Jumbo (13 page)

Yes, if it is Tadd, Mitchell said to himself, trying to remind himself of what Pete had said, that he was naive and didn’t understand the way other people thought.

Mitchell tucked the note into his pack and pulled his speedos down slowly. He hung them over his locker door along with his goggles, and then walked toward the showers with his towel in his hand. Tyler and Tadd were in the corner. Mitchell hung his towel up and walked toward Tadd, his heart in his mouth. He was so pumped up he was almost dizzy.

“Here, bud. I suppose you’d like a shower to yourself for a change.” Tadd hopped out and grabbed his towel. He walked around to the lockers.

Mitchell wondered if he had done something wrong. Did Tadd think he had taken so long to get to the showers because he didn’t want to shower with Tadd after he had read the note? Did Tadd think he didn’t like the note? And was it Tadd? That was the maddening question. Was it really Tadd?

“Why so down?”

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t look it,” Tyler said.

“Yeah. A lot of shit going on at home.”

“Oh. Well, we’re all behind you, Jumbo. Don’t think you’re not part of the team, because you are. You don’t have to lag behind all the time.”

Mitchell nodded.

“And anyway,” Tyler said, leaning over and speaking to him confidentially, “we know you’re the best, really. You’re the only real swimmer on the team.”

Mitchell didn’t know how to respond. He nodded non-committally. Was it Tyler? Mitchell frowned as Tyler turned away. Could it be Tyler?

Mitchell lingered in the showers for a long time, letting the hot water run over his aching muscles. He turned and let the water run over his face, over his shoulders and his back, flowing into his ass crack. When he turned around again he saw that it was only Luke and himself left in the showers. Mitchell turned his shower off and Luke did the same. They grabbed their towels and stood by the lockers, drying themselves. Casey and Ben were still getting dressed, but no one was talking.

Mitchell hung his towel over his locker and pulled a clean pair of tighty-whities out of his pack. He slipped them on, though he didn’t put a sock into them after training, not when there were other guys around watching him. The front of the tighty-whities was a big empty sack, like a deflated balloon. Mitchell pulled his jeans on and found the clean shirt he had put in his pack. He started to button it and turned around to see Luke getting dressed as well. Despite what had happened — and what he was feeling for Tadd — Mitchell still felt a strong attraction for Luke, and the pain in his chest was sore and tender. He was angry with Luke, and the two of them had barely spoken for days.

Luke sat down on the bench to pull his shoes and socks on, and then, when Mitchell had sat down, Luke lifted his head and looked at Mitchell, or Mitchell supposed that that was what he was doing. He was putting his own shoes and socks on and Luke was just sitting there.

Mitchell stood up and grabbed his pack. He locked his locker and turned to leave, but Luke said, “Jumbo.”

“Can you not call me that?”

“Mitch.”

“What?”

“Can I talk to you?”

Mitchell put his pack down.

“I’ve been feeling like — what I said to you the other day, about you,” Luke lowered his voice, “outing yourself.”

Mitchell nodded.

“Well, I don’t mean that. I mean — I’ve thought about it. And if you did that, if everyone knew you were gay, then I’d still be your friend. I mean, we’re friends forever, right,” Luke said, holding out his hand.

Mitchell smiled. Luke was putting his hand out for the secret handshake, something they hadn’t done in years. Mitchell hesitated, but then he took a step toward Luke and gripped his hand. The handshake was a complicated set of maneuvers that ended with the two of them chest to chest, with a thump on each other’s back as their faces rested side by side.

Mitchell felt like crying, but as they moved slowly apart, he darted his head forward and pecked Luke on the lips. Luke drew his head back and they stared at each other, and then Mitchell moved forward again, drawing Luke into a kiss. Luke responded, and the two of them kissed, sucking hungrily at each other’s lips. Finally, with a start, Luke pushed Mitchell away, his hands on Mitchell’s chest.

“What was that?”

“A kiss.”

Luke looked as though he had swallowed a snail. His eyes were wide, staring at Mitchell.

“It’s a new addition to the secret handshake.”

“A new addition?”

