Author's note: Okay, I was surprised to learn that as of August 2015, the date I submitted the first chapter of this story to this site, that there were somehow no other stories out there (at least on this site) based on the wonderful 2012 film adaptation of the 1999 apparently cult hit/NY Times bestselling book The Perks Of Being A Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. Hence I doubt I'm going to have a lot of readers, but just the same, wanted to say firstly that I of course claim no copyright. Secondly, the film is rather PG, and my story is much less so, but no disrespect is meant. If one is delving into the every day life of a teenaged boy or two, one will encounter other than PG things, thoughts, language.

At any rate, this story is a tribute to the glorious character Chbosky created, and actor Ezra Miller so beautifully brought to life in the film (for which he was nominated for and/or won 7 critics/film festival awards), named "Patrick", whom one reviewer called "a modern day teenaged Oscar Wilde," which is just so spot on, I wish I'd thought of it. (He does seem completely what Oscar would have been - ginormous compliment - were he a teenager in modern day America.) Patrick, and the film, have such a gorgeous life force, and it quickly drew in and bewitched this relative cynic. As a strong supporter of gay rights, I especially love that he is just so kickass, so strong, smart, witty, mischievous, and as Chbosky himself said in an interview: "the coolest, most self assured, least haunted kid - there's no victim, here." Yes, and hell yes.

For an example of a gorgeous life force moment in the film, if you haven't seen it, and to get a visual on both Patrick and his step sister Sam, I would urge the reader to You-tube "Perks of Being A Wallflower dance scene", and watch Patrick and Sam dance to "Come On Eileen", and towards the end, get joined by their shy, equally misfit younger friend, the book and film's central character, Charlie. This scene takes place not long into the movie, and upon my very first viewing, it made me fall in love with it - I knew when I saw it that almost no matter what came afterwards, I was going to love this film, and I am not someone who usually ever enjoys dance sequences, but this is not one of those annoyingly over-choreographed group dance numbers. This is about spontaneity and joy and craziness and life. When the song comes on, and Patrick and Sam both realize that they must dance, that it's sort of an emergency, and when, in probably my favorite moment, Patrick physically swings Sam around in a circle, joyfully, urgently shrieking "get out of the way!", because they are going to need a lot of room, it really is just ... I don't know. One of those times when art helps make life worth living, at the risk of sounding like a douchebag.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story. It was poured over painstakingly by me, with a lot of love.

Thank you Stephen Chbosky, for writing not only the book, and the film's screenplay, but for directing it, too, and for the perfect, perfect casting. It is undoubtedly why the film works so well, that the person crafting it was the guy who birthed these characters, and hence must love them most of all.

Patrick and the Quarterback

"What do you mean, he'll only see you on weekends?!" Sam said, disgusted.

"Exactly what I said," replied Patrick. "He's into it, but only if nobody finds out, which means, weekends."

Sam sat back in her chair, staring. She loved her step brother to pieces, and it infuriated her to see an otherwise whip smart, confident, self respecting boy accept yet another shitty, secretive, demeaning arrangement.

"Please tell me he'll talk to you in the hallways at school."

"Sam, stop pretending you don't know the drill. Of course these closet cases can never be seen communicating with the school faggot; you know that."

Hearing these statements, and the shrugging, matter of fact way Patrick delivered them made her want to go and find the kid, stand up on his table at lunch, point down at him and scream for the whole school to hear: "FAGGOT!"

She wanted to slap her step brother. She wanted to shake him by his shoulders and yell some sense into him, that he deserved better than to be forced to hide, to pretend they didn't know each other in public. Most infuriating of all was that Patrick was the definition of a 'catch'. All her life, even before they had become step-siblings, when she and Patrick were merely friends, hers had always had crushes on him, and who could blame them? He was funny as hell, wildly charismatic, and then there was the physical: tall and fit; dead good looking with those full lips, thick head of unruly dark hair and cheekbones anyone would kill for.

And yet, despite all that he had going for him ... this is what people had the nerve to offer him?

"You guys share a class!" Sam shouted. "You're doing a science project together!"

Patrick let out an exasperated groan.

"Samantha, I believe you are throwing a hissy fit. You know how I feel about these things. We've been over this, and over this. Of course it sucks! You think I don't know that? Of course it's demeaning, but, it's a numbers game."

Meaning, they live in Pittsburg, not San Francisco, and there are only so many gayboys in any one city, and only a tiny fraction at any given high school are ever out. Patrick for example, was the sole representative at his high school of nearly 700 students students. "So you either sniff out the closeted kids, though by virtue of you being out, and in my case, way, way out, they won't wanna fucking know you, because hanging with you risks a reveal of their secret; or, if you're lucky, there's maybe one other out kid in the entire school ... but he has to be into you, and you to him. I mean, what are the chances? No wonder we all end up cruising Schenley Park."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed.

"I thought you said you didn't go there anymore!"

"Only in cases of dire emergency."

She frowned. As he mock-frowned back at her in exaggerated fashion, she didn't speak of it further. By this point in their lives, Sam could read Patrick's mind.

