*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
*Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
**..**..**
Brandon Costa lay sprawled out on his cot. The window was open and the box fan was whirring noisily but the room was still uncomfortably warm. He lay dressed in just a pair of faded boxers and debated on stripping the boxers off.
Sweat trickled down his muscular chest. He had no hair on his chest or abdomen so the trickles flowed slowly toward his crotch. His underwear was damp from all the sweat and the waistband was beginning to chafe.
"Hey!" someone said, rousing Brandon from his light slumber.
"Dude, please tell them to do something about the AC, huh?" Brandon begged, not opening his eyes.
"Uh huh. Hey listen, might want put some clothes on; my mom's here," the young male voice said.
"Crap," Brandon complained but pulled on his Gratchley's High School gym shorts and a tank top.
Mrs. Brown was a pleasant woman and Ronnie's step-father, Glen Brown was a nice man, a little overbearing, but nice. Ronnie Peters obviously took after the unknown father; Mrs. Brown was a stunning blonde and Ronnie was dark skinned with a wild mop of dark wavy hair.
"Whew! It is hot," Ronnie agreed after the Browns left.
"So, what position you play? You're in football, right?" Brandon asked, stripping out of sweat soaked shorts and tank top.
"Hmm? No, no, I uh, I'm a dancer," Ronnie confessed. "Classical."
"Huh!" Brandon said, looking at the slightly blushing young man.
"No, I'm not. All right?" Ronnie said defensively. "Just because I dance, I'm not."
"Didn't say anything," Brandon said.
After a long moment, Brandon offered, "But I do understand. I'm a midfielder for the soccer team. The football players all seem to think soccer's not a real sport so they accuse me of being a faggot. You know, not man enough to be a real football player and shit."
"That's some fucked up shit," Ronnie agreed.
They went over their class schedules and found that they had American History together. They also had English 101, but Ronnie had his classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at nine and Brandon had his class Tuesdays and Thursdays at nine thirty. But they would be able to study together. The two fell into an easy friendship.
The fourth day of being roommates, Ronnie was sitting at his desk, studying Statistical Analysis 110 when Brandon returned from taking a tepid shower in an effort to cool down. As he was comfortable with Ronnie's presence, Brandon simply dropped his towel across the footboard of his cot and lay on his cot, nude.
Ronnie looked over, did a double take, then quipped, "I thought we weren't allowed to have pets."
"Huh?" Brandon asked, about to stuff his ear buds into his ears.
"That, that is a snake, right?" Ronnie asked, pointing to Brandon's long, pale cock.
"Aw, shut up, Peters," Brandon said, cranking up Yngwie Malmsteen.
Their second Saturday of being roommates, Ronnie needlessly reminded Brandon that they had a three day weekend; Labor Day was that Monday. Scratching his heavy balls, Brandon shrugged his shoulders and reminded Ronnie that they were both broke college students.
"Dude, Swift Falls is right there," Ronnie said, pointing toward the small town. "Norwill's bus twelve goes right by there."
"Yeah?" Brandon mused, then nodded his head. "Yeah, come on."
Brandon fished around in his drawer and found his Ingalls designer swimsuit. Tucking his cock and balls, Brandon smirked.
The official name of the Mens' line of Ingalls designs was 'Ingalls for Him.' But most people called the line the 'Ingalls Dingles.'
"Nice bikini," Ronnie taunted as Brandon liberally coated his pale flesh with sunblock.
"Fuck you, Ballet Boy; says it right on the tag; Ingalls for him," Brandon smirked, pulling his battered old canvas tennis shoes on.
There was no way Brandon could have afforded the swimsuit; the Ingalls label was sold at Vokine's in Myndee, Arkansas. The exclusive department store was known to have nothing but the very best and their prices reflected this. So, when Brandon had seen the swimsuit at a yard sale, he grabbed them. He'd also bought a few books and the small reading lamp he'd clipped on the headboard of his cot.
Their student IDs got them half-price tickets for the Number 12 and they settled down in the nearly empty bus for the twenty nine minute bus ride. Once in Swift falls, it was a short walk to the actual waterfall that gave the small Tennessee town its name. The beach of coarse yellow sand was only forty feet wide and two miles long. Looking around, Brandon and Ronnie saw that a few others had decided to spend their Saturday on the narrow strip of beach along the fast moving, shallow river.
From somewhere, Ronnie had scrounged a Frisbee. Brandon and Ronnie began throwing the Frisbee back and forth.
"Teams?" two young men asked, walking up with broad smiles on their faces.
"Yeah," Ronnie said, introducing himself and Brandon.
"Hey, I'm Doug and this is Rusty," the smaller of the two young men said.
"All right; I get Doug, hear?" Brandon demanded and was rewarded with a broad smile from Doug.
"By the way, nice Ingalls Dingles there," Doug complimented, nodding toward Brandon's swimsuit.
"Uh huh. That a Barragona Hombre?" Brandon asked, admiring Doug's snug swimsuit.
"Uh huh. Of course, Rusted Brains over there? Keeps calling them the Barragona Homo," Doug laughed easily and fielded the disc as Ronnie skimmed the Frisbee toward them.
There were no clear winner or loser; the four young men had fun hurling the Frisbee back and forth. Doug and Brandon collided a few times, as did Ronnie and Rusty. When this happened, Doug would loop an affectionate arm around Brandon's middle.
Finally, the four young men had enough of sweating on the now quite warm sand and called an end to the game. After a dip in the cool river to cool down, Doug offered to buy them some beer from a nearby concession stand.
"Dude, I'm uh, I'm only eighteen," Brandon admitted.
"Same here," Doug smiled, flicking his wet blond hair out of his eyes.
The three men watched as, with a confident swagger, Doug approached the plywood structure. The grizzled old man scowled and barked something at Doug. Doug produced a rectangle of plastic and the old man squinted, then nodded his head. He put four ice cold cans of Gratchley's onto the counter and handed Doug his change.
