Fork in the Road

FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter 4

"If you see a fork in the road, take it." -Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This work is a sequel to my first effort at writing gay erotic fiction. As such, it may help if you've read "Strange Bedfellows," (available in its entirety on Nifty, with a cleaned up and re-edited version now partially posted at the Rainbow Community Writers' Project). The story is fiction, but it occasional depicts scenes of sexual activity between consenting adults. If it's illegal for you to view such material, then please move on. The work is the sole property of the author, and my not be reposted, reproduced or published elsewhere without my expressed consent. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER 4

Early Monday morning Frank Martine made his way through the bustling rotunda of the Capitol in Madison and got directions to Jeremy Frick's office. He'd left Dubuque when it was still dark and was paying his first visit to the dome.

Helen, the office receptionist checked the calendar. "Yes, Mr. Martine" she pronounced it `Marteen'.

"It's pronounced `martini,' like the drink.'"

"Oh, I'm sorry sir. It reads like `marteen,' my apologies." Helen was already flustered by the stocky, overbearing man standing at her desk. "Senator Frick will be with you in a few minutes." She gestured toward a chair against the opposite wall. "If you'd care to have a seat. Could I get you some coffee, sir?"

Frank Martine plopped into a chair and loosened his tie a little bit. "No, I'm good thanks." Frank was a forty-something man with an imposing bearing. Nearly six-foot-two and considerable girth, but he was not really fat. He'd played football for Iowa a couple decades earlier and had maintained most of his physique. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a fairly dark complexion. The name made sense, Helen thought to herself. `He looks Italian, now that he says the name that way.'

Martine's dad had opened a Mexican restaurant in Dubuque when Frank was a college freshman. Since the college football career hadn't been solid enough to even get him consideration in the professional draft, he worked his way into taking over the old man's business. He'd built it into three more restaurants and now was looking at real estate development in order to grow his burgeoning financial empire. Southwest Wisconsin, just across the river, was his target. It was very rural and undeveloped, the "Appalachia of Wisconsin" people joked, and it was ripe for growth.

It only needed two things. An upgrade of state highway 151 between Madison and Dubuque would be essential. Second, as far as Frank was concerned, some significant easing of the environmental regulations on developers would be needed in order to make this dream really come true. Wisconsin was renowned for its tight rules on environmental impact studies and statements any time a guy wanted to dig a hole, as far as Frank was concerned. Like many others, he sarcastically referred to the state's Department of Natural Resources, the `DNR,' as "Damn Near Russia" when it came to regulations. The promise of a greater freeway and a relaxation of the rules from the DNR, and...cha-ching! But both would require the right legislative action.

He just needed some muscle with the folks who could make it happen. But he wasn't even from Wisconsin. That made it difficult. There were a half dozen investors in his small consortium. But to Frank's mind they were lazy and they were pessimists. They said it couldn't be done. Frank was a go-getter and was going to prove the stupid bastards wrong. As far as he was concerned they had fat checkbooks but no balls. `Sometimes you have to shake the fucking tree and make the good stuff fall out of it,' he'd often told himself and others. He was here to see if he could shake the fucking tree. From what he'd heard, Frick was a tree that could be shaken.

The senator opened his door. "Mr. Martine, I guess?"

Frank stood and acted humble. "Yes sir." They shook hands. "Frank Martine here."

"Senator Jeremy Frick." He put a smug emphasis on the title. Frank had anticipated that and then Frick gestured toward the open office door. "Please come on in Mr. Martine."

Frick wasn't positive what the guy wanted but knew he had money, and he'd done some homework. He knew that Martine and some of his associates were snooping around the southwest for development opportunities, and that they could probably use some sort of help from Madison. That's all he needed to know for now. He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. "Interesting mix, if you don't mind my saying. An Italian-American running a string of Tex-Mex restaurants in the heartland."

