BRIAN & THE BAD BOY

I should have known that inviting Casey Renning over after school would end
up in disaster. Well, okay…not a bad disaster. Kind of a good one
actually. I mean, he didn’t burn the house down or kill my sister. With
Casey, trust me, both of those things were entirely possible.

No, it was a pretty safe disaster, as far as property damage goes. As I
think about it, looking at the matching cum stains on my floor, there were
parts of this particular disaster that I’m very eager to have happen again.

Let me explain.

My name’s Brian Barrett. I just turned 14. Nothing too impressive about
that. If you ask me, 14 feels like 13, and 13 feels like 12. Maybe that’s
the way life works. You go through year after year aging, and you never
feel older than 12. Jesus, wouldn’t that be scary?

Anyway, I’m getting off the subject. Back to Casey.

Casey Renning has been a thorn in my side since kindergarten. An
interesting, alluring, exciting and frustrating thorn…but a thorn,
nonetheless.

Living in a small town, the kids are the same, year after year. New ones
pop up and old ones move off, but for the most part, it’s the same mix. So,
basically, if you wind up sitting next to an asshole for that first milk and
cookie break when you’re five, you better get used to him, Sparky, because I
guarantee, you’re stuck with him for life.

And boy, have I ever been stuck with Casey.

In first grade, he pinned me down on the playground, sat on my head and
farted right up my nose. I should have known right then we were destined
for glory. But of course, being a moron (i.e. “a nice, sweet boy,” as my
mom puts it)…I figured I was cool enough and smart enough to keep Casey on
my good side.

Besides, even back then, there was something curiously exciting about Casey.
Even though he was mean to me, there was something about him that captured
my attention and just wouldn’t let me go. His picking on me made me feel
important somehow. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s still a grade-A,
number-one butt hole — and there have been times when he’s been downright
mean to me — but as crazy as it sounds, there’s something I like about
that. I don’t know how to explain it other than saying there’s some kind of
tension between us. Something that feels dangerous. Even back then, on the
first grade playground, it felt dangerous and good.

So, in second grade, half scared of him, half-amazed, stars in my eyes at
his nonstop daring, I started doing his homework for him. True to form, he
repaid the favor by spilling his apple juice next to me in the lunch room
and telling forty people I pissed my pants. He got a major date with the
principal’s office, and I got a ride home from the guidance counselor so I
could change.

But I laughed about it. Outside, I had to act like it pissed me off. But
inside, I thought it was very, very cool. I liked the attention. Casey
picked on a lot of kids. But when he did it to me, it felt special somehow.

He never beat me up or anything — for some unknown reason, he spared me
that particular joy (lord knows, he shared it with others) — but he still
managed to make my school life a series of headaches and embarrassments, and
puzzling, growing attraction, year after year.

I was almost compelled to dare him to go further. It’s like we had an
unspoken agreement. He’d do something mean, I’d flip him off and call him
an asshole. And I imagined I could see in his eyes how much he liked the
attention he was giving me, too.

Through the years, Casey went for the ongoing, what’s-going-to-happen-next
torture. He flushed my third-grade book reports down the toilet. He put
seventy dead flies in my bookbag in fourth. Even I was impressed by that
one. I mean, come on. You’re pretty committed to someone when you’ve got
the energy to round up seventy dead flies.

And once in sixth, he stole my jock strap during gym class and pinned it up
to the bulletin board in the choir room. That one was a real crowd-pleaser,
since my mom, in her infinite wisdom, decided to sew my name inside the
waistband. To this day, I thank God there weren’t any pee stains.

He did something else with my jock strap in sixth grade. One time in the
locker room, after gym class, after showers…he picked it up from the hook
inside my locker and pressed it to his face. He made a big show of smelling
it, and licking it and moaning “mmmmmm” in a loud, funny voice, that made
everybody laugh, and made me turn beet red in embarrassment. I grabbed it
away from him and called him an asshole while he just laughed and flicked a
towel at my bare ass. Humiliations were nothing new when Casey had his
flock of admirers around to impress.

And humiliated I was. Being studious and a good student, I occasionally
heard the whisper of “fag” or “fem” in the hallways. I didn’t really think
much of it. Hell, everybody calls everybody those names. They don’t really
mean anything.

But seeing Casey do his erotic little joke routine with my jockstrap was a
little over the line. Especially since everybody laughed, and the story
would make it from one end of the school to the other by the end of the day,
which it did.

So, outwardly, I had to pretend I was pissed at him. But secretly, I was
dazed.

I went home that night and jacked off furiously, replaying it my mind over
and over. Watching him rub my sweaty jock against his nose…watching him
breath in deeply, saying “mmmmmm”…watching his small tongue dart out,
licking the material. It affected me very, very strongly. It made me very
excited. It wouldn’t be the first time I masturbated, thinking back to that
locker room scene.

I don’t think I’m gay. I don’t even worry about it really. I mean, you’ll
never catch me at the beach, checking out guys asses and stuff. It’s only
Casey, for some reason. When he’s around…I get nervous. Sometimes I just
feel…different.

So, basically, that’s the way it’s been with me and Casey since our earliest
days. He pulls his annoying little jokes on me and when I don’t have the
energy to think of a good insult, I roll my eyes and try to ignore him, the
whole time, trying to hide how excited he makes me feel…how even BAD
attention from him is GOOD attention.

So, here we are at the end of eighth grade — Casey and I are both a
seasoned 14 — old pros at the ongoing humiliation routine — he’s the
humiliator and I’m the humiliatee.