- Everyone in this story is over the age of eighteen at the time it begins -
I wish I could say it was love at first sight. But it wasn't. And it wasn't one of those instant hatreds either. The kind where a weird tingle shoots straight to your balls and you want to pound the fuck out of the person -- whether it's with your fist or your dick, you don't quite know. Yet.
But when I first met Rory Masterton, it was nothing like that. To be honest, I don't think we really noticed each other at all. From the first time we spoke in class, I was pretty sure he was gay. I didn't have a problem with it; hell, by that stage, I was pretty sure I was too. England has a much more laid back attitude to the whole thing than the States, weirdly, particularly in the private schools. So I guess I was lucky with that! There were two guys who were already "out" in our grade when I transferred in and I came-out shortly afterwards. People were more surprised with me, I guess, because I was so 'jock,' but again, no-one gave me any hassle about it. (When I read stories on the Internet about how rough other people have it when they come out, the way my school mates generally reacted makes me feel incredibly blessed.) Rory came out the same year I did and by the end of high school, there were eight guys known to be gay.
Rory and I were eighteen when we began to speaking to each other properly. At the time, one of the guys I'd been hooking up, Joshua, had gotten pretty into me. A lot of e-mails, phone-calls, letters. It was a bit much and I hate clingy behavior; I gave him the brush off pretty brutally. Dumping him via text was definitely a personal low point.
If Rory knew anything about my private life (and he knew pretty much everything about everyone in our year), he gave absolutely no sign of it for the first two years of knowing me. I can't say I knew much about him either. I knew he was pretty well off, like most of the people at our school; he was friends with most of the popular girls and half the polo team. I knew he played tennis, went to a lot of parties and was fluent in French. I'd heard once, I think, that he'd been hooking up with a guy in the year above us -- Stefan, or something. Beyond that, I really didn't know much about him. I think I registered, vaguely, that he was handsome, in a sort of unremarkable way. He was tall (not as tall as me; still isn't), thin, toned, brown hair and had the most beautiful pair of big brown eyes. Those I noticed later. He wasn't campy or anything; just slightly flambo at times, very well spoken and, I don't know, I guess I want to say "elegant" in the way he moved. Even the way he pointed or gestured. There was something pretty old school about it. I also knew he was smart. Really fucking smart. It kind of oozed from him and he managed it in a way that was so completely unpretentious. In class, I'd heard him talk about the six wives of Henry VIII, the US constitution, Catholic theology and Margaret Thatcher in a way that just reeked of quiet, intellectual confidence. This kid knew his shit.
But if you'd asked me before the final year of school if I thought Rory Masterton was a nice guy, I'd have said no. I'd probably have hesitated before I said it, but I'd still have said no in the end. Firstly, he was friends with some of the biggest bitches in our whole year -- Virginia Reilly, his so-called BFF, was (and is) a total bitch. Secondly, there was something about him that was vaguely cold at times and definitely superior. He had a way of flicking his eyes up and down over people who he wasn't interested in knowing. It wasn't necessarily intended as mean, but it was definitely soul-crushing all the same. As if you weren't even worth his time mocking.
Me? Now, here's the other moment in the story where I wish I could click neatly into the stereotype. You could say that next to this cool British socialite, I was the tall, dumb American jock. Only I wasn't dumb. I was smart; I loved History, I had a good grasp of math and science and I fucking loved being able to take a Latin class. I mean, c'mon - how retro cool is that?! I guess I was a jock though. In a way. I loved sport and all my mannerisms were pretty masculine. (I hate it when people say 'straight-acting.' Guys, unless you're having sex with a woman, it's not 'straight acting,' for fuck's sake.)
