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I had too much fun writing this. If people have fun reading it, I'll probably write more to it.

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They say it's best to go out with a bang. Guess that's the logic behind your typical senior prank. That year the seniors forked the front lawn of the schoolyard, and the rest of the day you could see the custodial staff hunched over out there yanking up plastic forks from the grass turf. Fun as that may be to people still flunking their way through course after course of remedial math, those of us with intellectual capacity exceeding that of a chipmunk go for something a bit more scandalous.

Enter Bruce Wesley, starting linebacker for the LHS Panthers. He's a bear, a big wall of muscle you do not want to go crashing into when running the sweaty pigskin across the field... to the extent that a high-school senior can be a big wall of muscle, at least. Over the years he's flunked his way through three semesters of remedial math and is now barely scraping by in the boring-as-shit geometry class I took in the ninth grade.

I should know all this; I'm the only reason he's passing. I could tell you about how it took me three weeks to teach him that 8x-5 does not actually equal 3x, but that's not the point. Point is, Big Bruce wanted to go out with a bang like the rest of the Math-Flunking gang, but perhaps because of his acquaintance with me, Cougar Tutor Extraordinaire, jamming plastic forks in the hard earth did not amuse him as much as another tempting possibility. Knowledge of basic algebra changes you like that.

There are certain advantages to being an openly-acknowledged faggot, one of which led to me going out with quite a bang of my own. This is, more or less, the story of that bang. And I just want to pause here to note that I did not say Faggot. I'm not one of those flamboyant, warbling Faggots who glue rainbow patches to their backpacks and affect their speech with a lisp and limp wrist in the Faggot version of a mating call. No, I'm just your regular, ordinary faggot, a guy with a dick who likes dick and shies away from women like they're all afflicted with vagina dentata.

The story started a few months ago. I had a busy sheet of computer paper out in front of me and was thirty minutes into a fascinating lecture on the definition of an equals sign (perform ye inflictions upon one side unto ye opposite side). But Big Bruce hadn't been paying much attention. He'd had at least half his attention on his phone, probably texting some bitch of his (she had to be dating him entirely for his body). It didn't make much difference to me, because as the hour rolled by, whether he listened or not, I could almost feel the $20/week salary accumulating piece-by-piece into my pockets.

He slammed his phone down on the table with a grunt, making apparent the obvious reason behind the three cracks spider-webbing their way across the face of its screen. "Man, you lucky you don't have to deal with bitches."

He said it with scholarly tact, as if he were making some kind of revelation I should applaud him for. Instead, I applauded myself: hunch confirmed. I leaned back in my chair, the shitty plastic kind that made your rear hurt in all the wrong ways.

I pushed the piece of paper back a few inches, as if dismissing it from his direct concern. Over the two month or so I'd started cramming algebra down his throat, I'd learned that when he had something else on his mind, he'd just vomit whatever I fed him right back up. Why waste time feeding him delicious brain-food when he can't keep any of it down? In my zeal to not waste any effort in times like these, we'd acquired an awkward camaraderie, with me serving as a steadfast, gossip-free wall for him to vent all his personal concerns at, replete with noncommittal rebuttals galore.

"Nobody's forcing you to deal with them," I droned.

He grunted. "Sometimes it's worth it. Right now it's not. Too clingy, not enough fun." I had an idea of what kind of fun he meant, but I didn't say anything. It was best just to let him talk. "Always talking about What's next, Bruce?" His voice leapt up an octave and acquired a warbling tone that made him sound like quite the convincing Faggot. "Bet you guys don't have that problem."

He said You guys as if I were part of some fancy elective club, not locked into a predisposition dictated by my mother's prenatal testosterone levels. I wouldn't give in to his false dichotomy, but I wouldn't berate him for it, either. As usual, I gave a noncommittal shrug. "Depends. Probably less of it." I said that last part not because I believed it and more because I thought it was the answer he desired.

He didn't look at me. He never looked at me. After all, I was the nerd at the top of my class--the one everyone would inwardly will to shut the fuck up on graduation day when it's a hundred degrees outside and you're wearing two layers of clothes--and he was a jock.

"I fucking work my ass off for her, but it's been ages since she's given me a good blowjob."

At the time, I thought that was a terrible mistake on his part. Any sentence that on some level required me to form an image of Big Bruce's Big Cock while in the same room as Big Bruce was not good for my reputation as a respectable gay man. I had to look away. "Well," I said, "not everyone's into giving 'em."

"But you guys all are." I remember imagining him writing on the whiteboard, with all the sagely confidence of a teacher introducing the Pythagorean Theorem: all members of the gay men club love to suck dick. "Aren't you?"

He looked at me now, challenging me to provide a counterexample to his infallible theorem. I just shrugged my shoulders yet again, and invoked my right as an openly-acknowledged faggot. "Well, I do." No innuendo stained the tone of my voice; it was purely a statement of fact, and I made sure of that.

