Model Citizens

Chapter 4

Ivan bounced off the bed, once more leaving me to the drafts creeping in from behind the drapes. He grabbed the pillow at the head of his bed and fluffed it. "Over here," he commanded, pointing to where he wanted me.

As I delicately repositioned myself, he took the rolled-up towel and unfurled it in a single shake. It was a big beach towel with "UCLA" printed on it, and as the last bit unrolled, out dropped two small bottles. One he placed on the desk, the other he positioned inside the lamp.

"Where'd you get a UCLA beach towel?" I asked.

"From someone," he shrugged.

"Someone special...?"

"Just someone who thought I deserved a memento from spring break. Now, undo and prepare for the voodoo!" He turned away from me and futzed with the other bottle. I took the opportunity to unzip my skinny jeans and gently –ever so gently– slide them down my hips until I could kick them off with my feet.

When Ivan turned back toward me, he barely gave me a cursory glance and said in a very matter-of-fact-and-I-am-in-charge voice, "Jockeys."

I didn't move. He looked me in the eye and recited: "The locker room, the showers, young football heroes, all kinds of homo doctors and doing it Greek-style in the steam room." Still no movement. "Jockeys!" he ordered.

You know those moments that combine "there's no place like home" and "you can't get there from here"? There we were, seventeen years old, just two guys, and he was ordering me to lie down and strip. Of course, I realized that he believed it was for my own good; yet, it occurred to me that maybe my ball sac wasn't aching quite so horribly anymore.

Should I call the whole thing off? Who gives a shit if Ivan thinks I wussed out? If I leave, would he think that I didn't trust him? Maybe he'd know that I was thinking he might be queer? Would he think I was? Would he get pissed?

Why not do this? My groin still hurt, it just didn't make me feel nauseous right now. And it wasn't as if I'd never done the circle jerk routine before.

Truth be told, I was (and still am) damn proud of my wang. The only kid in high school who could compete for meat portions was Blotzer; and neither of us was ever shy about showing it off in the lockers, or the shower, or even with those homo doctors Ivan teased about. If he only knew about the orderly who shaved me when I had my appendix removed!

As a matter of fact, it was well-known among certain Boy Scouts that I could consistently shoot farther than any other Scout whenever we had jerk contests on campouts. Sometimes, I'd even take a handicap by measuring my second shot, or jerking off once as a kind of warm-up before the competition began.

Looking Ivan straight in his left eye, I hooked my thumbs under the elastic of my underwear, and gave it a good snap against my stomach. Firm stomach, big snap, awesome sound. He didn't flinch.

Still not blinking, I hooked them again, and began the slow, seesaw motion of my unveiling. It began with the tan line, a leftover from a long summer and a few visits to the tanning booths. My treasure trail was emptying into a whole, neatly trimmed forest when Ivan's concentration broke and he turned his back to me.

I'd just seen what I was afraid of seeing. He was into this big time and he didn't know where it was all leading. He was afraid. I watched his back as he breathed hard, as if he'd just finished a set of squats or something.

"Look, why don't I just go into the bathroom and do this, if you think it'll help. Or, better yet, I could just do it at home, like I usually do."

"No!" he whispered. "Do it here. Right now. The secret to it working isn't just in the jerking." He stopped himself And turned around to face me again. "Hey, that kinda rhymes! The secret to it working is more than in the jerking. Your juices may be perking but a duty I'd be shirking if I didn't —"

"Alright already. God, please make it stop," I moaned, rolling my eyes up so that I could imagine only the whites were showing.

"Is it bad again," he asked. He almost sounded hopeful.

"Oh, I'm nauseous alright, but it's your bad poetry that's doing it."

"Jockeys."

"Aye-aye, cap'n," I replied.

With no more to-do than that, I grabbed my shorts and pulled them off, lifting my hips from the bed ever so slightly and kicking them off in a pile with my jeans.

He asked, "I forget. Left or right?"

"Handed?"

"No, I'm looking for your birthmark. Yes, handed. Do you use your left or your right?"

"I can use either one. Sometimes both."

"Ooo," said Homer Simpson, "A switch hitter. The professionals say 'Am I Dextrous' whenever they feel frisky."

"You're weird," I complained. "I'm going home."

"Too late for that," he countered. "Now, hold out a hand." He walked to his desk and pulled the small bottle from its resting place against the lamp bulb. "Nice, warm lube here," he coaxed. "Now, give me a hand."

Just as I was about to start applauding, the door handle jiggled and then came a knocking. "Ivan, what do you make in here?" It was his grandmother.

"Just trying on some new clothes, Grandma!"

"Oh, okey-dokey. Come show Grandma when you finish. And then we play some cards, no?"

"Okay, Grandma."

I just about had a heart attack. There, on the other side of what must surely be the world's thinnest piece of wood was an eighty-year-old woman from The Old Country, while I was stark naked, laid out like a Sunday brunch buffet on her grandson's bed. The cold draft blew over me and I immediately felt the pain as my balls scurried to retreat to warmer climes.

"Why are you moaning, man?"

"My balls just did a little involuntary maneuver in direct violation of standing orders from their commanding officer."

"Choose a hand," he said, waving the small bottle in front of me. "It's lube. Damn good lube. You'll like it."

Sticking out my right hand, I picked up my limp dick with my left. He shot a squirt of the warm gel into my palm, and I instinctively bunched up my fingers to mush it around a little. Beginning with the base of the shaft, I made a circle of my lubed thumb and forefinger, sliding slightly upward before letting the next finger join in the fun. Eventually, all fingers engaged, it was time to show Ivan the Big Kid.

Closing my eyes and letting my head fall back against the soft pillow, I let my imagination start running. Various images of past conquests and future invasions played backwards and forwards. I know that some guys say it's like a movie, but not for me. Instead, all these thoughts run into each other, and one morphs into another, sometimes with odd results.

I could feel that it was time, so I let my left hand join in the fun.

Now, when I say that I'm big, you don't have to take my word for it. Some asshole at Jamboree actually took a phone photo of me as I was winning yet another "who shoots the farthest" contest last summer. Later, when I wouldn't let him blow me, he posted the thing on the Internet and sent me the link. You can find it at any number of "amateur muscle" sites. [But don't bother because this was from ten years ago. —JEC]

That time in Ivan's room, I think that I was huger than ever before. It really did take both of my hands to cover it all. It felt good. It felt warm and solid. I moved my right hand up to my chest, feeling the hard mounds with the deep canyon running between. I slid down to my abs, slowing for the speed bumps I worked so hard to build and maintain every day. I could feel the remaining warmth of the lube on my chest and my stomach as I returned to the source of my satisfaction.

Then suddenly there was that odd smell. Not like glue, exactly, but something with more of a chemical kick to it. Something astringent.

"What the fuck you doing there, Ivan?"