"Out of my way, faggot!"
Before I could step aside, Leander had already pushed past me, roughly shoving me into a wall in the process. "Too slow," he called back. A bunch of our classmates sniggered, as if this was the height of wit. Then again, real entertainment was hard to come by in our strict catholic all-boys high school, so they took what they could get.
I brushed myself off and glared after Leander disappearing across the courtyard -- at least, that's what I wanted it to look like while I stared at his ass. Damn. Leander was committed to making my life miserable every single day, but he was also the hottest guy in my class, if not the entire school. He played soccer (what we Europeans and most of the world call "football") at a semi-professional level, and it showed. Muscular legs leading up to a round, firm butt; a lean, trim upper body -- and that face! My god. Green eyes, dark blonde curly hair cropped close, and the easy cocky grin that comes from being told you're great at sports for years.
Ugh, I hated him so much.
I've always had a theory that high school bullies have their own rudimentary version of a gaydar. How else would Leander know to call me a faggot? (The more obvious explanation, that to high school jocks any variation of "faggot" is just a generic insult for the less athletic and nerdy, especially in an all-boys school, never crossed my mind at the time.) Ironically, Leander had been a key player in my own journey to self-discovery; once, when jerking off, I'd experimentally started thinking of him getting changed for P.E. class. I blew my load so fast that I've never looked back. For a while I told myself I was bisexual (sorry, real bisexuals!) but, yeah, no. I was a total gay.
So I got bullied, mostly by Leander. The other guys at school were kind of all right; not like they'd be nice to me or anything, but a lot of the time they left me alone -- well, except when they didn't and called me names as well. Nothing unusual, sadly. Ah, but I did end up seeing Leander at least once a week for years after we both graduated high school, solely to suck his dick, which I think is pretty unusual.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I already felt pretty down during the last year of high school. You'd think I'd be ecstatic to almost be rid of the place, right? Truth be told, I'd gotten pretty used to being the outcast at school. Sure, the taunts and insults stung, but in the end they were only the words of a bunch of dumb, frustrated guys who meant nothing to me. At the end of the day, I could go home and put it all from my mind... except that now, due to my own idiocy, home wasn't so great anymore either. I'd just turned eighteen, and in the spirit of honesty (and because I was more than a little bit naive back then), I'd come out to my parents. On my birthday.
It didn't go great.
"But... how can you be gay?" my mom asked. "You've never even had a girlfriend! How can you know, Jonas? And, and, you know how those guys have sex, it's not healthy, it's... What about AIDS?"
My dad just sort of... stormed out and drove off. I think he stayed away until after midnight. Anyway, we didn't talk about his absence any more at my house. Or about my sexuality. Also, my internet and phone privileges had been cancelled indefinitely. I swear my mom thought I turned gay because of that "devil tumblr website". Good stuff.
Ah well. At least, as a self-proclaimed nerd, I still got my grades, right? Yeah, no. For the past couple of months, my grades had been dropping, to the point where some of the teachers started to wonder what was up. My dick was up, that's what. In my last year of high school I was just a raging bundle of hormones. I spent most of my time in class low-key perving on the other guys -- I had a great view of Leander's broad shoulders, his muscular neck, and his ass -- and I let my dirty fantasies roam, while I should've paid attention to the teachers. I'm kind of embarrassed now for being such a creeper back then, though I'm sure I was hardly the first frustrated and confused gay kid in a repressive, religious all-male environment.
A couple of worried teachers offered to talk to me after class. Most of them thought I was having trouble at home, which was kind of true. I don't know if any of them ever suspected the truth, or if they were all blind to facts that would make them uncomfortable. In any case, the added attention embarrassed me, so these conversations would mostly consist of them asking "how are you feeling?" and "is everything okay at home?" and me, beet-red, grunting monosyllabic answers. This in turn led the teachers to decide I couldn't talk about it with them, so guess what they did?
They had fucking Mr Latrou, the school counsellor come and pull me out of class, that's fucking what! Twenty-four pairs of eyes stared at me as I left my seat and followed my every step to the door. Leander and his buddies weren't very subtle about their sniggers and whispers. Did these teachers seriously not know what animals eighteen-year-old boys are? After about twenty minutes of awkward questions that I didn't answer, Latrou got pissed off at me for not "helping him help me" and dismissed me again.
The entire day had been a fucking disaster so far, and it was only noon. I just wanted it to be over already.
After a blessedly uneventful lunch break we had P.E., which I hated. The only good thing about the subject was how afterwards in the locker room I could feast my eyes on my hunky classmates in various states of undress. There were group showers in the locker room, but I never took one. I just didn't think I could handle being surrounded by glistening hard bodies without getting a boner. As it was, it already took a huge amount of mental effort to stay flaccid when I was surrounded with half-naked guys and the pungent odour of adolescent sweat and Axe deodorant.
Ms De Witt made us run a bunch of laps around the P.E. classroom for warm-up. Everyone made nasty jokes about Ms De Witt being a dyke, but I liked her. She was the first and only P.E. teacher I knew who also cared about effort, instead of grading purely on athletic skill. While we ran our laps, sneakers squeaking on the shiny floor, she gathered a net and a bunch of volleyballs from the supply room.
I was already sweating and out of breath by then. Leander and his buddy Robin, a tall, black-haired basketball-player, passed me by for the third time, cheerfully calling out "ffff-ag!" -- though of course never loud enough that Ms De Witt could hear. Before I could call something back (not that it'd change anything!) a whistle sounded, our cue to stop running and gather in front of the teacher.
"All right, listen up," Ms De Witt said. "Today, the game is volleyball. I want you all to work on your serve. And to make sure you actually do that instead of horsing around, I'll pair you up myself."
I let out a sigh of relief. At least today I wouldn't have to stand around awkward and forlorn while people teamed up with their buddies, or feel the shame of being picked last.
"Jonas, you're with Leander."
