Lexington Black by Savannah Smythe Page A

slightly
easier.
    I guess they must have sniffed out something
about me because they became solicitously friendly. At the time, I
had no idea of my sexuality. I hadn't given it a thought.
    Actually, that was a lie, but I had gone
along with the assumption of everyone else that I would find girls
attractive. It wasn't until I was fifteen that I admitted to myself
they did nothing for me.
    The Queens had already suspected though, and
one day when we were talking in their room, Peter produced a
magazine from the bottom of the trunk at the bottom of his bed. We
all had them, filled with personal items that no-one else was
allowed to touch, on pain of extra homework or detention.
    To my surprise, it was a copy of Hustler. On
the front, a pretty blonde girl with big breasts pouted out at
me.
    'We're doing a scientific experiment,' Peter
explained, handing the magazine to me. 'Have a look at that.'
    'A scientific experiment?' I was sceptical,
as the Queens were known to play cruel tricks on those they
despised, which was just about everybody.
    I started to flip through the magazine. Tits,
tits and more tits. I had seen magazines like this before,
well-thumbed and pored over by my room mates, but they didn't do
anything for me. I shrugged and threw the magazine on the bed.
    'Good. Now this one.'
    It was a catalogue selling men's underwear.
The men were all tautly muscled, with big packages filling tight
briefs. I began to feel slightly uncomfortable and shifted my
position.
    'Hah! Thought so,' Gavin crowed, snatching
the underwear catalogue from me. 'You're one of us, Lexi. You
belong to our very exclusive club.'
    'Sorry, I don't get it.'
    Peter sighed dramatically. 'You're queer,
darling. A poofter. Just like us.'
    Considering I was over six foot by then and
quite capable of knocking them senseless with one blow, it was a
brave, if not absolutely foolhardy, trick to pull. But as they said
it, everything made sense. I had begun to worry that I just wasn't
interested in sex. It turned out that I was, just not with
girls.
    The Queens were happy to keep quiet about it,
on account that I had stood up for them on occasions when newcomers
thought it was funny to bash the girly-boys. I was their tame
muscle man, and they were happy to be discreet for me. Not that
there was anything to be discreet about. During my time at Melville
I wasn't buggered, sodomised, abused, gang-raped, Svengali-ed,
seduced, groped, squeezed or anything else for the whole five
fucking years I was there. For a country whose closet had been
nuked wide open at least two decades before, whose male population
was, it was said, to be inherently gay, there seemed to be
absolutely no male tail to be had in the whole goddamned school.
Apart from the Queens, who were like sisters to me and therefore
strictly off-limits, everyone, every-fucking-one was straight.
    Yeah, right. And I was fucking Snow
White.
    As my hormones went into over-drive, so did
the callouses on my palms from all the jerking off in the dead of
night. The beginning of each term meant fresh porn, brought in by
the Queens. God only knew where they got it from. It was pretty
strong stuff and if a teacher had discovered it, it would have
meant instant expulsion. That formed the basis of my sexual
enlightenment. As far as cock went, I wasn't fussy. Cut or uncut,
it didn't matter. I didn't dig hair on any part of the body apart
from the head or the pits. The thought of chewing on pubes didn't
float my boat at all, yet Peter thought it was the hottest thing
ever. He was into big bears of men, guys who could gather him up,
nurture him and pound him into the floor. Gavin, the hairiest
motherfucker I'd ever seen, was into pretty, smooth-skinned boys.
They were ideally suited to each other.
    Me? My ideal porn playmate would be dark,
brooding, toned and devoid of groin forest. I lost count of the
amount of heated discussions we had about finding a dark-haired man
who didn't have a positive thatch going on down there.