BBC on Campus

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• My experiences are in everything I write, sometimes just a view from a window, sometimes much more. That said, this story is fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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BBC ON CAMPUS

CHAPTER ONE – A ROOM ABOVE THE ROCK CLIMBERS

Dontrell and I emerged from the stairway into a big, square room. I took in its red brick walls, scarred wooden floors, and high cathedral ceilings. The roof was supported by massive wooden beams. What caught my eye were the enormous windows. They were far too big to be standard sizes in today's environment. The glass was crusted with years – decades – of dirt and grime, but the windows looked out on all four sides of the building, in particular to the west, where the vibrant red cliffs that gave Westcliffe University its name were only a hundred feet away. I knew then I wanted to rent the place.

Getting a feel for the room was hard. In its current incarnation it served as a storage room, with all sorts of odds and ends stacked here and there, from appliances to furniture to storage lockers. Two old, industrial urinals – the porcelain kind that went all the way to the floor – graced one wall, along with two toilets. If the toilets were ever surrounded by stalls, they had disappeared long ago. The room was completely open, without a single interior wall. A huge industrial shower with three shower heads and a big stainless steel sink sat next to the toilets.

"It looks worse than I remembered," Dontrell said, betraying his doubts. He was out of shape and was breathing heavily after the two flights of stairs we climbed to reach the room. "But..." he continued, ever optimistic. "We'll get all of this junk out of here and get the place cleaned. I have a refrigerator and range we'll put in over by the sink. Microwave, too. It's just one big open room, not even any privacy in the bathroom, but for one person it might work."

Peering at the high ceilings and foot-thick brick walls, I had already made up my mind to take the room, but I asked, "Is it always so hot?" The room was sweltering.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad," Dontrell admitted. His face was beaded with sweat. "The heat comes up from the old gas station downstairs. They put that glass block wall in front of the garage bays a few years ago when someone had the bright idea of turning this place into a restaurant. The damn wall acts like a solar collector. Tell you what. I've got two window air conditioners that I'll put in that little window in the front. And I have an industrial ceiling fan that we can mount on one of these ceiling beams. Should keep it tolerable. The heat's dry here in Montana."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll take it. The place will be great. I really appreciate it, bro." I did a fist bump with Dontrell and he smiled, his white teeth lighting up his face.

With our discussion of rental real estate over, Dontrell turned to what he had been wanting to talk about all along. "You play basketball?" he asked. "I have a pickup team at the city gym and we could sure use a guy like you." I knew the question was coming. Twenty-one year-old black men that are 6'5" are assumed to play ball.

"Yeah, a little," I smiled. Dontrell beamed. I played mostly to stay in shape. I had a nice outside shot, but basketball wasn't my game. I might have been 6'5", but I was 165 pounds on a lucky day. Slender was the polite description for my physique. My shoulders, arms and chest were okay. They were plenty muscular, and I could lift more than guys that were much bigger. Upper body muscles weren't the issue. It was from my chest down that I practically disappeared. My pants were 28 inches in the waist, mainly because they didn't make them smaller, at least not in men's sizes. I just didn't have the bulk when basketball games got physical. No way could I bang with ball players that outweighed me by 50 pounds and were still considered slim.

I had been lucky to find Dontrell. After finishing college at Harvard, I took a graduate assistant position at Westcliffe University. The college was incredibly picturesque, nestled at the foot of a series of bright red sandstone cliffs in western Montana. The location was not the draw for me; I feared the worst from living in a small college town in Montana. But the college had attracted the top professor in my field, and the chance to complete my doctorate with him was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. I could survive for the three or four years it would take me to finish the degree, and then I could write my own ticket, wherever I wanted. Back to where I grew up in Chicago. New York, the Ivy League, you name it.

I hadn't anticipated was how hard it would be to find a place to live in the small college town that hosted Westcliffe. Westcliffe had closed one of the bigger dorms on campus for a year to do renovations, and, at the same time, the college snapped up every available apartment to house the displaced college students. I had searched for an apartment for two days, running into nothing but sympathy. And perhaps a little apprehension about renting to a black man; you could never be sure. My skin was light, and my eyes were a greenish brown, so I could have passed for white, but that had never been my thing. I went the other direction, letting my hair grow into long dreadlocks that hung over my shoulders. I looked as out of place in western Montana as a Lamborghini at a rodeo.

