Author: Michael Thomas Ford
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/michael-thomas-ford/page,4,56267-full_circle.html
"Did you look at it?" I asked Jack.
Jack shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "My mom walked in right when I found it. I stuck it down my pants, and haven't had a chance to open it until now." Jack and I looked at each other for a long moment. Then, carefully, as if just touching the magazine's pages might have terrible consequences, he opened it to the middle. Donna Michelle was the first naked woman I'd ever seen. Not that she was totally nude; the magazine wouldn't break that taboo for another six years. But she was most definitely topless, and the rest could easily be imagined. Lounging on some brightly-colored pillows, her blonde-brown hair artistically draped over her breasts so that a single nipple peered through, she smiled out at us coyly. We stared at her for a long minute or two, neither of us speaking.
"It says she's a dancer," said Jack finally, his voice hoarse. "She likes horses and swimming." "And she doesn't like men who think they're God's gift to women," I added, looking at the list of Donna's turn-ons and turnoffs helpfully provided for us. Jack flipped through the pages. We saw Donna standing behind a wicker screen, her hair piled on top of her head. We saw her again against the pillows, and looking out a window. There were other girls, too, but I don't remember much about them. I recall only more breasts and buttocks, more hair tossed over the eyes and mouths gently pouting. When we reached the last page, Jack shut the magazine.
"Why do you think your dad has that?" I asked Jack.
"I guess he likes to look at it," he answered.
"Do you?" I asked. "Like to look at it, I mean."
Jack shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, the girls are pretty. Don't you think so?"
"Oh, yeah," I said quickly, afraid that if I didn't show some enthusiasm, Jack might begin to suspect that something was wrong with me. Jack slipped the Playboy under an armchair, turned off the light, and got back into his sleeping bag. A foot away from him, I stared into the darkness and thought about Donna Michelle's breasts. Looking at them had stirred something in me, and I was pleased about it. I felt a disruption inside me, a familiar quickening of the spirit that signaled arousal.
I tried to will it away. After all, I'd promised myself that I wouldn't do that anymore. My mind needed to remain pure, even if my eyes had been sullied by looking at the Playboy . I couldn't let Donna Michelle lead me where I'd determined not to go. I shut my eyes and began to count to one thousand by threes. It was a trick I'd learned from my father when I was seven and convinced that a terrible evil lived under my bed. Tired of having me appear at his bedside every time I woke up scared and looking for refuge, my father taught me to focus my thoughts on counting. Monsters, he said, hated counting, especially by threes. If I could keep my attention focused on counting as high as possible in triple steps, I would be safe. As I always fell asleep before getting past even one hundred, I quickly came to believe in the game's power. And long after the monster under the bed was vanquished, I continued to utilize it in times of stress. It calmed me.
I began counting quickly—3, 6, 9, 12, 15—and Donna Michelle's breasts became a dim memory. My blood slowed as my brain required more of it to process numbers, and my erection subsided as its powering agent ebbed. I kept going—18, 21, 24, 27—and soon fell into the familiar rhythm, like the chugging of a steam locomotive, passing through the thirties and into the forties. Around 57, I heard something that interrupted my counting. It was a faint rasping sound, like the rustling of leaves, but sustained and more rapid. I stumbled, forgetting whether I'd reached 63 or 66, and came to a halt. The sound continued, more quickly and loudly, and now it was accompanied by something else, the sound of breath.
I lay quietly, the darkness thick around me. The sounds continued, and I realized that they were coming from Jack. I almost asked if he was all right, then suddenly understood what he was doing and clamped my mouth shut before I could embarrass us both. I listened as he continued, apparently assuming I was asleep and oblivious to what was taking place inside his sleeping bag. Worse, I was once more becoming hard. I've since come to understand that desire is infectious, and that once the fire is lit, it spreads quickly to those in close proximity. Then, however, I knew only that I was about to break my vow.