“It is my turn.”

“Right. Well. How about just a peck?”

“What’s the matter, Luke?” Mitchell said, reaching his hand forward and grabbing Luke’s groin. Luke had a hard-on, one that Mitchell had felt growing as they were pressed against each other. “Not so straight after all?”

“No. I ...”

Mitchell moved forward again, but Luke steadied him with his hands on Mitchell’s chest.

“I can’t .... I can’t do this, Mitchell.” And then he realized he had his hands on Mitchell’s pecs, and he dropped them.

They stared at each other. Mitchell smiled. And then he shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Luke. I’ve found someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“Yeah. Someone else I’m interested in — so I won’t be hassling you.”

Luke nodded, swallowing at the same time. He almost looked hurt.

“But we’ll still be friends, right?”

“Sure,” Luke said. “Always.”

“Always.”

“I’m going to miss my bus,” Luke said, but he didn’t move.

“You better grab your pack, then.”

“Yeah,” Luke said, as though he was coming out of a daze. He turned and grabbed his pack and said, “See you.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow if not before,” which was what they had always said, though it sounded a little stupid now.

Luke left, and Mitchell sat down on the bench, leaning back against the lockers and thinking nothing. Just feeling, replaying what it had been like to kiss Luke, to grab his cock. And the look on Luke’s face!

Mitchell smiled. He grabbed his pack and headed out to the lot where his father was waiting.

30

That night, Jake cooked maple-glazed salmon for dinner. It was like eating at a restaurant. Large white plates with the food artistically arranged into a stack. Mitchell had never tasted anything like it. It was delicious.

“I figured you need protein for your training, and fish has a lot of protein.”

Mitchell thanked Jake at the end of the meal, said he’d really enjoyed it, though he couldn’t help thinking of his mother who should have been here. Where was she? She wouldn’t tell Mitchell. He had spoken to her on the phone, though all she had said was that she needed to be alone.

“You don’t want me ringing you, then?”

“Of course I want you ringing me, Mitchell. I’d like to speak to you everyday, but I don’t expect you to call that often.”

“You can ring me.”

“Yes.” His mother paused. “But I shouldn’t be ringing you all the time at your age. You’re an adult. You need to be pulling away from your parents, developing independence.”

Mitchell nodded. He knew she was right, but still, she should have been here. It should have been his father who had left, and Mitchell resolved, after he got up from the table, to phone his mother and ask why — why she had left and his father stayed.

“There’s dessert,” Jake said.

“Right now?”

“No. Half an hour or so. You got something to do?”

“I was going to go upstairs for a minute, if that’s okay with everyone.” Pete and his father muttered something. Things had never been so formal when Mitchell’s mother had been here. People had been up and off from the table whenever they chose.

“Mom.” Mitchell had the door to his room closed.

“Mitchell! What a nice surprise!”

“I felt like calling you.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I mean, I’m fine. I just wanted to .... Can I ask you something, Mom?”

“Of course you can, but I’m right in the middle of dinner. Not eating it — cooking it.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“No. It matters, Mitchell. What is it?”

“I just wanted to know. I mean — I’ve been wondering. How come Dad has stayed on in the house and it’s you who’s left?”

“Oh, Mitchell. I can’t talk about that right now. I’ll ring you. Maybe on the weekend. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Everything all right at school?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine, Mom.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll call you Saturday.”

“Morning?”

“Morning?”

“Yeah, but not real early. I’ve got a friend coming over in the afternoon.”

They said their goodbyes and Mitchell hung up. He didn’t have anyone coming over Saturday afternoon, though he hoped of course that Tadd might come, and if he did ... well, Mitchell didn’t want to be interrupted by a phone call from his mother.

He went back downstairs again. Everyone was still at the table. The TV was off, and Mitchell wondered if this was how it was going to be from now on, all of them sitting around the table for an extended meal. Once dessert — a peach flambe — was over, Mitchell declined coffee and went up to his room. He locked the door, and checked that the door to the bathroom was locked on his side.