I caught a break when I met Dontrell at the last rental agency I tried. He might have been the only black man in town, aside from the handful of students that played football or basketball or ran track. Dontrell took it upon himself to do whatever he could to help me find a place to live. I suppose he liked the idea of another black man in town. Or maybe he just wanted a gunner for this basketball team. In any event, his efforts had brought us to the big empty room perched on top of a 1950s era gas station that was decommissioned decades earlier.

The gas station was being pressed into use for housing, too. The three bays that once hoisted DeSotos and Studebakers for repairs were going to host college students. Each bay had been turned into a double bedroom. The garage doors were still functional, but it seemed unlikely they ever would be lowered. A group of six guys had booked the bays. They shared a big open kitchen/living/dining room that had been created in what was once the office of the gas station. The place still had two restrooms from the days when customers would get the key for the men's room or the ladies' room and walk to the back of the station to access them. The one concession the owners made was to install showers in the restrooms and create interior doors that opened into the office, although the old doors that opened from the outside still existed, making odd rear entrances into the building's rest rooms.

Dontrell had apologized a dozen times about the room before he showed it to me. The open, two-story staircase that led to the room started in what had been the office of the old gas station, so you had to go through the newly created apartment downstairs to get to the room. I figured by the end of September I would have to call Dontrell to complain about the noise – the guys renting the gas station were sophomores – but I would have an office on campus and I could always work there. Dontrell was practically giving me the room. The rent he had proposed was minimal, and when I hesitated, more because I couldn't believe it was so cheap, he had reduced it further. With nothing else available, I had little choice but to put up with the six college boys below me.

I moved in a month later. If it hadn't been for the vistas from the big windows – red cliffs to the west, a green river valley to the east, Westcliffe's picturesque sandstone college buildings to the south and the roofs of the quaint town to the north – the apartment could have been a lower Manhattan loft. Dontrell had gotten the place spotless and it looked great. The room would have been perfect if it hadn't been for the gas station below, soon to be inhabited by six college students. I was apprehensive about what it would be like with a half dozen quasi-roommates.

Shortly after I arrived, the guys showed up. One by one they trucked their stuff into the gas station. They seemed like nice enough kids. Nice white boys, but I didn't expect anything else at Westcliffe. They introduced themselves to me with a mixture of awe and trepidation. A 6'5" black man with long dreadlocks was a huge curiosity at Westcliffe.

Jesse had auburn colored hair with pale skin and more than his share of freckles. He was a dance major and had the body to go with it. Tight bubble butt and big, muscular legs. His upper body was surprisingly buff. I assumed he probably built his muscles by lifting other dancers.

Travis was a dreamboat, no other way to put it. He had spiked brown hair, bright greenish-blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. Bedroom eyes. If you were a college woman, Travis was the kid your mother always warned you about. And with good reason. He was able to get into any woman's pants in record time.

The jock boy was Max. He ran track and cross country and had a lean, amazingly ripped body. A big dragon tattoo graced the right side of his torso, although it was hard to pay attention to his tattoo because of his incredible six pack. His nose was long and straight, maybe too long, and his thin face made him look almost gaunt.

Damian was the resident counterculture boy. He had long, curly brown hair that hung halfway down his back. From the rear, he was frequently mistaken for a girl. That didn't bother him in the least. It didn't bother his host of girlfriends, either, although Damian couldn't quite match Travis in that category.

The incumbent bad boy was Alex. He had an interesting array of tats and piercings. He liked scruff, although his face was too smooth to carry it off, so he reverted to the clean shaven look. Oddly enough, his smooth face made his tats and piercings more jarring. The ends of Alex's mouth turned up in a devilish way, giving him a perpetual, mischievous grin. He looked like trouble, plain and simple. Another kid your mother would have warned you about.

