The Crush – The Crunch
By Kelly Blake

If you’re going to have a crush, it might as well be a big one. I mean half the girls I knew crushed on Leo DiCaprio and the other half on Johnny Depp; although I’ve heard hygiene is an issue with Johnny. Maybe he should be married with fourteen kids or a school teacher who pays a wee bit of attention to a lonely student and drives a sports car.

But why fight the competition? I happened to have liked bad boys so I crushed on the baddest of the bad boys. He was tall and broad and sooo handsome; or at least I thought so. With those powder blue eyes and nearly jet black hair…oh my God…how could I not crush him?

Now there are bad boys and there are bad boys. Some smoked in the boy’s room at school. Others were always picking fights at school or on the streets. And others still were extorting lunch money from the weak such as me. At least this insured I could possibly cross their block to get home; such as it was. But my crush was not like that. He was a predator who preyed on other predators.

My guy was the kind of guy that combed his hair straight back after his morning shower and a lick of it would fall down just over his left eye sometime before lunch. He would toss his head ever so often to get it out of his line of vision. The corners of his mouth curled up naturally to almost form a smile. But that was indeed not the case. That same smile that shook one’s hand could just as easily crushed one’s face.
He left public school at sixteen to obtain his education on the mean streets of South Boston and he plied his trade in Dorchester, Roxbury and the South End. When he turned eighteen he entered the Phd. program and was already…what do they say…known? He worked for his uncle as a bag man and an enforcer.

He had an explosive temper and the physique to back it up. People would cross the street simply to avoid him in the event he was…in one of his moods? I saw him once go after a teacher in my school. Two cops were there simply watching and making sure he didn’t go too far. Otherwise he was…‘protected’? It was that time when I saw him first. He just happened to glance at me as I peeked out from behind the corner in the hall, and I was struck to the very depths of my heart and my soul.

Our eyes locked but for only a moment or two, but something passed between us because I could see that I’d garnered his attention if but for a moment in time. Now you must understand that I wasn’t much of a boy. My hair was unduly long and I often wore my older sister’s hand me downs that were androgynous enough for me to get away with. I already wore her panties because, well, because they were so soft and comfortable and we had no money for new boy’s clothes.

I clutched my books to what passed as my chest and stood there wide eyed and mouth agape. And so it began. My obsession with him grew and grew with each passing day. I prayed that our paths would cross and that he would be my knight in shiny armour. I rarely saw him on the streets but whenever I did I would duck into a nook and simply watch him walk down the street.

At night, whilst I lay in bed, I would dream of what our lives could be like. I would dream of his arms around me; protecting me and cherishing me. I would dream of nestling in the crotch of his arm and running my hand over his broad muscular chest. I would dream of burying my nose into his flesh and simply inhaling his natural scent.

I was fourteen but I already knew how to please a man. It was not my choice but my fate as being the weakest, and the ‘prettiest’, boy in school. Whilst I hated what was done to me and still have dreams I wouldn’t wish on a Presidential candidate, I felt differently toward him. I sensed something within him that was also within me; pain…hurting…anger. There was one thing I never sensed in him that consumed me; fear.

One cold winter’s day I observed something that was not all that unusual in our neighborhood; four men gathered and trying to look inconspicuous. Then, down the street, I saw him coming down the street; the collar of his CPO coat turned up against the wind and his hands in his pockets. As he approached I quietly utter only a few words. His reply was simply “Thanks”.

His voice was so deep that it belied his age. That deepness went right through me and shook me to the core. I would have wet myself had I been born with functioning boy bits. But I took that voice home with me and I dreamt of him in ‘our’ bed, naked and warm. I dreamt of curling up and nuzzling the center of his masculinity.

I dreamt of nursing on it with my eyes closed and my hands cupping his gnads. I dreamt of spreading my legs over my shoulders and taking him into me; capturing him and all his maleness. I dreamt of his seed leaking out of me and feeling complete as a person. I dreamt of him wanting nobody else but me.

I couldn’t concentrate in class…not that I could to begin with. I was always too worried about trying to survive the day without some demeaning incident; often without any success. His simple ‘Thanks…” became an entry, a connection, a point of recognition that haunted me all the time.
When the Yule Tide came round, I prayed to God for one of his tee shirts or a pair of his boxers; anything belonging to his person that I could clutch to my face and inhale his scent. I prayed for any little thing that he touched…merely touched; something I could hold on to and feel some sort of connection to him.

But I could not approach him. How could I? What would I say or do? What would he say or do? Whenever I saw him on the streets, I would smile and hope he noticed. I would purposely cross over to walk past him and smile…hoping he would notice…hoping he would say something, anything. When he would notice me he would smile or even nod his head in my direction and my day would be complete.

Such was the nature of my crush. Oh…yes…before I forget…how did I know he wore boxers? Well…that’s for another contest.