self-esteem problems. We chatted in between my clumsy footwork. When I mentioned that I was Everett’s guest, she seemed impressed, and perhaps a bit jealous that he’d chosen her friend.
After our one slow dance, Everett and I were about to thank our partners and excuse ourselves, when the bandleader stepped up to a microphone and announced a “kids only” dance. “Let’s shake it up a little,” he said, attempting a sort of joke.
The band’s rendition of “Stayin’ Alive” was an even greater joke. The girls attempted to shake their hips and get into it, but were clearly unprepared, as was I.
But then I noticed Everett’s arm nearly poking me, and he turned to me with that mischievous grin, some rather suggestive hip thrusts, and a hoot of, “Get it goin’, Reid!” A sort of disco dance-off ensued, the girls stepped back, and before I knew it, he and I were sort of dancing together.
That the band proceeded into “I’m Your Boogie Man” only got more kids onto the dance floor, and my duet with Everett became less obvious. I sought out Ellen and waved her back, but she smiled and held up her hands in surrender.
As the song reached its end, Everett dragged me to the girls for a thank you bow, took me by the elbow, sweat beginning to glisten on his brow, and led me toward a back exit beside the stage. On the way, he grabbed an open bottle of red wine from a serving tray.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Under the stars, for our real date.”
Traipsing off into the expansive back lawn of the club’s golf course, Everett stopped by a cluster of trees, gulped down some wine, and gestured for me to follow. His dares were taking on a different tactic. I wasn’t sure how much a part I was playing in it all, other than as an accessory.
Huddled in our newly found hiding place, Everett handed me the bottle. I took a swig, careful not to spill any wine on my tux, but less concerned when he casually leaned against a tree trunk. His jacket wasn’t a rental.
“Come ‘ere, handsome.”
“That was so fun, dancing with you,” I said as we drew closer. We took turns kissing and finishing off the bottle before I set it on the ground.
Everett’s hand dug inside my jacket. He stroked up and down my torso, then abruptly pulled my shirt up. His cold hands made contact with my stomach, my chest, inducing shivers as we kissed. It was sloppy, urgent, sweetened by the wine, interrupted by a few burps and resultant giggles.
“A lil warmer this time, huh?” Everett smiled as he reached down into my pants to grasp what had been jutting against his thigh. I returned the gesture, dug into his shorts, kissed him from his lips, chin, jaw, and down his neck to just above his bow tie, which I also kissed.
I parted my legs to keep my pants from completely falling to the moist lawn. Everett yanked my shorts down, letting my dick spring free, and was about to kneel, or crouch, probably, when we heard a voice.
“Boys?”
Everett froze, jerked his head around. I turned to see his father standing in a surprisingly casual stance.
“How about you zip up, wash your hands, and come on back inside, okay?”
“Sorry,” Everett said, yanking his pants up as we both turned away.
“No, you’re not. Make it snappy.”
“How did you–”
“One of the kitchen guys saw you leave with a bottle; thought he ought to tell me.”
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Yeah. And the next time you think you’re hiding out, you might not do it in white jackets in the moonlight.”
Mr. Forrester turned away, preceding us back toward the club.
“Fuck!” I hissed at Everett.
“Well, not this time.”
In the men’s room, after making sure we were alone, Everett tried to calm me down. “It’s okay. He won’t–”
“Won’t what? Why do you always–”
“Oh, like you didn’t want to?”
“No. Yes. But it’s not–” I hesitated, dizzy, realizing I was a bit drunk.
“What? Not right?” Everett snarled as
After our one slow dance, Everett and I were about to thank our partners and excuse ourselves, when the bandleader stepped up to a microphone and announced a “kids only” dance. “Let’s shake it up a little,” he said, attempting a sort of joke.
The band’s rendition of “Stayin’ Alive” was an even greater joke. The girls attempted to shake their hips and get into it, but were clearly unprepared, as was I.
But then I noticed Everett’s arm nearly poking me, and he turned to me with that mischievous grin, some rather suggestive hip thrusts, and a hoot of, “Get it goin’, Reid!” A sort of disco dance-off ensued, the girls stepped back, and before I knew it, he and I were sort of dancing together.
That the band proceeded into “I’m Your Boogie Man” only got more kids onto the dance floor, and my duet with Everett became less obvious. I sought out Ellen and waved her back, but she smiled and held up her hands in surrender.
As the song reached its end, Everett dragged me to the girls for a thank you bow, took me by the elbow, sweat beginning to glisten on his brow, and led me toward a back exit beside the stage. On the way, he grabbed an open bottle of red wine from a serving tray.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Under the stars, for our real date.”
Traipsing off into the expansive back lawn of the club’s golf course, Everett stopped by a cluster of trees, gulped down some wine, and gestured for me to follow. His dares were taking on a different tactic. I wasn’t sure how much a part I was playing in it all, other than as an accessory.
Huddled in our newly found hiding place, Everett handed me the bottle. I took a swig, careful not to spill any wine on my tux, but less concerned when he casually leaned against a tree trunk. His jacket wasn’t a rental.
“Come ‘ere, handsome.”
“That was so fun, dancing with you,” I said as we drew closer. We took turns kissing and finishing off the bottle before I set it on the ground.
Everett’s hand dug inside my jacket. He stroked up and down my torso, then abruptly pulled my shirt up. His cold hands made contact with my stomach, my chest, inducing shivers as we kissed. It was sloppy, urgent, sweetened by the wine, interrupted by a few burps and resultant giggles.
“A lil warmer this time, huh?” Everett smiled as he reached down into my pants to grasp what had been jutting against his thigh. I returned the gesture, dug into his shorts, kissed him from his lips, chin, jaw, and down his neck to just above his bow tie, which I also kissed.
I parted my legs to keep my pants from completely falling to the moist lawn. Everett yanked my shorts down, letting my dick spring free, and was about to kneel, or crouch, probably, when we heard a voice.
“Boys?”
Everett froze, jerked his head around. I turned to see his father standing in a surprisingly casual stance.
“How about you zip up, wash your hands, and come on back inside, okay?”
“Sorry,” Everett said, yanking his pants up as we both turned away.
“No, you’re not. Make it snappy.”
“How did you–”
“One of the kitchen guys saw you leave with a bottle; thought he ought to tell me.”
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Yeah. And the next time you think you’re hiding out, you might not do it in white jackets in the moonlight.”
Mr. Forrester turned away, preceding us back toward the club.
“Fuck!” I hissed at Everett.
“Well, not this time.”
In the men’s room, after making sure we were alone, Everett tried to calm me down. “It’s okay. He won’t–”
“Won’t what? Why do you always–”
“Oh, like you didn’t want to?”
“No. Yes. But it’s not–” I hesitated, dizzy, realizing I was a bit drunk.
“What? Not right?” Everett snarled as
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