Last was Sancho, the surfer boy. I had no idea how the kid had gotten a Latin name like Sancho, because he didn't look the part in the least. He sported a head of unruly, bleached blond hair that hung almost to his shoulders. His smooth skin was perpetually tan. Pale blue eyes and a straight nose made him look earnest. He was the classic California surfer boi, except he was from North Dakota.

The six guys paired off, two in each of the old garage bays. Jesse and Travis were in the middle bay, Sancho and Max claimed the far bay, and Damian and Alex shared the bay closest to the kitchen and living area. The six were an eclectic group with seemingly little in common. But two days after they moved in, I discovered their connection.

The college had a zany event only colleges have, a `Bikinis and Goggles 10k.' The race was a college tradition, having gone on since the late 60s, and all the contestants ran in ski goggles, a nod to Montana's nearby ski slopes. Women wore bikinis, and the event gave normally shy women an excuse to strut their stuff without it being tacky. Guys were supposed to wear Speedos. That feature was a legacy from the 60s, but no self-respecting college student in today's era owned a Speedo or even knew where to buy one, so over the years the rule for guys had devolved into wearing underwear. The tension of horny college boys trying to make their dicks behave beneath boxer shorts or jockeys while women wiggled their tushes in bikinis was, I suppose, the allure of the event.

Professor Wang, my professor, asked me to help run the race. Pale white college boys and girls running a 10k wasn't my thing, but I was going to be stuck at Westcliffe for three or four years, so I felt obligated to help out. As long as I was in rural Montana for the duration, I might as well do some window shopping and scope out the boys in their underwear. I wasn't optimistic about the prospects.

By the time I had checked in most of the runners, I concluded that, if anything, the Westcliffe students were worse than I expected. The only guys who looked halfway interesting were a couple of blacks that were cornerbacks on the football team. They were friendly, happy to see another black face. Not out of the question that I could have some fun with one of them, but the odds of it happening were long.

Fifteen minutes before the race started, my six sophomore quasi-roommates checked in. They were running as a team. The six twinks were dressed in nothing but their underwear and running shoes, and I was impressed by their amazing, awesome bodies. They might have been the six most lean and ripped guys in the entire college. No excess body fat on any of them.

I struck up a conversation with Alex before the race started. "How did you guys get together as roommates?" I asked.

"We're all rockers," Alex answered as he stretched.

"You're in a band?" I asked. Except for Alex and maybe Damian, they looked a little too, uh, wholesome, to be in a band. But admittedly I didn't know anything about rock music in Montana.

Alex chuckled. "Nah, we're rock climbers," he said. "We were in a climbing club freshman year, and we did some trips and hung out together. Sancho and Travis found the gas station and asked if the rest of us wanted to share it."

"Rock climbers, huh?" I said. "So, do you climb the cliffs?"

"That's the idea," Alex said with a smile. "There's some awesome climbs around here. You climb?"

Before I could answer, we were interrupted by the start of the race. The six guys being rock climbers made sense. Rock climbers can be tall or short – too tall doesn't work – but they all have a high ratio of muscle to mass. In other words, no excess body fat. In other words, muscles and ripped bodies. Watching Alex as he joined his friends for the start of the race, I couldn't help but focus on his hot body. Great chest, stomach and legs, and incredible arms. And a nice, round ass pressing against the thin cotton of his boxers. I wouldn't mind fucking him, I thought. I wouldn't mind fucking all six of my new quasi-roomies.

As the race started, my mind wandered and I hatched an outlandish plot. It was already clear that Westcliffe was not going to offer the possibilities for sex that Boston and Chicago had offered. Not even close. But I was competitive, sometimes to a fault, and I set a challenge for myself. My goal for the school year would be to fuck all six of the rock boys. Fucking straight boys is feasible, but pulling it off is a challenge and in some cases you need luck. Being in the right spot at the right time, pulling the right strings, hitting the right notes. But that was my challenge. By the end of the school year, I wanted to seed each of the rock boys' tight asses.

The race ended and the rock boys crossed the finish line, their bare chests glistening and their underwear soaked with sweat. The vision made me certain I had a perfect challenge ahead of me to keep the year interesting.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Hope you liked this chapter. Sorry it merely sets up coming attractions and doesn't contain any sex; that will be quickly remedied in chapter two!

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