Frank settled in and got comfy, dropping his right ankle on his left knee and settling back in his chair. "Ha. It's better than that, senator. My grand dad's name was Stephano Martinopolous. We're Greek, through and through. Not that it matters anymore, but when the old boy came here not long after World War I, it was a bit safer to be Italian that Greek. Italy switched sides and ended up fighting with our side, so it was a safer move on his part. So with the help of some bigoted Mics at Ellis Island, he dropped the `opolous' when he got here and we became what most folks figure are wops. And that's okay with me. I'm not real big on Uzo or feta cheese or peta bread anyway. So you got a Greek with an Italian sounding name running a group of Mexican restaurants in Dubuque, Iowa. Only in America!"

The senator laughed. "Quite a story Mr. Martine. So tell me. What brings a Dubuque businessman to Madison?"

"Well, I'm here on behalf of a modest group of six, and potentially more, who are interested in pursuing some real estate development in the southwest part of the state, bordering Iowa. We're looking at cultivating some commercial and residential land, but we're concerned that the state's current regulatory posture isn't very conducive to our efforts to improve the quality of life here."

Frick shifted in his chair and he smelled money in the air. "And what is it about the `state's posture' that you're concerned about?"

"Well, sir," Frank hated calling another guy sir. "The infrastructure as far as the freeway goes just stinks, and the DNR regulations basically tell guys like me who want to build that we should just go away."

"I see."

"I just wanted to let you know that if we thought the transportation system would be improved and the reg's might be relaxed, the good people of southwest Wisconsin would see a good amount of investment poured into their economies."

Frick leaned forward on his desktop. "And Martine and friends would make a handsome return."

Frank shrugged. "Senator, we're businessmen, not the United Way or Unicef. But the lack of broad transport and the environmental regulations are what's stopping us from diving in and helping out everybody. We're willing to help make it possible here in Madison, if necessary."

"Help?"

Frank put his foot back on the floor and leaned forward. "Yes, senator, help. I'll be direct, `cuz it's pretty much who I am. I know your party is hanging on by your fingernails. I know that you have a narrow majority in the Senate, and that you hope to take the majority in the Assembly in the next go'round. I know that Senator McCarthy is likely to leave her post to run for Attorney General and that you want to replace her. I know that you direct the Senate Campaign Fund to elect or re-elect members of your own party. I'm prepared to begin some substantial contributions to that fund, but only after I'm convinced that the legislature is serious about improving the interstate system into that region and relaxing the environmental regulations."

Frick actually licked his lips. "What are we talking Mr. Martine?"

Frank leaned back and grinned. "Several thousands as a gesture of good will from a number of contributors." He let it sink in. "And if you can deliver, your little campaign piggy bank will be fatter by over a million once all is said and done."

Frick blinked. "Two million."

Now Martine blinked. "For state races?"

The senator leaned over his desk. "There are thirty-three seats in the State Senate, Seventeen up for a run a year from November. Ninety-nine in the Assembly, and all of them are up every two years. On top of that, we'll have the AG's race and the governor is going to be up for re-election...for the last time, thank God. We're in the process of cultivating candidates for the seats we know will be open because of retirements, and we're recruiting folks to run against those we think are vulnerable on the other side. I want to be in a position to dish out funds to all of them, if they're worthy of it. We won't be introducing any new legislation until the spring session, but that will give you time to raise some resources and us the time to research the issues you're concerned about and draft the appropriate bill."

Frank smirked. "I don't know politics all that much, Mr. Frick, but for two million, they'll all owe you and you'll owe me," he paused, "if they're worthy." He snorted and shook his head " I love it."

Frick's wheels were spinning. "Tell you what. You come up with all the contributions you can as soon as possible. Meantime, e-mail me the DNR regulations that you think are in your way. The highway thing shouldn't be a huge deal. Local folks love building highways, even when they bitch about the detours. The unions and contractors do too. Keeps state-contracted workers on the job. Thing is, there aren't a lot of locals in that neck of the woods, so we're going to need to see some cash in order to make this a priority. Once I'm impressed with the cash flow, then we could proceed."

