Somewhere I Have Never Travelled 1
This story is shamelessly romantic, but still -- I hope -- sexy. Please feel free to comment at the above address. I've never done this before, so feedback would be great!
The usual Copyright things apply, blah blah.
His father was sitting at the kitchen table staring at his hands.
"Dad...I've got to go now...sure you don't want to come to the train station?" He looked at his father skeptically, knowing the answer already.
"Nah...you're fine. You're a big boy now." His father's sarcasm lay there between them, a familiar piece of furniture. He knew that his father probably wanted to say other things, things that might point to how he actually felt about him, about the empty house he would be left with.
"Sure...I'll call you, I guess, when I get settled in."
"Yah, great. Safe trip." His father took a big swig from his glass that, at the hour of the morning, he knew was not water.
At moments like these he thought about his mother. The fantasy must be that she would have been different. She would have come to the train station with care packages of cookies and socks. She would have hugged him forever before he got on the train, crying. But would she? It was nice to think she would have, and there was no reason not to imagine it, but it was hard because he could hardly remember her.
He could barely remember kindergarten much less the year before when he was told that everything changed. All he can remember is the two of them: his father and he. Haphazard meals, outgrown clothes, no other relatives except a sister of his father's who died when he was ten.
The view toward the coming year was hazy. Life in Toronto, in that stupid apartment all those years, was not exactly difficult, but not very good. His father worked as a postman: ok money, but it seemed to wear him down. Especially in winter. So Mark decided to use his brains. It seemed the only thing he could do to get out of this strange prison that had no bars. He won all the awards and, despite a bit of bullying for being the "brain", he managed to escape hight school without many scars. Not much social life -- really none, if he was honest.
Thank Whoever for Mrs Toffolo for...what? Unwavering good vibes? But deep down it was the feeling of being seen for who he was. Seen for who he could become. Their last conversation, which was a bit teary on both sides, had been awkward. She was no better at social graces than he was. But just as he was picking up his books to leave the classroom, long after everyone had left, she said, "Hold up a minute. Before you go. I just want to say this...shit...I'm not good at these kinds of things. My son...well...I hope you...uh...listen. I know you like guys...and before you say a word, just accept that it was obvious to me, even if you never had a boyfriend in all these years. I just wanted you to know that I see that in you. No one else seems to care, I think. Maybe because you're so good at being invisible. But I see you. So I hope you find someone when you get to K. That's it. That's my speech. Be well. And send me a note when you can. You have my email..." She hugged him again, and pushed him out the door.
Shit. She is some kind of witch. No one else had a slightest clue, especially his dad, who he knew would not be cool with it. He had crushes on a few guys this past year, but had no idea how to do anything about it, even if his fear had let him. He got on the subway for the last time -- maybe forever?
He dragged his suitcase up the stairs, his over-filled backpack threatening to pull him back down again. His shoulders ached and his arm felt as if it might come off. He grunted and sweat started to get in his eye, stinging. Just one more flight, he thought. Just one more...
"You need a hand?"
He looked up to see a someone at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, smiling down at him.
"Argh...the elevators...are they always broken?" He stopped and mopped his sweaty brow.
"Let me help."
He came quickly down the few stairs and lifted Mark's backpack from his shoulders with a gentle hand on his shoulder as he untangled the straps from his arms.
"Shit, thanks. It's kinda heavy..."
"No kidding! What's in there anyway? Rocks?"
Mark suddenly felt silly. "Books, mostly."
"Hhmph. Well I hope they're good ones." His voice was light as he slung it over his shoulder and went back up the stairs. "Which room is yours?"
He watched the retreating figure who was wearing sweatpants and tried not to look too closely. At the top of the stairs he stopped and looked at the damp piece of paper in his hand. "4C, it says..."
"Well jeez...that's easy. You're my new roommate. Follow me. I figured you might be since everyone else on this floor has checked in."
"Yeah, well, the train from Toronto was way delayed..."
"Yeah, I heard about that. No worries. Here we are."
He went through an open door into the room. There were two beds, two desks and two chairs and two small dressers, and two small windows. One bed was clearly taken up with piles of clothes and books. Mark abandoned his suitcase in front of the other and threw himself on the bed with a grunt.
"I'm beat," was all he said. He stared at the ceiling, feeling exposed and shy. He looked over at the guy who was regarding him with a half-smile.
"Samard...er...good to meet you." He held out his hand which Mark struggled to sit up and took in his, aware of the sweat on his palms. Samard's hand was almost cool and dry, but firm. He managed to smile in response to Samard's friendly face, who said "My girlfriend..." he stopped for moment and swallowed, looking at the ceiling for a second. "My girlfriend used to call me Sam...and it stuck, so now everyone calls me that."
Sam looked back at Mark and smiled, his cheeks gathering a flush.
"Sam it is. At least you got something from your ex..." he felt he was trying to hard to be funny.
"Yeah, well, she certainly didn't give me anything else..."
"Right." What do you say to that? Mark looked awkwardly around the room.
"Well...let's get you unpacked."
They spent the next hour or so putting their room together, chatting about school, classes and things to do in the town. Later, over a beer in the student pub, they talked some more.
