For the Love of Logan Read online

  Just a Dumb Surfer Dude 2:

  For the Love of Logan

  A Gay Coming-of-Age Tale

  By: Chase Connor

  © Copyright 2018

  All characters depicted in sexual situations in this publication are eighteen years of age or older. These stories are about fictional consenting adults. Nobody involved in the creation of this ebook, including authors, editors and models, support immoral or illegal acts in real life. Cover models are not intended to illustrate specific people and the content does not refer to models' actual acts, identity, history, beliefs or behavior. No characters depicted in this ebook are intended to represent real people.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Spring Break

  Chapter 1

  Mr. Weissman told me at the end of third period to stop hanging out around his house so much. Apparently, his son was “rubbing off on me” and he didn’t want me to “turn into a total asshole like Cooper.” He had delivered these statements with a laugh, and obviously had waited until the other students were out of earshot, so it was all a joke. But it still kind of stung anyway. I mean, I already feel like a fifth wheel most of the time, so, while I laughed with him, those words were settling into my brain, where they would probably stay for the rest of the day.

  I had raised my hand when he had asked everyone’s initial thoughts on the chapters we had read of The Sun Also Rises. When Mr. Weissman called on me, and I had said that Hemingway was “the king of the run-on sentence”, I knew from the look on his face that he was not pleased. In fact, in front of the whole class, he had responded, “Tell Cooper he’s grounded.” The class laughed and I just smiled, hoping that I wouldn’t look as bothered by the statement as I was. Then he had called me up to the dais when the bell rang so he could deliver the other zingers. My mind told me this was all in good fun and he was just joking, but there was still that nagging doubt that maybe everyone was getting tired of me being around.

  Mr. Weissman was maybe right. I did spend a lot of time with Cooper.

  But, I mean, he never told me to take a walk or go fuck myself or anything.

  Cooper is a good friend. The best I’ve ever had.

  In all fairness, I do sometimes get my opinions from Cooper. The dude knows books. So far, every single book I’ve read he’s been able to discuss at length with me. And, to be clear, I had mentioned to Cooper about Hemingway writing run-on sentence after run-on sentence. Of course, this was his opinion, too, but I hadn’t stolen it from him. We just happened to agree on the fact that Hemingway is highly overrated. That’s all.

  “How are you doing in your other classes, Marshall?” Mr. Weissman asked as I stood in front of him, trying to not be hurt by his previous statements.

  “I’m doing well, sir.” I responded. “Cooper’s been helping me a lot.”

  Why did I mention him again??

  “Well, obviously.” He chuckled. “How’s chemistry?”

  “Solid B so far.” I nodded. “Um, is everything okay?”

  Mr. Weissman considered me for a moment, then walked over to the door and gently shut it. Fourth period was Mr. Weissman’s conference and advisement period, so no students would be arriving for a class. After the door was shut, he walked back over and stood before me, concern etched all over his face.

  “I’m very proud of you, Marshall.” He smiled, though his brow was still furrowed. “You’re doing a lot better this semester.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Your grades have really improved from last semester.” He continued. “Do you feel like you’ve adjusted better to Dextrus? Do you feel good about school?”

  “Yessir.” I responded again. “I’m going to be late to…”

  “I’ll write you a note.” He waved me off. “Marshall…”

  “Sir?” I felt myself shrinking before him, concerned.

  He sighed and sat on the dais, signaling for me to plop a squat beside him. I readjusted my bookbag and sat down rigidly beside him.

  “I know this isn’t necessarily the most appropriate place to do this.” He began as he turned to look at me. “But how are things with you in general? Not your classes, Dextrus, or any of that. How are you feeling?”

  I shrugged.

  “You haven’t seemed all that upbeat since…well, since you and Cooper went out.” He glanced at the door. “I want to know that you’re doing okay, Marshall.”

  “I’m fine.”

  A disbelieving frown clouded his face.

  “I’d really like to just go to my next class, sir.”

  His eyes didn’t leave me as he nodded, stood up and went to write the note that he had promised so that I wouldn’t get in trouble for being late. Mr. Weissman, wrote the note, tore it off of the pad and handed it to me with a tight smile. I took the note from him and stuffed it in the front pocket of my blazer before giving him a nod.

  “You won’t, like, imply to Cooper that…well, you won’t say anything to him, will you?” I looked down at my feet.

  “My door is always open to you, Marshall.” Mr. Weissman declared. “And anything we talk about won’t be told to anyone else—including my son.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I nodded.

  Then I left.

  Dextrus Academy is an all-boys prep high school in the heart of Vermont. Not far from Lake Champlain and about a forty-five-minute drive to Montpelier. A lot of rich, white kids attend school at Dextrus before they start their college careers at Ivy League schools or prestigious universities in other countries, like Cambridge and Oxford. Most of the students at Dextrus are “legacies”, or guys whose fathers and fathers’ fathers went to Dextrus. I’m a rich, white kid. Cooper is not. Neither of us is a “legacy” student, however. My family comes from money, I guess, but we’re not super crazy connected or elite like a lot of the families of the guys who go to Dextrus. Hell, even Alex, Cooper’s boyfriend—and, I guess, my friend—has had senators and congressmen over to his house before.

