Dave the Director

The following story is pure fantasy. None of these events, alas, ever happened, and the characters are entirely fictional.

Dave

I am a Philosophy professor at a small midwestern college. Gay, closeted, unattached, I lead a solitary life, though it has been punctuated by a relationship or two- or three, or four--across the years. At my age, however, verging on fifty, I am beginning to think that my sexual life is slipping past me. My persona is dignified, with greying hair and trimmed mustache -fairly average looking for my age and position. I'm no longer the skinny adolescent I once was, but I keep myself as fit as I can.

I'm not one to interfere sexually with my students. In this small place, it's too dangerous, too complicated. But I do keep my eyes open, of course. Who doesn't? My voyeuristic tendencies are highly developed, and I know some of the hetero profs have similar antennae. The students, though, tend to rush past with the passing years, so fast it's hard to keep track of them. Two years ago there were Pete and Glenn. Pete was a swimmer, mid-sized, with a swimmer's body, stunning to look at, with curvaceous features, wavy auburn hair, and, as soon proved, faint downy body hair on chest, legs, and groin. Solid A in class and solid A in the shower room. As a bachelor professor, I find this mixing of faculty and students in a common locker room frequently rewarding, but sometimes awkward as well; it depends on individual personalities. Pete, the swimmer, was as used to wearing his suit as not wearing it, and when we met in the showers he skinned it off the first time we encountered each other in that magical space, wholly unselfconscious about the weighty dangle that fastened my attention. Circumcised, well- proportioned, heavy, free waving, with a slight forward jut, it entranced me then, and many times thereafter.

Glenn was a different matter. A large young man, responsive in class but sort of B+ material, openly friendly outside of class, but not really physically attractive, even pudgy, he was built like a football lineman. I passed him frequently in the locker room, but he showed no sign of ever getting naked. He seemed to use his locker simply to store an extra set of clothes, and he never got beyond his shorts. Curious, I wondered to myself. Was he hopelessly bashful? One day, when I finishing my swim at a much later hour than usual, in he walked, robed in a large towel. He startled on spying my pink corpulence, but nodded politely, lost the towel, and turned on the spray. What struck me was his extreme hairiness all over. Every surface of his body seemed to sprout long, curly brown hairs. His circumcised penis was small in proportion to his large body, and stuck out horizontally to the floor, resting on his balls. We never crossed paths in the shower room again, though I saw him several times afterwards at his job in the local grocery store.

This year it was Neil, a tall, slender, handsome blond with fine features and short cut spiky hair: in class he was attentive, responsive, bright. I was entranced by him, intellectually as well as physically, and I held out hopes of crossing his path in the locker rooms, the showers. But I never did, and to this day never have. He apparently doesn't use the gym. But he made a habit, I noticed, of using one particular Men's room after my two-hour lecture, and a few times I deliberately beat him to the spot, waited expectantly at the farthest urinal, and watched. Twice I was rewarded- but not as I had hoped. He simply stood there, straight-backed, eyes locked forward, never acknowledged my presence, and kept his tool closely shielded. Damn!

Two years ago a graduate student appeared on my horizon who stunned me with his masculine good looks. Well over six feet, square-shouldered, ruggedly built, with wavy Nordic blond hair, Dave walked with a kind of swagger, an almost military erectness of posture, that exuded self confidence. He was never my student, but he inhabited my space. Hope of someday seeing his naked body dominated my fantasy world. From the first I saw him, I stripped him naked in my mind. He appeared athletic enough. Surely he used the common facilities somehow. But it took a long while before anything came of my desires.

Since Dave was never my student, my original contact with him was made possible through his own initiative. During the summer, he undertook a student production of Shakespeare's Henry V. It was his first effort at directing a play, much less so difficult a play, and I was genuinely impressed. He placed it in the Second World War period, but without incongruously disturbing the dialogue; his presentation did justice to the heroics of the action, but also brought out the underlying suspicions of heroic violence. The production had dozens of imaginative touches. I have seen this play many times, live and on film, but I thought Dave's conception of it was as perceptive as any- and that includes Guthrie, Olivier, Branaugh -and I did what I've rarely done. I volunteered a lengthy, detailed review to say so, and had it printed in the local newspaper. My concentration was on the director's imagination, not the actors, who were all students and necessarily a mixed bag. But I did spend a sentence or two praising the superb- and gorgeous - lead actor.

Dave's thanks broke whatever ice there may have been between us. He sent my appreciation out to the entire cast and crew, and said that he kept it open on his desk for weeks. His overweening self-confidence, apparently, could still be stroked by flattery, especially honest flattery, and mine was honest. His talents were real. Older to younger, we quickly developed a cordial relationship and frequently stopped for conversation in the corridors over topics literary, political, personal, and occasionally met for lunch. I became aware of his prodigious learning -youthful as he was -and his sense of humor cheered me day by day. He took up the habit of first-naming me, and I was flattered in return. Quite apart from his sexual aura, Dave was fast becoming a friend and an equal.

But that nagging sexual curiosity kept at me, and it kept being frustrated. Going into the locker room, I met him coming out. Twice. Just missed him. But I had at least ascertained that he used the gym, and I kept track of the times. Once as I used a local washroom, peeing, a large body hunkered itself at the next urinal, and fished it out with maximum nonchalance. Dave made light conversation as he peed, seeming to make little effort to conceal his equipment, and what I glimpsed was circumcised, very thick. But my visual imagination had difficulty attaching this glimpse of heaven to that paradisal body. I was almost beyond frustration.