Sam was pretty open about himself, and his relationship with the unnamed ex-girlfriend.
"We liked each other well enough...that sounds crappy, doesn't it? But you know what I mean. We shared interests and stuff. The sex was pretty good, so that helped. But she got into a school in the States after her first year here. I didn't even know she applied. My brother saw it coming a mile away. He always knows these things.
Mark looked up from his beer, a question about brothers and what it was like to have one. Suddenly he felt like a child. So he told a lie that also had some truth in it.
"I had a girlfriend in high school but we didn't do anything -- I mean sex. She left me for the school track star. Which was kind of a relief."
It was Sam's turn to look at Mark, something quizzical in his eyes. They both looked down at their beer, not saying anything. Mark tried not to think about the fine stubble on Sam's jaw, or his strong hands and the subtle smell that came off him. It was some kind of aftershave combined with something earthy. He tried not to think about the stirring in him at the smell or the heat coming from across the table.
The next couple of weeks went by in a blur. New classes, new professors, new people. Mark hardly had time to eat or even think. He and Sam got into a nice rhythm of showering and dressing -- and he tried not to look as Sam came back from the shower in only a towel, water still running down his chest which was covered in a fine, golden fuzz.
At night, Mark would wait until he thought Sam was asleep before reaching in to his underwear and trying to find release. He hoped he was being quiet enough, and knew not to even open his mouth as he eventually came on his belly, trying not to gasp, the occasional jagged image of Sam in nothing but a towel. He often felt guilty at the these thoughts and the whole situation made it hard to even look at Sam, who seemed so comfortable in his skin.
He wondered if Sam did the same thing, but he couldn't tell. Everyone did it, didn't they?
At Thanksgiving, there was a residence party before many people went home for a few days. There were handmade posters all over the hallways. He wondered if he might meet someone and he knew if he got a few beer in him, maybe his inhibitions would take a break.
The night was warm for October and everyone was wearing shorts and t-shirts. Mark stood with some of his neighbours from the floor and talked about not much. They all drank beer quickly as if it was going to run out. Some girls from the other floors came and the party started. Mark wandered around, talking with Sam, with a few others, but he hadn't met very many of his fellow residents yet. He watched Sam conversing and laughing easily with so many people. How do people do that? With a sense of defeat, he said to Sam,
"I'm really tired, I'm going to head back to the room."
"Hey, what's that all about? We're just getting started!" and Sam slapped him on the back.
"Yeah, I know...but...I think I'm going to head upstairs. Have a good one..." and he tried to sound hearty. But as went went up the stairs to their room, he both felt relieved to be in the quiet and a deeper, sharper pang of loneliness that, because it was so familiar, he was able to overlook so that by the time he got to the room, he had already decided to just watch some videos on his computer.
He dozed in bed for a while, a book on his chest. He had taken off all his clothes and briefly considered jerking off, but was afraid Sam would come back, so he fell asleep.
When he woke, the lights were off except the light by Sam's bed, who was lying on top of the sheets. He was looking at his phone which was the only thing he was wearing. Without completely opening his eyes he lay there just staring at the amazing body of his roommate. And he could just make out his cock lying there. In fact, Sam reached down and began to fondle it with his right hand while his left was scrolling through something on his phone. Sam's cock began to grow, began to stretch so that he could grab it with his hand. Mark stayed perfectly still. Sam began stroking his and little grunts came from him. Every once in a while he reached for his beer while still holding the phone for a swig and a belch. Sam was clearly drunk. Faster and faster his hand moved, and the end of his cock was getting wet. He put the phone down and with his index finger scooped up some the of clear liquid from the head and brought it to his mouth. Mark couldn't quite believe what he was witnessing. He wanted to...what? All he could feel was wanting to be closer, he wanted to feel that skin, smell his smell, participate in whatever was going on beside him. He kept his breathing to a minimum and his own cock was digging into the mattress, feeling now damp and sticky.
Sam's movements became faster and his breathing was now audible. Suddenly Sam arched his back and his cock erupted in what seemed like gallons, spurting right onto his face, onto his chin, his chest.
Mark almost gasped in surprise. He had only ever experienced that himself. He could hardly believe he just watched someone else do it. There were more half-formed images rushing through his mind like a film at high speed of his body and Sam's together, his face near Sam's face, a kiss, a touch and he came in his bed before he knew what was happening. He tried not to move and in trying to be still seemed to make the feeling more intense. He managed to keep his breathing silent and he hoped his side of the room was dark enough to hide the rest.
Sam sighed loudly and looked at his chest and belly. He wiped of some of the sticky liquid from his face and absently licked his fingers. He got some tissued from beside him and wiped up the rest, tossing it on the bed. He turned out the light and with a sigh, there was silence.
Mark lay there for a minute, frozen and feeling his cum cooling in the bed, his own cock still painfully hard and now slick. He lay for as long as he could stand it and then turned over, away from the chill spot on the bed and tried to go back to sleep. He felt like he had done something illicit by watching while pretending to sleep, but at the same time he had never seen anyone so open and comfortable. Was that even possible for him? His own inhibitions seemed to rush to the fore and began telling him that for him there was no way. Somewhere in there was a small voice of defeat which his mind ran away from into the blank of sleep.