  It’s not a bad place to go to school, I guess, but it’s a little more academically advanced than I am used to. Before Dextrus, I always went to public school. Sure, the schools were in nicer school districts, in nicer neighborhoods, but they were absolutely nothing like Dextrus. Not even close. I mean, Dextrus has a fucking food court with Indian Food, a vegetarian café, a coffee and sandwich bar, a Taco cart, and a regular American food cafeteria. They use recyclable metal straws and sustainable materials and all of the books and supplies are new. Everyone wears slacks and button-down shirts and blazers and ties and shiny shoes. Everyone’s hair is styled perfectly when they walk into first period each day. Shirttails are tucked in and ties are tied perfectly, not hanging loosely around the collar.

  Teachers are called Mr. or Mrs. so-and-so or Professor or Doctor so-and-so. “Yessir” or “Yes ma’am” are always used. Partici
pation in classes is not only integral but required. If a teacher doesn’t see you raise your hand at least once during a discussion, your ass is grass. The labs in the science rooms are modernized and state-of-the-art. The computer labs have all new models of computers. The library is majestic and massive. You can’t find one student here who doesn’t have an opinion about classic literature or who hasn’t heard of Hubble’s Law of Cosmic Expansion or Archimedes’ Buoyancy Principle. Some, like myself, don’t quite understand these things, but we’ve definitely heard of them.

  I’m unlike Cooper in that I have no hope of ever keeping up with him academically. Any class I have with Cooper involves the teacher—and some of the students—marveling at how fucking brilliant he is. He’s a fucking genius, honestly. But, don’t tell him that. He hates descriptors like “smart” and “genius”. He’d prefer to be called a “hard worker” or “dedicated”. There are lectures given in my classes that may as well be given in Chinese for how well I understand them. Comparative literature with Mr. Weissman was my best class, as far as grades went. My next two best classes were AP Psychology and AP Chemistry—mostly because Cooper was in those classes with me and could help me while in class and after school. My other four classes required extremely hard work and even tougher coaching from Cooper.

  Walking down the halls of Dextrus, on my way to political science, I just felt out of place. Just like I always did. I always felt like a fraud at Dextrus Academy. I was only in Dextrus because my dad had money. I didn’t belong here. Of course, Cooper got into Dextrus because his father was a teacher—but his grades alone might have gotten him admitted on scholarship. I couldn’t even claim that. Money was the only thing that got me a spot at Dextrus. That place had been given begrudgingly, too. No one was particularly rude or mean to be in school—but some of the students gave off an attitude that let me know they didn’t consider me to be one of them. Never Cooper, Alex, or any of our shared friends at school, but some of the other students were like that.

  When I walked into Professor Abrams class, he immediately shot me an annoyed look. A.J. and Martin, two of my friends, made “Oooooooh” sounds, indicating that I was up shit creek. But when I produced the note from Mr. Weissman, Professor Abrams’ annoyed look turned into a smile and he waved me over to my seat. One thing about Mr. Weissman—he may not have money or be known for mingling with the elite—but he had the respect of the faculty. Respect still went a lot further than money and status in the academic world. If I managed to pull a solid B in political science, maybe I’d get a little respect from Professor Abrams, too. With as much help as Cooper was giving me, it seemed to be shaping up that way.

  I sat through political science and took copious notes yet retained or understood very little of it. Well, I mean, I understand political science—Professor Abrams was speaking English, obviously—but sometimes my brain just doesn’t want to comprehend even the simplest things and figure out how to apply them to the real world. I don’t always see how one thing connects to another and how it all works together. Cooper has told me that I’m bodily-kinesthetic intelligent and intrapersonal/interpersonal intelligent and that maybe I should focus on classes in college that will help place me in a career that works with my strengths.

  When Cooper had told me that, I asked if he thought I was stupid. He had gotten upset with me and told me that I was far from stupid. Academics just wasn’t what I was made to excel in. But I understood my body, I understood myself, and I understood other people. Something in physical education or personal training or counseling, social work, or athletics might be the most fulfilling careers for me. Teaching a subject that I did do well in, like comparative literature might even be something I’d be great at since he said I was great with other people. He said I was brilliant at explaining the things that I enjoyed and did well at and loved helping other people to understand them. When he explained it like that, I was even more amazed at how smart my best friend was.

  Luckily, political science passed quickly and my favorite part of the day, lunch, was upon us. I packed up my bag and stowed it in my locker before dashing off towards the courtyard. Lunch was always my favorite time of day because I could spend time with Cooper at school without actually being in a class. Of course, when we spent time together outside of school it was even better, but if I had to choose a time during school that was my favorite, it had to be lunch.