I did it quietly, trying not to breathe. I matched the motion of my hand with Jack's, hoping that if he did hear a sound he would think it was his own. I wondered if he was thinking about Donna Michelle, with her rosy nipples and long hair. Maybe, I thought, he was imagining what he would do to her if she were there in the flesh. As I myself had no idea what one would do with a naked girl, I had to leave it at that. Whatever his thoughts (later he would tell me that he was thinking of nothing, just acting on impulse), Jack soon reached climax. I heard a sharp intake of breath, then a muffled moan, as if he had turned and buried his face in the pillow to keep from crying out. I followed soon after, my hand filling with sticky heat. Almost immediately I sank into the cold blackness of guilt. Even before my flesh had softened in my hand, I was berating myself for having been so weak. The wetness on my fingers felt like blood, staining my skin. I wiped them hurriedly on my shorts, wanting to be rid of the evidence. Within moments, Jack was snoring, apparently exhausted by his exertions. I, however, was more wide awake than before, tormented by the demons that leapt, monkeylike, from the cracks and fissures of my mind. They danced through my thoughts, poking me with accusing fingers and laughing meanly at my disappointment in myself. I suppose I could have taken solace in the moment, in realizing that I was not, after all, alone in my depravity. Jack, too, had felt its touch. But reaching that conclusion would have required the reasoning of my adult self and he, sadly, was years away from being able to offer his opinions and reassurance. Instead, I felt even worse, convinced that, somehow, my immorality had rubbed off on my best friend.
It was, of course, all terribly dramatic. But as I say, I was young, and inexperienced, and in the throes of first love, although that was something I couldn't even begin to recognize or understand. I knew only that I was unhappy again, and that alone was enough to keep me awake for most of the night. Finally, near dawn, I succumbed to exhaustion. Minutes later, or so it seemed to my weary self, Jack was waking me up so that we could watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Our families alternated holding holiday dinners, and it was my mother's turn for Thanksgiving. (Mrs. Grace would get Christmas, and the following year they would reverse duties.) So everyone convened in our house for the day, mothers in the kitchen and fathers with Jack and I in the living room. Despite my exhaustion, I do remember the parade. Elsie the Cow led the way as the newest balloon to make the march to Herald Square. Although the floats were draped in black in honor of Kennedy's death, a festive air still surrounded the events, and I couldn't help but be thrilled by the sight of Felix the Cat, Bullwinkle, Mickey Mouse, and Charlie Brown bouncing through the streets of New York as their handlers navigated the turns with aplomb.
Dinner was the usual affair, everything cooked to perfection following recipes from Good Housekeeping and The Joy of Cooking . Jack and I ate heartily, piling our plates with corn pudding, oyster stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, and, of course, the ubiquitous roast bird. We grew probably two sizes in the course of an hour and a half, and when we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was to collapse onto the floor in front of the television, bloated and groaning. We stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, watching with our equally stuffed fathers the annual Lions versus Packers game, in which we were only marginally interested, but which was far preferable to actually trying to move. When the game ended in a disappointing tie (we didn't care who, but we wanted someone to win), we managed to roll over and sit up long enough to eat two pieces of pie apiece topped with whipped cream.
I was half asleep by then, lulled away by food and my restless night at Jack's. When he and his parents said good night, I was up the stairs to my room in a matter of minutes. Pajamas on and teeth brushed, I slipped beneath the covers, not even bothering to read a few pages of the Jules Verne boo
k I'd picked up after finishing the last Hardy Boys mystery. I closed my eyes, and within minutes fell asleep. Donna Michelle came to me like Dickens' Ghost of Christmas Future, wrapped in snowy fur and bedecked with a crown of holly and gently flickering candles. She smiled as she reached for the clasp of her robe and unfastened it, letting it fall open to reveal her perfect breasts and, below, the bright flash of hair she'd kept to herself in her centerfold shot. She held out her hand to me, waiting.
"Don't you want to see what I have to show you, Ned?" she asked. Reluctantly, I reached out and took her hand in mine. Instantly, we were flying through the air, snow rushing past us as we sailed over a city twinkling with lights. Donna laughed, her voice sparkling like diamonds, and pointed to something far below. We descended, the city rushing up at us so that I had to cover my face with my arm. And then all was still.
