Do Not Fall Down Stairs

Chapter One

Do Not Fall Down Stairs

I’m naked under my clothes.

ooooooooooooo

“Name and student ID number?”

“Titus Marks, and it’s, uh…” I pulled the thin white paper card issued to me in my acceptance letter out of my pocket. “Nine-three-seven-zero-eight-nine.”

The ancient secretary behind the desk looked at me over her eighties-style glasses and scowled. Yeah, so my name is fucking weird. My mom saw some brilliant comedy play somewhere, fell in love with it, and named me after one of the villains. Get over it, dustbag.

After redirecting her reproachful look towards the computer the woman typed in my information and pressed a button on the machine to her left. It released a long and unnecessarily loud stream of robotic noises before spewing out two sheets of paper that were thrust into my hand from hers. Ew. Leather skin. Liver spots. I think I just threw up in my mouth.

“First period has already begun,” she croaked, and I was amazed not to see any cobwebs hiding out in her mouth. “Follow your schedule to find your first class.”

I looked down at the papers I was holding. One was a profile type document with all my information on it. Name (we already went over this), age (seventeen), grade (senior), homeroom number (304), and student ID (don’t make me say it again). The other was a list of my classes, the rooms they were in, and the teachers who taught them. I perused the list quickly. What the hell? What kind of name is M. R. Luz? Oh, God, his parents must have hated him. I glanced over to see what class Professor Luz would be boring me to death in.

Oh. Studio Arts. It figures.

My first class turned out to be Chemistry with Professor Frieda. I made it there in an easy three minutes seeing as how Marshbrook Hill Academy was home to the simplest configuration of halls ever constructed. But then again what do you expect out of people who named their school after not one but three completely different geographical features, none of which were prevalent in the surrounding area. Fieldplain Farmland would have been a much more appropriate name for this place.

Upon entering the chemistry room the first thing I noticed was that I probably should have stayed outside for two reasons. One, everyone inside was practically sprinting out of the room, jostling me in the process, and two, there was smoke billowing up and around in huge amounts from one half of the room. The experimentation half, I guessed.

“You don’t want to be in here, man!” One escaping classmate yelled to me. “Come on!”

I followed him into the hall, wondering with idle curiosity what had happened to cause such a fuss. A fire? Maybe an explosion? A mixture gone wrong? I smiled. In all honesty, signing up for this course was inspired by my love for one thing: burning stuff. Okay, yes, I’m a closet pyro. Well… subtract the closet part. I hate closets.

“What happened?” I asked the boy who had spoken to me before, trying to sound only interested and not excited.

“Bunsen burner mishap,” he replied, removing a pair of those awful clear plastic safety goggles from his face. “You’re new, yeah?”

I nodded. “You’re looking at the most recent addition to this prestigious and proud establishment, who will hopefully metamorphose into yet another talented and promising member of the future.”

When he only stared at me, I added, “Or at least, that’s what the dean called me.”

That earned a laugh. “Dean Sherman is a tight-assed bastard.” He stuck out a latex glove-covered hand. “I’m Michael.”

I shook the proffered appendage and grimaced, not because I didn’t like him but because I hate introductions. You would too, if you had to constantly declare yourself as, “Titus.”

“That’s a weird name, dude. No offense.”

“As if I didn’t know that already. My mom was into theatre, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. It’s cool. So, just wondering, don’t get pissed or anything, but are you gay by any chance?”

Michael was looking at my clothes. I had on a pair of tight, dark wash blue jeans and brown Abercrombie sandals. My shirt - the best part of the ensemble, in my opinion - was a to-die-for creation of white and baby blue cotton that clung to my frame in all the right places. To top it off I had perched a pair of designer sunglasses in my blonde hair. Did I forget to mention that, yes, I am in fact a proud flaming queer?

Oh. My bad.

“Yeah, I am, actually.”

Michael nodded. “I thought so. Not many straight guys would get caught wearing that. Or, you know, getting their eyebrows done.”

Said brows were plucked to perfection this morning, in case you’re wondering.

I smirked. “I think it’s a nice touch. I mean, who wants to make out with a unibrowed caveman?”

“Can’t say that I would.”

“Exactly.” I looked my new acquaintance up and down in a friendly, so-not-checking-you-out sort of way. “Do you slide down the proverbial Bat pole, perchance?”

