For Brandon James, the wait to fuck his girlfriend, Becca Marin, over the last seventy-two hours was nigh on unbearable for his nutsack. Before he arrived at her house, he Googled Are blue balls dangerous?, How dangerous are blue balls?, and finally, Has anyone ever died from blue balls? Since the eighteen-year-olds became sexually active over the last month, not a day passed when he and Becca didn’t have sex. However, because Becca was consumed with midterms, she hadn’t made time for her boyfriend, and he was feeling the heat (it was all South of his belly button). Naturally, when Becca invited Brandon over specifically for some “kissin’ and smoochin’”—her code phrase for sex—Brandon expected to get laid. He figured this would be his reward for the sympathy, kindness, devotion, and empathy he planned to display from the moment he entered her bedroom. As they lay on her bed, snuggling close, Brandon began lifting her top with one hand and unfastening her skirt with the other.
“Sweetie,” Becca said, reaching for his hands.
“Oh fuck me not that fucking tone,” Brandon thought, worried that he said the words aloud.
“Things have been kind of crazy the last few days,” she began. “I know I invited you over for kissin’ and smoochin’, but can we hold off? My head is in such a weird place right now. Maybe this weekend?”
“It’s Tuesday,” Brandon replied, not sounding sympathetic, kind, devoted, or empathetic.
“So?” Becca said, scooting back on her bed. “What? Are you pissed because I don’t want kissin’ and—”
“No, I’m pissed you don’t want to fuck,” Brandon said, sitting up in her bed. “I’ve been waiting three days for Christ’s sake!”
“Oh, is that all I am to you?” Becca shouted. “Some kind of sex toy that you can use whenever you want?”
“Uh… no,” Brandon responded with equal venom. “If you were, my nuts wouldn’t be aching like they’re filled with cement.”
“You’re gross,” Becca said.
“I should probably go,” Brandon sneered.
“What a cool trick!” Becca said, looking around quickly with mock surprise. “You totally just read my mind.”
“Seeya,” Brandon said, grabbing his jacket from the back of her desk chair and walking out her bedroom as she groaned and threw what sounded like one of her textbooks against the wall.
Brandon stormed downstairs to find Mr. Marin sitting in the living room, reading from his tablet while watching television. Mrs. Marin was in the kitchen, putting the dishes from the dishwasher away. Brandon stopped for a moment and looked around, hoping there was another exit. It felt awkward to have to say goodbye to Becca’s father only thirty minutes after stopping by.
“Going so soon?” Mr. Marin asked.
“Yeah,” Brandon answered. “I have a ton of homework to catch up on. I just stopped by to see how Becca’s studying was going.”
“I see,” Mr. Marin said, delivering a doubtful glare. “You sure everything is okay, son?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brandon said, failing to assure the man.
Mr. Marin looked toward the kitchen, where his wife was thoroughly preoccupied. He stood, and a sly grin crossed his face as he walked toward the stairs, where Brandon was on the final step. Becca’s father was an imposing man who seemed to delight in making Brandon uncomfortable. That was Brandon’s take on their thus far brief relationship.
Maybe it was because his shoulders were as broad as a linebacker, or his chest was downright superheroic, or that he had the sort of deep voice that could wrench the truth out of anyone. Whatever it was, nobody on the planet made Brandon feel so uncomfortable. Was it because he was so handsome, the teenager wondered? His brown hair was always cropped short, and he wore a thick mustache with his perpetual five o’clock shadow. The man looked like a cop or firefighter. Instead, he had a perplexing government job that Becca failed miserably trying to describe.
“You look troubled,” Mr. Marin said with his slight Spanish accent. He placed his hand on Brandon’s shoulder just a few seconds before the teen noticed his arms were covered in goosebumps.
“I… um, no… I’m fine,” Brandon stammered. The last time he felt this uneasy was when he heard his father’s car pull into the driveway after being suspended from school.
“Do I frighten you, son?” Mr. Marin asked.
“No,” Brandon replied, slightly frightened.
“Would you come with me?” Mr. Marin asked, turning to check on his wife, who was beginning to mop the kitchen floor. “Over here, to the garage.”
“I really have to—“ Brandon started.
“It’ll only take a few minutes, son,” Mr. Marin promised. He placed his arm over Brandon’s shoulder and walked the teenager into the garage. “You’re getting bigger. How’s the wrestling team? You going to the finals this year?”
“We’re working on it,” Brandon said. At least somebody noticed that he had put on some muscle, the teenager thought. He was proud of his fit, stalky frame. It bothered him that he received constant ogling from girls on campus, but his own girlfriend didn’t appear to be impressed with the work he put into his muscle-bound frame.
The two entered the garage, and Mr. Marin immediately pulled a key from the wall and fastened the deadlock. He placed it back on its holder and turned a light on next to his bench. Neither of the Marin’s cars were parked in the space. There were two vintage Harley Davidsons in the middle of the garage, however, and both were in pristine condition. Becca mentioned that her father was a nut for motorcycles. He spent most of his free time either obsessing over the ones he owned or trying to convince his wife that they should invest in more of them.
“Do you like my Harleys?” Mr. Marin asked.
“I do, sir,” Brandon answered, crouching down to admire the 1948 Custom Bobber Chopper. “They’re stunning.”
“Aren’t they, though?” the man said. “I suppose I have a weakness for things I find stunning.” Mr. Marin stepped behind Brandon and let his hand gently caress the teen’s back. “Do you know what I mean, Brandon?”
“Um… Mr. Marin, uh… I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Brandon said, not moving from where he was.
The thing about Brandon was that he had been attracted to men and women since the age of twelve. At least, that was what he told himself. If he really did the math, it would probably lean seventy-five percent for men, easy. If not more. He figured that this was something he might explore when he went to college after the summer.
During junior high, Brandon was infatuated with his Geometry instructor, Mr. Walsh. The student would stare at his married teacher’s crotch whenever the man leaned against his desk. Brandon never thought about why he would have these feelings, and he never shared them with anybody. Over the years, while grocery shopping with his mother, Brandon would run into Mr. Walsh from time to time. While Brandon’s mother would speak with the educator, Brandon’s eyes always wandered to a familiar spot on the former instructor’s body.
This wasn’t the only older man that filled Brandon’s thoughts late at night. There was Travis McClusky, who coached the high school baseball team. Father Robbins, the James family’s longtime pastor, and the only reason Brandon rarely missed Sunday services. And then there was Hart James, Brandon’s handsome uncle. The teenager was well aware that his feelings for his uncle were of a sexual nature, and he pined for a chance to be on the receiving end of the man’s cock.
“You have nothing to be afraid of, son,” Mr. Marin said, pulling Brandon to his feet and holding the teen close. “I like calling you son. I always wanted a boy of my own. I imagine he would have been a knockout like you.”
Mr. Marin was holding Brandon snug, and the teenager struggled to remove himself from the man’s grasp. However, the real struggle was occurring in Brandon’s pants, where his cock pressed against the front of his jeans. Something was brushing against it. And it was huge.
“Mr. Marin?” Brandon said in a tone so light, he could hardly hear himself.
“There’s nothing to worry about, son,” Becca’s father said, with a deep, raspy tone.
One of Mr. Marin’s arms was secured around Brandon, while his other hand held the teenager’s chin so tight that it was forcing the young man’s tongue out. Becca’s father went in for a kiss, and for three seconds—maybe two—Brandon had it in his mind to shove the man away. But the taste of Mr. Marin’s tongue, blanketed in alcohol, as well as the pressure of their lips together, was not disagreeable to Brandon. It felt pretty fucking fine, the horny teen thought.