Anyway, I was originally from Richmond, Virginia. My mom was English and she always wanted to move back there. We were well off enough and me, my brother and my sister got into the local private school, Saint Edmund's, a pretty beautiful red-brick building in the southern county of Kent. The school had apparently been set up five hundred years ago by one of the Tudors. My sister was a history nerd, so she nearly wet her pants with excitement when she heard that. It was pretty neat and I made friends quickly. I could ride horses from having done it as a kid on my grandparents' place back in Georgia and I had played lacrosse back in the States too. I kept growing and I found I had a talent for rugby. Great game; much more savage than football back home. I absolutely loved it and I loved the guys on my team. Well, most of them. I was happy at Saint Edmund's and happy in England. I more or less kept my American accent though and got to crack out some words like 'arse,' 'wank' and 'banter' on a pretty regular basis.
Rory and I bumped into each other at a few parties. He always invited me to his and I returned the favour. But I couldn't say we ever had a proper conversation. We had quite a few friends in common and anytime we did end up in the same circle, at parties or at school, he was polite, I guess, but he didn't seem overly interested in me. See, there's a slightly snobbish side to Rory, that used to make me bang him harder when we were eventually together. At the time, it made me think the guy was a bit full of himself. He'd stare at me, as if he couldn't quite work me out. Like I was some sort of American tourist attraction that he didn't find particularly entertaining. I was 6'4 by the time we entered final year and he, at 6'1, apparently seemed to think that I was too tall, a little bit too built and maybe a bit too cocky.
He was probably right.
The first time I thought of him as being in anyway attractive was at the start of October in our final year. I'd turned eighteen that summer and Rory had a big blowout eighteenth for himself a week before school started. On the day we began speaking properly for the first time, I'd sprained my ankle a week earlier when I fell when I was out running; Rory had suffered the world's most massive nosebleed that morning after chapel and the gym teacher, Mr Gortchin, made him sit out class that afternoon in case there was a repeat of the situ. I don't think Rory was overly devastated by that decision, to be honest. It was a September morning, but still summer really. There was a cool breeze blowing up off the playing fields and I was leaning on a rail near the changing rooms, looking down on the fields and my team-mates. Rory stepped up next to me and wrapped both of his hands around the rail. He leant back slightly, 'Sick?' he asked.
'No,' I answered, still looking at the gym class. 'Sprained ankle.'
'Most people would count that as sick, Sebastian.'
I heard the slight giggle in his voice and I smiled back. A half-smile. He had a point.
'So,' he said, turning to face me. He leant his hip against the rails and bit his bottom lip in a smile. His eyes were bright; sparkling with amusement. 'I hear things with Joshua Peterly haven't gone too well?'
Rory had that, you know. That quality I'd later see him use on other people. All of a sudden he'd turn on you and hit you with the full force of his charm. The eyes bright, the smile mischievous; every tiny bit of his body inviting you to confide in him. He looked so confident and so charming. And so fucking smug. My cock twitched.
I turned to face him and ran my tongue along the inside of my bottom lip. A cocky smirk was on my face -- well, half-cocky, half-rueful. 'Yeah, dude, they didn't turn out too well. He came on a bit keen.'
'Joshua likes to do that,' Rory said. 'Enthusiasm's his thing. It makes up for not having much of a personality.'
Ouch. I laughed. The kid might be a bit of prick, but he was right about Josh. 'So what was the policy? Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen?' Rory asked.
I looked down with fake modesty. 'I didn't have to have much of a strategy to keep him keen, dude.'
He smiled and exhaled, like a slight laugh. He turned his head to look out at the pitches. He was wearing the white school shirt, the black and silver tie and the gray charcoal trousers. 'Via text message though? That's pretty savage.'
I shrugged. 'Probably not my finest hour. Is Josh upset?'
Rory waved his hand in the air slightly, as if Josh's feelings were an irritating irrelevance. 'Apparently. He's making a lot of fuss. He says he was just another notch on your bed post, so now you can say you've messed around with every gay guy in the year. And four of the straight boys, although he wouldn't say who.'
'Well, I've never hooked up with Sammy O'Brien,' I said, referring to the gay kid in the Science class I hated.
'Who would?' Rory laughed. 'He's so ugly, I'm sure he struggles to have a wank.'
I laughed. Shit, Rory really was funny. And mean. But so fucking funny.
