Chapter 3 - Frozen Resolve or "Cold Showers Always Made Me Hotter..."
Notes: If you're offended (God forbid ...!) by implications of homosexuality in main characters,
you might wanna skip this chapter! Or you might wanna read it and be offended, just don't send
me any nasty emails!!! ^_~
It took me a week or so to recover from the shock and almost traumatic arousal of taking
a trip inside Ororo Munroe's shoes, but when I did my hungry, hormonal, psychic mind went
searching one lonely evening for someone more flamingly alluring as Storm was, if there was such
a person, but what I found was the most hormonal (more so than I was, and that's someone to look
out for!) and sexually suppressed person I've ever come into mental contact with: Bobby Drake.
I was attractive, I knew that for a fact, enough girls had made that known to me over
the years. I had tousled, brown hair, sharp blue eyes and laughing features, while my physique
reflected the years and years of rigorous training and exercise I'd been through in my life. I
probably could've been a model, with clothes or without, for God had gifted me graciously, and
in more ways than one, but I was still painfully insecure and terrified out of my mind of what
might happen if I tried something on the gorgeous body leaning over the pool table before me.
I experienced the familiar "tightening of the pants" as the butt in front of me arched in the
air and he nailed a difficult shot.
I was Bobby Drake, and as Bobby sat down quickly to hide his sudden hard-on, I felt a
pang of pity for him. I was Robert Drake, and if I had willed it, I could become Iceman, no
longer a creature of delicate flesh and blood but a being of pure and solid ice. If I had
willed it, I could freeze the amazingly attractive Remy Lebeau in place and have my way with
him and release the tension pent up inside me that was never dispelled by my constant joking ...
around, though I tried in vain to convince myself that if I was never serious it would go away...
Bobby wanted to feel a man's calloused hands caressing his body more than anything in the
world, a fact alone that almost made me recall my wandering psyche in panic, but I stayed,
soothing my unfounded fears by reassuring myself that you couldn't catch gay. I wasn't the one
with the boner that could drill a hole through the ceiling if he let it out, he was.
I was Bobby Drake, and at the age of twelve I was faced with three cold, hard facts: I
was gay, I was a mutant, and my Father would rather kill a "fag" or a "mutie" than have either
one even look at him crooked. I masturbated guiltily for a few years, until I couldn't stand
the fear of having my Dad stumble upon me whacking off to pictures of body builders in
magazines. I taught myself to slip comments about pretty girls at school into conversations
with my parents over dinner, to walk with my shoulders squared and my chest puffed out, like
the football players did, to scoff at the subjects of cooking, cleaning and sewing, and to
suppress my supernatural fashion sense and ask my mother for help on picking clothes out for
the most dreaded times of my life: dates.
Yes, going out with a girl was something I hated more than controlling my body while showering
after gym class, more than sleeping over at an attractive male friend's house, more than talking
to my father. From the minute I would pull into her (whoever she was didn't matter, I didn't
like any of them) driveway to those painful last moments when we sat in the car, her hoping for
a good-night kiss and me wishing for the world to end. My life went on like this, with each
Friday night being the same, until I was sixteen and I took a walk with my "girlfriend" after a
school dance.
The roar of a masculine car's engine alerted me to the presence of someone more than me and her,
and shouts and hollers caused my stomach to tighten up and a sense of foreboding to wash over me.
Time moved quickly until three guys from school stood around us, one holding a bat, and the
others knives.
"Why don't you come with us, some real men ?!" one guy sneered, jerking at the girl's arm. Now,
don't get me wrong, I didn't feel anything for her, really, but I couldn't just let her be
treated like that. I began to stammer something about leaving her alone, but he continued his
jeers.
"I see you staring at me in the showers, Drake! No fag stares at Tom Jensen in the showers
and--!" he began to scream, swinging his bat. Liquid ice pouring from my outstretched hand
froze the words in his mouth and stopped his bat inches from my face. The rest of that night
was a blur, except for two things in my mind. The moment I laid eyes on Scott Summers, and the
look in my father's face when I told him I was going to go to New York, to a school for people
like me, for mutants.
I wanted to cry just then, pouring over the thick volumes that made of Iceman's memory banks,
but I held off, hearing a question through Bobby's ears.
"Bobby, you just gon' sit there or come play wit' Gambit ?!" came a Cajun's sensual voice.
I couldn't help but smirk at the double-entendre hidden within Remy's words. I wanted to get up
and play with him, but I really didn't. I was frozen there in my seat, I couldn't move under his
casual, red-eyed gaze.
Go on!, I urged him silently from my bed. And, maybe, just maybe, he heard me and listened
because Bobby Drake, no, I stood up and grabbed a pool-cue.
"I'm gonna beat the pants off o' you, Remy!" I heard myself saying, my face flushing at the
way the words had just spilled out.
"We'll see about 'dat, we'll see ...!" came the reply, wiping my embarrassment away. At that
moment, I didn't think about the way my Father and I had only just gotten onto good terms,
only after he was beaten within an inch of his life. I didn't even remark wistfully about Remy's
relationship with Rogue. All I could think about was the fact that I was just a few feet away
from the most beautiful creature on the planet, and I was having one hell of a good time!
