CHRONICLES OF AN ACADEMIC PREDATOR
Published First at : http://groups.yahoo.com/group/arbourtales/
Before you read this story, there are a few things you should consider:
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It contains graphic descriptions of sex between men. In some cases, these depictions may get kinky, and include borderline S&M.
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It is set in the early 1960s, an era before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when segregation and discrimination were the norm. African Americans were referred to as Negroes or Coloreds, although the "N" word was offensive then as it is now. I have retained the language of the era because it reminds me how far we have come on race relations.
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Be aware that the effects of inflation have been profound. A good rule of thumb is to consider that $1 in 1962 is probably similar to $10 in 2008. So just add a zero at the end of any number.
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Some authors are good enough to create a mood through their words. I need help, so I'll be posted recommended musical selections throughout the story.
PROLOGUE
March 16, 1962
Professor Rosenberg studied the young man sitting across from him. He'd known the young man for three years now, had nurtured him through his doctorate, and now his post-doctorate. He'd encouraged and defended him as one does a protégé, and felt a burst of pride like a father would when his study of French Algeria was published and received wide academic acclaim. Isn't that what old men who have reached the peak of their career are supposed to do?
Yet for all their time together, he really didn't know this young man: John Paul Crampton. He wondered if anyone really did. Crampton was a mystery, a closed book. He was always calm, always deliberate, and truly unshakable. He'd once seen a colleague taunt him about his paper to the point that anyone else would have probably punched the guy, but not Crampton. He just let the guy rant and rave, and then calmly rebutted his arguments. Absolutely unflappable. Normally he would expect such a person to be an introvert, and exceedingly shy. Not Crampton. He had highly developed and refined social skills, and was always popular at departmental social functions. His own wife had commented on how charming the young man was. What most people failed to realize was that despite the charm and conversation, people rarely went away from talking to him with any idea about who he really was.
To read Crampton you had to really look for the signs. Right now, he's sitting across the desk appearing nonchalant; no one could guess that he was being subjected to the intense scrutiny of his mentor and department chair. The light green eyes betrayed nothing, nor did the relaxed expression on his face. His hands weren't fiddling, his feet weren't tapping...no, this was one cool customer.
There it was! Professor Rosenberg smiled in triumph. Crampton had run his hand through his perfectly groomed blond hair. That was one of the only signs of nervousness Rosenberg had ever seen him display. He'd tortured the young man enough; it was time to break the silence.
"So you've applied for a post-doc at Berkeley, and for assistant professorships at Brown, Northwestern, and Ohio State. I've sent my letters of recommendation to all those institutions, and of course they're glowing."
"Thank you professor," Crampton said with a smile. His smiles always seemed fake, but it was the twinkle in his eyes, the only other true sign of emotion one could discern from Crampton, that gave away his pleasure.
"So you decided not to apply for the professorship in Mississippi?" Rosenberg could guess why, but he wanted to hear it for himself.
"Yes sir. The racial situation down there is just too intense. I'd probably end up getting lynched if I went there," Crampton said this with a wry smile, recalling his recent trip to the Mississippi campus. It had been draped with Confederate battle flags and signs saying "Niggers stay out" posted throughout the campus. Not his cup of tea.
"So would I. Well, I wish you luck. If nothing works out for you, you know you can stay here for another post-doc. It's been a great pleasure to have you here. I've rarely encountered such a promising young scholar." Rosenberg was becoming a bit wistful.
"Thank you for everything you've done for me sir. You've really inspired me, and encouraged me. I don't think I'd have gotten my doctorate without you." And with that, the shields briefly raised, and Rosenberg got his biggest present of all: the look of sincerity and affection that shot from Crampton's eyes was priceless. It was gone just as quickly. It was time to end this meeting before it got too maudlin.
"Well, good luck Crampton. Have a good weekend, and we'll see you here on Monday." With that they stood up and shook hands.
Musical Recommendation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W7jcvq1lXOw "Two Faces Have I" by Lou Christie
CHAPTER ONE
I left the office feeling pleased with myself. Praise from Rosenberg was rare, a commodity to be treasured. I left the History Building and my feet seemed to automatically take me two buildings down. I entered the building, similar to the others on campus, and made my way to the basement restroom. This place was like a release valve for my sexuality, the only place I went to experience an orgasm with another living being.
As I walked into the bathroom, the familiar smells assaulted my nostrils, the urinal soaps, the air freshener, the residual floor polish...all fueling my anticipation and plumping my dick. There were two urinals and two stalls. Sometimes I'd come here and there would be no one. I'd wait and wait until I had wasted enough time, then I'd leave. Other days I'd come in and the other stall would be occupied by one of the old trolls that lurked around here. Old men, men over 50, who lurked here hoping a young college guy wouldn't notice how ancient they were, or wouldn't care, and let them suck his dick anyway. Those trolls would camp here for hours, ruining the place for the rest of us.