Then I found myself in the locker room after a swim getting ready for a shower. I was taking a minute for breath, when who should come by? We fell into learned conversation for five or six minutes -yes, we had genuine intellectual interests in common. But when facts came to facts, Dave was arriving, and I was leaving. We both seemed slightly hesitant about having to get naked. I took the initiative, tugged at my wet trunks, grabbed the towel, and left him with a plain view of my bare ass. Actually, although frustrated at missing his nakedness yet again, I was pleased at the opportunity to show him that my nakedness was not an issue for me, and that in future his should not be either. Teacher, student, we were equals in flesh.

Little did I know that such a lesson was not necessary.

The day eventually came. I was showering after a long swim, relaxing, taking in sights of the regulars, one or two interesting newcomers when in he stalked. Bigger than in my dreams he strode, nude into the shower room, doffed his towel, and stood before me. He chose a shower, nodded recognition to me as he did so, and proceeded to soap his body with abandon. His hair, face, chest, with its upstanding nipples, its scattering of soft hair- his bigger-than-life cock and balls, his ass. What I saw was Adonis in the flesh, preening. A six-foot-five, lean, wavy-haired blond genius with powerfully muscled legs and a thick, heavy, circumcised cock that stuck out at me in intriguing angles, especially as it curved off to the left. At first sight it seemed to be almost on the verge of erection, but it was not; it was just one of those ponderous organs that stuck out.

This vision did not vanish. I saw, and saw, and saw vidi, vidi, vidi though naturally without staring. And when Dave reached the end of his performance, he turned off the water as I turned off mine. We simultaneously stepped into the towelling off area together, and then, dick to dick, fell into conversation again. I do not remember when was the last time I've had scholarly conversation in the nude, but the thought of it has kept me alert ever since. We were talking, towelling. His cock, which before this hour I had only dimly glimpsed, was waving, bobbing flagrantly in its blond pubic bush before me. We were discussing Kant.

These "coincidental" meetings in the shower room began to get better timed, more frequent, as spring term elapsed. Dave had a pleasing habit of raising his big legs to the towel bar while drying himself off. When he did, his cock, with its leftish bent, would flop from side to side in the most enthralling rubbery way. Once, as he performed this act, I stood stock still, agape, and he gave me a wink. Or I think he did. I had to retreat to my own towel in uncharacteristic modesty to conceal my growth.

My private sessions of self-love were given an incomparable boost by these encounters.

One day, as I worked in my office, the phone rang and it was Dave. He had just been offered a full-time position at Northwestern, he said, and he wanted advice from a senior person he could trust before he accepted. "I'll be right down," I said, and congratulated him on a major career break. I was elated at his good fortune, flattered by his trust -but cruelly dejected that this object of male beauty and intellectual stimulation would soon be disappearing from my landscape.

Dave's office was in an obscure corner in the basement of the building. When I reached it, the door was ajar an inch or so, and something, some instinct, prevented me from knocking. I stopped, peered through the opening, and there was Dave, slacks around his ankles, that strong blond ass, now familiar, pulsing rhythmically into the mouth of a dark young man who resembled Henry V.

Motion stopped, and I heard Dave's voice firmly commanding me, "Come on in. And close the door." This scene had been staged, and just for me. Dave stood there, his massive erection steadied in Henry V's two hands, smiling a pie-eyed smile as I'd never seen him smile. "I knew you'd like it," he said. "You've told me often enough."

I questioned.

"Not in so many words of course. But your eyes."

I didn't think I'd been so transparent in the locker room, but Dave, I found, was wise. On the other hand, nothing had ever suggested to me the remotest possibility that he was gay. He showed no sign in the locker room or showers. He had no association with activist groups on campus. His masculine stereotypes were just too visible, too advertised. But even as we "know" how misleading these stereotypes are, we still find ourselves misguided by them.

"You've never met Jamie, but he liked your review as much as I did. We've been fuck buddies ever since that Shakespeare we did last July."

Shaking hands seemed much too formal, especially since Jamie's hands were still occupied with Dave's mighty drooling trophy, so I just nodded at him, nervously.

Dave drew his hands down my trousers, where my agreement to this scene was already obvious. He applied a soft hand to the surface. My cock, despite its years, was already ramrod hard, just waiting for release, and as he stroked it, he unzipped my fly and found the vent in my shorts. He flipped out the prize, a strong circumcised pink seven-incher. Jamie grabbed it and gave it a good looking over.

I prided myself on my equipment, and Jamie, having briefly sucked it into his mouth, locked my tool with Dave's in a penile embrace, dick on dick. The warm feel of mine and his together I'll never forget. I was short on both length and girth Dave is such a hunk but the comparison wasn't embarrassing. I knew what mine could do. Dave took control of his own and flaunted it for me, letting me enjoy it without having to pretend not to. He waved his hips and let it fly. Untouched by human hands, it hovered as if by magic, horizontal, at least nine or ten inches long, with a distinctive upward and leftward curvature.

"You like that," he teased. "You know you do."

