We are in the Union Cafe, Sharon, having a burger. It's a dingy little dive in the basement of the student union but the coffee is cheap, the grease has taken on a lovely patina, and it's a good place just to hang out. No one bothers you, and eventually the entire world walks by.
Are you curious about why there was no fog, my dear Inspector Hound? I certainly was! It made no sense to me. Not at the time. And you can be certain that I puzzled over it. Puzzled while I worked on fine tuning the instrument I was creating, puzzled as I got it passed my advisor and Ethics, puzzled while I spent hour after boring hour in the library scanning poorly written abstracts that had uselessly little to do with my concentration. Oh, Sharon! The joys of research! And all for that silly piece of sheep.
I digress. (What, me?!) Back to the point at hand. Here was an alpha. How did I know? I knew because of the effect he had on me the first time I met him. I know that fog! It is ineluctable. And yet at our next meeting, I was clear as a bell. Ah, little Miss Scientific Method -- I know what you're going to say! You're going to tell me that it's simple. No fog because he was clearly focused on something else. I wasn't befuddled because he wasn't trying to snare me, or because I wasn't trying to resist. A good point, madam. But I call your attention to the first time I saw Adam. No -- not at the summer camp compound. Don't you remember this story? I had run into him in the gym at school before I ever met him. It was the day I interviewed for the summer job, in fact. He didn't know me, I didn't know him. More importantly, he wasn't trying to seduce me. And still -- pea soup fog. It had nothing to do with that. You think it was the pheromones with Adam? Nope. Dan has the same effect on me, and you found none of Adam's magic elixir in Dan. So here we have our anathematic little Bam Bam whose barometer, evidently, is as variable as a spring day in New England. How? Why? It ate at my marrow as I went about the overly complicated business of being me.
And Corey! What did he really want from me? Did he know? I thought I knew, but was I right? And even if I were, would I be able to give it to him? How much service could I be given that whenever I was near him I oscillated between wanting to pity him, to punch him, and to plow him? People like him are why I'll always be a researcher and never a teacher. Were I a teacher, I'd inevitably succumb to the overwhelming desire to play a serious round of punt the child.
And then there's Richie. The least interesting of the three? Read on, my dear, read on.
A few evenings later found me, once again, at Kipton's. Kipton's is where I found the defensive back that time -- you remember? It's much like the Rat: watered-down beer, laughable music, floors that stick to the soles of your shoes, and pretty much the only game in town.
So there I was enduring something hideously loud simply to be in the company of people even though I had come and continued to sit alone. I know no one here. It's very strange being so uprooted. It was easy as an undergrad -- all that excitement and everyone was in the same boat. Then again when I started the doctoral program -- at least I had my cohort to entertain me until I found interesting people (like you!) But this time I'm starting off quite alone. No classes, no peers. The other people in my department are either just arriving and taking classes, or are already established in their patterns and friendships.
Anyway, long story long, who should walk in but Richie Hausmann. How can I describe this boy, Sharon? It's important that you have a good idea of what he looks like. He's shorter than I am, but densely and massively packed. He's a red head as I've said, but it's a very light color. He keeps it short (don't they all?) and I get the impression that were he to let it grow out, it would be wavy silk. He has a square face -- pretty blue eyes wide set and capped by strawberry brows, strong cheeks, ruby lips. His dimples compete with a blush for fecundity.
Am I painting the picture of a pretty boy? If so, I am giving the wrong impression. Yes, he is pretty. Very pretty in fact. But that is not the sense one takes looking at him. He comes across as being tremendously comfortable in his own skin and somehow that translates into a physical appearance. His demeanor makes a greater impact than his actual looks. Sure, he has the easy grace that all gymnasts share. He moves like a cat -- purposefully, easily, with relaxed power. But there's more to it with him. He's smooth. He's cool. It's intangible.
So in he walks in a baggy old sweatshirt that hangs off him as if it weren't delighted to be draped on such solid meat, some baggy pants that practically hung around his knees, and a blue cap worn backwards. On anyone else -- on everyone else, Sharon -- the ensemble would look like just another white, suburban ghetto wannabe dressing down to get it up. On him? Natural. Perhaps that's the word for him: natural.
He spied me in my corner, walked over, pulled a chair from another table without asking if it was okay, turned it backwards, straddled it, and sat down facing me.
"Hey, amigo," he said, smiling.
"Hi," I returned. "Sorry about the abrupt end to our conversation the other day."
"No worries, bud," he said. "So you know Corey too? What are you, a groupie?"