*Fin*
*Continued Next Chapter*
Notes: If you're offended (God forbid ...!) by implications of homosexuality in main characters,
you might wanna skip this chapter! Or you might wanna read it and be offended, just don't send
me any nasty emails!!! ^_~
It took me a week or so to recover from the shock and almost traumatic arousal of taking
a trip inside Ororo Munroe's shoes, but when I did my hungry, hormonal, psychic mind went
searching one lonely evening for someone more flamingly alluring as Storm was, if there was such
a person, but what I found was the most hormonal (more so than I was, and that's someone to look
out for!) and sexually suppressed person I've ever come into mental contact with: Bobby Drake.
I was attractive, I knew that for a fact, enough girls had made that known to me over
the years. I had tousled, brown hair, sharp blue eyes and laughing features, while my physique
reflected the years and years of rigorous training and exercise I'd been through in my life. I
probably could've been a model, with clothes or without, for God had gifted me graciously, and
in more ways than one, but I was still painfully insecure and terrified out of my mind of what
might happen if I tried something on the gorgeous body leaning over the pool table before me.
I experienced the familiar "tightening of the pants" as the butt in front of me arched in the
air and he nailed a difficult shot.
I was Bobby Drake, and as Bobby sat down quickly to hide his sudden hard-on, I felt a
pang of pity for him. I was Robert Drake, and if I had willed it, I could become Iceman, no
longer a creature of delicate flesh and blood but a being of pure and solid ice. If I had
willed it, I could freeze the amazingly attractive Remy Lebeau in place and have my way with
him and release the tension pent up inside me that was never dispelled by my constant joking ...
around, though I tried in vain to convince myself that if I was never serious it would go away...
Bobby wanted to feel a man's calloused hands caressing his body more than anything in the
world, a fact alone that almost made me recall my wandering psyche in panic, but I stayed,
soothing my unfounded fears by reassuring myself that you couldn't catch gay. I wasn't the one
with the boner that could drill a hole through the ceiling if he let it out, he was.
I was Bobby Drake, and at the age of twelve I was faced with three cold, hard facts: I
was gay, I was a mutant, and my Father would rather kill a "fag" or a "mutie" than have either
one even look at him crooked. I masturbated guiltily for a few years, until I couldn't stand
the fear of having my Dad stumble upon me whacking off to pictures of body builders in
magazines. I taught myself to slip comments about pretty girls at school into conversations
with my parents over dinner, to walk with my shoulders squared and my chest puffed out, like
the football players did, to scoff at the subjects of cooking, cleaning and sewing, and to
suppress my supernatural fashion sense and ask my mother for help on picking clothes out for
the most dreaded times of my life: dates.
Yes, going out with a girl was something I hated more than controlling my body while showering
after gym class, more than sleeping over at an attractive male friend's house, more than talking
to my father. From the minute I would pull into her (whoever she was didn't matter, I didn't
like any of them) driveway to those painful last moments when we sat in the car, her hoping for
a good-night kiss and me wishing for the world to end. My life went on like this, with each
Friday night being the same, until I was sixteen and I took a walk with my "girlfriend" after a
school dance.
The roar of a masculine car's engine alerted me to the presence of someone more than me and her,
and shouts and hollers caused my stomach to tighten up and a sense of foreboding to wash over me.
Time moved quickly until three guys from school stood around us, one holding a bat, and the
others knives.
"Why don't you come with us, some real men ?!" one guy sneered, jerking at the girl's arm. Now,
don't get me wrong, I didn't feel anything for her, really, but I couldn't just let her be
treated like that. I began to stammer something about leaving her alone, but he continued his
jeers.
"I see you staring at me in the showers, Drake! No fag stares at Tom Jensen in the showers
and--!" he began to scream, swinging his bat. Liquid ice pouring from my outstretched hand
froze the words in his mouth and stopped his bat inches from my face. The rest of that night
was a blur, except for two things in my mind. The moment I laid eyes on Scott Summers, and the
look in my father's face when I told him I was going to go to New York, to a school for people
like me, for mutants.
I wanted to cry just then, pouring over the thick volumes that made of Iceman's memory banks,
but I held off, hearing a question through Bobby's ears.
"Bobby, you just gon' sit there or come play wit' Gambit ?!" came a Cajun's sensual voice.
I couldn't help but smirk at the double-entendre hidden within Remy's words. I wanted to get up
and play with him, but I really didn't. I was frozen there in my seat, I couldn't move under his
casual, red-eyed gaze.
Go on!, I urged him silently from my bed. And, maybe, just maybe, he heard me and listened
because Bobby Drake, no, I stood up and grabbed a pool-cue.
"I'm gonna beat the pants off o' you, Remy!" I heard myself saying, my face flushing at the
way the words had just spilled out.
"We'll see about 'dat, we'll see ...!" came the reply, wiping my embarrassment away. At that
moment, I didn't think about the way my Father and I had only just gotten onto good terms,
only after he was beaten within an inch of his life. I didn't even remark wistfully about Remy's
relationship with Rogue. All I could think about was the fact that I was just a few feet away
from the most beautiful creature on the planet, and I was having one hell of a good time!
*Fin*
*Continued Next Chapter*