He waggled it like a happy puppy. I was mesmerized; but strangely, my gaze became transfixed on his hairy scrotum, and when I reached up to cup it in my grip, he stopped wagging, spread his legs and eased himself into my hands, his monstrous bent erection rising up before me.

Meanwhile, Jamie was being left out. Although I had never formally met him, I reached around to stroke his pouch, trying to get him into this scene. Dave laughed and said that Jamie was always last to join, but usually first to finish.

While Jamie and I started undoing our belts, Dave stepped out of his pants and kicked them aside. In a minute the three of us were standing face to face, exposed from the waist down but still in shirt and tie, squeezing each other's rigid cocks. I sank to my knees. Dave's monster was the prize of my dreams, and I just clutched it, held it, beheld it, then stroked, caressed, licked, slavered. Beautiful! But I couldn't get my mouth around it whole. Jamie was dark, curly haired, Italian looking, with a covering of dark fur that radiated from his legs to his groin, ornamenting a slender cock that rose vertically from his balls, about the same length as mine, with a smallish pointy glans. Upon investigation, he proved to be uncut. I played with his foreskin, slipping it back and forth over his glistening purplish glans in fascination. I took it in my mouth. Dave moved behind me and began rubbing my ass with that tool of his. Then I felt his hand reaching for my most private spot, and I was surprised by the slippery feel of some kind of oil. I'm no virgin, but I was alarmed.

"Dave. Please be careful will you? It's been a few years."

"It's OK," he answered, "I've got all the right equipment."

I was about to return the wise crack, when I saw him peeling open a condom. "Here," I said, "let me do that." I pried it out and then attentively positioned the little rubber cup over the tip of his massive, flared acorn.

"Aw," said Jamie, "I usually get to do that." He reached his hand and together we unscrolled the silky rubber over the length of Dave's hard curved shaft.

Just then there was a soft knock.

We froze, silent. I was still gripping Dave's erection. Another soft knock, a rustle, and then a student's essay slid under the door. The three of us were laughing- but laughing in total silence as the danger level rose and the noise level dropped to nothing.

We waited.

I slowly reached my hands around each side of Jamie and leaned toward Dave's desk. It was time for business. Dave moved behind me and pointed his lubed shaft at my spot, worked it around a bit, then pushed. I pushed back. The pain was intense for a few seconds, but I was ready for it, and when his big cockhead slid past the sphincter the feeling of relief, of giving and receiving pleasure, was its own reward. It had been such a long time. Dave was motionless for a moment, then slowly started rocking in and out, not roughly, but with short strokes, very gently for such a rugged man. I could hardly breathe. It was hard to focus on anything else besides his presence. But there was Jamie, trapped between my leaning arms, his hooded cock rising before me. Once again I took it in my mouth. He began pumping short, quick strokes, and I could feel the glide of his cockskin. I tried to find the inside of his foreskin with my tongue. Then I became aware of Dave's lubed-up right hand gripping my hard rod from behind. For several minutes at least, the three of us formed the single rhythm of a well-oiled pulsating machine. We worked in silence. I pressed my ass as hard as I could against Dave's gentle pressure. I savored the feel of my bowels, the stiff prong in my mouth, my tingling cock.

Suddenly Jamie made the slightest click in his throat and I felt the stiffness in my mouth go into spasm. Dave was right Jamie was a quick study. Four, five, six times he pulsed and filled my mouth with warm, sticky cream. I swallowed what I could without releasing my mouth from the prong, which gradually deflated where it was. When I finally let it go, it drooped into a four-inch glistening dangle with a nice pucker of foreskin just covering the end. While Dave was not missing a beat, Jamie's orgasm had brought me to a peak, and without warning I began to shoot in Dave's slick hand, on the desk, on the floor, on my shirttails, on Jamie a gooey mess, which Dave used to best advantage slicking my erupting hyper- sensitive tool. After I finished, Jamie edged around to view from behind his buddy's organ pistoning my hole, his muscled rump flexing still gently, with the shortest of strokes, but with a regular rhythm and a stamina that began to seem superhuman. As Jamie kneeled down and stared, I became more aware than before of Dave's soft balls squishing up against my perineum. After a few more timeless minutes, Dave speeded up the pace and I knew what was about to happen. With the first signs of roughness, Dave, still observing the vow of silence, lengthened his strokes, pulled his shaft all but out of my hole, and slammed his pubes against my backside once, twice, three times. Four. Then he pressed himself tightly to me, tugged at my waist, making tiny stifled noises as his orgasm buried itself deep inside me.

The next minutes seemed to take place in ultra slow motion. Silently, Dave disengaged from my hole and skinned the overflowing condom from his still throbbing, semi-rigid cock. We stood facing each other, trying to re-enter the real world. There was Dave, the prime object of two years of my fantasies, dripping condom in hand, with his powerful cock, still mysterious, still at half-mast, sticking out at me, moistly presenting itself. There was Jamie, the hirsute beauty whom I'd met scarcely more than half an hour ago, his uncut dangle swaying. And there was I, twenty or more years older than either, still shaking, trembling like an adolescent, trying to reassume the persona of a mature, dignified college professor.

