captionstojerkby: It was my first time up at the cabin. Not up at a cabin; my family has one back in

captionstojerkby: It was my first time up at the cabin. Not up at a cabin; my family has one back in Wisconsin, three un-airconditioned rooms on Lake Winnekoshish. But it was my first time up at his cabin. Or up at his family’s cabin, I guess, even though it’s clear it’s going to be his some day, too. And it was definitely my first time ever being up at a cabin like that, a cabin that has a hell of a lot more than just three rooms – six bedrooms alone, spread across three floors – and whose climate control system has a panel more complicated than the dashboard of my Chevy. It was nice, though, I guess, and his family sure was, too. I mean, he’d told me they were cool with his being gay and all, but I guess I still expected them to be sorta lukewarm to me. I don’t know why – I mean, he’s out as fuck, even to all the guys in his frat, and he’s the one who came up to me outside Williamson Hall, all crooked smile and shades, and first suggested we get coffee. But I guess I thought they’d be stereotypical country-club Republican captains of industry, yeah, and – well, I also sort of guess they are: the mom always in pearls, the back-slapping dad who golfs every day, the heir-apparent son who’s really into sailing and polos. Except the son’s also really into dudes, and really into me, and his mom’s smile is just as pearly, and his dad slapped my back when we met and invited me to go golfing with him the next day. And if it felt weird enough at first seeing him act out his role as überpreppy scion, it felt even fucking weirder as I watched myself slotted into the role of future spouse, which was obviously what they were all planning on – there wasn’t any other reason for his mother to keep bringing up the fact that his cousin Prissy McMonied got married on the Island, or for his father to bring up the fact that both senators and the Governor were there, or for both of them not to bring up the fact that they obviously knew that when we went back upstairs to our shared room on the third floor after playing Monopoly every night, he was pressing my face into sheets that smelled like they were from a hotel and filling me up with his thick dick and thicker loads. And so I was going to talk to him about it, you know? I was gonna say to him that I was twenty-two, and that that was too young to have my life decided, especially by other people, and that everybody there already seemed to know what it was going to be, already seemed to have it planned out for me, in advance, and that I was freaking the fuck out about it. But as I walked onto the deck off our bedroom that morning and stared with him out across the lake, I realized he wouldn’t get it: his life had been decided for him an even longer fucking time ago, and that didn’t bother him. Because we weren’t just looking out across the lake: we were looking out across his family’s lake, his family’s land, just one of the fifty thousand things that he’d always known he was born to, that he felt entitled to. But how can you feel entitled to something when it’s all already always been yours? And how would you react if part of that – a cedar shingle on the roof of your cabin, a subsidiary corporation, a boy you asked out for coffee outside Williamson – stood up one day and said it wasn’t? I looked in through the sliding glass doors behind us to make sure there was no one inside, even though we were the only ones staying up there. Then I walked in front of him, and he didn’t even look at me as I kneeled down, and he shifted his ankle off his knee. He might have sighed as I slowly pulled his zipper down over the hardening bulge underneath it, but if he did I couldn’t hear it over the sound of his family moving around on the patio two floors below us. I undid the button at the top of his fly and folded the blue flaps of fabric to either side. And as I leaned in and kissed the swelling lump in his briefs, his hand came down and rested on the side of my head, his fingers behind my ear and his thumb above it, just the way he holds a tumbler of whiskey with his thumb on the rim. -- source link

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