"Proceed how?"

"Well, I could start planting seeds in the majority leader's office about the need for highway improvement, and talk with the chair of the transportation committee. And since the DNR is basically part of the executive branch, I'd have a few conversations with Hackett's staff about the onerous burden those regulations place on folks looking to boost the economy. Hackett hasn't run all that strong in that corner of the state, and if the request for relaxation comes from them, the committee that oversees environmental law will have to listen. If economic development is the goal, there won't be a problem in the other house. The trick would be getting the changes through the Senate and have the governor's stamp of approval." He mulled it over for a long several seconds. "But, yeah, it could be done."

Frank knew the conversation was over so he stood up and extended a hand, choosing his words carefully. "Well, sir, I appreciate your time and attention. I'll do all I can for the good of the cause, and I look forward to working with you in the future."

Frick appreciated Martine's caution. "And I look forward to working with you as well, Mr. Martine. I think we're very much on the same page here and hope that we can help you out and, together, we can serve the good people of Wisconsin. I hope you have a great day."

"I'll be in touch about what I can do, and when, to advance our common cause."

"Contact our caucus director, Will Maxson. He'll assist you in the mechanics. You can get a hold of him through his executive assistant, Clara, or she can give you his direct contact information. Either way, I'm always monitoring the efforts of our supporters, so will know what's coming in and from whom. But send me your recommendations on those regulatory issues that have you and your associates reluctant to invest in Wisconsin. We do want to work with you on those issues."

Frank smiled. "Well, I'm glad to hear that, sir. I'll e-mail my specific concerns to your office and will contact Mr. Maxson as soon as we have things in line on my end. It shouldn't be too long. I'll be in touch."

They shook hands once more. "Well, then, that'll work just fine."

Both men smiled as Frank Martine walked out the door humming.

An hour and a half later, he was back in his office in the Dubuque restaurant making phone calls. This shouldn't be too hard a sell,' he thought. An improved highway 151 will go over well enough on its face for a lot of businesses from here to Cedar Rapids. If we can get the environmental stuff taken care of, the serious investors in the land developments over there will pony up the rest. Two million. Christ, what a whore!'

His first call was to his attorney. He needed the guy to start digging into campaign finance laws in Wisconsin and learn how to buy a change in the law without getting his `tit caught in a wringer,' as his dad would have said.

Morry's Steak House was half way between Dubuque and Cedar Rapids. Seven other men joined Frank for dinner the next night. As they ate their steaks, Frank summarized his meeting with Frick. Then he got down to business and broke down his attorney's advice. "Okay, here's how it works. Frick's willing to deal. But we're all limited in what we can give under Wisconsin law. But if we find others who will put their names on our money, then we walk around the limit laws. I got fifty grand to put up now and fifteen "donors" lined up so far. Some are willing to put up their own cash, and all of them are willing to write checks if we pony up the cash to cover them. I have another ten I'm gonna contact." He wiped his lips. "Now for this to work, you're all going to have to come up with or raise the same kind of dollar amounts I just outlined, and find safe folks who will donate it if we give it to them. Ya' get it? You write them a check for two grand, and they write a check for two grand to the senate committee and send it back to you. You get it to me and I get it to Frick's people." He dropped his napkin on his plate and gulped his water. "Then, gentlemen, a year or so from now we start breaking ground across the river with the blessings of the State of Wisconsin." He looked around the table. "Guys, this can be done. All we gotta do is grease the skids, and Frick and his committee are the key. And, technically, what I'm proposing is legal. Well, mostly legal." That was a stretch. The donations were probably legal, his lawyer had told him. Buying a change in laws in exchange for donations most certainly was not. But that was all on Frick. He looked at his cousin Jerry. "If your dopey brother donates two grand to the committee, nobody asks where he got the two grand. It's a legal donation from an individual. No red flags, no questions."

Most of the men were grinning. A couple were nodding and mentally putting together lists of people on both sides of the river to contact tomorrow.