You're my step sister; not my mother. So, ixnay on the lecture, 'kay?

"One of the essential truths of this world is that life is unfair," he said. "Also, that beggars can't be choosers. That would be my situation. You don't have to fight the odds all day like I do. The school, the whole fucking world, is like 95% straight. I don't have that luxury. That's why I'll take the weekends-only thing, for now."

And hence, unfair as the numbers, as the world was to her brother, Sam decided to shut up about it, and try to be supportive. She just hoped the boy Patrick liked was worth the running around, the pretending and hiding.

She doubted it.

"So who is this little asshole, again? I can't remember."

"Jesus Christ, I've been talking about him for weeks. Do you actually never listen?"

"Do you actually expect me to keep track of all of your crushes?"

"This is more than a mere crush, babydoll! You make me sound like some flirty, flighty homosexual!"

She laughed. "Like you're not!"

"Shut up!"

"No, you shut up, Patrick. I have to study for my calculus exam; come on, who is he?"

He grinned devilishly. "Brad Hayes." He pointed his chin into the air and shouted with glee. "The quarterback!"

"Brad Hayes is gay?"

Patrick rubbed his hands together and laughed fiendishly.

"YES!"

Patrick met Brad at a party two months prior, and had sensed it from the moment he'd walked in the room.

"Him," Patrick said to Sam quietly, nodding in the direction of the sandy-haired boy in the school jacket.

Sam knew Patrick's gaydar, even upon first glance, could be eerily spot on, but the kid who had just walked in was clearly a mega jock, whom Sam had only ever seen in the company of other mega jocks, and blonde cheerleaders. It hence seemed unlikely he was gay.

"I don't know, Patrick."

"No," he said looking at her, then back at his target. "I know. Trust me. We can't all be sassy, badass queens."

"Sadly."

"Yes, sadly, tragically."

Later in the evening, sitting with Mary Elizabeth, Sam had lost track of the time. When she spied the clock, she looked around for her brother. It was a weeknight and Patrick had an exam the next day, hence they had agreed to leave at 9pm. It was 9:45.

"Where the hell is he?" Sam said.

"Over there," Mary Elizabeth replied pointing in the general direction of way across the crowded house.

Sam squinted. There stood her brother, in conversation with Brad Hayes.

"Fairly sure he's wasting his time, there," Mary Elizabeth offered.

"Since when did that ever stop him?"

"Right," Mary Elizabeth laughed.

"How long have they been talking?"

"I don't know, like five minutes. I've been amusing myself, watching."

The two girls looked. Patrick was animated as always. Brad wasn't. In fact his body language suggested not only disinterest, but discomfort.

"Better break this up before somebody makes an ass of himself."

"Or ends up with a black eye."

"And a broken rib."

"Again," they said, together.

In the truck on their way home Patrick was energized.

"So fucking cute. And he's not even stupid."

"But is he gay?"

"Oh shit. Definitely. Closeted as your average pastor."

"Doesn't exactly seem your type though, Patrick."

"Ya, but there are only so many darkly moody, arty, mysterious, hypersensitive gayboys in the world, or in Pittsburg. Time I dipped into jock-land."

'Jock-land' meant Patrick would now have to feign interest in something he knew absolutely nothing about, and had previously disdained: football. In fact, to the amusement and bafflement of those who knew him, he had started going around telling people who hadn't asked, just how much he loved the game of football. He coupled this with showing up at each and every one of Brad's game, ("straight and gay; um, I mean, home and away,") until it began to be noticed, and so Brad asked Patrick to cool it.

"Now he doesn't want you coming to the games?!" Sam shouted.

"Just not every game." Patrick shrugged. "Price of Admission."

'Price of Admission' in Patrick-speak was the price one was willing to pay to be with the person they liked. "Everybody pays some price," he would say. "Your last boyfriend for example. He forgot your birthday - I had to remind him - and then he scrambled at the last second and got you shitty crap at the Dollar Store."

"Thanks, Patrick. I really needed to know that."

"And then there was the B.O.-"

"-He did not have B.O.!"

"Oh, well bad breath; whatever. And then he wouldn't go down on you."

Sam was mortified that Patrick knew something so intensely private, but realized she had no one to blame but herself, seeing as she and her brother were so close, they had made a solemn pact to tell each other absolutely everything. Jarring as this agreement between them could be at times, it also kept them both completely honest, which was not something they felt they could often be with other people.

But yes, there had definitely been a Prices of Admission that Sam had paid to be with Peter which, it turned out, hadn't ultimately been worth paying.

The difference when it came to Patrick was that the PoA's tended always to go far beyond bad breath or body odor, into areas such as the person pretending he didn't exist.

The first time they kissed was actually a few weeks after they'd touched each other sexually, or rather, after Patrick had touched Brad, in Brad's basement.

