Houston, we've got a motherfuckin' problem.
Graduation is less than a week away, and you'd think that would be something to celebrate. Sammy won't be able to bitch and moan about the ethics of our relationship to quite the same extent, once the teacher-student factor is eliminated. So, what's the issue, you ask?
He still hasn't said a word about his move, re-enrolling into school, or anything at all of his life beyond the summer. Sometimes, when he talks, it's like he's got a terminal illness. He pointedly refuses to discuss anything about the future, our future, beyond a certain date. He's constantly, constantly asking about my plans, however. It's like he wants to reassure himself that I'll make a good, responsible choice. Or, that he and I have an expiration date.
Here's my dilemma: I've already been accepted for the fall semester at CSU, Fresno. For football, they're one of the best NCAA, D1 universities in California. We won't be attending the same school like I'd originally hoped, but we'll be less than an hour's drive apart. Soon, Sam will have to start packing up his house for the move, and that's not something he'll be able to gloss over. He'll have to give me a proper explanation. It's just, this is how I imagine it'll go:
Sammy will sit me down, looking at anything and everything but my face. He'll be uncomfortable, but firm. He'll tell me he's leaving for California, or maybe he'll withhold the details, and say it's been fun while it lasted but it's time for us to go our separate ways. He's probably expecting it to be difficult, but final. I might get angry, argue, suggest something long distance, but even I would eventually have to give in to the raw truth of it. Sammy's going one way, and he believes I'm going another.
So, how do I bring it up?
Obviously, I have to, somehow. If I were to just pop up on his campus one day without any warning, in a completely different state, he'd shit an entire brick. But, it's not like he'll buy it if I say something like: "SoCal, huh? What a crazy coincidence, me too! Should we make a road trip out of it?"
He's gonna be pissed either way, but one path is easily more treacherous than the other. With graduation looming, Sammy relaxed his tight grip on the rules. It's Sunday morning, and I've been at his home since late Saturday afternoon. He lets me sleep over on the weekends, and he's not so quick to boot me on Sundays as long as he's not got something to do in town. There are no more games or practices, and testing is over. He's much busier than I am these days, but I'm content to just be in the same room as him while he works. I can imagine this is what it'll be like in Cali, too. He'll probably be swamped with working towards his PhD.
My adorable, fuckable nerd.
Sammy leans back his office chair, arching his back in search of a satisfying pop. "I'm so stiff, God."
He tends to avoid his home office, as he prefers not to be stuck behind a desk in his own home more than necessary. He'd normally snuggle into his corner of the couch with whatever stack of papers require grading or his laptop warming his thighs, but there's too much to juggle today: two binders, multiple stacks, and his laptop are sprawled across the polished, cherry top. I'd taken up residence in his office's armchair, my own outdated laptop overheating on top of my thighs, whirring like a XF-84H taking off.
"Wanna take a break?"
He glares at me
I huff, as if I haven't given him enough reason to think my version of a 'break' is fucking him half to death. "That's not what I meant!"
Really, it isn't.
"What, then?"
I cajole him out from behind the desk, all the way into his sprawling backyard. He hesitates at the backdoor like a vampire wary of the daylight, but I know it's paranoia. His backyard is walled off by a treeline, then a short strip of fencing on either side of the home. It's also on a downhill slope. Unless his distant neighbors plan on popping their head over the fence in request of some emergency sugar, no one will see us.
"Sammy, for the love of God, get your pussy-ass out here."
"I'll find a way to flunk you, brat."
"...that's hot."
He scoffs, but obediently steps out onto the veranda. "Why are we out here?"
"Ta-da!"
I procure a football from behind one of the patio chairs with all the theatrics of a magician pulling a dehydrated bunny from a tophat. He groans, agonized, and immediately swoops on his heel to head back inside. I catch him by the back of his T-shirt, yanking. His back smarts against my chest, and he lifts his face to fix me with a dirty, annoyed look. My pretty, pretty boy. I plant a sloppy kiss on his forehead, which he petulantly scrubs away. "Physical activity will make you feel better, and if you don't wanna fuck, this is good too."
"Wha—?!" He sputters. "We had sex an
hour ago!"
"Yeah, but just once."
"Dean, you're a quarterback. I trip going up the stairs too fast. I'm not doing this."
"Come on, Sammy, it'll be fun! I'll throw it easy, swear to God."
He gives in, like he always does. His subservience in little ways like this is such a turn-on, and goddamn, I have problems. We pad out into the grass, and I pull back a good thirty feet. He's standing awkwardly, nervously, like he's never caught a ball in his life. It's the beginning of July, so his loungewear is more revealing than usual. Cotton shorts that cuff around his upper thighs, a thin T-shirt that must've shrunk in the dryer, riding his smooth navel. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my head on straight. He really will pry me off with a crowbar and boot me out of his life if I keep trying to hump his leg like a pooch in heat.
"Ready?!"
"Sure."
I swing a gentle, arching pass towards him, and while he fumbles with it, it doesn't touch the lawn. He shoves it in the air like a trophy, grinning. "Hey, I caught it!"
