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PG-13, at worst
Maybe you want to spend your life telling yourself how worthless you are … but you won’t do that around me.
Cluttered, that was the only word you could use to describe the apartment. You wouldn’t expect that of Mr. Moore, Dennis thought, not from a teacher, not ...
“Dennis,” Mr. Moore said, taking his backpack from him and placing on the kitchen table. Random receipts fluttered to the floor and Mr. Moore made no move to pick them up. His eyes were locked on Dennis’s, his gaze never averting.
“Yeah, Mr. Moore?” Dennis asked. Monkeys were doing somersaults in his vast stomach. His damn stomach. Sure, Mr. Moore had said that he didn’t mind the weight, but Mr. Moore had to say stuff like that. Even in a messed-up situation like this, he was still his teacher, right? He still had certain rules to follow. Right?
“Call me Charlie. Please. That’s the first thing.”
Dennis smiled. “Yeah, like that’ll happen.”
“We’re equals, Dennis. Don’t you get that yet?”
Hot fear flushed into Dennis’s cheeks and bloomed there. He shook his head, silent negation. “No,” he whispered. “You and me? Different worlds, Mr. Moore. I’m not even sure why I’m here. Or why you want me here. Mr. Mo–” Before he could finish, Mr. Moore’s lips were on his again, sealing off the words, sealing out the pessimism. Dennis closed his eyes and the somersaulting monkeys took five. This is why he was here, of course. This was when the world was perfect.
“That’s the second thing,” Mr. Moore said when he broke away. “Relax.”
“Now that’s impossible,” Dennis said, grinning madly. “Seriously, you gotta even know that.”
Mr. Moore smiled and didn’t say anything ... but Dennis got the impression that he did know that. Was it possible, just possible, that Mr. Moore was just as scared as he, Dennis, was?
Without another word, Mr. Moore stepped into the living room. His nerves playing country fiddles under his skin, Dennis forced himself to follow.
The room was sparse, decorated in early American brown. The thought brought a smile to Dennis’s face and for a moment, Mr. Moore’s second request almost seemed possible. Then he turned, and Mr. Moore was standing by the couch, and he was – oh my God – he was unbuttoning his shirt.
Involuntarily, Dennis closed his eyes. How could this even be happening? How could he tell Mr. Moore – let alone himself – that he had imagined this moment before; not once, but over and over? The kiss, yes, the kiss at school and then in the kitchen, but this was more ... no pun intended, heh heh. It seemed to him almost like a dream, and that at any moment, he would wake up in his double bed at home, conflicting emotions of dread and guilt and supreme happiness warring their way through his heart. Behind his eyes, Dennis saw Mr. Moore removing his shirt slowly, revealing the dark mat of chest hair beneath. How, he had thought in late-night masturbation sessions, would it feel to even lay a hand on that chest? To even – oh Jesus – touch one of Mr. Moore’s nipples? The thought brought a fury of shame with it, as it had always done in bed at home, and like those dim dark encounters with himself, he tried desperately to shove the thought away. No, he thought, this is wrong, this is bad, this is my teacher, my male teacher, and I can’t think this way because none of it’s real.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he felt someone lift his hand from his side. Felt it being placed on skin, flesh to flesh. Man to man.
“Open your eyes, Dennis.”
He did. For a moment, he could barely understand what he was looking at. His hand, his dumb, meaty, fat-boy’s hand, was laying across Mr. Charlie Moore’s chest. The hair beneath his palm felt coarse, rough.
“Oh,” Dennis said. “Oh, God.”
“Feel my heart?” Mr. Moore asked, his voice soft and low. “Beating. Hard. This is what it’s like to be alive, Dennis. Don’t you ... I mean, how often have you really felt alive?”
Dennis was stunned into answering. “Never,” he said, his own heart picking up Mr. Moore’s cadence, his penis growing into a stiff exclamation point in his pants.
“Never,” Mr. Moore repeated. “Isn’t it time, Dennis? Isn’t it time to feel alive?”
Now Dennis closed his eyes again, not to shut the image out but to lock it there, forever. In that sweet darkness, he felt Mr. Moore’s hands on the buttons of his shirt. My God. Oh my God.
When next he opened his eyes, his shirt lay puddled at his feet and Mr. Moore stood watching him with his arms down.
“I’m sorry,” Dennis said, grinning nervously, running a hand across his stomach. Not course. Not rough. Smooth, chubby skin. Hateful.
“What are you sorry for?” Mr. Moore asked.
“This,” Dennis said, jiggling his belly up and down. “I’m sorry for being so fat. You ... I don’t know why you’re doing this for me. Maybe it’s some pity thing, and don’t get me wrong, I’ve never ... I mean, this is the happiest I...”
Mr. Moore stepped closer. Oh God, how he wanted to put his mouth on those nipples.
“Dennis,” Mr. Moore said. “I would not be here, risking my job and possibly jail time, for a pity party. Maybe it’s escaped your attention, but this” – Mr. Moore touched his bare belly and a jolt of electric excitement shot through Dennis like a power surge – “This is what I like. Maybe you want to spend your life telling yourself how worthless you are because you’re fat, but you won’t do that around me. What you call fat, I call beauty. You understand that?”
Oh, Mr. Moore, Dennis thought fleetingly. How could this be real? How in the world could this be real? “I understand that,” he said aloud, and attempted a smile.
Mr. Moore’s hand dropped below Dennis’s belly, and suddenly it was pressed against the bulge in Dennis’s pants. Dennis sucked in short, sharp gasp while his heart raced to beat the clock in his chest.
“Mr. Moore,” he said, his breath caught somewhere between his brain and his crotch. Mr. Moore’s eyes were looking right into his, piercing, savage, beautiful.
“Yes, Dennis?” Mr. Moore asked, his voice husky and deep.
“I know, Dennis. Can I?”
With a tremendous force of will and effort, Dennis leaned forward and kissed his teacher. “Please,” he said when he moved back. “Please, make me alive.”
Mr. Moore’s hands moved the zipper down and wrested Dennis’s warm, throbbing penis out of his underwear. For a moment, he nearly apologized for the size of that, as well ... then stopped himself. What had Mr. Moore said? Maybe you want to spend your life telling yourself how worthless you are ... but you won’t do that around me. Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn’t have to feel like that all the time. Maybe...
Then Mr. Moore’s mouth was on Dennis’s penis, and all rational thought left him. His eyes fluttered closed. His teacher’s mouth slid up and down his shaft expertly, Mr. Moore’s tongue darting back and forth, brushing lightly against that little ridge under the head that Dennis sometimes found in the night alone, that ridge that shot molten joy up his spine. He wasn’t alone now, no, this was ... oh, oh God, this was heaven.
Without warning, everything inside Dennis seemed to galvanize. His heart, his stomach, his mind: all blazed into fire, but that fire was pure and good and right. This was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he ever needed. When he came, it was like his whole body was coming, every inch of flesh, every follicle of hair. Hot, spastic fluid gushed from his dick and into Mr. Moore’s mouth. Dennis gasped, gasped for air, screaming for God, screaming for Mr. Moore, screaming Charlie’s name.
This ... this was rebirth. This was seeing the world for the first time. Alive? Yeah. That’s what this was. This was being alive.
“I love you,” he panted as the last of his come shot out. “I have always loved you.” Pure. Good. Right. Alive.