Will Maxson was tired. It had been a long weekend entertaining his son and grandkids while his son's wife was away on business. Those three little girls always wore him out, but he loved them dearly. Only another year and he could retire, and then nap on Mondays after the little darlings had put him through his paces over the weekend.

He opened the email inbox and scanned it quickly for what he knew he could delete without opening, and then Clara brought in the snail mail. Three stacks: one addressed to Will, one addressed to the party, one addressed to the campaign committee. Will hated the last stack. He'd long wished the Senate Re-election Committee's finances were handled outside of the caucus office.

He started with the last stack first, as usual. `Get the money grubbing out of the way,' he thought. Log the donors and the amounts, do the paperwork for a deposit and then send a staffer across the street to submit the funds at the bank. Then, move onto the important stuff. Same shit, different day.

"Hoooo-leeeee Shit!"

Clara leaned back in her chair and peeked into the office. "Everything okay, Mr. Maxson?"

Frank coughed on his coffee. "Yeah. Fine." He waved her away and looked at the checks that had spilled out of the envelope. Twenty checks, each for two thousand dollars. He couldn't remember when they'd gotten forty thousand dollars in one single bundle. Party fundraisers were one thing, when they'd handle much more than this. But this one batch had come through the mail. That was a first. And the odd thing was, most of the checks were drawn from banks in Iowa.

Bundling donations was a popular tactic among those playing the game in Wisconsin and elsewhere. Individuals were limited in what they could donate to a single campaign. Political Action Committees were limited, too, if the donation came in the name of the PAC. But there was nothing to stop, say twenty or fifty or a hundred individuals from making their own contributions all at the same time and for the same reason. And if the recipient understood what the contributors were hoping for, all the better. Frank Martine had learned this from his attorney.

There was a brief note. "Mr. Maxson, Senator Frick has advised me that contributions to the party's Senate Campaign Committee are appropriately handled through your office. I am happy to forward these contributions, with others to follow, for the good of the causes you and your party are working to advance. Regards, Frank Martine."

He shook his head, and then went back to work. `Not my problem, and it's legal,' he said to himself. After disposing with the rest of the mail, he handed them over to Clara to document them and prepare the bank paperwork. She said she could take care of the deposit during her lunch hour. That was okay with him.

Frick was reading an e-mail. "Senator, by now your committee has received forty thousand dollars in `earnest money' regarding the issues we recently discussed. I can assure you that additional fund raising on my end is going well, and I am confident that we can meet the benchmarks we both discussed during last week's meeting. It might take some time, but it will provide us with the opportunity to monitor the introduction and the progress of the initiatives we considered."

Frick grinned. `Good move. Pony up a taste and then hold out to make sure the other guy can deliver. That's what I'd do too.' He deleted the email and picked up the phone.

"Will Maxson."

"Will, it's Jeremy Frick."

"Good morning, Senator."

"And you too. Will, I'd like your staff to do a study of our current environmental restrictions on land development, both commercial and residential. Not the huge stuff, like mining, but building subdivisions and malls and the like. Boil down for me which statutes come down on a someone who wants to build a house or put up a Wal-Mart out in the boonies."

This wasn't on the party caucus agenda for the session. Will scratched his head with the eraser of his pencil. "Well, uhm..."

"I know you folks are already being stretched, but we have a couple members who are seriously facing some challenges on these issues, and we need to be ready. We just need to know in concrete terms what barriers are really standing in the way of somebody who wants to develop some rural land. If it's not as bad as the other guys will say, then our folks need to be able to cite, chapter and verse, what the deal is in reality. I mean there must be a half dozen or more current statutes that direct the DNR in terms of land use."

"Oh, hell, Senator, there's probably at least a dozen different laws that would stop you from clearing land just to begin a building project. Then there's all the zoning issues involved."

Frick sighed. "Stick to the environmental stuff. Zoning is local. Not our problem I just want a clear view on where the state stands on the tree-hugging meter in clear and concrete terms. The question is, if I were a developer what statutes would touch me if I wanted to grow a subdivision or build a strip mall. Keep it simple."