I laughed. "Never been called that before. But I may well be."
"Damn," he said. "Gotta watch out for you then."
I laughed. "Corey grew up where Matt and I went to school. That's how I know him."
"So tell me how Mattie is."
"He's pretty good, actually. One of my best friends. He...hey wait -- Richie Hausmann!"
"Hey what? You just figure out you're having a brush with greatness just by talking to me?" he asked laughing. "Damn, you are a groupie!"
I laughed with him. "No, I just put two-and-two together. He's mentioned you. You were best friends growing up, right?"
"I guess we were, yeah. What'd he say?"
"Just that. That you two were really close."
"Yep."
"You want something from the tap?" he asked, standing.
"Sure," I said. "A pitcher would be fine."
He nodded and swaggered off to the bar. Most gymnasts fit perfectly into their bodies, Sharon, but Richie stood out in this respect. His posture was a picture of relaxed, compact power. He had a wide, confident stride and carried his shoulders askew enough to be playful without collapsing into laziness. He was graceful, strong, assured, at ease. I watched as he leaned on the bar and schmoozed the waitress behind it. Across the room, he was too far away to hear, but her demeanor visibly brightened after his opening line. They exchanged a few remarks, most of which made her laugh. She was twinkling by the time he turned back to head for the table. He returned with a pitcher, a bottle of water, and a slip of paper with a phone number scrawled on it.
"You dawg," I said, motioning to the numeric victory. He shrugged.
"Don't really have time for it during the season anyway. It's just nice to be noticed."
"I bet you get noticed a lot," I said, pouring myself a beer.
"I guess," he said. It didn't seem like false modesty. More like a genuine humility.
"I'll go get us another glass," I said rising. He had brought only one.
"No beer for me, amigo."
"You're not joining me?" "In training," he said, twisting the top of the water bottle. "It sucks, but that's the way it is."
I laughed as I returned to my seat. "When I said "pitcher" I thought we'd both be drinking." He shrugged again. "Well, thanks then." I raised my glass to him. He clinked it with his water bottle.
"To new friends," I said and indulged in a sip. "It's strange hearing you call me "amigo". Matt used to do that."
"Yeah, that's a habit from high school. We had a teacher who used to call all the kids "mi amigo" to prove how hip he was."
"Spanish?"
"Chemistry, actually. Kind of pathetic, really. We started saying it as a kind of mocking thing, but then we got into the habit."
"That happened to me too with "so don't I"."
"So don't I?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I used to summer in New England. They say "so don't I" there when they mean "so do I". It's too strange for words. "I love swimming in the nude." "Pissa! So don't I!" I started saying it in inappropriate situations to make fun of people when I was growing up. But then I got in the habit of saying it. Took me years to break."
"You know what frosts my ass?" Richie asked, animatedly. ""Nother," as in "that's a whole nother story." We've gone from "an -- other" to "a -- nother". I think people are fucking idiots."
"So don't I!" I bubbled. He laughed. "Even if it were a word, a whole nother would be repetitively redundant! What's the alternative? A half nother?"
Sharon, it was two o'clock a.m. before there was even a hint of pause in the conversation. This kid has a head on his obscenely broad, dimple-deltoided shoulders. You know what his major is? Physics. Is that unreal? A jock who studies physics. You know what he plans to do with it? He doesn't know! He just likes learning! We must have spent twenty minutes alone bemoaning the death of the liberal arts education in the United States.
And his smile. His smile! It's genuine and unforced and makes his pillowy lips eminently kissable. It's asymmetric, which I find completely appealing, cocking deeply on the right side. His smile twinkles, Sharon. No. His eyes twinkle. His smile sparkles! But who knows? Maybe it's the other way around.
So, dear, have you ever heard me talk like this before? Have you ever seen me be so free with the exclamation points? Am I effusing? Read on. Read on, and be very afraid.
At the end of the night, he asked if I wanted to hang out on Saturday with him. I explained that while I very much did, I had already promised to take Corey clothes shopping and invited him to come along. I got the deepest belly-laugh of the night in response.
"What could possibly make you think I would want to do that?!" he asked.
I didn't walk home so much as I floated. Lying in bed that night in the warm glow of the numerous pitchers I seem to have finished all on my own, I tried to think of the last time I had so completely connected with someone at first meeting. It was with you, Sharon. Do you remember? It was at that horrible, horrible production of Evita we were both dragged to where I decried my loathing for Andrew Lloyd Weber, and you announced your secret plan to attend a performance of Cats with a live mouse in your pocket ready to toss on stage during a particularly sap-filled moment. But there is a difference, dear. I didn't jack off three times that night dreaming of you.
