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Scott and Scamp
Justin Smith was small for his age and constantly bullied. But as difficult as life was, he was surviving it. Then one day a new guy comes to his school and flips his world upside down. |
Excerpt
I never thought my story was worth telling, but then again, I am not really telling my story. I’m telling his. Let me introduce myself, my name is Justin Smith. I would say I am just an average kid, but that is not true. I am the kid that the average kid can’t remember. If you are an average kid then we probably share about three classes and even though my name sounds vaguely familiar you can’t connect a face to it. And if you ever saw a picture of me, I would be the kid you had seen around school whose name you never learned. That was my existence and I was quite content with it. I wasn’t happy, but things could have always been worse.
I had just started my senior year when I met him. I had just turned 18, yet I was still very small. I am 5’3 and I weigh 110 pounds soaking wet. I have medium blond hair that stops at my cheeks and bluish grey eyes. Both my size and lack of friends got the attention of one group at school. They called themselves the High Rollers, a group of popular kids that took amusement in torturing me. Like I said, I am small and I fit into lockers well. I never took their actions to heart. I guess I felt like I deserved it and at least they noticed I was alive. There is an intimacy with being beaten up that forever connects you to those that bullied you.
I didn’t hate the High Rollers, but I did fear them. I feared that one day their games would cause me actual pain. But honestly their bullying was the only thing left that let me know I was still alive. My parents are good people, but we aren’t close. We don’t talk, we never have. I know why I never talked, I am gay and I was afraid if I ever got close to anyone that they might know. I wondered what secrets my mom and dad were hiding, because they were as quiet and shy as I was. The bullies at school called me a fag and a pansy when they beat me up, which happened about twice a week, but the name calling didn’t bother me because I knew that they didn’t really know. If they ever knew how right they were then it would hurt.
But like I said this is not my sad pathetic story. This is his story. His name, which I will only say once, as promised, is Francis Scott II, but anyone who valued their life called him by his last name, Scott. The first time I saw him was when he moved in next door. He and his father were carrying in the furniture. They are both big men. Well everything is big compared to me so let me elaborate. Scott was of normal size, maybe 6’0, and 175 pounds? I’m not quite sure, but he was built. Not bulky, but it was obvious he worked out. He had short dark brown hair and tanned skin. Looking at him and his father I guessed they were Italian. His father was huge, bulky and scary in my opinion. He didn’t look mean, but he did look like someone you did not want to mess with.
I peeked out of the front window all day watching the two of them move in bed frames, mattresses, dressers, a fridge and finally boxes. By nightfall they were done and my show was over. It was quite a show because Scott had taken off his wifebeater hours ago and had been moving stuff sweaty and topless. The next morning when I went out to get the mail I saw him working on his bike, he had a motorcycle. He saw me and nodded hello, I nodded back and continued to get the mail. When I looked back up he was heading to the small white fence that separated our yards. I took his cue and headed there also.
“Hi, I’m Scott.” He said while wiping the grease off his hand, onto his wifebeater and extending it to shake mine.
“Hi, I’m Justin.” I managed to stutter out while shaking his hand. He had a firm grip, but I guess most people who initiate handshakes know how to do it well. He released my hand and went back to his bike. I went in the house not being one for small talk. I did look at my hand a few times that day, the whole day it felt like it was still in Scott’s firm grip. I wondered if he had that effect on everyone.
The next day was Monday so it was time for me to go back to school. No more sitting home all day spying on the neighbors. Now, if I had to guess Scott’s age after our first meeting, I would have guessed twenty-two. I found out just how wrong I was when I saw him enter my English class that morning. The teacher introduced him. “Class this is Fr…”
“Just call me Scott,” he quickly interrupted.
“Okay, Mr. Scott. Please take a seat.”
Scott took a seat near the back and class went on. As the teacher told us the story of the book no one really read over the weekend, I stared at Scott. He had on a leather jacket that said “Regulators” on the back in white lettering surrounded by red mist. He was wearing a real t-shirt which made me sad. I like him in his wifebeaters. He reminded me of those 1950s rebels with their jackets and bikes and white t-shirts. Scott had an image and he was in no way trying to hide the fact that it was “an image”. In high school people tend to play roles and either they don’t realize they are doing it, or they think no one will notice. Scott was playing the original bad boy and I thought that was really cool.
