Marcel

Marcel had always known he liked boys, but he didn't know the word for it until he was about 13 and his Dad was flipping through the channels on tv. He'd come across some fashion show, where the male host was critiquing some ladies outfit.

"Goddamned queerfags…" He'd mumbled, changing channels. Curious, Marcel had asked what that meant, and his father had explained. His description may have been less than accurate, but Marcel recognized that that's exactly what he was.

His mother's job had them moving every few years, and while he'd grown up in a small town (he was probably the resident queerfag) when he was 14 and starting highschool, they'd moved to Colombus.

It had taken him a while to make friends, but upon being handed a flyer advertising the schools Gay-Straight-Alliance, it quickly became apparent who he should be friends with. Not all the other queerfags in the school were part of it, but they did all seem to be friends with each other. They were friendly to him from the start, and he began sitting with them at lunch.

However, it then also became apparent that he was very different from his new queerfag friends. They had highlights in their hair, and wore skinny jeans and cared about whether or not Ashton Kutcher was cheating on Demi Moore with a waitress from the Keg. He felt a little disconnected at first, but they'd helped him. They taught him how to dress, and how to act and what to say. They taught him how to do his hair, and what magazines to read, and what boys to flirt with. They taught him how to flirt. And kiss. They took him to clubs and parties, where he could practice said flirting and kissing skills. Apparently, he was good at it.

And then sometimes he wasn't just kissing and flirting at the clubs and parties, sometimes he was on his knees in the bathroom too. They hadn't taught him blowjobs, but he got the hang of them pretty quickly. He'd read a book once where a guy had been forced into giving a blow job he didn't want to give. The guy'd said after the fact that it wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love. Marcel thought that was a perfect way to describe what he was doing. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love.

Maybe he thought if he did it enough, one day it would be love..maybe he he was just doing what his Dad had told him queerfags did. Either way, he just kept doing it.

Summer after 10th grade, he'd been at a party one night with his friend Shane. They'd both gotten too drunk, and the next morning Marcel woke up in terrible pain, next to Shane in bed. Shane had grinned sloppily at him. "Whoops."

And that was sex. Whoops. No big though. Except for the pain…

Worse then the pain was the fact that he'd had sex, and couldn't even remember it. Big deal or no, he wanted to know what it was like, at least. So he'd gone to a club, and flirted and kissed his way back into the bathroom he'd knelt down in so many times before.

Whoops.

It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love.

He'd only done it a few times after that, mostly when he was drunk or in a shitty mood. He liked the other things better though, and decided he'd focus more on them. He wanted to be good at them, too. So he practiced on his friends. It was like a game, shoving their dicks down his throat until he gagged and his eyes teared, knowing that eventually he'd stop gagging. He learned the right places to suck and lick and stroke, and get feed back from them.

"…Oh fuck Marcel, shit you're so fucking good at that…"

"…Uh, oh faster go faster I need more ohh…"

"…So good, oh god yes…."

It was nice actually. From the moment he went down on them to the second they came in his mouth, it was like an endless stream of compliments.

Eventually they'd figured out what he was doing. Apprently each of them had thought they'd had some sort of exclusive friends with benefits type thing going with him. They'd been pissed when they'd learned he was actually sucking all of them off.

If it hadn't happened right after, Marcel would have gone to them and apologized. He would have tearfully broken down, and confessed that he didn't really feel like he fit in with them. He didn't give a fuck about fashion, he hated skinny jeans. He liked books, and bad tv shows he could make fun of, and poetry. He'd just wanted to fit in with them, and belong. He'd gone too far.

If it hadn't happened, his friends would have hugged him and told him they didn't care if he didn't like fashion; they loved him anyways. They would have cried and told him they were sorry they didn't do anything sooner. They would have told him how they'd always been jealous of how smart he was, and maybe he could recommended some books for them to read. They didn't read enough. He would have cried harder, and hugged them back.

But it had happened.

He'd been lonely, and pissed off. He'd gone to a club. A good looking guy in a black blazer and cowboy boots had started flirting with him. He was older, but who cared? They guy hadn't even bought him a drink. He'd just asked him if he'd wanted to get out of there.

Marcel had gone with him on his own.

Whoops.