Will shrugged. "Will do, Senator. I'll get somebody on it right away." This just didn't smell right. Nothing on the governor's agenda, or even that of the majority caucus suggested changing environmental regulations. But he was just a lackey, here to do the bidding of the caucus chairman and Assistant Majority Leader for about another year. He was going to do as he was told, document everything and not make waves. Will jotted the appropriate notes in the day planner on his computer's desktop, and went to get another cup of coffee. He stopped by Scott's cube, but Turner was away at the time. Probably best,' he thought. Turner's tuned in enough to smell that this is kind of goofy, and he'd probably bring it up with Maureen McCarthy. If she's not in the loop on this yet, that could get messy.' Frick was Will's immediate supervisor, but Maureen was Majority Leader. And Scott was actually closer to her personally than was any member of the Senate. But with Jeremy Frick in charge of the caucus staff, Maxson knew he could spend the year trying to dodge bullets. `I'm not going to start some internal pissing match. I'll give this to Cornell.'

The tall redhead was typing away when Will walked into his cubicle. "Grant, got another job for you from the chief."

Grant saved the document he was working on and smirked, then swiveled in his chair. "Yeah, Mr. Maxson, whatcha got?"

"Please, Grant, its Will, okay?

Grant chuckled, knowing that's what he'd say, and he teased. "But you're old enough to be my dad, and I use that with everybody in your generation. It's habit. My folks raised me right. Blame my father."

Will chuckled. "Yeah, I guess they did. We'll work on it." He sipped his coffee. "Anyway, we need an analysis of the statutes or DNR reg's that might affect commercial or residential land development in Wisconsin. Senator Frick wants to know what might get in the way of anybody wanting to dig into the land and build houses or businesses or the like."

Grant's brows scrunched. "`Scuse me, ah, Will, but where'd this come from? We were all given the agenda for the current session's priorities, and this is nowhere."

Will shrugged. "Not sure where it's coming from, but Senator Frick said it's suddenly a priority. So, we make it a priority. Just scour the statutes and the DNR regulations and get back to me this week with a summary of whatever might get in the way if, say, you wanted to build a subdivision or a business in rural Wisconsin."

Grant shrugged. "Okay. Get right on it. I'll e-mail what I find."

"Atta boy." And Maxson was gone.

Scott got back to his cube just as the phone was ringing. It was Clara. "Scott, honey, you're leaving in a little while for class, right?"

"Yep. Have a one o'clock on Wednesday's."

"Can you cut out a little early and handle the bank deposit for the committee? Got a bunch of contributions that need to get into the account today, and I'm just not going to have time." Clara was a nice lady, but never seemed to have the time to do much more than work the phones.

"No problem. There's a Mickey Dee's right next to the bank, so I'll do the bank drop, grab lunch and then scuttle off to class. I'll stop by your desk in a little while and pick up the bag. Deposit's all set?"

She sounded a little miffed. "Of course it is. But make sure you bring back a receipt tomorrow so I have it for the records."

"Will do, Clara. Be there in thirty."

Scott was next in line to face the teller when he unzipped the deposit bag. He'd handled this task before a few times and was mildly shocked by what he felt when he slid his hand into the bag. Jeez," he thought, that feels kinda fat.'

He muttered under his breath. "Holy Christ!" They weren't yet in an election cycle because everybody had just been elected or re-elected less than a year earlier. Plus, they were in session, so there were serious regulations on fundraising. But this was a truckload of cash by his reckoning. As he waited for the little old lady in front of him to finish her business, he scanned the checks. Most were from Iowa.

`This is nuts,' he thought just as the teller smiled and chirped, "How may I help you?"

He made the deposit, put the receipt in his book bag and headed off to class.

Three days later, he was sitting with Grant chowing down a gyros sandwich on State Street. Grant wiped the dressing off his chin and looked up cautiously. "Hey Scott, why the hell do you think Will has me digging into environmental laws?"