School took its normal path and I found myself being thrown against lockers during lunch period. Here we go again, I thought, as Chad and the other High Rollers began to throw me around the hall.
“Hey faggot, you thought you could hide from us by skipping lunch? Don’t you know I can smell you wherever you go?” His friends were laughing and egging him on as he searched my pockets for money, I long ago learned not to carry around money or anything else I wanted to keep.
Just then, the unimagined happened. Scott pushed Chad off me. “Get the fuck off him!” he said. I just stood there in shock, no one ever stood up to Chad, and they sure as hell did not stand up for me.
Chad caught his balance and wiped the shock off his face long enough to say, “Just because you think you are Billy Dean or some shit does not mean you are too good for an ass whoopin.”
Scott just smiled, and gestured for them to attack. “Bring it.”
“You are such a dumbass if you think you can take all five of us.” Chad told him as he began to throw a punch.
Scott grabbed Chad’s fist mid-swing, twisted his arm behind his back, then whipped out a knife and put it to Chad’s throat. “I am pretty sure if I kill you, your buddies will back off.”
Picking on me was a normal part of life, but weapons atschool, that just did not happen here. This was the suburbs after all. It was like one of the biggest taboos in the world. I was amazed, but the High Rollers were pretty scared. Maybe I was wrong about the whole bad boy thing being just an image. “He’s fucking nuts.” Chad yelled as he squirmed out of Scott’s grip and ran down the hall. The others followed suit. Having once shaken hands with Scott I knew he let Chad go. I was kind of hoping he would cut him, just a little.
“Are you okay?” Scott was reaching out his hand to help me off the floor where I had sunk after Chad had let me go.
“Yeah, how did you know I was out here?”
“I didn’t. I was heading out to smoke a joint when I saw you. Care to join me?” He said waving a bag of weed in my face.
“Sure!” I squealed, sounding far too excited to play cool.
We headed to the woods behind the school where people go to make out. Scott rolled and lit the joint. He had to teach me how to smoke considering I had no idea what I was doing.
“Now, hold it in.” he said. Scott was a good teacher, with one hand on my back and the other on my chest, he was showing me how to breathe in the smoke and hold it for as long as I could. I choked my ass off. I thought I was going to cough up a lung and die. I could not understand why the hell anyone would do this for fun. Then came the calm. Everything was so clear and cloudy at the same time. I thought I was a god. I thought about things no one had ever thought of! I didn’t realize I was high, I just thought I was really smart all of a sudden.
“Why is it called a fly and not a buzz?” I asked. “It buzzes as much as it flies and what idiot thought to name things by their mode of travel? I mean are we called walkers or people?”
Scott just laughed, “Scamp, you are fucked up.”
Yes, I was fucked up and I continued to say really dumb shit for the rest of the day. By the time school ended I was clear headed enough to realize what an idiot I was. I began walking home wondering how I was going to explain my odd behavior tomorrow. Then I heard Scott’s bike pull up behind me. “Hey Scamp, what are you doing?”
“Um…walking home.”
“You live two miles away!”
“I like walking.” In other words some of the High Rollers ride the same bus route as me, thus I had been walking home since school started.
“Get on.”
I could not think of a polite way to decline his offer, so I got on. He took off and I was scared witless. I grabbed hold of him for dear life. No helmets, no nothing and I did not even have the coordination and balance needed to ride a bike with training wheels. Well a few minutes after I realized I was going to survive, I took notice of my position. There I was, with this hot guy, my head buried in his back and my hands grabbing his abs like my life depended on it (which it did at the speed he was going). And my hardening cock against his ass. Oh no! Hardening cock! I tried to think of every non-sexual disgusting thing I could, but nothing worked. This was the closest I had ever been to another guy and it felt too good.
