Boys at Play

Tom was not an average boy; five foot seven inches, 14, and stunning. His beach-blond hair, skater-boy looks, and muscular facade all compliment his sky blue eyes in a way no other’s did. He seemed to luminance, sticking out of the crowd with a comfortable glow; an idol in a way, with never an enemy. I, being the forementioned’s “Best Friend”, was aware of all of this, and (although secretly) very, very attracted. We went to Jacksonville Middle School, 8th grade. I am five foot nine, very muscular, and bisexual. I have brown hair, commonly mistaken for black, green-blue eyes, and the identical “skater-boy” haircut.

It was second period: Science. Tom was flirting harmlessly with his lab partner, Sharon, a pretty brunette with boobs the size of Jupiter. ‘A lucky man,’ I thought. ‘I would kill to be next to those boobs. Or, him. Ah, his luscious pectorals… taking off his shirt, and running my mouth down, down his chest. Sliding down his Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, yes, until I met those fruitful Calven Klein Boxers. Slowly, I slid them off and-‘

“Stop daydreaming!” my annoying, but still slightly attractive partner said. She aimed a kick at my shin, but missed and hit the cabinet instead. “Shit!” she whispered under her breath, praying the resulting noise would not attract our teacher. We were supposed to be dissecting onions and studying their cells.

“Whatever,” I replied, still snickering. “What are we looking at again?”

“The mitochondria! The fucking mitochondria! He said that at least nine times!” She replied with a scornful look. “God, you’re a pig!”

I went back to studying, my mind taken off of Tom for most of the period. The bell rang at exactly 10:00, and everyone dashed out more quickly then usual. Apparently, cutting up onions is not exciting.

“Hey!” Tom said, catching up to me after class. “Guess what?” he said

“Sharon’s boobs exploded?” I asked, sarcastically.

“I wish..! I got transfered to gym next period.”

“Oh cool! Now we have, let’s see, nine out of ten classes together.” I replied, without a hint of sarcasm. This might be the best thing that has ever happened, I thought to myself. We entered the locker room, and he went off to meet the fitness teacher. I slid over to my locker, #284, and precariously began to enter my locker combo. I pulled off my jeans, Hollister, and then my matching shirt. Folding them compulsively and putting them in my locker, I remembered it was the swimming unit.