We were all naked from the waist down, but in somewhat dishevelled shirt and tie. Our pants were twisted in different places around the office floor. We began to gather them. But the cum! It was everywhere- on the floor, the desk, our clothes, our bodies, dripping on my chin. And on our cocks. Dave had a bit of tissue handy, which helped a bit with the clean-up, but not all of it. He wrapped the cum-filled condom in some scrap paper. I couldn't help but think what that student with her essay might say if she had burst in upon us now, and, pulling on my white briefs, I tried to imagine myself walking out of that office in a trance and conversing like a normal person, sticky cock in undies, with the next acquaintance I ran into.

Dave solved the problem. "My car's right outside," he said. "Let's all drive to my apartment. We can shower up there. Then do whatever." He hitched up his pants. "At least there's a mattress." He paused. "And no interruptions." Pause. "And I still need to talk to you about this job offer."

We didn't talk much on the way. I was in a post-orgasmic stupor, like never before, and Dave and Jamie were, well, used to each other. Dave's apartment was in a small three-storey building that looked like a hotbox in summer months, but was favored by off- campus students. Inside, it turned out to be small but comfortable a living room, kitchenette, bedroom, and bath. As I've said, I don't make a practice of messing around with students, so I was quite apprehensive about entering their living quarters - though after what we had just done, I had dropped many other inhibitions along with my pants. When Dave let us in, he marched straight to the kitchen fridge, opened up a bottle of tonic and handed Jamie and me a large unopened bottle of Beefeaters.

"It's all I've got," he said. "I hope it'll do." He shucked his shirt and pants and strode into the bedroom in his briefs. "I'll go first in the shower. There's only room for one. You two can flip a coin for next."

Jamie made three strong drinks and we sat and talked, tried to get to know each other a little better. I asked him if he and Dave shared the apartment. No, he had his own, but he spent a lot of time here. I asked him about his plans for the future, his hopes for an academic career. He was writing a Ph.D. thesis on Marlowe and early Shakespeare. He said Dave had been trying to persuade him to play the role of Edward II. "He wants me to do the assassination scene in the nude," he said. "You know -where Edward gets it in the ass with a red hot poker."

I told him I knew the play pretty well--I'd seen a very good production a few years ago. But no nudity. "It's an interesting concept," I told Jamie. "Dave has a terrific instinct for the stage. The King's two bodies. It would really be hot"

He nodded.

"And I'd love to see you do it. You'd look great." I scoped his crotch. "I'll come to all the rehearsals," I grinned. "But I understand how you might feel, well, restrained in public. I know I could never have considered such a thing, even when I was your age and almost as pretty as you are. But in my era, of course, there was no nudity on stage as there is now. We've broken a lot of taboos."

"Well, I'm still not sure," said Jamie. "I guess my exhibitionist streak isn't as strong as Dave's is."

"No reason it shouldn't be," I said.

Just then, Dave appeared from the bath with a large white towel wrapped around his waist and picked up his drink. "Next," he commanded.

I remarked that the towel seemed like a redundant piece of false modesty, so he promptly dropped it and stepped toward me. Seated as I was, my face was even with his glorious gonads, now relaxed and unthreatening. For the second time, I cupped his balls in both my hands, rolled them gently, then examined his blond pubic bush, his abdomen, his soft penis with my right hand, picked it up, turned it over, stared, fingered the frenum, let it drop back. Soft? Even soft, it felt semi-rigid, firm, meaty, pendulous. The slantwise curve was a wonder of nature. Dave wasn't wagging it at me now, showing it off as he had before, just patiently letting me have a good look -and a squeeze and a fondle -as he sipped his gin and tonic. It was a marvellous moment of sexual curiosity, with emphasis on the curiosity. My long-suppressed voyeurism was brimming to a peak. I could hardly believe that the wondrous heavy object I held in my hands had been sunk so deep inside my most private part not long ago. I wanted to suck it, suck it hard again, but I just mimed a smooch and let it go. The temperature was still cool.

Jamie watched these goings on for a moment or two, then headed for the bathroom undoing his belt. "I'll be back in a minute," he called. He seemed in a hurry to get back, and I suspected jealousy. But no worry. Dave just sat down, and we fell into easy conversation, I fully clothed, he naked as Adam.

I told Dave how beautiful he was, and Jamie too. I thought they could both be GQ models, or the like. Dave said that Jamie had had offers of the sort, photo shoots -and from hotter mags than GQ -but had turned them down. Jamie still had problems with public nudity. He and Jamie had developed a relationship that went beyond sex, he said, and both of them wanted a long-term commitment; but with academic positions the way they were, and the chances of job placement, they still had to hang loose.

He spread his knees, as if to emphasize the metaphor.

"I hope my being here isn't an interference."

"No, no, not at all," said Dave. "We mix it up once in a while. We've just been trying to plan surprises for a few people who've been special to us."

We laughed and drank more gin.

Sooner than expected, Jamie appeared, bare-ass naked, dripping from the shower, shaking his dark mop of curly hair, his uncut dangle dangling. He used his towel without trying to cover himself. I was struck once again by the geometric formation of his dark body hair and the curls on his chest. I beckoned him toward me and took his cock in hand, gently while he stood still, examined it clinically, as if I were a medical doctor, and slipped back the foreskin, which returned to where it was when I let it go, just covering the head. I repeated the gesture in fascination, then looked back and forth at the two naked young men and said, "I seem to be the odd man out." With that, both Jamie and Davie attacked and began undoing my necktie, my shirt buttons, my pants. What had been a low-temperature situation began to heat up, as they steered me toward the bath. I stepped out of my pants, and with their help dropped my briefs. The tip of my cock adhered stubbornly to the cotton, and I realized that I probably needed the shower more than they had. By the time I reached the bathtub, my pink erection was at full horizontal rigidity, and Dave was lathering it up. Jamie was kneading my buttocks, soaping my ass. As I looked back at them, both were also rising to the occasion. I stepped into the warm spray, not knowing what to expect. This entire scene seemed to be scripted.