To that time, the two had hung out at jock-absent parties, seeing as Brad couldn't be seen by his usual posse talking to the school queer. Despite how different they both appeared on paper - Patrick, the mimic; the colorful, outgoing risk taker who could talk circles around anyone; Brad, the quieter, reserved, dutiful son of a Marine, they hit it off to a degree, and talked about everything, from the normal stuff - school, bullshit from parents and teachers, the science project they were both working on - to future plans and what college they wanted to go to. Brad would be heading to Alabama courtesy of a football scholarship, while Patrick intended to hit Seattle for it's art and especially music scene. "Plus it's pretty liberal and gay accepting," he would say, "unlike Alabama."

Because Patrick liked Brad and was attracted to him, and because it seemed obvious that the feeling was at least beginning to be mutual, Patrick wanted to needle him about the gay thing, let him know that he knew, make him uncomfortable to maybe force the issue ... but Brad never took the bait.

Closet cases are such total, unadulterated wimps, Patrick thought. Which was normally a giant turnoff ... but not in this case.

In this case, instead, Patrick saw it as a challenge.

Brad's jock and cheerleader friends, when they found out, were completely mystified as to why he was suddenly accepting invitations to the parties thrown by the school's weirdos, outcasts, and losers, when everyone knew the parties of football players were the best, with the most action, and the coolest drugs.

Brad would explain that he simply found it fascinating, hanging out with the "freaks" and the "nothings", for a change.

One night, very late; around 2 in the morning, a party at Brad's had mostly wound down, with the few remaining people strewn about the house upstairs, asleep or passed out on the floor. He and Patrick found themselves alone in the basement when the others had left, sitting on the floor opposite a tv.

Patrick remarked about the house having two large tvs upstairs, so why the puny old one in a dimly lit corner of the basement?

"Porn," Brad explained, slurring slightly, despite the fact that he had only had two beers.

"Oh," Patrick said, trying to sound ... he didn't know what he was supposed to sound like, and instead pondered what sort of porn Brad watched. It was undoubtedly straight - no way, with Brad's hyper macho, ex-Marine dad, that Brad could possibly have any gay shit in the house - but, he supposed, that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the porn just the same, for it was certain to contain naked men.

Brad half grinned. "Y'know, Nancy's not always around, so ..."

Nancy was the head cheerleader; the prettiest, (bleach) blondest of the lot by far, whom Brad had been seeing for the last several months.

Nancy, Patrick knew, was a complete and utter farce.

"Ever seen Amber Candy?" Brad asked.

"Hmm?" Patrick asked. "Was is that, a movie?"

"No," Brad slurred. "Amber Candy is a girl. Porn star. Talented. Tits for miles."

Oh Christ, Patrick thought. Who does he think he's kidding? And, did he forget I'm a big giant homo?

"Maybe he's bisexual," Sam had told him, but Patrick recognized a fellow faggot; he knew it in his veins.

Realizing he was staring at Brad's lips, picturing himself kissing them, as well as doing other things to them, Patrick suddenly came to.

"Um, no. Never seen her; don't know her."

Brad reached for the remote.

"Here," he said, "I'll show you."

"No, that's okay," Patrick immediately offered.

"Come on, man. Just for a sec. Don't worry, there are some hot guys in it, too."

Ha! Patrick loved when his theories were correct! How many 'straight' guys would notice the men in porn films, let alone whether or not they were 'hot'?

As Brad pressed the power button, then 'play' for the VCR, Patrick recalled hearing about a weird phenomenon involving straight boys watching porn together, which seemed odd as hell to him, for obvious reasons, but then it also seemed odd to him that grown men gathered in strip clubs to watch naked, gyrating women. Weren't the two sort of the same thing? What was up with all this straight-sexually-charged-atmosphere-in-a-room-with-other-straight-males thing?

And now, what to make of a closet case showing a fag some straight porn? Was there an anthropological term for this? Was Margaret Mead, notebook in hand, studying he and Brad from around the corner?

There, on the screen before the two boys, was a close up of some harshly lit nude female genitalia. Patrick resisted the urge to grab his stomach and run from the room. A moment later, however, the camera focused on a particularly beautiful, impressively oversized penis. Talk about odd. Just how gay was straight porn?

A female hand then entered the picture, gripped it, and proceeded to handle in a way that Patrick had never seen before. Put briefly, it involved the hand moving upward, of course, but then slipping off, rotating, and coming back down again; a quick mid-air wrist rotation which Patrick recognized from anatomy class as acts of pronation and supination. The impact, he supposed, was to apply a two-way, particularly focused pressure, which the tightly ringed thumb and forefinger were best at.

Genius! Patrick thought. So efficient; so simple! Why didn't *I* think of that?

Either because of, or despite the pot he'd smoked earlier, he had a sudden epiphany.

"Has Nancy ever done that to you?" he blurted.

It was a risk, a weird risk maybe, in asking Brad a direct sexual question, but Patrick figured it would fall under the guise of acceptable, macho jock-talk, even if Patrick was the furthest thing from a macho jock that ever was.

"Like that?" Brad said, pointing at the screen. "No," he said dumbly, and then, after a pause: "I don't know of any girl that ..."