Today I was in luck, or at least I hoped so. The bathroom wasn't empty; there was someone else in the first stall. Only the guy's shoes were visible under the stall, a pair of those new ankle-high square-toed numbers that were all the rage lately. It's unlikely that old trolls would sport a pair of those. I entered the second stall and took a piece of toilet paper from the roll and leaned over to wipe off the seat, not really concerned about cleanliness, but using it as an innocuous excuse to lean over and peek through the large hole in the wall. The hole was large enough to fit a dick through, even a big one, something I'd found out on several occasions.
Looking through the hole was almost an art form because you had to look like you weren't looking. The last thing I wanted, the thing that would be a total disaster, is to get caught. Campus cops sometimes patrolled here, looking for guys like me, but just as scary were regular guys, guys who might be offended, guys who might recognize me, guys who might tell the world I was a faggot. I glanced through long enough to make sure that the other guy wasn't an old troll. The best way to do this was to try to get a glimpse of his face, but if that failed, to try to see his hands. Young guys didn't have wrinkled, grizzled hands. In this case the guy had one hand on his thigh, young and taut skin, while the other covered up his crotch. The excitement surged within me as I quickly unbuckled my pants and slid them down, along with my boxers, and sat on the toilet, being careful to hold my hand so it blocked the view of my crotch, only showing a little bit of my blond pubic hair. My pubic hair was just like the hair on my head, thick and dense.
The guy in the next stall was carefully moving his right hand. It was innocent enough; it could be construed as someone just scratching his balls. I mirrored the movement, conscious that both of us were staring through the hole.
The other guy's movement became more deliberate, showing me a view of his pubic hair, which was bright red. Hot! I could see him move closer to the hole, watching me repeat his moves, becoming bolder now, showing me the base of his hard cock. I showed him mine, plus a little more. Now he was obviously jacking his cock, and I could see it clearly, only partially shielded by his hand.
Seeing that I was jacking as well, he removed his hand and gave me a look at his hard dick. It was bigger than mine by about half an inch, so that put it at 7 inches, and pretty similar in thickness. I rubbed my finger on the bottom of the hole, and he stood up slowly, guiding his beautiful dick through the hole. There it was, live and in color, in front of me. I stroked it once or twice then swallowed it whole. Bathroom encounters don't provide much time for foreplay and teasing.
He was thrusting against the wall, and I could taste the pre-cum leaking out of his cock. He was getting close, when all of a sudden the bathroom door opened. He jumped back and sat down quickly to make sure we didn't get caught.
The guy that walked in went over to the urinal, peed, and then left. If it would have been one of the trolls he would have lurked outside the stalls, trying to see through the cracks around the door, hounding us until one of us left. This time I was lucky.
As soon as the bathroom was empty again, my "friend" motioned for me to put my cock through the hole. I was so horny, so excited. I felt the edges of the hole (they'd been dulled) brush against my dick, I could feel his breath flowing around the head of my cock, and then he swallowed it. He worked on my cock like a pro, driving me nuts with his tongue. I reached the point of no return, and whispered loudly "I'm gonna cum!"
Rather than pull back he just sucked harder, and was rewarded a second later as I shot a huge load in his mouth. It seemed like I came forever. My knees were so weak that I thought I was going to collapse, but I regained my balance, pulled my cock out of the hole, pulled up my pants, and left. No reciprocation was necessary. No words needed to be exchanged. That was the etiquette of the bathroom. This was closeted queer life in 1962.
I got home to find my roommate Andre lounging on the couch in the front room, wearing only a pair of boxers, offering me a tantalizing view. If I had to describe Andre in one word, it would be "masculine." He's tall, about 6'2, with dark hair fashionably slicked back with lots of grease. His dark features reminded me of that guy in West Side Story, George Chakiris, but his looks aren't classically handsome, rather they are rugged, with a perennial 5 o'clock shadow and a prominent nose with a big bump in it, a nose that anyone who has been to France will immediately recognize as a consummate Gallic feature.
That's the first thing that ignited our friendship, our French connection. Andre was born in France; His family immigrated to the US when World War II started, part of the Exode. I was only "half" French. My mother was born and raised in the Champagne region, and raised my brother and I to be bilingual. The fact that both Andre and I could converse fluently in French with each other created an instant bond between us, and over the past few years we'd become as close as brothers. He even spent the holidays with my family, and my mother adored him. He knew all of my secrets except one: he didn't know that I'd fallen completely in love with him, and he never would.
For the past two years we'd been roommates, and become inseparable. We went out together, ate together, double-dated...although those dates usually ended up with him making out with his girl and me politely kissing mine on the cheek. I played it off against my persona, the nice young gentleman from a good family who was simply prim and proper, not some whacked out queer who lusted after his roommate all the time.