  The courtyard of Dextrus Academy is really just a big open area with concrete and metal picnic tables, a grassy area with and old Sugar Maple tree, the cafes and carts, and lots of walkways between all of the buildings that comprise Dextrus. There’s only four—buildings that is—but the courtyard is still pretty massive. Of course, when you have the whole student population taking lunch at the same time for an hour, space is needed. The worst days are when it is rainy and everyone has to pack into the cafeteria. It’s just big enough to hold all of the students but it’s absolutely miserable being packed in with everyone else like sardines for a whole hour. The sun was out today, though, so I knew that was not a concern for this lunch hour.

  When I walked out of the government and sciences building, known as “Smythe Hall”, into the courtyard, my eyes did what they always did—they scanned for Cooper. Obviously, my eyes went right to the coffee and sandwich bar, but he wasn’t there. Alex was standing at the counter, though. Which was odd. Alex was usually at the taco truck ordering massive amounts of tacos and the biggest soda allowed. My eyes continued their scan and I finally saw my friend sitting beneath the old Sugar Maple in the grassy area at the northwest corner of the courtyard. Cooper always sat there with Alex and his other friends, most of whom were lacrosse players, so no one ever tried to commandeer their spot.

  Cooper was sitting in the lotus position, a book fanned out in his lap, his head down in studious concentration. I smiled to myself, did a run by the taco truck, then headed over to my friend. As I approached, holding a 3-pack of street tacos, a bowl of pozole (a Friday special), and my soda, I couldn’t keep from grinning ear to ear. I had been waiting all day to just talk to my best friend without a teacher interrupting the conversation. I needed someone who would make me feel better and Cooper always managed.

  “Hey, friend-o.” I greeted Cooper cheerfully as I approached and threw myself down beside him.

  “Can I have a sip of that?” Cooper asked, not looking up as he held out his hand.

  I passed my soda to him. He accepted my drink from me and took a quick sip and then yanked it away from his mouth with a grimace.

  “What in God’s name is that?” He frowned comically.

  “Mountain Dew?” I shrugged.

  “Gross.” He stated simply, handing it back.

  Cooper doesn’t drink sodas. He’s a coffee and tea kind of guy. Or water. Water is always okay with Cooper. But sugary, highly caffeinated, carbonated beverages make him turn up his nose. It’s the only food or drink I’ve ever seen him turn down, though.

  “Your dad says you’re grounded.” I opened my pack of tacos.

  “Hemingway?” Cooper snorted as he scanned his book. “I told you to just keep your mouth shut, but you had to poke the bear, didn’t you?”

  He looked up at me with an impish grin.

  I shrugged.

  “None of my friends can speak their minds in his class.” Cooper reiterated for the hundredth time. “He always assumes that I’ve forced them to drink the Kool-Aid.”

  I laughed sharply, then I took my first bite of taco.

  “I swear, I’m going to get a whole class of his sophomores to tell him that Kafka was a misogynistic, closeted homosexual with an affinity for little boys, and had an inferiority complex.” Cooper grinned evilly to himself. “That’ll teach him.”

  “Who?”

  “My dad.”

  “No…what author?”

  “Franz Kafka?” Cooper replied. “Jewish author. Born in Prague. Wrote The Metamorphosis? It’s the story of a salesman who wakes up as a huge insect. Highly overrated.�
�

  “Really?”

  “Well, no.” He laughed. “It’s an all right book, I guess. But, it’s not all people make it out to be. At least, not in my opinion—for what that’s worth.”

  “We haven’t read it yet.”

  “You probably won’t. He has sophomores read it. You probably lucked out by transferring in as a senior. If he ever questions you about it, just say you appreciate it for its religious and social commentary. And leave it at that.”

  I gave Cooper a comical salute.

  Cooper went back to scanning the book in his lap.

  “Whatcha doin’ there?” I asked, sneaking a glance at the book.

  “Neuropsychology.” Cooper stated simply.

  “Of course.” I nodded. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Cooper laughed. “Yeah. Mrs. Haywood strikes again.”

  Mrs. Haywood was one of the counselors at Dextrus Academy. Obviously, her new thing was trying to convince Cooper to go into neuropsychology. The week before it had been microbiology. The week before that it had been gastroenterology. The week before that it had been pharmaceutical science. Before that? Electrical engineering. All of the teachers and counselors at Dextrus had been completely scandalized when Cooper made it known that he wanted to go into education. It had caused Mr. Weissman quite a bit of grief since most of the teachers and counselors slyly implied that he had influenced his son into choosing a career “beneath” himself.

  They just didn’t really know Cooper. Sure, he had considered something in the medical field. Fields with high salaries. But Cooper didn’t want to be in medicine. He didn’t want to be an engineer. And he didn’t want to research cures for one thing or another. Not that he didn’t see value in any of those things—but he wanted to teach. Personally, I thought it was noble to see someone with so much personal potential have a desire to use it to assist others in reaching their own potential. I just wished that Mrs. Haywood—and the rest of the faculty—would fuck straight off and leave him alone.