He let the sentence end there, and Patrick recognized it for what it was.

An opportunity.

"'Grooming behavior' they call it," Sam had joked, referring to the term used to describe a child molester's carefully thought out, sick seduction plan.

"Ha ha, very funny, bitchface. I'm only doing exactly what the guys who've asked you out did; planning and scheming a bit, trying to sound clever and interesting, trying to win you, and bed you. With straight guys, they call it 'seduction'. With queers, it's 'grooming', I guess?"

"Patrick. It was a joke. Don't be so defensive."

"It just feel a little homophobic, you comparing me to a child molester."

Sam groaned and shook her head slowly.

"Yes. Oh my god, I am such a homophobe! Stop it. You always get it mixed up when I talk this way. It's guy-phobic, not homophobic. I'm both a bit grossed out by the grooming stuff, and fascinated and in awe of it, in a way. When it's been directed at me, I don't know about it, do I? It's kept from me, and my girlfriends. But because of you, I get to hear about it first hand, from the get-go. It's gross, but it's also a bit brilliant, and desperate, and sexy and-"

"-And it's a good thing we do it, cuz otherwise, nobody's getting laid."

"Girls can ask guys out."

"Of course they can, but still, in this day and age, how often does that happen? You've never done it."

"Come on. I'm way too shy."

"Ya, but, you don't need to not be shy. You're pretty, and skinny, and young. You're what 95% of the males out there want, so you don't need to 'groom' or go after anybody - they come after you. Again, the numbers are so damned on your side. And they're so damned not on mine."

Patrick was not at all ashamed of his hopes, or as he thought of them, plans to seduce Brad. And why should he be?

With his big brain, however, as was his wont, he had thought it through, point by point, just to be sure, and calculated that there were four main reasons for going after this particular boy.

One: Bedding Brad would possibly cause him to stop lying to everyone and face his own homosexuality, which would be good for Brad, as a closeted life was surely a lonely and miserable one. Hence, it was ultimately in Brad's best interest to sleep with Patrick, Patrick reasoned.

Two: In actual fact, even though there would be nothing wrong with it if he had, Patrick didn't only view Brad as a piece of meat. He had also come to genuinely like him as a person. Brad, despite his jock status, it turned out was a really sweet, smart kid with a wide variety of interests outside of sports. Unlike what Patrick would have thought when it came to your average football player, Brad could really hold up his end of the conversation, hoped one day to 'go hippy' and backpack Central America, and even volunteered during holidays at the local soup kitchen.

Which did made Patrick feel a bit guilty in a way, especially that last thing ... but not much. Because ...

Three: As the star quarterback on a team that had, two years running, made it into the state's final playoff rounds (whatever those were), had Brad been out, he could have perhaps singlehandedly saved the neck of every gay kid, or maybe even just one gay kid, who was being bullied and beaten at schools every day, as Patrick had been, just by example.

See? His example would say. We aren't all simpering hairdressers. Some of us are the people you cheer on from the sidelines. Some of us are the people you wish you were.

(Was it fair, though, to ask this one high school kid to risk his own neck, to suffer intense, continuous ridicule and almost assuredly be hounded off his own team? Patrick was out, in part because he couldn't pass for 'in' to save his life, but he wasn't exactly the school's star athlete, either; the boy who made it into the local newspapers. Patrick was 'Nothing', after all.)

Fourth and final reason: Patrick was a normal, healthy, red blooded teenaged boy, i.e. horny, and Brad was cute, and that should be reason enough.

Back in the basement, sitting next to Brad before the flickering pornographic images on the tv, Patrick blurted the thing in his head. Sam had told him off about this, but he swore he'd developed a touch of Tourette's of late, and couldn't help himself.

"Girls don't know cock."

Oh god. Was it the pot? Was he maybe smoking too much pot?

Brad looked at him.

"Just from what my straight guy friends say," Patrick scrambled to quickly say, "and ... from my own experience."

Brad squinted.

"Your own experience?"

Patrick frowned. He shouldn't have felt insulted - he had no right to feel insulted - but for some reason he did.

"Yes. I mean, perhaps it seems incredible, but I was straight-er, when I was younger, or I was trying to be, aka I was insecure, and hence I slept with a couple of girls. Lost my virginity to one, in fact."

"You did?!"

"Yes," Patrick said, feeling insulted again. "Most of the gayboys I know gave girls a try in the beginning, even though they knew in their heart it wasn't for them."

He paused to let this sink in. Brad may have been semi-drunk, but Patrick was going to speak right to his face about these things, with the hopes that at least part of it might sink in.

"Anyway," he continued. "I think it's the general consensus amongst us ex-fake-straights that while sex with girls can be okay, I guess, they, again, don't exactly know their way around our anatomy. How can they? They don't have a dick attached to their bodies, like we do. No direct link between it and the pleasure centers in the brain. Meanwhile we touch ours every day just to take a piss."

"Huh," Brad said, with a laugh of recognition, looking off. "Right."

"I found that out with the first guy I was with."