"Hang on," I said. "If I come now, I might be wasted for the rest of the night. I want to appreciate the two of you while I have you." They let me go. I shampooed and soaped myself for a minute, hurriedly, and rinsed as they watched, both quietly fingering their cocks. I was monumentally erect, my arched pink prong at full attention. I felt watched. Appreciated. For the first time in my life, I felt like a stripper with an audience, and enjoyed the attention. I waggled myself slightly, as Dave had done earlier, and they both grinned.

Instead of going in this direction, though, I told them, "I'd really like to see what you guys can do." I stepped out of the little tub and towelled. I told Dave, pointedly, "I'd love to see that red-hot poker of yours go up Jamie's ass. The way he watched it go up mine. I know that's in you guys' repertoire."

Dave smiled.

"Jamie's been telling you my plans for launching his stage career."

Suddenly the apartment buzzer sounded. I startled, but Dave simply listened to the voice on the intercom and answered, "Come right on up," and buzzed him in.

"I thought you promised no interruptions," I said, as I tried to gather up my clothes. But strangely, neither Dave nor Jamie made the least motion toward so much as a towel. They were both staying naked. Another script, I thought, wondering what it might mean.

Dave waited at the apartment door, his meaty one-eyed monster wholly on display, at its usual angle. Jamie was still in the bathroom, also naked. I -like the proverbial deer in headlights - was also naked, except for the scanty towel clutched around my waist, which I knew I'd have a tough time explaining. All three of us were still semi-hard.

Dave opened the door and in walked Jean-Paul Houle, Chair of the English Department. I had known him for many years, but only casually, on a professional but personally friendly basis, and I seemed to recall that, as a Shakespeare scholar, he was supervisor of Jamie's Ph.D. thesis. From his demeanor, it was obvious that he had been here before, and he did not seem the least surprised at Dave's flagrant nudity. But he did a double-take when he spotted me.

"It's good to see you again, Jean-Paul," I said, offering my hand and attempting to take some control of the situation. For some reason, I kept the towel clutched desperately around my midriff. But it soon fell. I had sprouted another erection.

Jean-Paul and I had seen each other in the locker rooms any number of times over the years, though not recently. Many years earlier, I had spotted him, a young, gorgeous, broad-shouldered, dark haired hunk, with pronounced dimples in his chin and cheeks, and always a hint of five-o-clock shadow. He was one back then that I tried to spy in the locker room -and for a long time failed. Jean-Paul seemed to notice I had the hots for his body, but he played straight, so I had to cool it. He was a year or two older than I, but we were both still junior faculty with the need to prove ourselves -academically, that is.

When I finally did enter the locker room one day and caught a glimpse of his nude body heading for the showers, I threw my clothes into a locker, grabbed my towel and shampoo, and went after him. His body turned out to be a bit stocky in the buttocks, but he wore a lovely cut cock, not long but very thick, just a slight sway and outward jut, with an oversized plummy glans that seemed to have been excessively circumcized. His body surprised me with its relative unhairiness. None of this seemed to square with his French background; nevertheless, he was white and smooth under the cleansing waters. We actually spoke in the showers like old friends, shouting out words to make ourselves heard. I don't remember what we said, but I imprinted the vision of his nakedness on my brain, and had that impression revived a few times afterward. But Jean-Paul never became a real regular at the pool or the gym.

Jean-Paul was much older now, like me, but still retained a handsome dignity. I had learned to respect his administrative skills and liked him as a person. But I was as unprepared for seeing him there as he for seeing me- especially in my naked state. It had never crossed my mind that this masculine hunk might be gay.

As if by magic, he had a gin and tonic in his hand.

Jamie approached him, tousled his hair in a familiar way and started to loosen his tie. Jean-Paul cupped Jamie's balls and cock in his hands and inspected them, very much as I had done not long before. He even rolled back the foreskin and let it roll back, just as I had.

Dave kept his eye on me for my reaction.

Jamie's cock was responding to the attention and soon stuck out at a pronounced angle. Jean-Paul exchanged glances with me and with Dave, gathered that this was an ensemble scene, put down his drink, shed his jacket and tie. He undid his belt and started to undo his shirt buttons, but by then Jamie's cock had arisen to its full hooded perpendicular. Jean-Paul devoured it in his mouth.

"Oh Johnny, I love it when you do that."

Jean-Paul continued for a few moments and then released the vertical organ.

