This is a sweet little story that I wrote for Valentine's Day. Enjoy.
****
Frigid rain falls steadily from a leaden sky as the train pulls into Union Station in Portland. Even the dreary weather cannot keep Tigger from bouncing up and down on the edge of his seat. It's a habit he's had all his life. As a child his mother teased him that he was bouncier than a rubber ball. His liveliness had earned him his nickname.
You should have grown out of this by now
, he chides himself.
You're an adult. You should be able to sit calmly.
But his heart is racing, his palms are wet, and his stomach has tied itself into a Celtic knot. He has more nervous energy than can possibly be contained by sitting still.
He searches the platform eagerly for a glimpse of Harold, although he knows that the only people on the platform are Amtrak employees. He's looking forward to spending the long January weekend catching up with his friend who he hasn't seen since school started in September.
As the train glides to a smooth stop, the other passengers queue at the door, waiting for it to open. Tigger reaches for his suitcase in the overhead bin. Grabbing the handle, he yanks, but the suitcase is a tight fit for the space and doesn't budge. Suppressing his frustration, Tigger steps up onto the seat to get a better angle on the stubborn luggage and, with a little struggle, manhandles the case down onto the floor. He glances up to see if anyone has seen him climbing on the furniture, but the door is open now and the other passengers are too intent on exiting the train to notice.
He hurries after them, smiling at the official who's helping passengers down the steps, but ignoring his helping hand. Once on the platform he pauses to extend the handle on his rolling case. Out of habit he shakes his pale blond bangs out of his eyes and pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his too-small nose. He glances down at his crotch to make sure his dick is behaving. That too is habit. He's wearing chinos with pleats in the front to hide his erection, in case he gets one—which is likely. Ever since he was thirteen he's had an embarrassing problem: he has no control over when and where his cock will decide to stiffen to its full, thick, just-shy-of-eight-inch glory. Tigger's cock, when hard, is difficult to hide on his small frame and he lives in dread of his next humiliating incident. He wonders if he will ever get to a stage in life where a hint of gorgeous man won't instantly cause his blood to run south and whether he'll be disappointed when that happens.
By the time he makes his way inside the station, his heart is lodged securely in his throat, hammering away like a woodpecker.
Relax! It's just Harold,
he scolds himself. Just Harold, one of his friends from high school. Just Harold, the friend he's had a crush on since forever—well, since the first day of seventh grade when the other boy had graced him with his brilliant smile and taken a seat next to him on the school bus.
Then Harold's there, smiling that same smile—the one that lights up his whole face. Harold's blue eyes are twinkling as he pushes his way toward Tigger. He's all lean and angular; his hands are slender, his cheekbones sharply cut. His spiky black hair is longer on one side than the other, and his bangs are bright blue.
"Hey, Tig." Harold sticks his fist up for a bump.
Tigger, who had been about to drag Harold into a hug, hastily readjusts and meets his fist with a firm tap. "Hey, Harold, you look fantastic."
Oh shit! Is that a gay thing to say?
He recovers by adding, "I think you've gotten even taller, and your hair is unreal!"
Harold grins. "You like it? My roommate's calling me 'emo boy' now. I'm not sure how much I like that music, but I do like the style."
"Yeah, it looks good on you." Harold's skin was pale, his lips full, and his nose just a bit long. His eyes are too full of merriment to carry off the sulky look that most emo boys have though. Tigger notices the tunnel plugs in his ears—those were new. Harold had gotten his eyebrow and lip pierced at the end of their senior year of high school.
"You're going all the way, huh?" Tigger asks, touching his ear lightly.
"Only with you, babe." Harold's grin widens.
Tigger feels his cheeks grow hot.
He can't mean that. He's not gay. He's just teasing me.
That thought does not stop the flames from spreading like wildfire across his face.
"We'll need to catch the light-rail outside," Harold says, not seeming to notice Tigger's blush as he leads the way to the door.
****
"Looks like Steve's in the shower." Harold flops down on his bed in the small dorm room. "I hope he hurries—I gotta piss."
Tigger parks his suitcase at the foot of Harold's narrow bed and takes a seat at the desk on Harold's side of the room. "So how do you like Portland State?"
"It's good. I like Portland a lot. I can get around almost everywhere with my bike or their light-rail system. School's not going so well. My teacher for freshman English is an uptight bitch. Man, I hate that class."
"How about your other classes?"
"There's way too much fuckin' reading for History—I mean, who cares about all that shit that happened a couple hundred years ago?"
Tigger doesn't say anything. He likes History.
"And my math class—I don't know. The teacher seems cool, but he's going way too fast. He lost me the first week." Harold shakes his head, a frown darkening his handsome face. "Last semester I barely squeaked by with 'C's. I might have to get a tutor or something." He glances up at Tigger and his gloom drops away like darkness in the face of a blazing sun. He smiles his heart-stopping smile and Tigger melts a little.
"What about you? How's U-dub?"
"It's great," Tigger replies. "I haven't seen much of the city. I've mostly been sticking close to campus." In truth, Tigger had been petrified of going out in the big city. Coming from the small town of Centralia, Seattle is overwhelming. He spends most of his time in his dorm room or at the library with his face in a book. He made all 'A's his first semester.
Suddenly the small room shrinks to half its previous size as the door to the bathroom flies open and a very large, very muscled young man steps into the room.
"Oh thank god!" Harold dashes into the bathroom.
Tigger stares. Harold's roommate is naked except for a towel around his waist. His short blond hair sticks to his head in wet curls that drip onto his shoulders and slide enticingly down his sculpted chest. Thick blond fur covers his torso, forearms, and legs. His abs are the most defined Tigger has seen outside of a magazine spread. Tigger's mouth goes dry.
Steve glances at him. His gray eyes take him in and seem to dismiss him as not worthy of his attention. He turns to his dresser and begins rummaging through his drawers.
Tigger is treated to a view of perfect deltoids and lats. Steve's arms are as big around as his own thighs and look as hard as granite. Tigger almost swallows his tongue when the big man drops the towel on the floor revealing an ass that rivals the hottest model Tigger has ever ogled. Steve bends over to slip on a pair of briefs and Tigger's eyes travel down his lightly furred crack, hoping for a glimpse of his pucker.
Unfortunately, the big blond is efficient and in short order he covers all those wonderful muscles with tight jeans and a T-shirt. As he turns away from the dresser he glances at Tigger again and does a double take.
Tigger has been so lost in the wonder of Mr. Muscle, he hasn't been aware of his body's response. Now, as Steve's eyes zero in on his crotch, he realizes with horror that his painfully hard erection is tenting the front of his pants obscenely. His rampant cock has broken free of the confines of his small briefs, and those pleats that he hoped would conceal a world of sin do nothing to hide him now. As he looks down at himself he notices a wet spot starting to spread right at the tip of his cock.
Shit, shit, shit!
Panic fights embarrassment for top billing as he jumps to his feet, moving his hands to hide his shame.
