One afternoon we were drunk at his cousin’s house, where Buddy lived in the basement for a reason I never quite understood, and he came into the bathroom while I was taking a piss. I thought he walked in on me by accident, but then he looked down at my dick and grinned at me like he could read my mind.
At first I was just terrified that he knew my secret. That he was going to tell everyone that I sometimes got hard-ons in the locker room. But then he unzipped his jeans and pissed into the toilet with me. I started to say something, but when we were finished, he reached for me. I startled, but he grinned the way he did when we were playing video games or when he made a good block, blue eyes scrunching up, tongue just showing between the gap in his teeth. He put my hand on his dick and we stroked each other off. It felt good, losing it between us, his rough hand on me. But the second it was over, I was so terrified, so ashamed that I practically ran out of the bathroom.
The next time I saw Buddy, we both acted normal, but the second we were alone, he pushed me against the wall and started fumbling with our pants and I got hard in about three seconds.
We never talked about what we did. We never touched anything but each other’s dicks. Never kissed or caressed. That would’ve seemed totally weird. But it was clear that we both wanted it, so…. That whole month, whenever we were alone together, we jerked each other off, fast and hard, and then got drunk like it never happened and watched football or played one of his cousin’s video games. He would hang around the shop sometimes, shooting the shit with me and Sam. He was into cars too, so it was no big deal.
After another couple months, it was clear what he wanted. He wanted to fuck me. When I got annoyed at him trying to pull me down onto the bed, he’d just act like it was a joke and we’d finish up like we always had.
One day, though, he lost his temper. He was a smiley guy. Big and blond, and when he smiled he looked like he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But when he got pissed, his whole face and neck turned red and his eyes squinted and his mouth turned to a snarl. That day, when I tried to laugh it off, he crowded me against the wall. “You know how easy it’d be for me to tell everyone about this?” he said. I kind of laughed again and rolled my eyes, but his expression chilled me.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Let’s just help each other out, okay?”
I was shocked at what he was saying, but he was still Buddy. Still my friend, and I didn’t think he’d really say anything.
“Come on, man,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, bud. I’m just saying there are things that feel a whole hell of a lot better than a hand job, you know?” And he smiled at me like he always did. “Look, just think about it.” Then he backed off like he knew he’d gone too far.
A few weeks later, I’d almost forgotten about it. Written it off to being drunk and horny and stupid. He called, asked if I wanted to hang out, and I went.
And it was fine. We drank a few beers, ordered pizza, watched a game. No problem. Same thing the next time. It was all fine.
Then he started bringing it up again. Casually. How good it’d be. How it was no big deal. Just getting off. Just between friends. And how easy it’d be to slip up and tell someone about what we did together.
Finally, one night, he was more explicit than usual and I was tired of going around in circles. So I agreed. Because he was my friend. Because people finding out seemed like the worst thing that could possibly happen. And because maybe Buddy was right and it would be good. Maybe also because I wanted to know for sure. Because sex with Maya had turned into a nightmare, but that was my only experience with it. So yeah. I said okay.
He got that familiar grin on his face. My friend. Happy because I was doing what he wanted. He patted me on the back like I’d made the right decision, and he fumbled our pants down and pushed me down on the bed.
“Cool, man,” he said. “This’ll be awesome.”
But it wasn’t awesome. I couldn’t relax and it hurt and when I wanted to stop—
“Don’t pull that girl shit, man. You agreed. We had a deal.”
So. Afterward, we never did it again. I didn’t go over to Buddy’s house anymore and he didn’t call me again.
But then one morning, I came out to the garage, coffee mug in hand, to see Buddy there, talking with Pop. It had been more than four years, but at the sight of his blond hair and rounded shoulders, I felt queasy and light-headed.
He was going to be picking up a few shifts at the garage, Pop said.
“Hey, man,” Buddy said to me, clapping me on the back. “Long time no see, huh?”