Spring days grew longer as graduation approached. College acceptance letters and prom dates were the talk of study hall conversation, but in the corner of the cafeteria that Friday I huddled with my best friends Bobby, Rob and Scott to discuss our trip to Maine's Moosehead Lake that afternoon.

We were to leave right after school and arrive at Rob's family's lakefront cottage by dark. Scott volunteered to drive and Rob immediately called the shotgun position up front. Bobby and I would be together in the back of the Monte Carlo.

Later that afternoon, the Monte was set to go. Gassed up, the trunk full of sleeping bags, and on the front seat a cooler of beer.

The trip to the lake was long. Most talk centered around the girls we knew at school and who would "put out" and who wouldn't. To our disappointment we found no correlation between large breasts and a girl being easy. But we did agree that dark haired girls, Italian, Greek, and Jewish girls, tended to be a little bolder while the fair-haired played harder to get.

After a few hours and a couple of beers each, the car fell mostly silent. A Springsteen tape played in the deck and Bobby and I drifted to sleep in the back of the car.

Ordinarily, straight boys who were friends would never come close to anything approaching a "touch" for fear of risking being called a fag. But in this particular instance, Bobby fell asleep and leaned toward me, his head ultimately resting on my shoulder. I took no real notice and again continued my drift toward sleep.

Suddenly, Bobby shifted and instead of just leaning on my shoulder, he curled up on the car seat in a fetal position and rested his head on my lap. My drift toward sleep was abruptly ended. I sat frozen as I realized that as soon as Bobby's cheek hit my lap, I had become physically aroused. My running shorts restrained my growing dick as Bobby's head rested on my smooth thighs just an inch away.

I couldn't believe it. If something wasn't done quickly, Bobby would soon feel my cock pressing on the back of his head. "Good thing he's facing the other way", I thought, "Or I think my prick would go right into his mouth". What the fuck was that? What kind of thought was that which just entered my brain -- "mouth", "prick"? Fag thoughts, I worried. I worried even as I felt his hot breath against the inners of my thighs. Hotter than any girl's breath and certainly harsher and raspier, but gentle in its own way.

I grabbed Bobby by the back of the hair and lifted him up roughly, "Hey, Queenie, wake up and get the fuck off me."

Bobby was awake in an instant and sat up quickly. Scott and Rob turned around to see what was going on. "Bobby must have been dreaming about foot-longs", I said, and forced a laugh.

"More like dreaming of Vienna sausages, I'd bet", Rob shot back.

Bobby shook his head of sleep and remembered where he was. "What?" he groggily asked. Or maybe he was just faking his grogginess? Perhaps he hadn't really been asleep. "Damn" I said to myself. More fag thoughts.

The scoop on Bobby was this. He was about 5' 11" and a really great athlete - not in the "school hero" sort of way -