Thursday, October 31, 2019

The Misfit, Part 2 of 2 Parts blog post #359
The Dreamcatcher-Courtesy of Free Stock
Ready for the rest of it? We left Part 1 with John seeming to agree to do anything in order to pass his class. Did he really mean anything? And why is it so important for him to graduate. That answer seems obvious. To build himself a future. But maybe there’s a deeper answer to that question. Read on


John submitted to me with his eyes closed. He was fantasy made flesh. Dark, smooth almost hairless flesh. In the grip of raging, selfish, lust, I failed to consider the significance of his eyes remaining closed throughout the entire wonderful experience.
When it was over, he reached for his clothing and asked in a subdued voice, “Do I pass now?”
“John, you have to do the work; I can’t fake a grade. But what I can do is make certain you are able to do the work. We’ll spend as much time as it takes.”
His eyes bored into my soul for a moment. “But you promise I’ll pass?”
“You give me the time and effort, and that’s a promise. You’ll pass.”
I insisted on driving him home, hoping for time to strengthen our budding relationship. We headed south out of town after stopping at a drive‑in for burgers and fries. As a winter wind swirled dust and leaves ahead of us on the lonely road, I learned John Running’s story.
His father was a northern Plains Indian; his mom, one of the southeastern woodland tribes with a little bit of the local blood. When John’s father died, she came to the woman who had raised her. When the mother died, the old woman John called Grandma took him in hand and raised him.
“Then my grandma crossed over last year,” he explained. “They let me stay in her house, but since I don’t have the blood, they treat me like an outsider,” he explained, laughing harshly. “Outsider at school, on the rez... everywhere. Guess I don’t fit anywhere”
He paused a moment before speaking again. “She’s the one I made the promise to. You know, to stay in school and graduate. I promised her.” His quiet determination made me realize how seriously he took a promise to a dead woman.
I dropped him off in the middle of a dirt road in front of the tribal headquarters and drove home understanding that when I had detained the boy in class, he missed his ride and slept in a ditch or an alley somewhere. I also concluded that John Running probably wasn’t gay, although he was capable of performing with a man.

I discerned no difference in John in class on Monday, although there was a marked difference in me. I could hardly wait for the last class of the day when he graced my computer lab for fifty minutes. On Friday, I suggested a session at the house Saturday and immediately became impatient of the hours. Like a love-smitten adolescent, my heart skipped a beat as I opened the door to admit him. John Running, normally as graceful as a proud stag, entered my house awkwardly.
I moved behind him and placed my hands on his thighs; he did not stop me, but he swallowed nervously. I pulled his shirt over his head and slid my hands down that long torso. He turned to face me and I was lost again, especially since he seemed to participate—to share—in our lovemaking today. I studied his deep, naked chest and wondered if he'd ever had a girl.
Today was different, more wonderful… if that was even possible. John went wild, his dark eyes staring into mine as he thrashed above me feeding his own need. But they closed again, when I satisfied my own desires.
It was late by the time John caught up on the week’s work. He gave a silent nod when I suggested he stay the night. I shaved and brushed my teeth while he showered, trying to control my rising passion as I caught ghostly glimpses of him behind the glass of the shower stall. I took his place under the water while he dried himself and used a fresh toothbrush I had in reserve.
That night was one of those “once in a lifetime” experiences. I’d unleashed something in the boy… youth… man. He wore me out and came back for more. Greedy for him, I matched his pace.

We got up the next morning to find a front had moved in dumping at least three inches of snow on the ground. A brisk wind turned it into a blizzard.
John was withdrawn as we went about cleaning up and eating a breakfast of bacon and eggs and biscuits. He avoided my glance and studied his plate as he ate. He was having regrets this morning. Probably accepting repressed gay longings successfully hidden all this time. That was good. The boy needed to understand who he was.
I watched as he sat at the computer and worked on next week’s lessons, pleased at how quickly he picked up on things. The computer could be this kid’s way out of his dreary life, and I told him so.
After lunch, I did some work of my own. When I went back into the living room, he was holding a jigger of Scotch. He stared at me defiantly as he tossed it down his throat. He turned to the portable bar and poured another before capping the bottle and returning to the PC.
An hour later, I checked first on the worsening weather and then on my misfit. Pleased at his progress, I placed my hands on his shoulders. He went rigid as I ran my hands down his torso. He stood, and I sensed that now he was simply bowing to the inevitable, but it made no difference. He was too beautiful, too virile, too desirable for me to stop. I led him into the bedroom and satisfied my need… his too. Although he was passive throughout.
As we lay silent and spent, I sought to ease the moment. “Your girls must go wild over you, John.”
“Yeah, my girls,” he mumbled, and I knew there hadn’t been any.
He rose from the bed and strode to the bathroom in that panther’s stride I so admired. I heard him shower, but was too spent to stir. When he came out, I stumbled in and turned on the water. John was wearing me out.
God, he was beautiful! He was wonderful! Magnificent! When he finished high school, I’d see he got some advanced training. Hell, I would even quit my job and go with him. They needed teachers everywhere.
When I was finally clean and dry again, I dressed and went into the den. He was gone. His books were on the table, but he wasn’t around. As I searched the house, my eye fell on the portable bar. He’d taken the bottle of Scotch. I ran to the window. The snow fell in huge wet chunks too big to be called flakes. I threw on clothes and raced outside. His tracks were almost covered by fresh snow. He’d gone east. I fought the car out of the garage and plowed through drifted snow for miles before accepting the futility of my search.

They found him in a small culvert south of town two days later. The bottle that had given him a false sense of warmth until his vital functions surrendered to the elements was empty. I managed to make it to the end of the school year before resigning and moving farther west. I found a school at the edge of an Indian reservation and taught a few classes over the summer. Gradually, the dusky young men restored a sense of balance to my life, although they could do nothing to expunge the guilt of driving a beautiful young man to his death by demanding too much, too fast.
Nonetheless, I found my next misfit... not at the school… but in front of a small trading post just outside of the reservation. And he was drawn to me like debris to the vortex of a whirlwind.


So tragic. Young John was willing to do things against his nature to keep a promise to his dead grandmother. Or is that oversimplification? John had no problem participating. In fact, Mr. Mason had the impression he enjoyed their second encounter. Whether John reacted to doing something against his nature or was simply fighting what he was coming to understand was his nature, he chose the wrong way out.

What about Mr. Mason? Was he callous and uncaring? I’m not sure that’s the case. He truly mourned John, barely hanging onto his teaching position until the term was completed. Then he moved elsewhere… and found another misfit? Does that necessarily mean he chose the new boy as a sexual target? Maybe he’s learned something from his encounter with John and is truly driven to help misfits. What do you think?

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