So there I was, hot guy in a tight squeeze, hard-on poking him in the butt. Looks like I was getting my ass beat anyway. I wonder how long we had stopped before he had actually said something.
I never thought my story was worth telling, but then again, I am not really telling my story. I’m telling his. Let me introduce myself, my name is Justin Smith. I would say I am just an average kid, but that is not true. I am the kid that the average kid can’t remember. If you are an average kid then we probably share about three classes and even though my name sounds vaguely familiar you can’t connect a face to it. And if you ever saw a picture of me, I would be the kid you had seen around school whose name you never learned. That was my existence and I was quite content with it. I wasn’t happy, but things could have always been worse.
I had just started my senior year when I met him. I had just turned 18, yet I was still very small. I am 5’3 and I weigh 110 pounds soaking wet. I have medium blond hair that stops at my cheeks and bluish grey eyes. Both my size and lack of friends got the attention of one group at school. They called themselves the High Rollers, a group of popular kids that took amusement in torturing me. Like I said, I am small and I fit into lockers well. I never took their actions to heart. I guess I felt like I deserved it and at least they noticed I was alive. There is an intimacy with being beaten up that forever connects you to those that bullied you.
I didn’t hate the High Rollers, but I did fear them. I feared that one day their games would cause me actual pain. But honestly their bullying was the only thing left that let me know I was still alive. My parents are good people, but we aren’t close. We don’t talk, we never have. I know why I never talked, I am gay and I was afraid if I ever got close to anyone that they might know. I wondered what secrets my mom and dad were hiding, because they were as quiet and shy as I was. The bullies at school called me a fag and a pansy when they beat me up, which happened about twice a week, but the name calling didn’t bother me because I knew that they didn’t really know. If they ever knew how right they were then it would hurt.
But like I said this is not my sad pathetic story. This is his story. His name, which I will only say once, as promised, is Francis Scott II, but anyone who valued their life called him by his last name, Scott. The first time I saw him was when he moved in next door. He and his father were carrying in the furniture. They are both big men. Well everything is big compared to me so let me elaborate. Scott was of normal size, maybe 6’0, and 175 pounds? I’m not quite sure, but he was built. Not bulky, but it was obvious he worked out. He had short dark brown hair and tanned skin. Looking at him and his father I guessed they were Italian. His father was huge, bulky and scary in my opinion. He didn’t look mean, but he did look like someone you did not want to mess with.
I peeked out of the front window all day watching the two of them move in bed frames, mattresses, dressers, a fridge and finally boxes. By nightfall they were done and my show was over. It was quite a show because Scott had taken off his wifebeater hours ago and had been moving stuff sweaty and topless. The next morning when I went out to get the mail I saw him working on his bike, he had a motorcycle. He saw me and nodded hello, I nodded back and continued to get the mail. When I looked back up he was heading to the small white fence that separated our yards. I took his cue and headed there also.
“Hi, I’m Scott.” He said while wiping the grease off his hand, onto his wifebeater and extending it to shake mine.
“Hi, I’m Justin.” I managed to stutter out while shaking his hand. He had a firm grip, but I guess most people who initiate handshakes know how to do it well. He released my hand and went back to his bike. I went in the house not being one for small talk. I did look at my hand a few times that day, the whole day it felt like it was still in Scott’s firm grip. I wondered if he had that effect on everyone.
The next day was Monday so it was time for me to go back to school. No more sitting home all day spying on the neighbors. Now, if I had to guess Scott’s age after our first meeting, I would have guessed twenty-two. I found out just how wrong I was when I saw him enter my English class that morning. The teacher introduced him. “Class this is Fr…”
“Just call me Scott,” he quickly interrupted.
“Okay, Mr. Scott. Please take a seat.”
Scott took a seat near the back and class went on. As the teacher told us the story of the book no one really read over the weekend, I stared at Scott. He had on a leather jacket that said “Regulators” on the back in white lettering surrounded by red mist. He was wearing a real t-shirt which made me sad. I like him in his wifebeaters. He reminded me of those 1950s rebels with their jackets and bikes and white t-shirts. Scott had an image and he was in no way trying to hide the fact that it was “an image”. In high school people tend to play roles and either they don’t realize they are doing it, or they think no one will notice. Scott was playing the original bad boy and I thought that was really cool.