And that was getting harder and harder (literally and figuratively). There were only two people who could penetrate my tough shell: Andre and my mother. Yet even those two weren't allowed into that deep recess of my brain, the part that housed my sexuality. I'd only had "sex" with one guy that I knew, my cousin Billy Schluter, and I think he just wrote that off as some experimental thing from when we were teenagers. "Sex" in any event consisted of jacking each other off, and me blowing him. Now he was in the Navy, married with two kids.
With Andre it was different. It was love. I wanted him more than anything I'd ever wanted. More than the professorship at Northwestern, more than my new Pontiac, more than fame and respect as a scholar. And I was worried, worried that my feelings were starting to leak through my shields. It was getting tougher and tougher to maintain the facade, but I had to. What if he found out? That would be the end of our friendship. He was in the ROTC program, in a few months he'd be off to camp, then into the big dangerous world as a Lieutenant. What military man wants a queer best friend? What military man can risk having a queer best friend?
Worse, what if he was so disgusted that he told everyone? Professor Rosenberg, with all his nice phrases, well, that would change. Who would hire me? Who would want a queer professor? Worse yet, what if I got arrested? Sodomy is illegal everywhere. What would my family say if I was tossed in jail for being a queer? I would become a freak.
He stared at me with a look of concern on his face. The shield was already cracking. "Hey Iceman, what's bugging you?" He called me Iceman to tease me into letting down my guard.
"Nothing. Had a good meeting with Rosenberg and I was just deep in thought. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be working?" Changing the subject was important.
"Nah. Got the night off. Wanna go out dancing? We could call those two chicks we met last week or maybe go stag and try to pick up some new ones?" He always got this sexy leer when he was talking about women. It made me jealous, and uncomfortable.
"Sure, let me take a quick shower and change." Dancing would be fun. I enjoyed it. My mother, conscious that a young man should be able to dance correctly, had made sure that I learned the basic ballroom steps despite my total lack of rhythm. I ended up as a very good dancer, from a competence standpoint probably better than Andre, but I couldn't come close to matching him in passion and style.
******************* Musical Recommendation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQBKpV9emKc&feature=related "Mashed Potato Time" by Dee Dee Sharp
Barbara and Peggy posed near the bar, making sure they had a view of both the dance floor and the door. Both girls were regulars here, and they were looking for the two guys they'd seen last Saturday. They'd dressed to attract. Barbara, tall and blond, wore a flowing skirt with a tight sweater to accentuate her big boobs. She leaned slightly into the bar, to make herself seem shorter (some guys didn't like tall women) and to push her breasts out even further. Peggy was much shorter. She wore a frilly top to hide her relative lack of cleavage, but her skirt was significantly shorter, designed to show off her best feature, her amazing legs.
Barbara spotted the two guys as they walked into the hall, exhaling smoke from her Chesterfield into Peggy's face to get her attention. They were as oddly matched to each other as she and Peggy were. Leading the way was the tall one, with his dark hair, dark eyes, and lithe movements. There was something distinctly foreign about him, and that made him intriguing. His friend was much shorter, probably about 5'7, and looked, well, he looked pretty, like a blond Ricky Nelson. Yeah, that's it. That's exactly what he looked like. A short, blond, pretty, Ricky Nelson. Barbara shared her observation with Peggy, which made them both laugh. The laughter attracted the notice of the tall guy, and he casually ambled over towards her, his short friend in tow.
Before long they had paired off, and spent the night dancing together. Barbara learned that her partner, the tall, dark, handsome one, was Andre Clerreault. He was born in France but had immigrated to the US with his grandmother during WWII, fleeing from the Nazis. He hated his parents, who had stayed in France and collaborated with the Nazis, and had no contact with them. For holidays, he went home with his friend, and considered them to be his real family now. He never missed a chance to head to the beach, although he didn't surf, and he liked to play soccer and tennis. He was in the Army, so he expected to head off to boot camp soon, and after that he was hoping to get stationed in France as part of the NATO force. He loved all kinds of food except Indian, because Curry made him nauseous, but he could drink anything. His favorite drink was beer, and even though he drank Old Milwaukee all night he sneered at American beer in general, saying he preferred French and Belgian brands. He liked to swing, twist, cha-cha, did a mean tango, and a wicked "Mashed Potato." He whispered French words into her ear during slow dances, words that she didn't understand but that excited her nonetheless. She let him dance closer than she normally would, felt him grow against her, found herself pressing back against him. She knew that, alone with him, she'd find it hard to say "no".
Peggy had chatted happily with her pretty partner all night, but in the end, all she found out about him was his that name is John Paul Crampton (but everyone called him JP) and that he is a professor. And a good dancer.