Scott swallowed and gulped his Coke. "Huh?"

"Well, you know what the party agenda is for the session, and DNR stuff hasn't been on it. Education, ethics and election reform and property tax relief have been the biggies, and we were told that was about it for this session. But Maxson gave me a project, one that he said Frick directed, to dig up everything we have on the books about regulations on land use and development. I don't mind doing it, though it's boring as hell, but it doesn't make sense."

Scott's eyebrows sunk and he pursed his lips. "Any link to the property tax angle?"

Grant leaned back. "Nope. Not that I can find."

Scott shrugged. "Well, if Frick wants it done, and if he's leaning on Will to get it done, then I'd just write it up. Will's a good guy, and he needs to keep Frick happy."

Cornell shook his head. "Well, yeah. I know that, and that's what I'm going to do. It just doesn't make any sense. I'd vacuum the office if Will asked, but this just seems like a waste of time, considering what the caucus has said was on the agenda this session."

Scott shrugged and dropped his napkin into his plastic basket. "I'll ask Maureen when I have the chance, but she holds the cards pretty close."

Grant smirked. "Even with you?"

Scott sipped his soda. "Yeah, Grant. Even with me. You know we're close, but she's too smart to say too much to too many people." He batted his eyes. "Even those she loves." They both laughed. "Get over it."

And that was true. Maureen McCarthy had encouraged him every step of the way along his college political career, and she'd paved the way for him to join the caucus staff. But she was a shrewd politician and wasn't in the habit of sharing too much with Scott that others didn't already know. In fact, for several months she had been encouraging and helping to plan his own father's race to replace her when she ran for Attorney General. And all of that was done without Scott's knowledge. That had pissed him off at the time but, after mulling it over, the politico in him understood it.

"Doesn't bother me, but this project doesn't make sense to me either."

"Just do it. If Frick wants it done, just do it. Just write up a summary for Will citing the laws and the DNR reg's that hamper or encourage land development and move on. Frick might have something else going, might want to build a case to adjust the party agenda or might just be wanting to placate somebody who wants to dig a hole somewhere. Not our problem. We're just grunts up there."

Grant picked the last shred of lamb out of his basket, wiped it through the drippings of the cucumber sauce on the paper and popped it into his mouth. "Yeah, no shit."

They parted ways on the sidewalk. Scott squinted into the sunlight of the fall afternoon. `He's right. Doesn't make sense. Oh well. It's his friggin' job.'

The following morning Will Maxson dug into the same three piles of mail, starting with the stuff addressed to him in care of the committee. "Holy Shit!"

Clara glanced in. "Something wrong, Mr. Maxson?"

"Uhm, no Clara. Not at all."

He quickly did the math. Just over two hundred thousand; all the checks written from Iowa businesses this time, Dubuque and Cedar Rapids dominated the supporting donors. Fuck,' he thought. At this rate, Iowa is gonna overtake our in-state donors to the committee.'

Jeremy Frick opened his inbox. He smiled. Amongst the usual crap there was one email from Frank Martine, and another from Will Maxson with an attachment.

He opened the one from Maxson first. "Senator. I am forwarding our staff's summary of the environmental laws and DNR regulations you requested. Please let me know if you have any questions or if you require anything else."

Scott was getting ready to head back to campus. He stopped by Clara's desk. "Heading out for the day, Clara. Need any errands done?"

She looked perplexed and annoyed. "No. Not today, Scott. I got lunch already, and Mr. Maxson said he's going to the bank with the deposit."

Scott's eyes widened. "Will's gonna do the leg work for the deposit?"

She sniffed and shrugged her shoulders but her eyes never left the computer screen. "First time for everything I suppose. He just said that he wanted to do it himself."

"Okay, then. See you tomorrow." She just nodded.

He scampered down the stairs and into the massive rotunda. That's weird,' he thought to himself as he nodded to the security chief that passed him on his way across the beautiful, shiny marble. He wove his way through a group of third graders who were staring upwards, marveling at the magnificent dome. Oh, well. Not my problem.' He hit the huge revolving door and headed toward State Street. `Not my friggin' problem.'