"Ya?" Brad chuckled.

"Yes. I mean, holy fucking shit. Night and fucking day."

Brad laughed, but then nodded.

"Guys know cock," he said quietly. "Makes sense, I guess."

"And homos are experts," Patrick laughed.

Okay, settle down, pervert, he thought.

The two boys turned their attention back to the tv screen, silently watching the rapid wrist-twisting action, and finally, the inevitable, multi angle, slo-mo come shot.

It was yet another thing that struck Patrick as odd, and ridiculously homoerotic, the apparent prevalence of this in straight porn.

It also struck Patrick that the undercurrent of sexual energy that was always there between he and Brad seemed to have ramped up several notches, which was to be expected, he supposed, considering that they were alone, inches apart, and somehow, some way, watching and discussing both porn and cock.

"Have you ever, like ... done that?" Brad asked, slurring slightly, looking quickly at Patrick, then away again.

"The wrist flipping thing you mean?"

"Ya," Brad said quietly, eyes trained ahead.

Voila! The moment had arrived.

Patrick looked directly at him.

"Definitely," Patrick lied. "Giver and receiver. It's intense. One of the most intense sensations ever."

God, the heavily pregnant, erotic air bubble that had just opened up between them, begging to be popped! Was Brad going to throw out the invite that Patrick knew, in his gut, in his marrow, was on the very tip of his tongue? Was he calculating right this second how they were alone, how his dad was out of town til the middle of the next day, that there had been not a sound from upstairs in over an hour, meaning everyone had likely gone home or was passed out for the night, and hence the likelihood of the two of them being discovered was all but nil?

Patrick, never a particularly patient person, waited, until the answer finally came ...

Of course not.

Enough, Patrick thought, planting his left palm on the floor right next to Brad's thigh, and turning himself to face his companion.

"Here," he said, matter of fact, casually reaching out his free hand, as if he did this every day, towards Brad's zipper. "I'll show you."

"Holy shit, you did?!" Sam shrieked, as they drove home in Patrick's truck. "How was it? What did he do? Did he freak?"

"He certainly had an orgasm very quickly."

"Jesus!"

"Yup," Patrick nodded.

"Did you kiss?"

"No, we didn't kiss. Don't be such a girl."

"Fuck off. How was it, Patrick? Tell me. How did he react?"

Patrick let out a big sigh.

"Let's just say it wasn't exactly ... I mean, in the moment, he's sitting back with his eyes shut, not exactly hating what was going on, right? Totally letting me, totally digging it. But then immediately after, he's suddenly Amnesia-Boy. Who am I? Where am I? What's this guy's hand doing in my pants?"

"Oh, Patrick. You're kidding."

"No; can you believe it? He seemed super embarrassed and nervous, semi-horriifed, like this all happened by some huge mortifying accident, and he suddenly can't hustle me out of the room fast enough."

Sam sighed.

"Bastard."

"Pretty humiliating, and insulting, I have to say."

I hate men."

"Me, too!" he shouted, punching the dashboard with his hand. "I'm goin' straight!"

Sam giggled at the notion of her step-brother, who surely had pink blood running through his pink, pansy veins, trying to 'go straight'.

Monday morning, in the science class he and Brad shared, at their project table, Patrick was thoroughly annoyed but entirely unsurprised to find Brad whispering an acknowledgment that something had 'apparently' taken place in his basement that night, but that he'd oh-so-conveniently remembered absolutely nothing about it, due to having been "so fucking wasted".

"I was there," Patrick said. "You weren't that wasted."

"Holy shit, are you kidding? I was completely trashed!" Brad said. "I don't remember a thing. Probably made a total ass of myself."

"No, you didn't; but trust me, you're doing that now."

Patrick was determined to say as little as humanly possible - preferably nothing - to Brad from that point forward, which wasn't difficult, seeing as Brad was actively avoiding him, refusing even to make eye contact as they passed each other in the hallways. Each day, however, because Brad's locker was just slightly down the hall from Patrick's, he was treated to the sight of Brad all kissy-face with fucking Nancy, the 'girlfriend'.

God, how Patrick wanted to march up to her and inform her in no uncertain terms that she was wasting her time; and any hand jobs she might be attempting to give, on the faggot quarterback.

He wanted to let it go. He didn't want it to bother him ... but it did. Hence, each day at his locker, when the kissy face crap ensued, Patrick slammed the door shut and turned and walked away, muttering under his breath, cursing the world, and the men in it.

However a funny thing happened that same weekend. Patrick and Brad ended up at the same party, this one hosted by Sam's clueless older college boyfriend, Craig, who had neglected to uninvite Brad from any parties that Patrick was also invited to, which was the rule that quickly circulated amongst Sam and Patrick's friends following the prior weekend.

"Why is he here?!" Patrick hissed, when he saw Brad walking in.

"Oh no. Oh, shit," Sam said. "Craig must've forgot."

"But why in fuck would he think I wouldn't be at a party that you would be at? Could he not do the math? That any party hosted by your boyfriend will feature both you as his girlfriend, and me as your consort, and brother?"