Saturday found me with Corey in tow at a local mall. You've heard of the proverbial bull in the china shop? This was like bringing the Tazmanian Devil into a Disney Store. I swear, it was like shopping while a starving baby frigate bird pecked incessantly at your chin. No wonder their parents constantly regurgitate.
"I want to look good," he said when I picked him up. "Tell me what I should buy." But the first three stores were all met with variations of "this shit? I can't wear this shit!" or "why can't we go to a normal store?" or "that's too fruity."
Corey, of course, was the center of attention in any store we entered, including the fourth, from which I bodily prevented him from fleeing when a smartly dressed young salesman showed quick interest in helping in any way he could.
"How are you boys doing today?" he asked, devouring Corey with his eyes.
"Fabulous," I said, "and you?"
"Well the day's just getting better and better." Corey turned for the door again, but I caught him by his already torn collar.
"I'm on a mission from God," I said, holding Corey firmly in place. "Shopping for the fashion impaired."
"I expect you have your work cut out for you," the clerk said. "And what would the needy need today?"
"We're looking for tops."
The clerk began to say something smart, but the look of panic and fury in Corey's eyes pushed the quip back into his mouth where he chewed it and swallowed.
"Shirts," I corrected myself for Corey's benefit. "We're looking for shirts."
"Yes. Of course," the clerk said innocently. "Shirts. What kind?"
"You want to look hot?" I asked Corey. He nodded dumbly.
"Long sleeve V-neck. Tapered panels, maybe. A cotton knit?"
"Brown," Corey said, trying to make a stand against the two fags.
"No, blue," the clerk and I said to him in perfect, condescending unison.
"I hate blue," Corey replied sulkily.
"Doesn't matter, Corey. It likes you. Blondes look good in blue. The lighter the blond, the brighter the blue. You'll see."
The clerk left to rummage the back room while I thumbed through a rack, periodically holding a candidate up against Corey's chest. I talked absently as I flipped through the shirts.
"See, you've got a great build. So you want something that's going to show that off. That's why you want to go with something tapered. Your shoulders are wide and since you have practically no body fat, your waist is the circumference of a moderately sized turnip. A tapered fit will hug you and accentuate how pretty your form is. A double knit has nice texture, lays well, and it will hug your curves. And the blue will set off your eyes and hair really well. But you want to stay with cobalts and bright sky-blues, not powder blues. Those are more for..."
"You really think so?" Corey had turned and was looking at himself in a nearby mirror.
"What? Powder blues? Yes. Definitely Post-Modern-South-Florida-Grandpa."
"No. You think I've got a great build?"
I laughed. "Of course, Corey. Honey, I'd kill to have your body for a week. You could pick it up at the free clinic when I was done with it."
"Yeah," he said, half to his reflection, "I'm getting a good shape."
The clerk returned with three sweater-tops which Corey grabbed from him without a thank you. He began to put one on over his shirt.
"No, Corey," I said, "you wear it bare. You have to take off the shirt. Go to a changing room."
"Do I have to? Why can't I just put it on over?"
"You can change right here if you'd like," the clerk suggested in a tone which made it clear it was his preferred choice, at least. Corey eyed him suspiciously.
"Where's the changing room?"
The clerk and I pointed, again in unison. Corey loped off, the clerk and I slowly following.
"So what's Miss Veruca Salt's problem?" the clerk asked as soon as Corey was out of ear shot.
"Oh, he's just new. We were all there once."
"I hate it," Corey called from the changing booth after 20 seconds alone.
"Let's see."
"But I hate it," he whined.
"You want me to come in there?"
The knob turned. Fuck me, Sharon, but he was stunning. The vee was low enough that you could see the topmost curves of his pectorals. The white of his skin against the deep blue was breathtaking. And the way it draped on him! Scarlet would have torn it off him and put it back in the window.
"I hate it," he said again.
"Why, Corey?"
"It makes me look...you know..."
The clerk and I mugged each other.
"...Republican?" I offered.
"...Chinese?" the clerk suggested.
"You shut the fuck up!" Corey said to the clerk.
"Corey, it makes you look good. Get the shirt and let's go."
He turned to look at himself in the mirror, unsure whether he should trust my compliment or his own fearful suspicion that looking good meant looking gay.
