Circa year 11, Smithton Grammar School,
First class of the day, Mr (maths) Brett – as apposed to Mr (accounting) Brett – refused to be drawn on the subject of the infamous, bordering on legendary, Reynolds class fame. (The fame being, the most disruptive, most disagreeable, smartest, naughtiest, most universally loved, most exacerbating, group of boys that the school had ever had in one class, in it's entire illustrious history... or some such rot) It was a disruptive move, on our part, to be sure. He was on to us.
“Apparently,” said Mr Brett. That was the only word he would offer on the topic, in his usual, clipped manor, speaking with his back to us, as he wrote on the board.
He was one of the good teachers, who liked us, who had us totally under his control. He would never stand for any of our nonsense.
“You are just trying to impress us,” I said.
He stopped writing at the board, hesitated, tossed the chalk up in the air and caught it and turned around with his another-foolish-victim-I’m-going-to-enjoy-this kind of smile on his face.
He never lost his cool, Mr Brett. Never needed to, he had students in the palm of his hand, always. He enjoyed a joke, he enjoyed intelligent banter, he was funny, interesting and tough and it was a very foolish student, indeed, who took him on, who dreamed that he could get the better of Brett. I knew how much, or, in fact, how little, I could actually say and get away with it.
“No, I’m not,” smiled Brett, looking straight at me. Come forth said the spider to the fly. “I’ve actually never been impressed by rumours.” Smile – care to add anything, kind of look? “Oh.” Smile. “Ah." Broader smile. "That would make a very good essay question, I do believe.” Tactictory move, daring me to say another word, as he opened his, now famous, essays given as a punishment page, in his teacher’s diary.
An essay was considered a stern warning and in Brett's idea of learning the only possible escalation for breaching a stern warning, was a Saturday detention. No excuses at all would be entertained, short of a team of lawyers hired by your father. That was the true sting of Brett's essays.
I said nothing further.
“Well?... Just as I thought," said Brett. "Now, back to... maths, shall we?” he’d say in that slightly, mad professor way of speaking that he had.
I shut up instantly, so as not to break the longest, impossible, record held by a member of our R class, I had never been landed a Brett essay. I was cheeky, engaging, provocative, at times, but I always knew when to stop. I was mostly lumped in with the smart kids, after all.
Alex came in late, near the end of the class. The seat next to me was spare. Our eyes met. We smiled. He crashed down in the chair.
Mr Brett kept quiet, as soon as Alex entered the room. Brett’s eyes followed Alex all the way to his seat. He raised his eye brows waiting for either of us to speak, which was a sure essay topic, 500 words. Brett always said, that being late, occasionally, was inevitable, it was a fact of life and that if you entered the room quietly and didn’t disturb the class, every thing would be cool, as he liked to say. He always emphasised cool, if ever he said it. He always raised his thumb, as he said it. It was just one of his idiosyncrasies. To speak, was to disturb the class. We said nothing. We stared a head. It was the first time we'd seen each other.
Brett returned to speaking and drawing on the board.
Alex turned to me. “Hi,” he said softly. His eyes sparkled.
"Hi," I said. I swooned, just a bit.
I got cold feet and tried to leave last night, after school, but Alex was waiting when I went to go home.
“Come on,” said Alex. “Let’s go.” Smile. “Follow me.”
It was that easy. He pushed through the door at the end of the hall and was gone. I looked around, nobody was there, the hallway was empty. I grabbed my bag and followed Alex.
We crossed diagonally across Mary Street and headed for the Municipal Buildings. Alex has got a round, hot arse, in his grey, flannel pants. Nice thick thighs. Broad shoulders. A floppy, blond fringe.
“I wasn’t letting you get away, tonight,” said Alex. “You still want to, don’t you?”
Alex has a beautiful smile. I only got a momentary glimpse of it, I could tell he was taking this seriously.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. My stomach was suddenly feeling queasy. My cock was semi-erect. I was self-conscious of it hard in my pants, as a mother came towards us with her daughter. I slid my bag off my shoulder and let it slide down in front of me.
“Nice cock,” said Alex, as he looked between me and my bag. “Good afternoon,“ Alex said, broad smile, as he looked back at the strangers, not missing a beat.
“Come on.” Alex jumped over the gardens, around the car park and ran towards the side of the building away from the street. The park came right up to there and met the dark grey asphalt. The public toilets were out of view, set under the building. Alex pushed the door open and went in. I followed straight behind him, not looking around, pretending, hoping to be invisible. I tossed my bag on top of his and went into the cubicle after him.
Alex unclipped the waist of my school trousers, he undid the fly and slid his hand inside my jocks. I undid his pants and did the same. His pubes were coarse, his cock was stiffening – out side ways – his balls were hot. We kissed each other passionately, as we played with each others cocks, for the first time. I melted on his lips, it was everything I’d known it would be. I knew I was going to want to do this again and again, as soon as our lips slid over one another. Hot, wet, slippery, sexy.
We pulled our shirts open and pushed our pants down to our ankles and felt passionate, skin on skin, legs, cock and balls, stomachs, chests, lips, mouths, smiles, eyes, sex.
His body was tight; his cock was hard. It felt good and was all over far too soon. I’d never really made another male cum like that, with everything I had, before. Did we really do that? Have I ever liked anything more? No.
I can still taste him on my breath, feel his hands on my skin, see the white milky cum spurting out of him.
“Christian!” Brett was rolling the “r” in my name furiously. My eyes focused, Alex’s face, smiling.
“Chris,” said Alex, nervously.
“Christian Fletcher, for the third time, do you know the answer?” Brett was standing directly in front of me, with his impatient face on.
Alex smiled. I sat up straight. I ran my hand through my hair, for a seconds pause, my head spun. I looked at my watch.
“Yes, Mr Brett,” I said confidently. “I believe I do... know... know the answer.” I glanced at Alex.
"Excellent," said Brett. He smiled. "Well lets have it, then?"
The bell sounded for the end of the class. Brett waited for my answer. The natives got restless; once one starts to pack up, they all do. The noise crescendoed. The two of us were frozen in time.
"For next class," said Brett, breaking the connection.
I exhaled and sat back in my chair, as the tension drained away.
Alex brushed my arm and smiled. "Fuck!" he said.
I gazed at Alex, smiling at me.
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