I opened my eyes and saw that we were in a room. It was a hospital room. Someone was in the bed, tubes protruding from his arm and connected to bags of clear fluid hanging from poles. Lights flashed on machines behind the bed, their holiday red and green colors hideously ironic in a room that stank of sickness and death. From beyond the slightly open door to the room I heard the sound of carols sung by voices weak with pain.
"Is that Jack?" I asked Donna, looking at the figure in the bed. His face was thin, the eyes sunken, and the skin the color of ash. Ugly purple spatters stained his arms and exposed chest, the bones of which protruded menacingly.
"That can't be him," I said, looking away. But Donna nodded and pointed again. "What's happened to him?" I asked her, but she turned away. I grabbed her hand and spun her around to face me. "What's wrong with him?" I demanded of her. "He's dying," she said. Tears ran from her eyes and down her face.
"From what?" I asked.
"From love," said Donna. "He's dying from love."
I didn't understand her. How could Jack be dying from love? Love was something good. What was she talking about? Before I could ask any further questions, the lights on the machine behind Jack's head flickered and turned solid red. A faint buzzing filled the air, and a moment later the door was pushed open and a worried-looking nurse ran in. She looked at the machine, quickly pulled a pair of gloves over her hands, and held Jack's wrist in her fingers. After a moment, she gently laid his arm down at his side, reached over, and silenced the machine with the push of a button.
"Merry Christmas," she said softly as she pulled the curtain around Jack's bed closed. "He can't be dead," I said to Donna. "Can't I do something? Can't I help him?"
"I am only here to show you what might happen," she answered. "Nothing is for certain." "But what can I do?" I asked. "Tell me what I have to do so he doesn't die like this." "Love him," Donna replied. "You can love him."
She began to grow faint. Her skin paled and the candles in her crown slowly went out. I looked over at Jack and saw that he, too, was disappearing. The whole room was dissolving around me. I woke up in my own bed, shaking and feverish. My body was on fire from within, and coupled with the strange and disturbing dream, I was sure I, not Jack, was the one who was dying. It would turn out that I merely had the flu. I stayed in bed for the next three days. My mother brought me aspirin, soup, and cold washcloths until I felt better, just in time for school to resume on Monday. I spent the time reading, but mostly I thought about the dream. Donna had said that Jack was dying because of love, but also that I could save him by loving him. It didn't make any sense. How could the same thing be his killer and his salvation? It was a puzzle far too complex for my undeveloped powers of reasoning. While I could easily spot the villain in a Hardy Boys novel, I hadn't the first clue where to start solving the mystery of my own heart.
Jack was forbidden to visit me during my illness, which was just as well. I didn't want to see him, fearful that I would see in his face the gaunt expression of death. When I finally did see him, Monday morning, I was relieved to see that he was his usual healthy self.
"Hey," Jack said as we began the walk to school. "What a lousy vacation, huh?" "The parade was cool," I suggested.
Jack nodded as he kicked at the leaves covering the sidewalk. "Yeah, I guess." "And Christmas break is only a few weeks away," I reminded him.
"Right," said Jack, noticeably more upbeat. "And I bet it will snow soon. It's cold enough." "Sure," I said. "Then we'll go sledding."
With something to look forward to, Jack's mood improved considerably. He began talking animatedly about our winter plans, of ice skating and snowball battles and, best of all, the imminent arrival of the annual Sear's Wish Book and its store of treasures. I listened as he chattered, happy to be walking with him. But I also felt that I had now somehow become his guardian, responsible for making sure that he escaped the terrible thing that was waiting for him in the years ahead. I hoped that, like the flu, this new affliction would pass for both of us. Until it did, I would be watchful, looking for signs of danger, searching for the thing that would prevent Jack's destruction.
