maybe it will improve my prospects , I thought, but before I could snicker at myself, I was being introduced.
     
    Dustin put his hand on my shoulder. “Ace, this is my buddy and roommate, Marx.”
     
    “Marx?” Ace said like I’d just tried to kiss him. “What kind of name is that? Like the Russian Communist guy?”
     
    “Actually, he was German,” I said.
     
    Dustin slapped both our shoulders and started kneading them, as if bridging a connection between our bodies would remedy the awkwardness. Failure. Oh, wait. Dustin was touching me, and it felt good. Success.
     
    “Whatever!” Ace brightened. “Let’s go get some drunk pussy!” The guys whooped and hollered their way into the house. And I was swept in with the tide of musculature and Axe.
     
    The party was a whirlwind of alcohol, skanks, beer pong, Aberzombie bitches, and some shitty Kanye West playing at an ear-bleeding volume. Something crashed to the floor behind me. I couldn’t turn around to look; I was being pulled through the crowd to the kitchen. Someone poured a shot for me. Dustin’s hand was all over my shoulder. He was my commissar. I was introduced over and over again. Marx! What a name!
     
    One guy had a shaved head, a goatee comparable to my own, with a cutoff shirt revealing strong arms; very buff overall. When Dustin introduced me, he grabbed my balls. He grabbed my balls. He grabbed my fucking balls. With Don Corleone’s sternness. Like he was checking me for breeding stock.
     
    “Oh, yeah, don’t mind that,” Dustin said reassuringly. “It’s his thing. He just grabs your balls when you meet him. Sees if you’re cool or not.”
     
    “Okay…” Ball-grabber glared at me. Dustin said he went by “Rock.” Who the fuck comes up with these nicknames? He lived in the house, it turned out.
     
    How did I do?
     
    Rock winked at me.
     
    I’m in .
     
    I also felt the first pulse of excitement. Well, you would too if a guy that good looking grabbed your balls with the force of a Godfather. Should I have been surprised at the sudden submersion into homomasculinity? Maybe. It wasn’t what I expected.
     
    We celebrated with more shots. I felt more like I belonged as the night went on. Blame alcohol? Blame oddly receptive meat-heads who I prejudged?
     
    By one A.M. I was trashed, slurring, telling silly jokes, feeling girls’ tits for shits and giggles. They giggled. One shit. I’m kidding about that one. But they loved me. I was different. I was a