March 17, 1962
I woke up in a bad mood. First of all, there was the hangover from drinking too much last night. The taste of cheap gin was still a resident in my mouth, and I fought off the nausea that threatened to leave an entirely different taste instead. As if that wasn't enough, I was tired, having gotten no sleep last night. Andre had brought Barbara home and spent the whole night trying to fuck her. From what I could gather from the thin walls, Andre had ended up settling with a blow job. At first it had been erotic, and I'd jacked off listening to their groping and panting. After that, it had just been annoying. And finally, today was St. Patrick's Day, which meant that I'd probably end up out drinking again.
To clear my head I took a shower. Andre teases me all the time about taking too many showers, says Freud would diagnose me as anal retentive, but the water refreshed me and woke me up, and I liked to be clean. I left my car keys and a note for Andre (Andre didn't have a car, and he'd need to take his bimbo home) and strolled down to the local diner. Some coffee and some food began to soften my mood, while I delved into the newspaper, catching up on current events. I was soon absorbed in the latest news on the Evian peace talks between France, Algeria, and the paramilitary forces involved in the revolution. So much violence, so many dead. Britain was granting its colonies independence at a rapid pace, and it didn't seem to cause them the same convulsions that it had in France. In France the Algerian Conflict had not only brought down an entire government, it had caused a virtual re-drafting of the constitution. That's primarily because the British viewed their colonies as, well, colonies, while the French viewed theirs, especially Algeria, as a part of France, as much a part of France as Provence or the Midi. But fortunately the conflict was winding down and the Evian talks looked to be successful.
Musical Recommendation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XccBx9rp4eo "Peggy Sue" by Buddy Holly
I hear the song "Peggy Sue" playing on the jukebox, reminding me of my "date" last night, and how she'd tried to get information out of me, which had just made me more defensive. I'd become a master of making small-talk while saying, in essence, nothing, and it was going to take someone a lot brighter and more attractive than Peggy to break down that barrier.
Two young men walked by and sat at the table behind me. They both looked to be about 19, one with dark hair and the other with red hair. As they sat, they started speaking, but not in English. I listened more intently, not to eavesdrop, but just to see if I could figure out which language it was. At first I thought it might be Spanish, which I was competent in, but after a few seconds I realized it was French. Not French like the French spoke, not even the heavily accented French that was spoken in Brittany or Languedoc. No, this was a guttural type of French. It was...Quebecois! French Canadians. Listening to them was like an Englishman listening to someone from the Southern Appalachians. Whether I planned to eavesdrop or not, the temptation to hear their accents and diction sealed the deal.
"I told you we have to be careful. You can't hold my hand in public like you just did. We'll get arrested, deported!" one of the guys implored. He had a deep, resonant voice, the kind of voice that a sexy guy would have, the kind of voice that you might expect someone who was a good singer to have.
"I'm sorry. I made a mistake. It's just so hard, I love you so much and I just want to touch you all the time," said the other guy. This one had a softer, more pleading voice with a hint of effeminacy. I found myself trying to figure out which was which, wishing I were sitting on the other side of the table so I was looking at them. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if I were over there, I wouldn't be able to hear them as well.
"Just watch it, OK. We're foreigners here, and I don't want to get sent back to Montreal with the word "Queer" stamped on my forehead," Deep Voice said. His husky voice was almost an aphrodisiac.
"I love you," asserted Soft Voice. "Do you love me?"
"I love you too," responded Deep Voice, relenting and calming down. It seemed to placate Soft Voice, even though it didn't sound very sincere to me. "I hope no one in here can understand us," he continued, the caution returning. I could almost feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I made sure to pay close attention to my paper, and to at least turn the page once in awhile.
"Not likely," said Soft Voice soothingly. What a contrast they were, Deep Voice so fearful of being outed, while Soft Voice only concerned with being in love.
Nonetheless, they started whispering so that I couldn't hear what they were saying. I could gather that some of their conversation was about money, but beyond that it was too jumbled.
Suddenly Andre appeared, and before I could stop him he began speaking to me in French. I responded in English, which brought a puzzled look to his face, but I motioned him to leave it alone. He shrugged, sat down with a thump, and started reading the menu. I could feel the tension at the table behind me. I could hear the muted whispering, the near panic.
Within seconds, they'd gotten their check and prepared to leave. I was listening to Andre recount his adventures with Barbara the Bimbo, pretending to pay attention, while I waited for the two guys to walk by on their way out. The footsteps started and they were next to the table. I casually looked up and made eye contact with the redhead. He looked at me with a terrified expression. I felt so sorry for him; I broke my rule and actually smiled at a stranger. As he walked away, I noticed his lithe body, his nice clothes, and his new shoes. Those fashionable ankle length square-toed numbers. Andre rambled on, oblivious as usual.