Tristan

Tristan

by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 1

There was a roaring in Tristan Isley's ears as if he was drowning. His vision seemed unfocused and he could only take-in parts of the people who crowded the room--a slice of his father, unsmiling and in a dark suit, a lozenge of a nice woman in K-mart slacks whose mouth was opening and closing in animated speech, split screen images of boisterous young men, all shoulders legs, noses and teeth.

The door kept opening and closing with a thunk as more people were greeted--strangers or maybe they were just the people from the room coming in and going out, carrying things; Tristan couldn't be sure. All the while the white noise rose steadily in his ears, with only fractured parts of conversation now intelligible and from time to time peels of laughter were heard to break loose and ring the room. Several of the accents, even Tristan could tell, were those of rural Texas. This must be how Picasso worked, he said to himself in an amused flash. His heart was racing and sweat from his brow was now pricking his eyes. He felt his face stretched in the painful mask of a smile and he knew, even in the state that he was in, that he must look slightly demented, but there was nothing he could do about it but give what he hoped were short but socially appropriate answers and keep grinning.

"Yes, it is hot....must be broken...yes, hotter than what I'm used to...Wimbledon...yes, where the tennis is...no, I think that's the last box...anywhere...thank you...I'm terribly sorry...I'm sure we will..."

The roaring increased and was now punctuated by an animal noise from That Dreadful Women, rising stridently above the general babble: "So terrible cute, just a-dorable." And he knew that this remark would be followed by that inane false laugh. Yes, there it was: a glissando made by nails on a blackboard. Blanche Dubois without the charm, Ma Kettle without the class.

Tristan felt that the world was darkening at the periphery of his vision but periodically there were snapshots of an impossibly handsome face split by a dazzlingly electric smile as the bodies in the room parted for just an instant. A knowing look would pass between them, imprinting itself on his overheated brain.

"Yes, it is hot...I haven't thought about a major...just at school. Football, soccer you call it...I expect they'll fix it soon...no, there's not a lot of room...I'm sure we will be...I'll be sure to remind him...That's very kind of you...yes, quite different to Texas....Yes, a long drive."

Suddenly it was quiet and Tristan wondered for a moment if he were dead. He opened his eyes and realised that at some point he had slid down the wall like a melted ice-cream and was now sitting on the cracked yellow-and-white vinyl tiles of the floor. There, in front of him, towered two beautiful legs barely encased in a pair of dun-coloured shorts with lots of pockets; a pair of tree trunks in flip flops that were meaty, tanned and dusted with wiry blonde hair. He knew he dursn't, but still he raised his eyes to what he knew was inevitable and was, indeed, now proved beyond doubt: The legs terminated at an equally beautiful and sickeningly impressive groin. Tristan's mouth was dry, but he wanted to laugh hysterically. He forced himself to look higher still: a narrow waist hove into view that was augmented by a minute glimpse of a tanned midriff where the tee-shirt gaped, then a massive chest (What is it with American boys and pectoral muscles?).

A voice spoke and he was forced to bend his head painfully back. A fleeting smile was quickly replaced by a look of concern. The beautiful eyes seemed kindly, perhaps belying the brutal power of which that the body might be capable. Yet Tristan was too numb to be afraid. "Are ya'll right?" he asked for a second time.

The power of speech was mustered and the urge to laugh hysterically was momentarily suppressed. "I'm awfully sorry, but I don't think so."

A handsome hand (`paw' seemed too unkind for the beautiful limb--oh for the power of Michelangelo's brush!) was extended and Tristan allowed his pulse to be taken. A thumb rather roughly raised his eyelids and his pupils were inspected. Tristan wanted to savour the touch, but it passed too swiftly.

"Perhaps its just the heat..."

"Heat be damned (pronounced, "day-am'd"), what ya'll been taking?"

Tristan fished into the pocket of his black jeans and guiltily produced the bottle. It was taken and inspected crossly. "This all?" Another bottle came out and then a half-used plastic blister pack.

"Yes. I don't do drugs. Honestly. They're from a doctor--my father's doctor in Dallas--and I've been... well...I've been rather...lately I've....and Doctor Korporal--in Dallas--said that these would help me...cope," he finished in almost a whisper. After such an incoherent babble, the stream of speech dried up and Tristan felt rather like a naughty child and could no longer meet his gaze. In a moment of confession he added, "I took some extra --quite few actually-- this morning for ...you know..."