"Jamie, if we're going to do this for an audience," he said, "let's do it right. I don't like to waste a good erection"

He got up and moved toward the bedroom, continuing to shed his shirt, then his slacks, and finally his boxers. His erect cock pointed out in front of him, not longer than mine but thicker, straight as a pipe, forty-five degrees forward exactly, the engorged head widely flared and beautifully, darkly purple. I marvelled at his brazenness. As Dave and I followed, both fingering our members, he and Jamie headed toward the mattress, where they crouched together in a sixty-nine position, Jamie's head to the bottom of the bed, Jean-Paul's to the top. They took each other's cocks into their mouths and began slurping, Jamie energetically, Jean-Paul with greater reserve. He knew about Jamie's hair-trigger mechanism. As they sucked, they both pulled at each other's ass cheeks (without any finger penetration) and got a complex rhythm going, a kind of four-on-three beat that even a good musician would find challenging. Dave and I just kept our distance and watched from opposite sides of the bed. Jamie of course was first to come, and did so with firm, wild fucking motions, his narrow ass flexing with forceful strokes into Jean-Paul's mouth. When his orgasm subsided, Jean-Paul, his mouth still gripping Jamie's cock, bucked into Jamie's mouth fiercely until he spasmed visibly, violently; Jamie's mouth lost its grip for a second, and two spurts landed on his face before he could swallow the purple again. The two continued to clutch each other by the ass until they could settle down.

"Bravo!" said Dave, waving his erection in his hand.

If I could have imagined one day ago watching my distinguished professorial colleague, naked and ejaculating . . . .

Dave moved across the bedroom and motioned me to sit down in a large, tattered overstuffed chair. I still fondled my pink pecker, quietly. Dave approached and waved his lengthy baton before my face. It was still the largest prize in the room, and Dave brandished it. I stared in fascination at its rigid upward bend, stroked through his pubic bush with my right hand, and then grasped him with both hands and pulled him closer. By this time, Jean-Paul and Jamie were staring intently, Jean-Paul now fingering a flaccid but still moist organ.

The face fucking was intense. Dave grasped my head to control the motions, and I held on to his pulsing ass. I was conscious of the stiffness, the push, the sheer animal strength of this young man. I think I felt his big cock slip farther into my throat. It flashed through my brain I was privileged that he had chosen my mouth to fuck. Any thought of audience had vanished. All I wanted was to pleasure this instrument as well as I could. I tried to lick at the cockhead with my tongue, but I couldn't make out its shape. I felt my face not so much bobbing up and down as thrashing uncontrollably. The pounding was prolonged, and my jaw ached.

Finally, Dave emitted sounds of achievement. He grasped my head harder, and I wrapped both arms around his ass and pulled him tight. All motion stopped. Then, tight in my grip, he began thrusting, thrusting into my mouth as we tried to resume the rhythm again. I felt spurt after spurt of cream into my throat, some of it surfacing to my lips and dripping down my chin.

"Bravo!" shouted Jamie and Jean-Paul, and applauded spontaneously, but I had forgotten that they were there, and still held Dave's erection in my mouth. It had barely wilted, but my body had wilted utterly, and I let go with my lips and sunk back into the chair. Dave's glistening erection still hovered before my eyes, but I was fully spent without having come.

Dave flaunted his cock and balls for a few seconds, then stopped and got serious: "We'd better rinse ourselves of all this goo. Then there's some business to look after." I said I didn't need a shower so much as a rinse of Listerine.

"We have that too," said Dave, turning on the tap.

The three of them had quick showers, with a bit of light- hearted grab-ass as they traded places. But the sexual temperature had cooled down. Jamie, Jean-Paul, and I shared the Listerine.

Except for Jamie, who busied himself in the bedroom, the rest of us stayed naked as we assembled in the living room. The business Dave had in mind was stage business: he was planning his Edward II and wanted to run through his ideas for the crucial assassination scene that he'd planned for Jamie. As he was describing it to us, it struck me that he was living out a personal sexual fantasy, a kind of violent, even sadistic fantasy sublimated by his creative genius. Edward, deposed, was a prisoner in the Tower. For maximum effect, he had to look like a King. No crown -that would be too unrealistic -but royal garments of some kind, something elegant that at least suggested purple and ermine. It might be expensive if we have to make it; but there might be something of the kind in stock. Even as a prisoner, Edward had to look royal. On the other hand, the First Murderer was to have a black leather look: vicious, his face masked, a macho masquerade. Dave planned to play the role himself.

"I've never been into equipment myself," Dave said. "But I think I know where to borrow some."

The assassination was to be a combination of strip-tease and mimed ritual, erotic and menacing at the same time. The First Murderer would slowly divest the monarch of his royal garments, one by one, and toss them aside in contempt. This had to be choreographed carefully, but in the end Jamie would be left stark naked and humiliated, center stage. He would then have to be secured somehow. Dave couldn't figure how best to block this. There would be a Second Murderer to help with the mechanics, but he was having trouble visualizing it. He wasn't sure what kind of furniture the Tower of London cells were supplied with, or what posture to secure Edward in with relation to the proscenium stage. However it was done, his rectum had to accessible to the red-hot poker used to kill him. Dave was asking for ideas.

"Ready for the rehearsal?" called Dave, and Jamie appeared from the bedroom in an oversized blue vellure dressing gown. He seemed more embarrassed to be dressed in this garb than when he was fully naked, as if he were in some kind of Milton Berle drag, and I wondered if Dave could ever coerce him into doing this on a real stage. It seemed so risky- in a theatrical sense. The shock effect could so easily become ludicrous, embarrassing. Meanwhile, Dave disappeared into the bedroom and returned quickly in ordinary shirt and jeans.