"Sorry. Sorry. Why don't we just go."

"No. I'm not gonna run off the second he gets here. We were here first. Let him be the one to feel awkward."

They watched him, smiling all dopily and talking to people as he walked in.

"Does he even have that ability?" Sam asked.

It didn't seem so, for instead of leaving or showing any outward signs of awkwardness when Brad realized that Patrick was present, he simply proceeded to both drink and talk a great deal, with Craig, about, of course, football. By an hour in, in fact, Brad had downed 6 or 7 beers, and was fairly plastered.

Patrick figured he'd been the bigger man and withstood an hour of Brad's presence and headed for the bathroom, after which he intended to leave, grumbling under his breath over how shitty and unfair the universe was.

When he exited the bathroom, however, there was Brad coming down the narrow hallway towards him. He'd been visiting the toilet all night due to near continuous consumption of beer, and this was probably trip number twelve.

Great, Patrick thought. Terrific. I love you, world!

"Oh, hey, Patrick," he slurred, having the nerve to smile and act all friendly, but then, unlike last weekend, he appeared genuinely plastered, so had probably forgotten what had transpired between them.

Do NOT say the thing on the tip of your tongue, Patrick thought. Do not say, all sassy and smart: "Don't even fucking speak to me, 'straightboy'."

"Hey," he said instead, in as bored, annoyed and sarcastic a tone as he could muster.

"Um, listen ..." Brad said ... but Patrick kept walking.

"Wait," Brad said, turning to him.

"What?!" Patrick snapped. "What is it?" He could not help himself.

Brad was having a hard time focusing his eyes.

"I just wanted to say," he slurred. "I just wanted to tell you, I, um... admire you."

"Right," Patrick chuckled. "You admire me. Got it. Thanks. Gotta run," Patrick said, and turned to walk off again, but Brad called to him, speaking quickly.

"I'm serious! That thing you said to me in science class, that I was being an asshole-"

"-I said you were making an ass out of yourself."

Brad stopped. His drink addled brain had trouble assessing the difference ... and finally gave up.

"Anyway, you said it right to my face, and dude, I've been thinking about it all week. You do that all the time; you totally speak your mind, to teachers, and to other kids, and you do what you want, too. You've got balls, and I just wanted to say, I really admire that, cuz I sure as hell don't. I can't. I'm sorry I was a dick to you this week. I feel shitty about it."

Either drink was apparently truth serum to the football-inclined, or it was made them say loads of stuff they didn't actually mean. Given Brad's demeanor, which, while intoxicated, seemed genuinely sheepish, Patrick was banking on the former, and therefore it was hard to stay mad at him, and not take the compliment.

"Whatever. Forget about it. It's okay, I guess."

The following week at school, things were back to normal. Brad made eye contact in the hallways and they talked when in science class, as if nothing had happened between them, and Patrick was okay with it, he guessed.

The weekend came, and Brad invited Patrick and Sam and their friends to his house again. Brad lived with his dad - his mother had died when he was young - and his father's work took him out of town frequently. Brad's older brother was away at college in California so when their dad was away, Brad had the house to himself, hence, parties.

Patrick noticed that Brad quickly got drunk again. It seemed to be a pattern. He'd do a few shots, then down bottle after bottle of some heavy duty high alcohol content, real deal German beer his dad kept by the caseload in the basement. His dad's heritage was German, he was in fact born in Germany, and Patrick knew that in Europe, drinking was not the big deal it was in America. People grew up with it, and there was much less alcoholism, perhaps as a result, whereas in the States, banning it for minors only made it attractive and daring to them, hence teenagers overindulged to try to look 'cool'. Patrick figured Brad's father wasn't alarmed by the dwindling supply of his beer, as he didn't see Brad's drinking as anything but normal, like in Germany. Perhaps he had never seen Brad drunk, Patrick reasoned.

Patrick was sitting on the carpeted stairs with Alice and Mary Elizabeth when Brad approached, which was perfect, as they'd been discussing football, or rather, scratching their heads over it.

"Just the man we need!" Patrick laughed.

The two girls groaned under their breath. While they were happy to accept an invite to Brad's party due to the free booze and parent-free environment, they were wary of, and still angry at him for the way he had treated their friend. In truth, as it was getting late, they were preparing to leave anyway, so chose this moment to do so.

"Bye, Patrick," they said, and exited the house.

After a beat, Brad spoke. "They don't like me, I s'pose."

"Oh," Patrick said, waving his hand. "Don't worry about them. Let me ask you a question about this thing I have a burning passion for: football."

Brad, unsteady on his feet, laughed, and sat on the next step up, lowering himself slowly with help from the railing.

"Okay."

Patrick admitted to being clueless about not only the rules and customs of the game, but the whole point of it.

"Point?" Brad giggled drunkenly, saying the word over again. While it was cute - Brad was kind of adorable when tipsy - Patrick wasn't sure why the notion that football should maybe have a point to it was so amusing. Of course, Patrick reflected, when he was drunk or high, cheese could be was riotously funny; wallpaper; car tires; book reports; a pan cap. Patrick wished he'd gotten high tonite.