It was a hot and muggy September day, and Scott was sweating by the time he made it up the hill to the Education Building. He'd taken an elective course in education policy studies and was quickly becoming fascinated by that particular area of public policy. More than that, he enjoyed the interactions with the budding teachers in his class. After a stimulating discussion over the essential mission of public schools, he sweated his way to his physics course and left with a headache.

By five o'clock, he'd changed into his running shorts and had hit the pavement. He intentionally headed past the diamond where he knew the baseball team worked out in the off-season. He was carrying his t-shirt by now and covered in sweat. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his face and chest glistened in the setting sunlight.

The guys on the team were just packing up their gear and heading to their cars or their bikes. Scott slowed and then stopped. He saw Greg bending over and packing up some baseballs and grinned at the taut ass under the blue nylon shorts. He shouted Greg's name.

Greg grinned and waved, and walked to the fence's opening and put out a hand. "Scott!" He eyed him from head to toe. "Looks like you've got a good workout in today."

Scott was still gasping a bit. "Yeah...it'll be about eight miles...by the time I get back home. Just passing by and saw you here. Thought I'd take a breather and see how it's going."

Greg put down the bag full of balls and kind of shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

Scott wiped his face with his t-shirt and scoped him out one more time. He caught Greg's left hand adjusting his package. "Just okay?"

"Only two weeks in and I already feel like I'm buried. Up to my ass in Shakespeare and a History project that's a bitch."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Lit. 107. Probably `The Tempest,'" Greg smiled and nodded shyly. "What's goin' on in the History?"

"Oh, a bunch of shit on the Founders. Constitutional Convention and political stuff, and current applications of what they were up to a couple centuries ago."

Scott's head went back. "Oh, man...I love that stuff. Can I lend you a hand?"

Greg's eyes widened and he flashed that wonderful smile and the dimples, and then nervously adjusted his cap. "Well, uhm, that'd be great. Let me take a stab at it, and then maybe give you a shout if I think I need to get bailed out."

Scott shifted his weight and adjusted his own package more obviously than Greg had. "Well, I hope you will." He thought about it. "Not that I hope you'll need it, but I hope you'll give me a call." After another second's thought, "I mean gimme a call either way."

Greg's shy smile returned and he looked at his shoes, eyeing Scott again on the trip down. Damn,' he thought to himself. Fucking hot!' Then he looked back up. "I will. Uhm, one of these days I will."

Scott trudged up the stairs, holding his t-shirt in front of him to hide the wood he'd sprung, even during the run home. He knew Brett and Craig would be there and his boner was obvious. He grabbed a beer and sat in the living room with the guys, his t-shirt lying on his lap.

Brett looked over at him. "Dude. You positively reek."

Scott lifted both arms and sniffed. "I'd say I negatively reek, but if you like the scent, I can hang out here a while."

Brett chuckled. "Dumbass."

Scott smirked, swatted Brett's knee and headed to his room. He patted the dog's head on his way down the hall, but refused to call him by the name Brett had given him.

By this time Greg was on his dorm room bed, thrusting his hips up and down with two fingers buried deep inside his hole while he stroked his very large cock. He measured nearly nine inches and was very thick, and he could only see Scott's sweaty chest and smiling face behind his closed eyelids. "Oh, Scott! Drill me, dammit" he moaned softly as he spewed his seed all over his chest.

In the shower, Scott used the bar of Zest as lube for his fist. In his mind's eye was Greg fine ass, outlined by the straps of his jock. He'd seen the contour of the back straps under Greg's shorts when he was approaching the baseball field. He pumped his raging wood mercilessly envisioning the same position without the shorts, and gritted his teeth while he fired all over the wall and surface of the bathtub.

He rinsed himself, the shower stall and dried off. Then he fed the fattest cat in the world and then retired to his room to hit the books.