CHAPTER 5
It is a dreadful thing to feel responsible for someone else's well-being, and worse when that person seemingly feels no reciprocal obligation. Not that Jack didn't care about me. He did. But as we got older, his idea of caring came to consist primarily of making sure I wasn't ostracized socially, and this he did mostly because he needed to be sure of his own position in teenage society. If I sound bitter, perhaps I am. Whether this is justified or not I cannot say. I only know that I spent a great deal of my time during the next few years keeping a watchful eye on Jack. I was always on the lookout for danger, always suspicious that disaster waited behind every corner. I developed a wariness that manifested itself in almost pathological shyness and a tendency to walk around with my shoulders pulled up. A stiffness settled in my neck and refused to go away. I realize that I'm making Jack sound like a first-class egomaniac. He wasn't. He was a teenage boy, with all the usual faults of teenage boys. If others existed for his convenience, it was only partially his fault. As I've said, people tended to orbit around Jack, anxious to either earn his notice or take care of him. Boys liked him. Girls swooned over him. Through the changing parade of friends and hangers-on, I was the one constant, always there, always waiting.
During this time I learned to more or less ignore the feelings I had for Jack, or at least to convince myself that what I felt was friendship on a level slightly more focused than usual. This I attributed to the fact that we'd been thrust together at birth. It was only natural, I rationalized, that I would be closer to him than I would be to other boys. If I happened to sometimes think about him while I touched myself (after repeated failure, I'd given up hope of ever remaining chaste), that was only because we were so often together that he came naturally to mind. And if I thought about other boys as well, and never about girls, well, that was something I didn't allow myself to examine too closely. Besides, I had gotten good at feigning interest in girls. Largely this was accidental, as I still didn't quite realize that I had any real reason to pretend. My imaginings during masturbatory sessions were not overtly sexual, tending to focus more on vague daydreams about intense friendships. When I did allow myself to think about sex, it was in an offhand way, based mostly on glimpses of other boys in the locker room and wondering what it would be like to kiss or touch them. Even then, I hadn't the faintest idea what two boys might do together, and my fantasies almost always stopped above the waist. And anyway, I liked girls. I found them interesting, at least when they weren't giggling and whispering together in corners, as they seemed often to be doing. I found that, with some effort, I could even engage with the other boys in conversations about which girls were the most kissable, personable, or likely to put out if asked (not that I really knew what this meant). If I never quite got to the point of actually asking one of them to a school dance, or to a movie, that was attributed to my retiring nature. Girls were no problem for Jack. The charm he'd evidenced since birth only grew brighter as he reached his mid-teens. Where most of us spent a year or two battling a
cne, awkward bodies, and the ravages of hormones, Jack went through all of it seemingly overnight, going to bed a boy and waking up the next just a moustache away from manhood. His hair, once flaxen, was now a deep gold, which perfectly suited his blue eyes. Tall and lean, he'd discarded his baby fat long ago, leaving only muscle behind. It never occurred to him to feel inadequate because he was always the one against whom other people measured themselves.
It was no surprise that girls wanted to be with him, and beginning in the spring of 1964, he was frequently booked for Friday and Saturday nights. Often I was dragged along, usually as the partner of Jack's date's less-attractive friend. As it didn't matter to me what a girl looked like, this would have been the perfect arrangement, at least if the girls I was paired up with didn't inevitably fall in love with me. Several times I found myself doggedly pursued by a girl in whom I'd shown only polite interest. This would usually involve a few weeks of telephone calls and invitations to future events, all of which I accepted out of fear of hurting the girl's feelings. But eventually whatever charm I initially possessed seemed to wear off, and after two or three get-togethers, the girls usually moved on. I was puzzled by this interest in me for some time, until on the night of September 2, 1964, I received an explanation. In February of that year America was introduced to the music of the Beatles. Like just about everyone else under the age of 25, Jack and I embraced this new sound enthusiastically. We purchased Meet the Beatles , which we played over and over until our parents begged us to stop. Thankfully, the Fab Four released three more albums before the summer was over, giving us a regular supply of new material with which to irritate the adults in our lives, who eyed our growing hair with suspicion and longed for the days of Marty Robbins and Patti Page.