I have always felt like I was married to Bill. Which, really, is a nutty thing to say, considering that, when I ran into him at the class reunion, I hadn't seen him for almost twenty years.
And, even back then, even when we saw each other every day, we never talked. Not about us, about our relationship, whatever exactly it was. Love was never mentioned. For sure we never talked about marriage, not ours, anyway, him and me together. In those days, that idea wasn't in currency. Even in my own mind, I wouldn't have put it in quite those words. I sure wouldn't have said them aloud.
We didn't even ever talk about the sex, for Pete's sake, and there was a lot of that. A serious lot of it. Blowing one another in sleeping bags in the noisy privacy of tents, or in the bedroom he shared with his brother, taking great care with the creaky springs. Or, depending upon who slept over, in the greater freedom of my quieter bed. My fucking him in the damp summer grass in the back yard with the crickets cheering us on and the old barn owl shocked into exclamation. Best of all, at night on the gritty shore by the brown-green creek where we'd go skinny dipping, his dick tasting of muddy water. He'd lie with his legs wide, staring up at the sky. Sometimes, especially when he was close to coming, he'd clench my head in his thighs while I nursed in Edenic bliss, my tongue lapping in synch with the gentle murmur of the nearby water.
We did it all lustily and, at least on my part, happily. And often enough, surely, which is to say every chance we got. But never a word was spoken. Not before. No, "Would you like to...?" And not during, and not after either.
Which at the time did not seem peculiar to me, but later, as I got older and had other experiences, I thought of it not so much as odd, but as wasted opportunities. Because I would like to have told him how I felt about him. I'd like to have heard how he felt about me. What a difference if might have made.
But, no, nothing. The sounds of love, but never the words. When you're young and a guy, words are the least of it. Dicks are important, maybe the most important of all. Nuts count too. Jism counts. Words...words come later, and they're not always the right words. Whoever says what they really meant to say? It's a twisted road from brain to tongue, isn't it? We got lost on the way.
Bill was my high school friend. The first real one I'd ever had, and from the first time he smiled at me and fell in step with me in the school hallway, I was in love. I was the school nerd, the sissy who was always last to be picked for the softball games at gym time. Bill was no star athlete, but he could hit the damned ball, at least, which was more than I ever managed. Swinging mightily, while the ball sailed somewhere else, and the guys smirked or outright guffawed.
Everyone except Bill, who just gave me a commiserating smile and, later, the two of us alone, pushed me back on the sandy shore and took his turn sucking me off, sucked the softball poison right out of me, like draining a wound. He must have taken flak for hanging around with me. On his own, he could have passed as just another one of the guys. Strolling around school with me had to mark him too, but he never said anything about it, and I never asked. Another non-subject.
And, here is a funny thing about all this. No matter how often the sex, no matter how hot, it somehow still remained innocent. Maybe that was why we never talked about it. Maybe the only words we could have come up with were dirty ones that would have spoiled everything forever. It was like, it wasn't so much sex as it was that we were expressing our affinity for one another, our essential oneness.
Talking about it would have made it into sex. I think I knew instinctively when Bill sucked me off, did it without any hesitation or clumsiness, like he'd been doing it since the cradle, although I was his first, his only, I think I knew from the start that Bill could handle all the rest of it, just not that. Just not turning it into sex. Maybe he was more Greek than I had imagined, thinking of it as friendship and not love. Platonic.
I asked him one time, "Do you read Plato?" Thinking that was the explanation, that somehow he'd stumbled upon the Symposium, but he only blinked at me and said, "That dog in the cartoons?"
Bill wasn't dumb, but he wasn't a brain, either. Smart enough, but not much of a reader. I was the brain. He was the good looking one, not cigarette ad or movie poster handsome, just as in he looked good. His eyes were beautiful, with lashes so long he could have swept sidewalks with them. For sure, they swept me off my feet, all it took was one glance from him, and I melted, total ice cube in August syndrome. His mouth was too full to be classically handsome, but it was soft and sweet on my cock.
I wondered many times what it would be like to kiss his mouth, dreamed of it in glorious Technicolor and stereophonic sound, but I never quite got up the courage to try it.
I settled for his cock. That was soft and sweet too, and always, always ready to go. Kissing was like talking, it would almost certainly bring another dimension into it. I waited for him to bring that up. He never did. That was okay. I had that beautiful cock for compensation. I kissed it with my lips, and sometimes it seemed to kiss me back.
His cock loved me, I was sure of that. Absolutely mutual, too. I've met better looking guys over the years, and better hung ones, but nobody ever had a sweeter cock. Long after I'd lost the use of it, I dreamed of it nightly.
Cinerama. Three D. Smell-O-Vision. They knew how to make movies in those days, but the films that showed on their screens were nothing compared to the ones that ran nightly in the theater of my imagination.