Every Frat Boy Wants It
Todd Gregory
KENSINGTON BOOKS
This is for my editor
John Scognamiglio.
And for
Alex, Andy, Marc, Steve, and Stuart:
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Contents
PART ONE: SUMMER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
PART TWO: FALL
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART THREE: WINTER
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART FOUR: SPRING
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
As I walk into the locker room of my high school to get my backpack, I’m aware of the sound of the shower running. Even before I walk around the corner that will reveal the rows of black lockers and the communal shower area just beyond, I can smell that pungent smell of sweat, dirty clothes, and sour jocks. I would never admit it to anyone, but I love that smell. Especially when it’s warm outside—the smell seems riper, more vital, more alive. For me, it is the smell of athletic boys, the smell of their faded and dirty jockstraps. At night, when I lie in my bed alone jacking off in the quiet darkness, I close my eyes and I try to remember it. I imagine myself in that locker room after practice, the room alive with the sound of laughter and snapping towels, of boys running around in their jocks and giving each other bullshit as they brag about what girls they’ve fucked and how big their dicks are. I try to remember, as I lie there in my bed, the exact shape of their hard white asses, whose jockstrap is twisted just above the start of the curve, and below the muscled tan of their backs. It’s the locker room where I first saw another boy naked, after all—the only place where it’s acceptable to see other boys in various states of undress. The locker room always haunts my fantasies and my dreams.
And now, as I reach the corner, I hesitate. Who could still be showering at this time? Everyone else has left; baseball practice is long over, and I’d be in my car heading home myself if I hadn’t forgotten my bag and I didn’t have that damned History test tomorrow. Could it be Coach Wilson? I shudder at the thought. I certainly hoped it wasn’t him. He was a nice man, but Coach Wilson was about a hundred years old and had a big old belly that made him look like he’d swallowed every single basketball in the equipment room. I take a deep breath and walk around the corner.
Maybe it was—um, no, that was too much to hope for. Just get your bag and go.
The locker room is filled with steam from the hot water in the shower. Wisps dance around the overhead lights, and it is so thick I can barely see the floor and make out the row of black painted metal lockers. Yet, through the steam, I can barely see a tanned form with his back turned to me, his head under the water spigot, hot water pouring down over his muscled back and over the perfectly round, hard whiteness of a mouth-wateringly beautiful ass. I catch my breath as I stare, knowing that I shouldn’t—the right thing to do is call out a “hello,” pretend not to look, get what I need, and get the hell out of there. But I am utterly transfixed by the sheer beauty of what I am seeing. I bite down on my lower lip, aware that my dick is getting hard in my pants as I watch. I can’t tear myself away—I don’t want to turn and go or stop staring, the body is too perfect. And with the wetness cascading down over it, the glistening flow of the water emphasizing every defined muscle in the lovely male form that has haunted my dreams and my fantasies ever since I transferred here my junior year and started going to this small rural high school. Go, hurry, before he turns around and catches you watching—what are you going to say? Um, sorry, I was staring at your ass?
But still I keep standing there, continuing to run the risk he’ll catch me, every second passing making it more likely. How long can he stand there like that without moving?
But still—
How many times have I fantasized about him while pulling on my soapy dick in the shower at home? Or while lying in my bed after everyone else in the house has gone to sleep? Kneeling on the bathroom floor with the door locked behind me? How many times have I snuck glances over at him in the locker room after football practice, as he peeled off his pads and stood there in his jock turned grey from sweat? How many sidelong looks have I taken at his body as he stood under the shower, hoping that no one else noticed me looking at his crotch, the wet pubic hair, the curve of his balls, the length of his soft cock?
How many times have I sat next to him in the darkness of a movie theater, our knees almost touching as we scarf down popcorn and slurp sodas, hoping against hope our knees might brush against each other, or his hand might come down over mine on the armrest and squeeze gently? How many times have I hoped that he might want me too, that one night as we sat on a country road on the hood of a car sharing a six-pack of beer he might confess he desired me as much as I did him?
I’ve been in love with him almost from the first moment I saw him.
Just as I open my mouth to say something and let him know I’m there, he turns around and sees me.
“Jeff!” Kevin’s handsome face breaks into a smile, and I almost melt right there. I don’t think I have ever seen a boy anywhere as handsome as he is—and what makes him even handsomer is he has absolutely no idea the effect he has on people. Every girl at Southern Heights High School has had a crush on him at one time or another. He has the most amazing even, white teeth, his eyes are a deep shade of blue, and on top of his head is the thickest curly dark blond hair. When he smiles, his dimples carve deep grooves into the sides of his cheeks. Surely no other boy in history was as effortlessly beautiful as my best friend, Kevin Hansen.
“Hey, Kev.” I force a smile on my face and try to keep my voice even. “Forgot my backpack.” I focus on keeping my eyes on his face and resisting the urge to glance down. His body is also fantasy material. He’s been lifting weights since junior high, and there’s no fat anywhere on his body. His stomach is flat, hard and defined. And he has two brown quarter-shaped nipples that balance on his big hairless chest. His thickly muscled legs are covered with soft downy white hairs that are almost invisible unless they catch the light and flash gold.
“Oh.” He glances down. I can’t help myself, I look down as well, and I swallow hard. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. He is soaping his crotch, and his hard-on is everything I could have dreamed of—thick and long. He looks back over at me. He smiles again, a little more shyly this time. “Wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously.” His cheeks color a little bit.
“Yeah, well.” I feel myself turning red. My mouth is suddenly dry. I gulp. Don’t look at it, Jeff, look away and just grab your bag and get away from here before you do or say something stupid.
“Looks like you’ve got one too, bro,” he says teasingly, pointing with his soapy hand at my own crotch, where my traitorous erection is outlined against the denim. He rinses the soap off and steps out of the shower area and stands, his legs spread apart, not even ten yards away from me. Naked, dripping wet and erect, with his hands on his hips, posed like some kind of Greek god, almost as if he’s daring me to look, he laughs. “What do you say, Jeff?”
“Um, about what?” I reply,