"I do look kinda good in it, don't I?" he said to himself.
"Absolutely, Corey. It shows off your upper body, the color is perfect, the texture is inviting, it's..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said dismissively. "Does it make me look hot?"
"Dopey me, Corey. Sorry. Didn't mean to clutter your mind with the unimportant crap. Yes. Yes, it makes you look hot."
Elbows raised, he half turned to both sides, still scrutinizing himself closely. As he turned, the vertical lines of his abdominals twisted into an abbreviated double helix and the front of the shirt rode up slightly exposing a brief ribbon of dark silver treasure trail. He turned once more, stood full face to the mirror and smiled. But soon, and for no extrinsic reason, the smile vanished.
"Nah," he said, "I ain't getting it," then retreated to the changing booth faster than you could say, "closet case".
When he reemerged, he looked at me innocently. "Where next?"
I took him by a handful of shirt and dragged him out into the mall hall. Turning to face him, I frowned strenuously.
"Look," I said in my most irritated voice, "why the hell did you want me to come with you anyway?"
"Because I need your help," he answered with childlike simplicity.
"You don't want my help."
"Yes I do. I can't do this by myself."
"What, buy clothes? I'm not your mother. You're an adult now, Corey. Buy your own fucking clothes. Or get your girlfriend to help you."
"I can't ask her help for this," he said looking at the floor.
"Why the fuck not?"
"Too embarrassing."
"What's embarrassing about buying clothes with your girlfriend?! You're supposed to be straight, right? That's what straight men do. They get their girlfriends to shop for them. Straight men aren't supposed to like shopping."
"That's not it," he said, tracing the grout line of one of the floor tiles with the front tip of his right sneaker.
"What then?!"
He was silent, but a deep blush arose on his cheeks. As loudly as that blush was speaking, I had no idea what it saying, and, by that time, was hardly in a mood to try my hand at translation.
"Corey, here's the deal," I said, with quiet, emphatic anger. "You have a choice: get your ass back in that store and buy that fucking shirt."
"Or what?"
"Or get your fucking ass back in that store and buy that fucking shirt!" I yelled.
Then the strangest thing happened, Sharon. Strange, because I didn't see it coming, though it makes perfect sense now in retrospect. The boy blinked twice at me in silence then poof! All the tension and turmoil seemed to drain from his body, and he looked the last thing I expected him to look just then -- relieved. He turned and walked back into the store. Five minutes later, he reemerged with a bag in his hands. The rest of the day was tranquil by comparison. I told him what to do, and he just did it. I think if I had asked for a blow job in the bathroom, he would have done it.
But I didn't of course. Corey, as hot as he is, is not exactly my type as you well know. No, being around the boy all day certainly raised my temperature, but he was not to be the release valve. That happened later that night in glorious anonymity.
Having left Corey in the late afternoon, I was on my way back to my apartment. It was one of those warm Indian Summer days when everyone was outside enjoying the final glowing embers of good weather before the meteorological fire went out for another six months. The sun, low in the sky, burned wanly while my libido, high in my pants, flared uncontrollably. I chose a route that brought me through one of the many parks in the city.
I came across the remnants of a touch football game. There were four guys playing shirtless on an expanse of grass. The trees over there were one end zone, those two knapsacks were the other -- that kind of game. The guys were tired and sweaty and dirty, playing around as much as they were playing. There was a bench aside the field. I sat down to watch.
Before long the four became two as the beefy one and the blond called it a day. That left a six-foot-three solidly packed brunette Italian-style sports coup, and a creamy, beautifully rounded, velvetine black late-model edition. They tossed the ball back and forth for a while as I watched. Every once in a while, one would look over. I'd smile at him, he'd turn back to his buddy and make some comment which I couldn't hear and they'd laugh easily. Yes, dear, I was being shameless, but I was horny. Sue me.
When the sun finally went down, they huddled one last time, discussed their plan, and came over to me. I sat on the center of the bench watching them approach with hands cupped behind my head and legs stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankle.
"What's up?" said the black kid. He was smooth as silk. Overall a medium mulatto color, his skin shone with different hues as it stretched over his full muscles or bunched in the crevices of his armpits. He had a generous smile set in round cheeks.
"Not much," I said, smiling back at him. "Just enjoying the day."
"Great weather, huh?" the Italian one asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was taller than his friend, and a bit bulkier. My eyes ranged from his large nipples across his olive skin past a saint Christopher medal on a gold chain and up to a set of heavily lidded brown eyes. Within ten years, he would undoubtedly end up with a beer-belly and a big-haired wife named Angela, but that evening, he was...