“Come again?”

“You know, the Bat pole. Batman and Robin. An adult male skipping around with a boy in tights?”

He laughed. “Oh. Well, no. I’m straight.” He was quiet for a second before adding, “But I did wear a Batman costume for Halloween when I was eleven.”

Giggling - yes, I’ll admit it. I giggle. None of this manly chuckling bullshit - I told Michael, “We’ll get along just fine, my friend.”

ooooooooooooo

Second period was much less entertaining than first; I was forced to trudge to my English class alone as Michael, my only current friend, sadly informed me that he had to attend Health. I ended up spending the entire forty-five minutes between bells listening to the exceptionally boring and monotonous Professor Geofrey drone on about subordinate clauses.

As I was getting up to leave at the end of class I was surprised to hear Geofrey call my name.

“What is your next subject, Mr. Marks?”

I dug out my schedule and consulted it. Oh, joy. “Studio Arts.” With M. R. Luz.

“Can you find your way there sufficiently?”

Who the hell talks like that, I almost asked. Instead I said, “Yes, sir,” and was on my way.

To my happy surprise, I ran into Michael halfway to my destination.

“You got Luz’s class too, eh?”

“So it would seem. Tell me, is he as ridiculous as his name suggests?”

“Nah. He’s pretty cool, actually.”

I tried not to appear disappointed. Sure, it was nice that my teacher wasn’t a complete lunatic, but I had been hoping to have a solid source of amusement for what promised to be my least favorite class of the day. I am positively horrible at art of any sort. The only reason I even signed up for it was because my mother heartily insisted that I take it, or else participate in Drama Club. Well… You get the point.

So anyway, Michael and I entered the classroom and I glanced around casually to find the apparently “pretty cool” professor and get a good look at him. And, boy-on-gay-boy, did I ever get a good look at him.

My first thought upon laying eyes on M. R. Luz was that no matter what faults his name created, his ass was not affected by them. He was bending over, rummaging around in a cabinet, and said position gave myself and everyone else - although I might have been the only one looking - a perfect view of his jean-clad rear end. His very tight, very nice rear end.

Then the man stood up and turned around. Shitfuckholycocksuckingglory.

M. R. Luz was every prissy little homo’s dream, and I was no exception. His perfect ass was being supported by long legs whose tone could not be hidden by the coarse denim that covered them. My dirty mind started to imagine those no doubt powerful legs digging into the mattress at his knees on either side of my hips while he did unmentionable things to my body and oh, God, did you see those delicious eyes? They were an enchanting shade of dazzling green, framed by sooty black lashes whose length could only be rivaled by my own mascara treated ones. Out of habit - I search for perfection in my potential flames - my gaze flicked upward to take in his brows. They were thicker than mine but nowhere near the repulsive caterpillar stage. Did he get them done? I couldn’t tell.

His skin was tan, a nice contrast to his bright irises and the pearly white of his beautiful smile. His cheekbones were high, and his nose straight and just the right amount of sharp. A square, manly chin rested below his lips and the top of his head was adorned with shaggy brown locks that reminded me of a careless teenager.

Between his muscled arms and golden complexion I reasoned that he probably played some sort of sport, or perhaps just went for jogs every so often, and the image of him showing off his athletic prowess inspired - strangely - “Get Down On It”, by Kool and the Gang to play in my mind.

Trying to shake the cheesy dance song out of my head, I was too preoccupied to notice when Mr. Hottie (it suited him so much better than ‘Luz’) approached me and asked me a question.

‘You gotta get on the groove, if you want your body to move. Tell me, baby. How you gonna do it if you really don’t wanna dance?’

Hottie, Michael, and now the rest of the class were staring at me expectantly as I failed to answer. Well, except for the unconcerned stoic goths in the back of the room, who I suspected were only in art class so they could steal black Sharpies and paint their fingernails with them.

“Mr. Marks?”

“Get your back up off the wall,” I blurted, and a millisecond later, I felt my face burn red. Shit.

The teacher was eyeing me with the expression normally reserved for those who were a few eggs short of a dozen. Michael, the bastard, was snorting into his hand, barely attempting to conceal his amusement at my slip-up.

