Eric and I got together. He also encourages me to open up to him about my mom’s death.
In return, I try to help him with his grades, but the kid’s fucking hopeless. I wrote his American Lit paper for him last semester. Otherwise he would’ve failed.
Enough of Dylan. Eric . Fucking Eric .
Eric came to FSU, on a transfer from Georgia Tech.
Strange, I initially hated him. And he despised me.
But I’ve since realized our aversion to each other masked the struggles we felt inside.
God, I’m a mess—a “hot mess,” as Tamara would say.
Disdain for this hot-as-fuck Middle Eastern kid initially trumped my true desires. I pushed down my feelings like you would a bagel that won’t crisp in the toaster the way you want it—over and over, I’d press down the lever. Yet I had to agree with my coach that Eric’s skill could help the team get to the state championships.
While mostly Pakistani, Eric has skin fair like his Parisian mother. He’s been in the States his whole life—all twenty of them. I’m five months younger than he. Something about him being older, even just a tad, warms me. I know it’s silly, but I like that he’s more mature. Or maybe, it’s in how he acts.
The kid’s got some good genes. Mother’s smart as a whip, and his dad’s a chemical engineer—runs an Atlanta-based biotech firm.
I’m going to allow myself to swoon, and let the tingles inside me out. Otherwise, they fester, and I can’t think straight.
Honestly, Eric looks like he stepped off a photo shoot for one of those fitness magazines I’d buy at the grocery store—the rags I’d tell Dylan I got for exercise tips, inspiration for the gym. (He ignored the times I rolled it up, shoved it under my arm, and took it into the bathroom.)
Distilling Eric’s description into mere words doesn’t do him justice, but I’ll try: soft black hair, dark eyes, lightly tanned skin, tall—about my height, five eleven—and thickly muscled, but not overly so, and those soft-red lips of his...God, they just drive me crazy, especially how they darken when we make love or when he’s horny, and how when he’s unshaven they look even more amazing. I could just kiss them, and him, all day.
One step further, I can’t get enough of his...you know...all right, his cock. Fuck! Just thinking about it now makes my own dance with need. While I’d given my own penis a run for its money since discovering masturbation way back when, gripping his is like holding onto a can of beer. Talk about girth. I’ll save the details of how I’ve managed to satisfy that thing, without injuring myself, for later.
But allowing myself to get to know him took some time. Initially, my competitive hatred toward him coursed through my blood like wildfire. The fact that he could run faster than me and do more push-ups than I could pissed me off to no end. The now seemingly obvious, sexual tension between us went over my head like a football to a bad wide receiver.
Also, jealousy fed my flames. I wanted his perfectly rounded biceps, his no-more-than-thirty-one-inch waist—not that I’m all that far off from him. He just looks better. Even that flip of his damn black hair that swooped down over his right eye, looking like it’d tickle his forehead—for he’d persistently push it back, only for it to fall forward again. I tried to tell myself I hated him. The stress of suppression hurt. I didn’t understand.
I resisted him as best I could, but eventually I couldn’t hold back.
One time, when Eric and I were still masking our attraction toward each other with hate, Coach had us spar in preparation for regionals—blue spandex to blue spandex, my green eyes locked onto his black pearls, grunts and groans that eventually turned into curse words, from me, not able to deal with the emotional currents firing off inside. “What the fuck!” I pushed him, and we tussled with all-out masculinity.
Coach had to pull us apart at the end. “Break it up! Break it up,
In return, I try to help him with his grades, but the kid’s fucking hopeless. I wrote his American Lit paper for him last semester. Otherwise he would’ve failed.
Enough of Dylan. Eric . Fucking Eric .
Eric came to FSU, on a transfer from Georgia Tech.
Strange, I initially hated him. And he despised me.
But I’ve since realized our aversion to each other masked the struggles we felt inside.
God, I’m a mess—a “hot mess,” as Tamara would say.
Disdain for this hot-as-fuck Middle Eastern kid initially trumped my true desires. I pushed down my feelings like you would a bagel that won’t crisp in the toaster the way you want it—over and over, I’d press down the lever. Yet I had to agree with my coach that Eric’s skill could help the team get to the state championships.
While mostly Pakistani, Eric has skin fair like his Parisian mother. He’s been in the States his whole life—all twenty of them. I’m five months younger than he. Something about him being older, even just a tad, warms me. I know it’s silly, but I like that he’s more mature. Or maybe, it’s in how he acts.
The kid’s got some good genes. Mother’s smart as a whip, and his dad’s a chemical engineer—runs an Atlanta-based biotech firm.
I’m going to allow myself to swoon, and let the tingles inside me out. Otherwise, they fester, and I can’t think straight.
Honestly, Eric looks like he stepped off a photo shoot for one of those fitness magazines I’d buy at the grocery store—the rags I’d tell Dylan I got for exercise tips, inspiration for the gym. (He ignored the times I rolled it up, shoved it under my arm, and took it into the bathroom.)
Distilling Eric’s description into mere words doesn’t do him justice, but I’ll try: soft black hair, dark eyes, lightly tanned skin, tall—about my height, five eleven—and thickly muscled, but not overly so, and those soft-red lips of his...God, they just drive me crazy, especially how they darken when we make love or when he’s horny, and how when he’s unshaven they look even more amazing. I could just kiss them, and him, all day.
One step further, I can’t get enough of his...you know...all right, his cock. Fuck! Just thinking about it now makes my own dance with need. While I’d given my own penis a run for its money since discovering masturbation way back when, gripping his is like holding onto a can of beer. Talk about girth. I’ll save the details of how I’ve managed to satisfy that thing, without injuring myself, for later.
But allowing myself to get to know him took some time. Initially, my competitive hatred toward him coursed through my blood like wildfire. The fact that he could run faster than me and do more push-ups than I could pissed me off to no end. The now seemingly obvious, sexual tension between us went over my head like a football to a bad wide receiver.
Also, jealousy fed my flames. I wanted his perfectly rounded biceps, his no-more-than-thirty-one-inch waist—not that I’m all that far off from him. He just looks better. Even that flip of his damn black hair that swooped down over his right eye, looking like it’d tickle his forehead—for he’d persistently push it back, only for it to fall forward again. I tried to tell myself I hated him. The stress of suppression hurt. I didn’t understand.
I resisted him as best I could, but eventually I couldn’t hold back.
One time, when Eric and I were still masking our attraction toward each other with hate, Coach had us spar in preparation for regionals—blue spandex to blue spandex, my green eyes locked onto his black pearls, grunts and groans that eventually turned into curse words, from me, not able to deal with the emotional currents firing off inside. “What the fuck!” I pushed him, and we tussled with all-out masculinity.
Coach had to pull us apart at the end. “Break it up! Break it up,
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