"Very hot," I agreed. "Very hot indeed."
I'm not quite sure how I do it, Sharon. I've said this before, but I'm not sure if it was to you. I seem to have gotten good at being picked up by hunky straight guys. I think it's just that I've become open to understanding that most guys don't care where they get it from -- just so long as they get it. Back a long time ago, I used to be afraid of straight guys. Then I felt superior to them. Now I view them the same way that these two studs viewed me -- as a good vector for release. It wasn't long before I was on all fours kneeling in the back of a van in a nearby parking lot, my pants at my ankles, my mouth full.
They were both rather sizable. Where the black guy had length, though, the Italian had girth. Both were uncut, shapely, and in jockstraps whose pouches were pulled aside. And both owners were talkative.
"You like sucking my dick, buddy?" the black one asked, his hand guiding my head down onto him. I would have answered were his crown not firmly implanted in my gullet. Instead, by way of response I worked the back of my tongue against him, trying to match his thrust with a friction of my own. "Oh, yeah, You like it, all right. That's good, buddy. You keep doing that." He brought his second hand below my jaw so that, with his first behind my head, he was able to manipulate the attitude of my reception as well as the depth. For my part, letting myself be held up freed my own hands to be able to enjoy the feel of him. One hand went, obligatorily, to his balls where I massaged them with a studied roughness. The other went behind his left thigh to the smooth, taut skin just below where the strap of the jock outlined his ass. His hamstrings bunched as he knelt back to pull himself out only to push back in with force. In the brief interlude he allowed for breathing, I got a noseful of cotton, sweat, and autumn. As he thrust back in, a subliminal shiver ran through both of us. In gratitude, I increased the suction.
"Oh, yeah, Frankie. He likes it. You should feel what he's doing. We found ourselves a live one."
"Yeah?" Frankie answered. "Well I think this kid wants a little pussy action. You ready for what I got?" Behind me, Frankie was grinding his salami, full, thick and fleshy, vertically against the crack of my ass. Leaning on my haunches for support, he pressed down and out on my cheeks spreading them apart as he mashed against me so that firm contact was made from the base of his dick at my already engorged perineum, across my eager pucker, to just below my coccyx. By way of response, I flexed my lower back, dragging my crack an inch and a half up and down along the length of his sausage. This induced Frankie to hoot like a cowboy.
With my face buried in the pungent, curly black pubes of supper in front, I wasn't able to see just how dessert in back had managed to get a hold of a tube of lube, or from whence he had procured it. All I knew was that a cool line of goo was being generously drizzled over our dick-ass assemblage like Wolfgang Puck pouring raspberry sauce from a squeeze bottle. Without ever letting up the pressure or removing his meat from my buns, he let our mutual grinding work the lube in. The friction heated it up. Had he kept going, I expect we would have ended up with frottage cheese.
Uniformly wet, now, and therefore delightfully slippery, he increased the lengths of his thrusts, still running against the length of my crack. His hands moved around from pressing down on my glutes to using the front of my hips as handles. He began to rock back and forth, each time letting the tip drag down closer and closer to my hole before sliding back up to vertical -- always, tantalizingly, on the outside of my skin. As he drew it south, I could feel his head slide back into its calamari sheath, only to reemerge again when he pushed back north. I matched his rocking with equal but opposite motion, drawing the squid closer and closer to my devouring hole.
We had so thoroughly teased each other into insatiability by the time he had drawn back enough that his mushroom hit my cave entrance, we both pushed with insane force -- he into me, me back to consume him. The slap of his quadracepts hitting my hamstrings was all but drowned out by the grunt he pushed out of me. I worked to gasp for air, all but swallowing the tasty chunk of chocolate between my lips.
"Man, he's got one fucking tight pussy," Frankie said, impaling me to the root and pushing to get that last unreachable millimeter of pleasure from within me. "Let's do him good!"
And do me good they did. They matched each others' rhythms, filling me from both ends with stunning force. They turned me onto my back without either of them withdrawing -- a roast pig being spun on its rotisserie. Now under them, their sweat began to drip onto me, basting me in the smell of them. In this new position, I was able to watch them lose themselves in the pleasure they were taking from me, until, within moments of each other, with clenched teeth and in total spasm, they each injected me with a copious portion of sweet cream.
Now if you'll excuse me, dear Sharon, I will continue the story shortly. I'm suddenly very hungry.