“Uh, yes?” I corrected myself lamely, hoping everyone would think that I commonly recited the lyrics to bad eighties songs.

“Are you feeling all right?”

Oh, just peachy, sir, seeing as how I just recently made a jackass out of myself.

“Yes.”

“Good. Could you take a seat, please?”

Absolutely. Don’t mind if I do take a seat on your most likely gorgeous cock, you sinfully good-looking prick.

“Yes.”

As limited as my vocabulary had suddenly become, I did not find that it had hurt my motor skills, so I followed Michael to a couple of empty chairs and deposited myself in one, throwing my bag down next to me.

“Okay, everybody. Take out your sheets on self-portraits. Michael, share with Mr. Marks for now.”

And thus began the first day of my life in what I would soon realize was nothing short of pure and utter hell.

ooooooooooooo

“Oh my God, there she is, man.”

This simple, seven syllable phrase was like a mantra for my dear companion Michael, who repeated it without fail every single time that one Sarena Cornwall came into his sights. Needless to say, it had grown to be something of an annoyance to me, as well as to the other five people sitting with us at the lunch table. I pitied them their misfortune at having to hear the words for years, whereas I had only been enduring them for four days.

The explanation for Michael’s tooth-grinding consistency was this: he had harbored a not-so-secret and growing crush for Sarena since the seventh grade. During the five year time period between then and now, Miss Cornwall had developed into a rather pretty and desirable person - for a straight man or lesbian at least, which I deduced after seeing her seventh grade class picture in Michael’s locker. Creepy? Oh, yes.

Anyway, back to my explanation. Michael has had the aforementioned five motherfucking years to attempt to woo Sarena, and has failed to even make a single move. Therefore in his incapability his only remaining option was to stare wistfully at her perky ass while she glided angelically across his vision. And repeat his mantra, of course.

Honestly I could not understand why my friend wouldn’t make a move; it wasn’t as if he was hideously ugly or otherwise incapacitated. He had all his fingers, could speak comprehensible if not proper English, and was not so dumb as to think that two plus two equaled fish. The only thing holding him back was his pathetic lack of courage, and I did not waste any time in telling him so.

“Shut up, man. If you were me you would do the same thing.”

I replied, affronted, “Hardly.”

“Oh, come on. You’re telling me that if you had a thing for the hottest girl in school you wouldn’t be afraid to ask her out?”

First of all, I wanted to point out, Sarena was not the hottest girl in school. I mean, as a strict gay man, it was only my responsibility to notice and catalogue the pros and cons of any bitch who could possibly steal one of my men. From a few days’ perusal I had concluded that while Sarena was no doubt in the top ten, perhaps above number five, the position of most wanted female was occupied by Emilee Tate, whose boobs could probably deflect a meteor. I had yet to find out if they were real or not.

But instead of telling Michael all this, I just made my second point, “Of course I wouldn’t. I always go after what I want.”

Wendy, a blonde girl who sat opposite of Michael, diagonally across from me, smirked. “Really, Tits-R-Us? Then prove it.” Oh, did I forget to mention what a clever, skanky whore she is?

I narrowed my gaze at her. “How, Fat Food Chain?”

She ignored my comeback. “Everyone sees you ogling Luz in art class. You were practically drooling over your charcoal sketch yesterday.”

Cunt. As if it was my fault she couldn’t be bothered to check out anyone worthwhile. I saw her staring at Pizza-Faced Steve like she wanted to eat his acne for breakfast.

“Your point is?”

“It’s obvious you want him. So why not be true to your word and go after him?”

She was flat out sneering now, reveling in her oh-so-wonderful-cleverness. But I was trapped in a corner. Taking up her challenge would be dangerous and could result in expulsion if not worse. If I refused her dare, I would be labeled a lying pussy - ew - who talked big but didn’t deliver.

In a second, I had made up my mind, ignoring any small conscience I might have had. Titus Marks always delivered.

“You’re on, bitch.”

ooooooooooooo


Roflroflcakes. Cake. Mm. I'm hyper right now. Shit! Um. Tacos. I blame the tacos.

Read and review if you feel the need, sugarpusses.

Ohandyeah. I do not own anything to do with Abercrombie or "Get Down On It". Except for the funky!fresh dance moves I break out in when I hear the song.