Improvising, they went through the strip-tease mime. Dave roughly pulled the dressing gown from Jamie's body and tossed it aside. Underneath, Jamie looked as though he'd girded up for a prolonged game of strip poker. The multi-layered effect was comical; but Dave continued the pantomime undeterred, stripping off shirt, undershirt, shorts, some kind of leotards, and finally white cotton briefs, for the final revelation. After miming gestures of humiliation and terror, Jamie recovered, stood up tall and straight, regaining his royal dignity though fully nude. Facing the audience, his swaying uncut cock commanded the center of the stage picture. These particular motions had already been thought out and practised, and they were quite impressive. The First Murderer allowed this defiance to continue for a few seconds, then pushed Edward roughly into a chair and tied his hands behind its back with some convenient rope. He reached for the prepared prop -a fireplace poker that was painted electric red at its end -flourished it before the hapless monarch's face, and then with exaggerated force plunged it beneath him, letting it slide underneath Jamie's asscrack, as Edward II writhed in mortal agony.

"Then the Second Murderer finishes him off with a dagger," said Dave, turning to the two of us. And then I kill off the Second Murderer.

I looked at Jean-Paul, not knowing how to react. "Impressive," I said. "But it needs a lot of work. And the costuming has to be just right."

Jean-Paul was silent for a minute, and then said, in an authoritative, almost pedantic lecturing tone, "This scene, you know, is really an allegory for a sodomizing rape, a punishment for Edward's offense of homosexuality. If you're going to play it nude, why not go all the way? You don't need dialogue from Marlowe. Before the metaphorical picture of the hot poker in the ass, maybe do a violent rape in mime?" He paused. "The First Murderer fucks Edward's ass before doing him with the poker." He paused again, leering at Dave. "Even for real, if you're up to it."

There was silence as the suggestion sunk in. Jamie watched Dave's face apprehensively.

"Do you mean I should get it up?" said Dave.

"Not necessarily," said Jean-Paul. "A bit of nudity and simulated sex can go a long way on stage." Pause. "But Nature will take its course."

Dave took a minute, registered, and said, "I like it. Let's run the scene again."

"Good," I said. "I'll play the Second Murderer." I looked at Jean-Paul and told him to sit back and watch. "You play the role of the critic."

We conferred some more, and told Jamie to lose some of the underclothes. A bare covering was enough, and we'd find or make suitable costume. The stripping pantomime did not have to be prolonged, or it might become comical. We talked about the chair and decided it wasn't right. It gave the audience continued view of Jamie's jewels, but it was dramatically awkward. Dave suggested that a flat surface would work, and we found a table in the kitchenette, brought it into the living room and covered it with a blanket. On stage, I suggested, this could be made to look like a tombstone in the Tower. This idea registered.

I told Dave that his pants wouldn't do. Did he have something without a zipper? Not for now, but he'd make sure his leather outfit had a flap.

When Jamie appeared again in his blue vellure, he managed to look much more regal. Dave went through the stripping routine once more, and when the briefs came off, we were all startled to see Jamie's prong pointing full north.

Nonetheless, he performed his mime of humiliation, terror, and noblesse oblige to perfection, turning his dignified, beautifully haired body to the pretend audience (Jean-Paul), cock in air, and back again to Dave, who pushed him backward roughly onto the table. I secured Jamie's hands and held him, his erect phallus pointing towards me, peeking out of its foreskin, visibly silhouetted to the audience, as Dave unzipped. Dave's monumental schlong sprung out, and without preparation he plunged it directly, bareback, into Jamie's rectum with the same fierceness as he intended to plunge the red hot poker. But Dave was no longer acting. As I held Jamie down, he winced with unfeigned pain. Fortunately, Dave had been there before, or the pain would have been extreme. I could see the lust creep into Dave's eyes, the glazing over, the loss of control, the determination to accomplish the scene. It was obviously the place where his fantasies brought him.

The pumping went on for several minutes, the two of them eye to eye, as Jamie lost his stage character, then fell into a rhythm, then shot a full wad onto his naked belly, cock untouched, while Dave continued pumping. Tiring, I released Jamie's arms, but there was no need to hold them. The two were into a fierce rhythm of their own. I watched at close hand as Dave's rigid piece, sticking out of the front of his pants, disappeared into Jamie's asshole and reappeared again, almost out. I pumped at my cock, cautiously. As I watched, I finally detected the signs of crisis, and Dave actually yelled as he emptied himself into Jamie's ass.

Jean-Paul clapped his hands and said "Bravo!"

The two collapsed onto the table, Dave still embedded in Jamie, groins squirming as they kissed.

I was as aroused as I could ever remember. I turned to Jean- Paul, my cock at full distention. He too had responded to the white heat of the scene and was sporting an impressive erection. I fell on my knees before him and took his thick flanged cockhead into my mouth and slurped.

"I always thought you were gorgeous," I said, looking up at his dimpled cheeks, holding his saliva-moistened erection in my two hands. I had assumed a submissive posture. But Jean-Paul held me under the chin, looked me straight into my eyes, and said "I always knew you did. Let's go next door and make up for lost time."