To put it mildly, what I saw next flabbergasted me.

It is a universally-acknowledged truth that 'straight' men are terrible at flirting with gay men. They are afraid to directly show interest, at risk of being labeled as 'gay' by respectable gay men... but any respectable gay man would never make a move on a straight man, because that shit messes up our image. The result is an awkward impasse, both parties stuck behind a self-imposed wall.

I say this because in that moment I saw him stuck behind a wall. Big Bruce looked nervous.

The correct thing to do in this situation would be just to back out. I had no direct evidence for my hunch, and I should never have taken the risk of saying what I said next, the five words that are perhaps the most idiotic in my life. I certainly didn't predict the eminent explosion of bullshit my actions that day would invoke.

"Why?" I lower my eyes at him. "Are you suggesting something...?"

"I dunno," he said, a grim look on his muzzle. "Are you offering?"

You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when an opportunity comes your way and you know it's a bad idea, you know it's something that's not quite your style, but still, it's too good of an opportunity to pass up? The thought that tips you over the edge is usually, Nobody else has to know.

"Maybe." I gave a noncommittal answer, just in case his idea of a senior prank was humiliating the local faggot. But all he did was lean back and pat his groin. I'd say he were staring at the ceiling, if I hadn't looked up and saw his eyes closed.

"Impress me."

It took me a while to act on those words, and when I did, my hands were shaking. Still, I wasn't about to turn this down, as far off as it was from my normal style. To understand my motivations here, you might need me to note that in the past, I'd blown a good many loads imagining myself underneath Big Bruce.

Just a look, I told myself. I wasn't actually going to suck his dick. I unzipped his fly, undid his button, and tugged his jeans down enough to get them off his thighs. I risked a glance towards the door. Closed, and nobody passing by would see us; we were outside the line of sight generated by that tiny little window. Not once had I ever been interrupted in this room, and I felt oddly safe despite the little cylinder jutting out of the door handle instead of pressed into it, indicating that the door was quite unlocked.

I leaned in and pressed my muzzle against his boxers. In went a breath, and I shivered. At that point, I was lost. My knees buckled a little bit, a true show of my weakness for a guy with a nice scent. Big Bruce breathed softly above me; his paws rested somewhat tensely by his sides, but I heard no complaints. My paws slowly guided his boxers off, on their own accord.

Bears are known for being thick down there. Bruce wasn't perhaps as girthy as most bears, but he got a little lucky in the length department. The end result: a long, thick shaft, the thought of which I knew would make me blow many more loads in the following days. Veins crept along its length, spanning the surface of his foreskin, which pulled tight around an impressive head. I took a minute just to admire it, and to scope up the fact that I was sucking off a football player in an abandoned classroom.

This was as close to the ideal wet dream as I could get. Maybe that's why I did it. I swear I don't normally just run around sucking off random jocks.

I ran my tongue along the underside of his dick. I'll admit it: I liked it so much that my eyes closed and I did it again, this time more slowly. Big Bruce relaxed a bit, and a look up told me his eyes were still closed. Images of whatever female he'd been seeing probably danced right under the surface of his eyelids, and I was more than okay with that. My pants were uncomfortably tight--the good kind of uncomfortably tight, where every motion of the hips produces a nice friction.

I licked and tugged and teased for quite a while: my tongue danced over his shaft and wove lazy paths over the bear's hefty sac, until both of his orbs were slightly damp. From down there, I could see his crack. I remember noting that he had quite the hot rear--round and muscled--one that he would later grow quite fond of me playing with, but I wasn't about to breach that road right now.

I'll be honest: I fucking worshiped that cock. I licked every single square inch of it, jerked on it (marveling that my paw barely closed around its girth), and bobbed my head up-and-down in that hungry, sloppy manner amateur cocksuckers tend to favor. I'll admit that when there's a nice shaft involved, I can be a little bit greedy; I recall letting out a few almost-embarrassing, needy groans when I tasted his gooey precum.

He stayed still until right before the end. It took me by surprise: when he tensed up, he reached down and plopped a paw on the back of my head and shoved his hips forward, driving an extra inch or two down my gullet. He loosed down my throat, and my cock screamed in my pants as the position forced me to swallow it. That first time, my throat protested a bit. The second time, I took it all fine. The third time, I came in my shorts.

I'm hoping you understand how hot this bear got me. To this day, the memory remains one of my favorites to conjure up in the late-night hours. Only then can you understand how drastically not my style this whole thing is. But at the time, it was just my version of the senior prank: I was going out with a bang, baby.

But the thing with senior pranks is, there's always retribution. That year, thanks to the forking fiasco, LHS seniors lost their senior privilege of driving off-campus for lunch (big whoop). If this were Literature and not just a story about a cougar with an affinity for bear schlongs, you might say I lost some sense of my style as a result of chowing down on Big Bruce.

But no. What I lost was far more tangible.