An arm was extended and Tristan was effortlessly lifted from the floor and transferred to one of the two beds that filled the room. "Thank you,....err... I mean, you're very kinds and I do apologise for my unforgivable..."

"I'm Colton," said Colt, cutting him off. "Roomy, we're going to the campus doctor tomorrer and you're getting checked out. All this shit is way too strong."

Tristan began to apologise all over again and to protest that this proposed course of action, while thoughtfully intended, was unnecessary, but he was firmly put in his place. "I ain't sharing a room with no druggy," said Colton, but then undercut it by grinning broadly to Tristan's immense relief, showing an impressive set of teeth. Tristan acquiesced with more than politeness; he rather liked the feel of being bossed by this hunk, if not being mothered--a feeling, he realised, he had missed.

There was silence for a minute, Tristan drinking greedily from the plastic bottle of water that had been thrust toward him, as he took in the surroundings of the dorm room. It was very basic and had almost certainly seen no updating since the late 1950s when it had, presumably, been constructed by the designer of Laundromats for public housing projects. The space was dominated by two large beds, ridiculously large for a room that surely was meant for twin singles or a pair of bunks. There were two small desks built-in along one wall and a large walk-in closet--the sort usual in the United States, but not in Britain. Everywhere were boxes and bags and piles of clothes and books, not to mention a great deal of sporting equipment, making the prospect of actually living in this sweatbox seem impossible. The bathroom must be down the corridor, Tristan reasoned, but he found he had little memory of his arrival, except for riding in an old lift. It was "as hot as balls" he remembered someone saying.

"Those people? Your parents? They seemed nice," Tristan ventured.

"Mom and Dad and my two brothers, Dacey and Mitchell. They loved you, dude; y'all exotic."

"No, I'm not."

Colton ignored this. "And that was your mother and father?"

"God no. My father, yes, but the woman with the hair is Cylvah, his girlfriend--his bimbo--my mother is back home in England."

"I love the way y'all talk. I love your British accent, it's so cute and y'all talk so proper," said Colton and then, to Tristan's amazement, blushed to the roots of his short, curly blonde hair before adding carefully, "I mean, `properly'."

Now it was Tristan's turn to grin. "Y'all a gen-u-ine cowboy, then, Colton?" he mocked.

"No. And don't you go acallin' me one. My daddy has a farm, but don't call me `farmboy' neither or I might have to rassle you."

Tristan was unsure whether this was being put on for his benefit but was slightly thrilled with the thought of being `rassalled'. This line of thought led him to a darker realization.

"Look Colton," he began, eyes downcast where he contemplated the flooring that had been besmirched with God-knows what in its long history. "Look Colt, you've been very kind to a stranger this morning and I really appreciate it. But you may want to find another roommate or you can ask me to find somewhere else, I don't mind. This won't work out. I'm gay and, well, I assume you're not and, well, I'm going to have to look at you all year because you're just so incredibly beautiful (he had said it), as you must know, and you'll be naked and bouncing around in plaid boxers and everything and you won't want my faggot arse staring ..."

Colton smiled "You're right, I'm not gay, but I already knew y'all was gay and I don't mind none --it ain't even a matter of me aminding or not. Y'all sexuality is yo' private business."

"How did you...?"

"It was on yo' dorm assignment form, of course. Remember? Didn't y'all read mine?"

"Sorry, and I don't even remember doing one. My father organised everything and I was...I was being rather a prick, I suppose, ever since being forced to come here for the last semester of high school and I've been rather out of it for quite a while, especially with the pills."

"Well, gay boy," he said brightly, slapping Tristan on the knee. "We'll work somethin' out."

"Look", insisted Tristan who wasn't going to allow this obvious crisis to be dismissed so lightly, "all this is such a tired cliché. Firstly, I'll probably turn you gay or your friends will accuse me of doing that--maybe both. Then they'll beat me to a pulp or maybe you will and I'll be found by the campus police `dead--n--ditch'. Or else I'll fall madly in love with you but you'll break my heart when you became engaged at a ridiculously young age to a cheerleader--do they have cheerleaders at universities?" Colton nodded. "Or perhaps you'll turn me into your bitch and I'll end up wearing a cock cage and sleeping on the floor. Straight boys are nothing but trouble!" Tristan proclaimed with finality and with considerable passion. After breathing hard he continued: "I'm not stupid. I've read all the stories. Why, next you'll tell me you're the starting quarterback for the football team."

