Science Can Be Fun

Author’s note: This is not a love story, but rather designed as almost a comedy. Please accept it as such.

As high schools go, it was small with only about 140 students. Brandon was 18 and superbly gay. More accurately, he was a precocious flaming queen and it didn’t bother him one bit. He stood a whopping 5′ 4” tall and was as skinny as a rail. He had delicate, feminine features, sandy blond hair, blue eyes and a lilting voice.

Everyone liked his upbeat, outgoing spirit that was full of humor. He didn’t have a lover because the school was so small, but gave an occasional blow job or very selectively allowed his cute, little ass to be plowed by the few closet gays and bi-curious jocks.

However, he was particular in that regard, preferring small to average cocks over the monsters. By his way of thinking, more than a mouthful was a waste, and sitting on a telephone pole wasn’t a thrill; it just fucking hurt. He also didn’t care for the hairy apes, thinking of one senior who was so hairy that his dick looked like a button on a fur coat.

Of course, he had been through the wringer with every type of bullying known to man, but quickly learned to adapt, using offense as his best defense. The jocks had actually come to admire him. In a way, he was “their” fag, and they relished it when a new student arrived to begin his series of abuse, not knowing what he was in for.

The first day of the new school year was always the best. The jocks would gather a short distance away from him in the hall and wait for the first victim. Sure enough, some brute would start his assault. “Fucking fag. Make sure you stay away from me, you slimy worm.”

The jocks looked on. “Oh, this is going to be good. Wait for it. Here it comes,” they snickered in anticipation. Brandon would jump onto his chest, locking his legs and arms around him like an octopus, then mash his lips against the attacker’s.

The effect was stunning. The bully would panic, his eyes bulge and thrash around trying to rid himself of this barnacle. You might as well try peeling off 50 layers of plastic wrap.

Unable to speak because Brandon kept a vice-grip on his lips, the abuser could only squeal and spin around, crashing into the lockers until Brandon suddenly jumped off and ran away, leaving the asshole in a complete daze. The jocks roared with laughter and, if the guy tried to pursue him, they would step in and tell him to leave Brandon alone.

Six hulking jocks sent a pretty clear message. Similarly, if the attack came in the classroom, where someone would hurl “fag, queer, fairy queen,” or other derogatory hand grenades at him, Brandon would get up, walk straight to the accuser and plant a big, wet kiss right on his lips, saying, “I love you, too.”

The classroom would erupt in laughter and the dork would be left feeling like a complete boob. Public humiliation is a wonderful thing.

Harold was also 18, and a nerd. He was able to quote Shakespeare, solve physics problems and point out every constellation in the night sky. No one ever called him Harry or Hal. He was Harold, a name that destined him to nerdness forever.

Brandon had observed, however, that he was unlike a nerd in at least one way; he was gorgeous, certainly by his standards. Harold did not have the gangly, long legs and arms, the goofy smile or the black-rimmed glasses repaired with medical tape at the bridge. He also didn’t use a pocket protector full of pens. He was average in every way; average height and weight, build and looks, brown hair and eyes, physically fit, but not athletic or muscular, friendly and bright without looking down at others.

Brandon had also scoped Harold out in the shower. He needed to do this carefully, taking a few peeks through the long hair that fell just below his ears as he washed his face. He faked not paying attention, lest someone beat the shit out of him.

Average cock, smooth, mostly hairless skin, and a set of firm, round buns that were to die for. Harold had no friends to speak of, much less a girlfriend. Hell, a math problem would interest him more. Brandon wondered if he had ever whacked off. Probably not, he concluded. Determining the frequency of lunar tides would surely make you forget a hard-on.