[[a/n: i don't know why i wrote this or where i intended to go with it, i just kinda started writing whatever.]]

Part One

I wasn't supposed to be smoking. Preps don't smoke cigarettes because it's not high class or something. At least that's what Derby says. Cigars are fine, according to him, because they're expensive. But cigarettes are for poor people.

I did it anyways, paying no mind to anything the other Preps would say. But I did hide it from them, you know. Status and all that. Pinky and Tad knew about my habit and were indifferent, so long as I didn't do it near them, but the other Preps wouldn't approve.

Keeping up with my habit was a real burden. Getting the smell out of my clothes and keeping my breath fresh, walking down to New Coventry at the right time of night to find a shady adult willing to buy them for me whilst remaining undetected by the Greasers. But, all things considered, I truly believed the trouble was worth it.

Cigarettes were incredible, so reviving, so uplifting. After a long, stressful day at school there was nothing of this Earth that could relax me so much as a long drag on a cigarette. It was such a rejuvenating sensation, inhaling the smoke, feeling my lungs expand around it, holding it in until I began to feel lightheaded, and exhaling all of my troubles. It was as though my insides were resting in an armchair by a warm fireplace with a glass of bourbon in hand. So comfortable. Cigars were too formal for the purpose, if you ask me.

I started out with half of a cigarette a day, then moved on to two, and eventually three or four. I was at the point now where I couldn't maintain a pack for more than a few days. It was a problem, I knew that. But what was I going to do? Stop smoking? Yeah, right. Giving up such an exhilarating experience was unthinkable.

I'd estimate that I spent about three percent of my monthly allowance on cigarettes, and the percentage was gradually increasing. Maybe even four percent if I should choose to include the amount I pay the adult willing to buy them for me. A pack of quality cigarettes was seven or eight dollars at most, and I'd usually give them a twenty and tell them to keep the change. Twenty dollars wasn't much to me anyways.

Going to New Coventry was the only part I questioned. I hated going down there. It was nerve-wracking. But the adults around Old Bullworth Vale were untrustworthy. They were sure to expose me to my parents should I ask them. The ones in New Coventry weren't very reliable either; there had been many times when the adult I asked agreed to buy them for me but instead ran off with my money. But at least there was a chance that they would follow through. And none of them knew my parents, so who would they tell?

Still, I hated going down there. Hopkins had suggested I ask the Townies to buy me cigarettes instead, which was absurd. They weren't exactly our clique's allies. And on top of that they were disgusting. I told myself that I would refuse to associate with them for any purpose whatsoever.

But…

They'd always loiter down by the carnival at night, next to the fence by the ticket stand. They always minded their own business, unless someone should come too close. No one ever did though; everyone knew better than to bother the Townies. I knew better as well, but I was also a stupid Preppy desperate for a puff that didn't have his priorities sorted properly.

I mean, they were right there. There shouldn't be a reason for me to go all the way down to the bad side of town at such an obscene hour when the Townies were right there, should there be?

Oh my, was the air heavy on the night I first approached them. Or maybe it was just me.

With weak knees and a twenty clenched firmly in my hands, I started forward. Baby steps. I was noticed once I was about five feet from them, and they simultaneously turned from their circle to face me. None of them said anything. They merely looked at me with their jaws tightened and arms folded over their chests.

I cleared my throat. "Um, h-hello." I smiled, an attempt at masking the fact that I was terrified.

Still no response from them.

"C-Can I ask one of you…" I chose my words carefully. "…one of you gentlemen for a favor?"

One of the Townies was significantly short, maybe an inch or two shorter than me. And I was significantly short, around five foot four. He wore a white shirt and the absolute worst jeans I had ever seen in my life, discolored and unclean. He may have been the least intimidating, but he was still terribly disgusting. Yet somehow I couldn't look away. I mean, he wasn't much of a looker; I wasn't attracted to him in the least. At least not in a lustful way. He just… interested me.

Maybe it was the gauntlets. He reminded me of a barbarian.

"Whaddya want, rich boy?" a big one in hideous camo jeans questioned me in the most nasally voice I had ever heard in my life.

They all waited, but it took me a moment to realize they were waiting for me.

"Uh- I was wondering if…" Their eyes were so hostile. "I mean, if it won't be too much trouble…"

The short one in the white shirt began to smirk. "How old are you, like twelve?"

I froze, unsure exactly how to respond. "Um… No," I managed to choke out.

They all found that amusing.