He pulled his pack onto his bed and unzipped the little compartment in which he’d put all the notes. He unfolded them and read them in the order he had received them. Whoever had sent them, it was definitely the same person. The lettering, the pen; they were identical. Mitchell read them again, though he kept returning time and time again to today’s note, which had to be, must have been, from Tadd.

Mitchell pulled his chair out from his desk and pushed his Mac away so that he had some space. He laid the letters out, and then started looking for a red marker. He didn’t have a red one, but he had a blue one, and he figured he could write in the same style, trying to copy the lettering precisely.

I want your come on my face. I want it all over my body. But most of all, I want your dick in my ass.

Mitchell sat back and tried to assess what he had written. He supposed there were many things that he could have said. He might have mentioned love, though that had only come up in today’s letter. Before today, the notes had all been sexual.

He squinted at his printing, putting each of the other notes against it, and tried to see if it looked the same. He decided he wasn’t happy with it, and the other thing he had overlooked was that the notes were written on white paper, not a page from a notebook. He began again, but ended up having to do it a third time until he was satisfied. And then, as he sat there looking at what he had written, he became conscious of his breath, of his heart beating. The house was over warm, such a shock from the cold outside. Mitchell pulled his sweater off. Hell, he felt like doing something. He checked the doors to his room again, making absolutely sure they were locked, and then he got his baseball bat out of the closet.

He had told himself that he wouldn’t do this again, but it was like an addiction, something he couldn’t control. He seemed to retreat into a quiet space, while something kept his reason from intruding, as though something in him was determined to do it no matter what arguments he put forward.

There was quite an art to jamming things up your ass, and Mitchell had developed the technique over time. He found his tube of lubricant and checked the door to the bathroom again.

He began with his fingers, inserting one, then two, then three, and finally four, including his thumb. One thing he wanted to do, somehow, was to get his fist up there, but this simply wasn’t possible. If he was a contortionist, it might have been, but as it was he risked straining his muscles, which certainly couldn’t be good with the meet coming up.

Mitchell had a deodorant bottle in his room along with a can of shaving foam that had an elongated, bullet-shaped head. He used the deodorant bottle first, trying to get his muscles to relax. It slid in and out easily enough. He moved onto the shaving foam, which was only useful because the lid was so long, extending to halfway down the length of the bottle. He supposed he could simply use the lid, though he was afraid of it cracking, and was also afraid of pushing the lid too far in and getting it stuck in there.

The shaving foam was a challenge, but after five or ten minutes, it was sliding in and out easily enough. It felt unreal, and Mitchell wanted to come, but he was determined to use the baseball bat again.

Finally came the moment of truth. He had only managed it three times, and the last time he had been too hasty in his preparations. He had forced it in there and had hurt himself. Now, as he squatted onto the bat, he knew that it was going to go in, though it needed some pressure. Mitchell was afraid of falling backwards (or downwards) though he couldn’t find enough pressure if he lay on his back. He needed to squat in order to move up and down in slow, controlled movements. Finally, he felt his muscles give way, opening up to accept the bat. It slid in quite quickly, and Mitchell had to be careful not to lose his balance and fall.

He held the bat with one hand so it didn’t slide out again. Then he opened his closet door and looked at himself in the mirror, squatting onto the bat. He found a baseball cap, a red one, and he put that on his head. He knew he was quite good-looking. People had often said it to him, and when he was a child, women had always been cooing over him and saying what a lovely face.

Right now he was chastising himself for forgetting to put some shoes on. The best time, the first time he had used the bat, he had worn a pair of runners and the cap, and had managed to put some kneepads on as well. Dressed like that, he could turn himself on, ignoring his cock, simply not looking at it.

Mitchell carefully got down onto the carpet. He lifted his legs and used both hands to slide the bat in and out, a feeling he loved. Involuntary shivers shuddered through his pelvis and into his abs. They rippled along the insides of his thighs, and Mitchell began to lose all sense of what was where. He groaned. The best thing was that he could come without touching or looking at his cock. He closed his eyes and felt the baseball cap slide off his head while he imagined that the bat was a cock and that he was being fucked by Tadd.