School took its normal path and I found myself being thrown against lockers during lunch period. Here we go again, I thought, as Chad and the other High Rollers began to throw me around the hall.
“Hey faggot, you thought you could hide from us by skipping lunch? Don’t you know I can smell you wherever you go?” His friends were laughing and egging him on as he searched my pockets for money, I long ago learned not to carry around money or anything else I wanted to keep.
Just then, the unimagined happened. Scott pushed Chad off me. “Get the fuck off him!” he said. I just stood there in shock, no one ever stood up to Chad, and they sure as hell did not stand up for me.
Chad caught his balance and wiped the shock off his face long enough to say, “Just because you think you are Billy Dean or some shit does not mean you are too good for an ass whoopin.”
Scott just smiled, and gestured for them to attack. “Bring it.”
“You are such a dumbass if you think you can take all five of us.” Chad told him as he began to throw a punch.
Scott grabbed Chad’s fist mid-swing, twisted his arm behind his back, then whipped out a knife and put it to Chad’s throat. “I am pretty sure if I kill you, your buddies will back off.”
Picking on me was a normal part of life, but weapons atschool, that just did not happen here. This was the suburbs after all. It was like one of the biggest taboos in the world. I was amazed, but the High Rollers were pretty scared. Maybe I was wrong about the whole bad boy thing being just an image. “He’s fucking nuts.” Chad yelled as he squirmed out of Scott’s grip and ran down the hall. The others followed suit. Having once shaken hands with Scott I knew he let Chad go. I was kind of hoping he would cut him, just a little.
“Are you okay?” Scott was reaching out his hand to help me off the floor where I had sunk after Chad had let me go.
“Yeah, how did you know I was out here?”
“I didn’t. I was heading out to smoke a joint when I saw you. Care to join me?” He said waving a bag of weed in my face.
“Sure!” I squealed, sounding far too excited to play cool.
We headed to the woods behind the school where people go to make out. Scott rolled and lit the joint. He had to teach me how to smoke considering I had no idea what I was doing.
“Now, hold it in.” he said. Scott was a good teacher, with one hand on my back and the other on my chest, he was showing me how to breathe in the smoke and hold it for as long as I could. I choked my ass off. I thought I was going to cough up a lung and die. I could not understand why the hell anyone would do this for fun. Then came the calm. Everything was so clear and cloudy at the same time. I thought I was a god. I thought about things no one had ever thought of! I didn’t realize I was high, I just thought I was really smart all of a sudden.
“Why is it called a fly and not a buzz?” I asked. “It buzzes as much as it flies and what idiot thought to name things by their mode of travel? I mean are we called walkers or people?”
Scott just laughed, “Scamp, you are fucked up.”
Yes, I was fucked up and I continued to say really dumb shit for the rest of the day. By the time school ended I was clear headed enough to realize what an idiot I was. I began walking home wondering how I was going to explain my odd behavior tomorrow. Then I heard Scott’s bike pull up behind me. “Hey Scamp, what are you doing?”
“Um…walking home.”
“You live two miles away!”
“I like walking.” In other words some of the High Rollers ride the same bus route as me, thus I had been walking home since school started.
“Get on.”
I could not think of a polite way to decline his offer, so I got on. He took off and I was scared witless. I grabbed hold of him for dear life. No helmets, no nothing and I did not even have the coordination and balance needed to ride a bike with training wheels. Well a few minutes after I realized I was going to survive, I took notice of my position. There I was, with this hot guy, my head buried in his back and my hands grabbing his abs like my life depended on it (which it did at the speed he was going). And my hardening cock against his ass. Oh no! Hardening cock! I tried to think of every non-sexual disgusting thing I could, but nothing worked. This was the closest I had ever been to another guy and it felt too good.
So there I was, hot guy in a tight squeeze, hard-on poking him in the butt. Looks like I was getting my ass beat anyway. I wonder how long we had stopped before he had actually said something.