Finally Brad spoke, having apparently amassed an answer to the whole 'point' thing.

"Winning. That's what it's about."

Patrick was both amused, and utterly bored by Brad's pat, Vince Lombardi reasoning.

"So why is winning so important, though? Somebody set up these arbitrary rules, paints lines on a field, and then you put on funny hard hats on and tight pants, and toss a weird, hard to grip oval shaped ball through some gold poles, or ghost poles, whatever they're called."

"Goal posts!"

Patrick laughed. "Okay, whatever."

Brad smiled. It struck Patrick what a handsome smile it was, indeed.

"You also get trophies."

"Ahh, trophies."

"Come on," Brad laughed. "Don't be a dick. I have one."

"Ya?" Patrick said, patting Brad on the shoulder. "Good work, my son."

"Okay, be a dick, then. It's what'll be paying my tuition."

"Well, then, we should all have these magical trophies. Little carved men in sportswear, up on miniature stilts, made of ... what are they made of? Cast iron, I suppose?"

"Cast iron," Brad chuckled. "It's not the Heisman. Try plastic. Have you never seen one?"

"In our high school? Are you kidding? Only every day, in their revered location in that primo, impossible to avoid spot in the main hallway, behind locked glass doors, up on probably hand carved marble shelving."

Brad laughed again. "Come on, dude! They mean a lot to some people. They represent a huge amount of work and sweat and sacrifice and years of getting up at the crack of dawn on weekends, and shit."

"I know; I'm sure. I'm just fucking with you."

"No, it's okay," he said. "It's that thing I admire about you, like I said. You really do speak your mind. You've got balls-"

"-Sometimes by the handful."

Again, Brad laughed. "You rag on the school jock right to his face - people don't usually talk to me that way - and make fun of his trophy collection."

Patrick looked at him.

"Trophy collection?"

"Yes," Brad smiled. "Okay, like, I have a few. They're mostly in the garage, but I have one special one I keep in my bedroom."

"Oh?" Patrick asked.

As soon as he said it, he realized how it sounded: coy and stupidly come-hither. He was about to scramble and backtrack; to crack another witty, sarcastic joke, when Brad spoke.

"Wanna see it?"

Brad was still drunk, though apparently less so, as evidenced by his ability to form more complex sentences the last several minutes they'd been talking, hence Patrick didn't know if the suggestive lilt in his voice just now was due to drink, or on purpose, or by complete accident.

He knew he was finding Brad attractive again, if not downright handsome, the more they spoke, and the more Brad flashed that great smile and adorable full bodied laugh. He knew that the sexual-tension-undercurrent was there; it seemed always to be when they were in each other's presence. Even in the science lab the prior week, when he had wanted to strangle Brad, he also half wanted to lean over and kiss him.

And now, in the middle of all of this incredibly unsexy sports paraphernalia talk, the idea of fooling around again with the closet case, if that was what Brad was proposing, was suddenly highly appealing.

He didn't want it to be. He wanted to be stronger than his own libido - total mind over dick - but how often did teenaged boys tend to win those arguments? All he knew was that, as someone whose very way of being was to go and do and be the opposite of what society wanted, it was natural for him to desire the thing, the person, that was almost undoubtedly a bad, if highly tantalizing idea.

And so when Brad stood, and began to climb the stairs, Patrick followed.

He looked momentarily over his shoulder, down at his sister who was in the kitchen talking with Charlie. She stopped, and look up at her brother, confused, and then, aghast. Patrick gave her a wry grin, coupled with a gleeful shrug, and followed Brad down the hallway.

In Brad's room, Patrick realized he'd been mistaken, as Brad had walked in, and headed straight indeed for the goddamn trophy, up on a shelf, on the wall opposite his desk, and even took it down to show Patrick.

"Here, see?"

"Ya. Great," Patrick deadpanned, reminding himself never, ever to fall for the jock closet case again.

"I have another one, though, better than that," Brad said, putting the trophy back.

Oh, goody, Patrick thought.

"Ya, where is it?"

Brad shut the door behind them, turned, cupped his hand over himself and spoke quietly.

"Right here."

Patrick stopped. Had he been reading a description of this moment in a book, he would have burst out laughing over the incredibly cheesy, groan-worthy euphemism. Had he not been in the room with Brad, seeing the look on his face, hearing the tone of voice, had Brad not just shut the damned door, he would have assumed this to be a standard issue, locker room style moment of jock bravado.

Given the level of sexual tension between them, however, which had just ramped up about a thousand percent, it was impossible not to recognize this gesture, this phrase, for what it was: an invitation.

He approached. The two boys appraised each other a moment, and then Patrick pressed Brad into the door. They paused, searched each other's face, and then Patrick leaned in, and for the first time, their lips met.

It struck him that this was likely Brad's first ever boy-kiss, so he tried not to take it personally when, as Patrick's mouth closed over his, Brad essentially froze, and did not at all return the kiss.