"Little kids shouldn't be out this late at night asking strangers to buy them smokes."

My breath hitched. My, the air was heavy.

The short one rolled his eyes and groaned. "Look kid, I'll do it 'cause I want your money."

I was taken aback. "Y-You will?" They all scoffed at my enthusiasm, but I couldn't help it. I hadn't expected this to be so easy. "Thank you so much!"

"Whatever." He gestured me to follow him towards his bike, and he drove me with him over to the gas station.

I inadvertently came out to my mother when I was a mere six years old, before I even knew what homosexuality was. It was a summer morning, and she had woken up to the note I left her taped to my parents' bathroom mirror. It said something along the lines of 'Mom, I'm running away to join the Spice Girls. Love, Gord.' It seemed like a good idea; I would fit right in. They were pretty and wore cute clothes, I was pretty and wore cute clothes. They were truly people of my breed. The ones around here weren't up to my standards.

I decided that day it was time to make my move, after all I was six years old and not getting any younger. I packed up everything of importance to me (four large suitcases and a duffle bag of designer clothing and expensive toys I'd be foolish to leave behind) and made my way out into the real world.

I didn't make it far; my mother had spotted me before I was able to make it a block from our house. I was at the park sitting under the gazebo, probably out of breath from carrying my luggage in such heat. She took a seat next to me and tried to convince me that I couldn't be a Spice Girl because I was a boy, and I retorted by telling her I could be just as fabulous and girly as any of them.

From then on, I think she knew that I'd grow up to be gay. Too bad I didn't. It came as a shock to me.

I never had a girlfriend prior to age fifteen. I never really looked at girls like that, and I never thought anything of it. I just… didn't. I had no other explanation. I looked at boys, of course, but it was more out of curiosity than sexual gratification. I never, ever thought anything of it. I thought it was normal, as it did come naturally to me. Foolishly, I figured everyone must be this way.

My first girlfriend, if you could call her that, was a trashy strumpet named Lola. She was using me for my money, and I was well aware. It didn't matter because I was using her, too.

I never once looked her in the eyes during out dates. I couldn't. I didn't feel bad or guilty about anything, it was nothing like that. It just felt… wrong. Looking at her directly in the face. I believe it was during our third or fourth outing that I noticed something about her, and learned something about myself.

She reminded me of a boy. I mean, the dear girl wasn't masculine or boyish in physique or anything of that nature. Looking at her, she was obviously female. But she did have a certain essence about her which was associated more with boys. It was that essence and that essence alone which drew me towards her.

Maybe it was because she was poor. Maybe all poor girls share qualities of their male counterparts. She was rugged and tough and assertive and real. She cared about feminine things, like hair and her clothes, but it was to a much lesser extent than with the other girls in my life.

Pinky, for example, one of my closest friends, was blatantly feminine. She was bouncy and bubbly and oh-so peppy. I loved Pinky, but I knew for a fact that I was not attracted to her in any romantic way, shape, or form. I wasn't exactly sure why; she was a very pretty girl. But it was then that the reason dawned on me. Pinky was so… Pinky. And Lola was so… Lola.

It came to me like an epiphany. The reason I wanted anything to do with her was because she reminded me of a boy. I didn't like her, I was using her. I was living out my masculine longing through her because I didn't understand that I was attracted to boys. I truly did believe that I like-liked her. But, I didn't. And that was it. There wasn't any more thought needed to be put into it.

I never had the chance to break it off with her myself, because Hopkins more or less did it for us. Thank heavens. I'd never broken up with anyone before. I would've felt awful although I knew she didn't like me like that. She really was a nice girl. Well, as nice as a manipulative, trashy slut could be. I didn't want to admit that I had been using her, despite that I hadn't realized it at first. Our next date would be our last, and that was the end of our era. We didn't see each other anymore after that, other than fleeting glances in the hall or out by the courtyard.

If my tone comes off as somber, forgive me, but it was a heavy moment for me. Not the breaking up with Lola, I hardly cared of that. The realization that I liked boys, that's what was heavy.

I waited a week or so before I decided that I wanted to tell someone. Pinky was the first one I told because I figured she would be understanding and accepting, which she was. She watched a lot of those fashion reality shows on TLC and Lifetime hosted by flamboyant gay males, and verbally admired quite a few of them.

I came out to her during an episode of Project Runway (the grand season finale, to be precise). We were watching television in the Harrington House leisure room. She was fully focused on the show, eager to hear the finalists or winner or whatever was going on, but once I vocalized that sentence-Pinky, I like boys-I achieved her full attention.