"I am the starting quarterback!"

"Oh God! This is a nightmare! All the warning signs are there; it's been laid out in literature for both of us!"

"Chill man! You're way too excitable for a British dude. I ain't some homophobe and the team has a diversity policy we all had to sign-up to." Tristan then made a noise, which could be written as `hurumph'. "Back home, I have a gay cousin who's a close bud and my folks are liberals." Tristan looked surprised. "Don't believe everything y'read. There are plen'y of liberals in Texas."

"I thought it was all hard right Republicans, gun crazed rednecks and those evangelical pastors who try to pray the gay away."

"Sure, some are like that, but not all folks. It's not the 1980s. Mom's an elementary school teacher; Dad works off the farm. They was Episcopalians, not Southern Baptists--but they're nothing now." Colton paused as he saw Tristan re-evaluating his prejudices. "You know what Maw said in 2008?" Tristan looked up. "She said, Paw, who we votin' for?' Then Paw, he spits out his Skoal and says, Maw, we is votin' for the nigger'." Tristan looked shocked. Then came the dawning of realization: he was being wound up--teased. He laughed for the first time.

"You're the first American I've met who has a sense of irony. Are you sure you're from around here."

"From right here this here great state o' Texas," replied Colton, puffing out his already ridiculously pneumatic chest. "Never been out of it and damned proud of that fact. Best place in the whole Goddamn world!"

"Except perhaps the South of France?"

"Yeah, except the South of France; that's pretty nice I hear."

"And Finland?"

"Well, Finland has the best education system, of course"

"And Tahiti is very beautiful."

"That has to be allowed."

"And New York is great fun."

"It's Yankee territory and no place for a Texas boy, but yeah."

"So apart from the South of France, Finland, Tahiti and New York, and a whole bunch of other places, Texas is the best place in the whole world."

"That's agreed."

They rolled about on their beds laughing.

The early difficulties, seemingly for the moment surmounted, they chatted for a while until Tristan, pressing his throbbing temples, felt that he must lie down and rest.

"I have a meeting to go to with Coach, but I'll be back in an hour. Y'all rest and drink m'water and I'll have Parker come'n check-in on you."

"Parker?"

"Yeah, the lacrosse guy from Georgia who y'all met just before."

"Sorry, I don't remember. You needn't do that."

Colton gave him a stern look and Tristan felt compelled to obey. He closed his eyes. Some time had elapsed when he opened them again. There, sitting at a swivel desk chair fiddling with his phone, was another beautiful specimen of American boyhood.

"Hello, Parker," said Tristan from the bed and feeling rather foolish.

"Hey, man," drawled the athlete in an impressively deep baritone "Colt said t'keep an eye on y'all."

"Yeah, thanks. It's just the heat."

"Colt said it was a bad trip."

"Well," replied Tristan, embarrassed, "let's just say it was a bad reaction to prescription meds."

"Colt's a mighty fine dude. He'll look after you. We all love him t'bits."

Tristan pressed further. Apparently the athletic teams had all made a visit to the campus a month before and he was not surprised that Colt had quickly made himself popular. That explained the constant stream of people who had popped in and out of their room earlier. Several, he now recalled, had been pretty girls.

Parker talked about himself and his hometown-- extravagantly named `Rome'-- but asked very little abut Tristan's circumstances, which Tristan had found typical of Americans and, for the moment, for which he was grateful.

"There's not much room in here with these big beds," observed Tristan at last.

"This is now a jocks' dorm," explained Parker and he went on to outline how the beefy athletes required the larger beds. There were `chicks' (Yes, he used that word) on the floor above. They were athletes too.

"Then why am I here?" asked Tristan at last as Parker took off his sweat-soaked tee-shirt providing a presumably unintended show. Tristan removed his also, too hot to be concerned that his body compared so unfavourably with Parker's. Would Parker beat on me' if he knew he was gay?' he wondered. He held his tongue, arguing that he'd ask Colt for his opinion as what to do.

"Don't know, man," said Parker. "Perhaps y' daddy 'ranged it."