As Patrick's hand replaced Brad's, however, and began to move, either due to distraction, desire, or both, Brad began to relax into the kiss, and eventually, to kiss back, which was kind of too sweet for words, if only because it meant that Brad was okay with this, that he did, indeed, want this, that their encounter the prior week maybe hadn't just been a meaningless one-off.

It was also exciting for Patrick to learn what a good kisser Brad was, because kissing was a big deal to Patrick. In his (relatively limited) experience, it had been a bit of a litmus test. If the kissing was off, if the cadence and rhythm weren't right, if he didn't like the taste of his partner's mouth, the chances that the sex, and any ensuing relationship would work, tended to be nil.

Brad's kissing style was, in fact, the perfect mixture, to Patrick, of not too sloppy or aggressive, not too wet, or urgent.

Just slow, and hot. The way it should be, Patrick thought.

Patrick's hand roamed further, and he took the liberty of running his other one softly under Brad's shirt, wanting to confirm if his imaginings about a football player's chest were at all accurate.

They were.

Their kiss deepened, and small, sexy, breath noises were emanating from Brad, and Patrick expected at any moment that they would turn and fuck on the bed. He was in the middle of wondering if Brad had any condoms, as he had not brought any himself, never expecting he would get some tonite - Patrick being in the middle, in fact, of his usual four-to-six-to-eight-month-dry spell - when Brad's mouth suddenly opened, and he cried out and orgasmed right there against his bedroom door, right there into Patrick's hand.

Patrick stopped, looked down, and smiled, and felt that heady mixture of pride, giddiness and arousal that accompanied having made someone come. It was maybe his favorite feeling in the world; a natural, directly-tapping-into-the-dopamine high, if there ever was one.

When he looked back up, however, Patrick's heart sank. Brad's face had fallen, his jaw had tightened, his eyes had gone blank. His whole physicality, his whole vibe changed to something Patrick recognized from the prior week, from this same precise moment: upset, revulsion and fear; marrow-deep shame.

Patrick blinked. He did not want to see it. Instead he leaned in, certain a resumption of the kiss would wipe away that look, as well as the sudden cold feeling in the room, but as his mouth closed in ... Brad's lips, his whole body, froze.

This cannot be happening, Patrick thought. Cannot. He was sure he was imagining it.

In confusion, he tried for the kiss again ...

Only to have Brad whip his head to the side, and to add insult to demeaning injury, lay a firm hand on the center of Patrick's chest to push him back.

He then spoke a single cruel word.

"Don't."

Patrick blinked, and blinked again. He was in mild shock, still not understanding, still not accepting.

The look of disgust on Brad's face forced him to see it.

Patrick stepped back. The bile shot to the roof.

"Don't?!" Patrick snapped. "Are you fucking kidding me?! You know what?" he hissed - he was fuming. "You like that I speak my mind? You 'admire' that? Here's a piece of my fucking mind."

He leaned in so that they were nose to nose.

"You are an asshole of historic proportions. Do not ever come near me again, understand?!"

Patrick grabbed the handle and ripped open the door.

Author's note: REVIEWS ARE STRENUOUSLY ENCOURAGED AND GREATLY APPRECIATED. It's the right thing to do!

Just wanted to also mention that the first hand job - in front of the tv in Brad's basement - Patrick reaching over without being explicitly invited to do so - is almost a direct ripoff of/tribute to a very similar scene in the head-hurtingly brilliant tv series Queer As Folk - not the American series, mind you - the genius British version that preceded it. In that scene, a gay character is sitting on the floor, side by side after school with a straight boy he fancies whom I think was also the school jock, and they are discussing sexual frustration. The jock is recounting the outrage of when a girl starts, then stops, when the gay kid reaches over and does the deed to completion, immediately after which, the straightboy runs from the room, upset. He had known it was happening and had let it happen. He could have stopped the gay kid at any point, but didn't. The difference in my story is that Brad is attracted to Patrick and knows that Patrick is gay, and harbors this underlying conflict within himself about his own repressed sexuality.

The bit about straightboys watching porn together is apparently a real thing, btw, and it does indeed strike me (and therefore Patrick) as just as odd as the probably several thousands of straight men gathering in strip clubs all over the country - all over the world - each and every day, to watch a purposely sexually titillating "show"/pole dance/lap dance, whatever. That it doesn't occur to them that getting even mildly sexually aroused in a room full of other sexually aroused straight men isn't laughably homoerotic is just one thing this gal (and therefore Patrick) will never understand.

And finally, the bit about Brad's upset and shame immediately following each orgasm apparently does happen. My guru Dan Savage once recounted a story of a one night stand with a very eager younger male whom, seconds after coming, went into the same mode that Brad does: slumped shoulders, can't look his partner in the eye, has to leave immediately, and when Dan followed up on the phone the next day, the kid told him he was 'never doing that again' and to please not call him anymore.

So there. First chapter done. Phew! Now, please review! Be like Patrick - speak your mind!