We headed for the bedroom. I expected a repeat scene of the sixty-nine with him and Jamie, or maybe a forcible drilling from behind, but Jean-Paul surprised me. He flopped himself on the mattress, assumed a quasi-fetal position, presented his large bum, and almost implored, "Will you fuck me?"

It was a rhetorical question that I didn't have to answer.

By this time, Dave and Jamie had come to their senses and, though still somewhat dazed, stood on either side of the bed, still naked. Neither had a trace of erection. I motioned to Dave for help, and nodding, quickly fetched a condom and some lube. Awkwardly, I disengaged the condom from its plastic packaging, and Dave, with a show of appreciation, helped me unscroll it down my rigid shaft. Jamie was applying KY to Jean-Paul's anus and then to my pink poker.

The two of them were cheering the old farts on.

I assumed an ordinary missionary position on top of Jean-Paul, who wrapped his legs behind my back. His thick cock rubbed up against my oily belly, his balls against my oily balls. We rubbed and nuzzled for a minute or two, building the sensations. Dave slapped on more lube, stroking both of us from behind, encouraging, massaging with both of his hands in motion. I stared at Jean-Paul, eye to eye.

"I've always wanted to do this to a critic," I said, and drove my schlong into his ass.

The production was cancelled by the university after the first performance.

In fact, the production of this seldom seen masterpiece had been carried off with even greater brilliance than Dave's Henry V. He had collected an excellent amateur but experienced cast. The designer was superb. Costumes were above average for a student production. Dave's direction was again filled with imagination, detail after detail. And Jamie had been perfectly cast -dark, masculine, but somehow alien and vulnerable as well.

At least up to the assassination scene.

Dave and Jamie had worked out a simulated rape. The First Murderer appeared: leather-clad and masked, he stripped the monarch bare, he brandished the red-hot poker before the terrified denuded Edward, but first dropped his front flap, gave the audience just a peek at his cock, then pretended to bury it by force into Edward's ass, as Edward writhed in ambiguous reaction. (Dave had been persuaded not to flaunt his cock -his was a minor role after all, and it might have stolen the scene.) There was to be a simulated orgasm. Then the First Murderer withdrew, pulled up his flap (it was fixed with velcro, for quick timing), and thrust the poker where his organ had just "ejaculated," as Edward writhed in mortal agony. The Second Murderer then finished him off with a collapsible dagger.

In rehearsal, they had it to near perfection, for I had attended most of them. So had Jean-Paul. But when performance came, Jamie had first-night jitters. By this time it wasn't the nudity. He had played the scene before cast and crew, male and female, frequently enough, and had gotten over gross self-consciousness. But it was Dave.

When the time came, I looked on in apprehension as Dave mimed the strip scene with somewhat exaggerated solemnity, menaced Jamie with the painted poker, unflipped his flap and briefly exposed his magnificent genitalia, and then tossed Jamie back onto the stage tombstone. Jamie had performed his mime of humiliation, terror, and noblesse oblige as well as ever. But when Dave tossed him backward onto the constructed tombstone and the Second Murderer secured him, Jamie lay back in a submissive attitude. Slowly, his soft cock grew in length and arose until it pointed directly upward, then flopped back toward his navel. Actually, as the audience looked on, it described a perfect 180-degree turn. Jean-Paul and I held onto our breaths.

The scene was designed to be witnessed in silhouette by the audience. Dave, heroically ignoring Jamie's full erection, proceeded with the mock sodomy and then aimed the red-hot poker. When Jamie felt the prop, which had been well oiled, sliding beneath his ass-crack, he arched his back, center stage in full view of a well filled 500-seat auditorium, and shot his wad.

The audience gasped. They could only have thought it was another of Dave's feats of directorial imagination, and marvelled at its execution. Nature had taken its course.

When the tragedy was over, curtain calls for both Jamie as Edward and Dave as director--and First Murderer- were ecstatic. But backstage, Jamie was sobbing, inconsolably. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't. It just happened." He was behaving as if he had made some girl pregnant.

The aftermath was predictable. There were complaints. The local press took up the controversy, exaggerating the events. An "unspeakable sexual act" had actually been performed on stage. The story even reached CNN. The university stopped the show, felt itself disgraced, reprimanded two of its most brilliant graduate students, and investigated Jean-Paul as co-conspirator in an ugly and protracted legal confrontation. As Jamie's supervisor, he was suspected of planning the event. Guilt by association. Fortunately, his complicity was unproven, and his tenure held.

But because of all the publicity, the production was bought up by an off-off Broadway theater in New York. Most of the student cast were thrilled at the opportunity; it ran thirty-two performances that summer and became a cult legend. Jamie never repeated his accomplishment of opening night, but he occasionally sprung a rod, to great applause. Dave had more opportunity to flaunt himself, though to give him credit, he always kept dramatic effect foremost. There was a glossy photo spread in one of the gay magazines, in which the sodomy, for once, was not simulated. For a time, Edward II became the most sought after Elizabethan play in New York City. Jean-Paul and I provided audience support for much of the run.

Since then, Dave has settled in at the University of Chicago, which trumped Northwestern's offer. Jamie has finished his dissertation and for the time being lives in with Dave. And I have taken a new apartment in Jean-Paul's building. No, we're not "living together." We are both too settled in our own ways for that. But living in the same building gives us easy access. We frequently spend long evenings of intellectual conversation.