I think the idea of having a gay best friend thrilled her at first, judging from the glint of happiness sparkling in her eyes. She clapped her hands together and brought them to her grinning mouth, straightening her back as though preparing to jump off the sofa. She made a very Pinky-esque squealing noise and happily bounced up and down in her seat.

I think the fear of objectifying me was what brought her down from her high, or perhaps the face I was giving signaled her to calm down. Her posture relaxed and her smile started to fade, her hands moving down to her lap and eyes meeting mine. She wanted to know how I knew, and I explained everything to her. The mood lightened when she made a joke about how kissing Lola could probably make any guy gay.

And I laughed.

"Well Gord, I won't tell anybody. It isn't my business to tell. Promise!"

She told Derby later that day, who told Bif and Bryce after a boxing match, and eventually the chain kept going until most of the preps knew. And it all went on behind my back, too. How impolite. Tad, another friend who I held dearly, remained the only one who hadn't heard the big news, so I managed to tell him myself. He didn't understand completely. It was partially my fault for how I had worded it.

I pulled him aside in the hallway on our way to class and asked if I could speak to him. I didn't know Tad's stance on homosexuality, so I wasn't sure how he'd react, but he was one of my dearest friends and I wanted him to know regardless.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. "Tad…"

He stared at me attentively. "Is something wrong?"

"Tad… I need to tell you something…"

He gave a light laugh. "Well, don't keep me waiting."

Here goes nothing.

"I'm not quite sure how to tell you this… but…"

His face was so close to mine that we could kiss, but the mood wasn't right for any of that.

"I'm a friend of Dorothy."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and we stood there staring at each other as the rest of the world moved behind us.

"Who's Dorothy?"

I was more frank with him after school. Honestly, I think he expected it, even after all of that nonsense with Lola. He still didn't say much, but it was more because he didn't see a point behind saying anything. It was out there, what else needed to be said?

I was fortunate to be wealthy. Wealthy people can afford to be flamboyant and eccentric, like me. Anyone who would have a problem with it is below me, living under the soles of my Aquaberry loafers. I own those people, and they have no say in that. Wealthy people have more important things to worry about than what others do behind closed doors, like what those people were wearing that day and how much money they have. When word got around to the other cliques, I wasn't even concerned with what they would say because they would always be beneath me.

I had since gone on a few dates with the boys from school. Hopkins (good kisser he is, indeed) took me to the carnival. He wouldn't let me hold his hand, though he had no problem groping me in public. Trent Northwick and I went to the movies where he eventually got us kicked out for harassing the people in the row in front of ours. That Kirby boy, although he was the one who had asked me out, only agreed to it if we did something in private. His idea of a date apparently is me watching him at football practice and making out behind the bleachers afterwards, and then proceeding to threaten my life should I tell anyone.

My friends managed to hook me up with rich boys from neighboring towns, and we went on grand dates. One took me out for dinner on his father's yacht and got angry at me for not wanting to discuss stocks during our romantic evening. Another insisted we went shopping, which one might think would always count as a good date in my book, though he refused to shut up about his horses or whatever on Earth he was bragging about. But, to be fair, they were very nice boys.

They were all nice boys in fact, even the threatening Kirby, but I didn't have any long-term interest in any of them. I'd been on plenty of first dates but none of them met the standards required for a second. Hopkins had such an attitude, and Kirby was so vain. Trent did ask me on another, but I turned him down as politely as I could to the boy who had gotten me kicked out of a movie theater, of all places.

The rich boys were too… familiar. They were nice and sweet and all of that noise, but I was too used to their mannerisms. There was no excitement. It was boring. There's no hope in a boring relationship. To me, the point behind a romantic relationship is achieving something emotional from that person that friends can't give you, for some sort of new experience. Searching for something like that is futile when the ones you are searching among are exactly like your friends.

So, long story short, I'd never been on a second date with a boy.

Trent, Kirby, and Hopkins were too caught up in appearing strong to let their emotional selves shine through. There's a rough stigma that emotional men are weak. The same went for the rich boys. They were obsessed with appearing stable, always a fake smile plastered on their faces to convey the illusion that they didn't have any emotions interfering with their stability. It was a reputation thing.

I'm rambling, I'm terribly sorry. To sum everything up, I wanted a nice boy who didn't feel as though he were liable to hide his feelings and wasn't a loser. In a town like Bullworth, that boy was a rarity.