Tristan thought about this and in the meantime, tried not to look at Parker's large nipples or the attractive dark trail of hair that went south from his navel until it disappeared into the inevitable pair of well-filled shorts. How would he survive until Thanksgiving, let alone `freshman' year?

Tristan shakily got to his feet and announced he was just going to the toilet--"Sorry, bathroom," he amended to the back of Parker's head. The men's was nearby and the niff, when the swing door was opened, was depressingly familiar to any who had gone of a boys' boarding school and so a description of the constituents of the odour, if not the effluvia, might be passed over for the moment. Tristan stood at the stainless steel urinal and pissed, noting by the colour that he had indeed been dehydrated as well as doped.

Through a square arch was the utilitarian shower room. To his horror and excitement, the arrangements were such that three sets of vertical standards each sprouted four shower roses, so that the twelve who might shower at any one time would be compelled to stand facing each other --within hard-on distance, almost, he calculated with a chuckle. Tristan supposed that the jocks that roomed here must be inured to their own nakedness and that of their fellows, but it was no place for a shy gay boy, he thought--or was it?

A sign above a nickel-plated tap to which a hose could be connected announced that it produced steam and this was evidently how this humid cavern was disinfected. A dozen porcelain basins lined one wall that still boasted most of its sage-green tiles and several of the mirrors above them retained a good deal of their silver coating. Curious tiled hooks were obviously for dressing gowns -- `bathrobes' he amended-- and he wondered if his father had packed one. No doubt the jocks also walked to and from this convenience in their boxers or even less. He wondered what provision was made on the girls' floor or if they catered for intersex and gender diverse ablutions in line with recent legislation. He doubted it.

The door noisily opened and a guy walked in. He nodded and uttered Tristan's name, so Tristan presumed he had been another curious visitor to his room that morning. He nodded back curtly, but was unable to return the greeting so instead he smiled in what he hoped was a friendly fashion but suddenly wondered if he was making a transgression--like making eye-contact-- in such a dangerous place.

He returned to his room and chatted with the easy-going Parker for five or ten minutes before he left to finish unpacking in his own room, but not before agreeing to eat with him and Colt later.

It was only a moment before Colt reappeared. Tristan took him in properly for the first time. The quarterback stood at six-foot four, he estimated by the height of the door. He couldn't tell how much he tipped the beam at and Americans irritatingly didn't use stones, but he was perfectly proportioned, meaty and muscled. His dark blonde hair was cut short but it clearly had a tendency to curl if not tamed. Perhaps Irish or northern European heritage? His cheeks were ruddy but his jaw boasted some artfully rough stubble. His nose was `snub' and his eyes were large and a deep brown, rather like a Jersey cow's, he thought, but not unkindly. His lips were pink and those teeth must take some heavy-duty maintenance and were now displayed in a knowing grin.

"I'm fine," said Tristan before he could be asked. "Parker came and `visited with me'," he added in the vernacular. "He asked if we wanted to eat with him later. That is, if you want to eat with me."

"Course I do, Roomy," laughed Colt, advancing and ruffling his hair, before getting down to business and taking his pulse again.

"Are you doing Med?"

"Pre-med. Sports Science." This meant little to Tristan who was doing Arts--or `Liberal Arts', as they called it.

"We'd better get this place set to rights," announced the budding medico, looking around. Tristan too felt daunted. "What's in that huge box?" he asked. Tristan didn't know, but when it was tilted back from the wall it proved to be an enormous flat screen television.

"Shit, man! Did your dad buy this?" Tristan didn't know, but assumed so. There were other embarrassingly extravagant objects: a new laptop, a top-of-the-range European blue tooth mini speaker, boxes of what he called `trainers' and other clothes.

In a small box was an electric toothbrush. "Would you like this? I already have one."

"Thanks, man. Your dad's cool."

"No he's not. I'll tell you about it later, but he has bought us a lot of stuff."

They set to work in the heat. Tristan thought he'd die when Colt stripped down to just a pair of boxer shorts. They were plaid' of course--the American term for checked'. These were short in the leg and clung to his hefty butt. There was a lot of action going on in the front too, but he tried to avert his eyes, but not with complete success.

Most of their possessions were eventually stowed away, Colt's being considerably fewer than Tristan's, except for his exercise equipment. Conditions began to get crowded and the space under the beds was discovered and pressed into service. There was no room for the enormous television and so it remained in its box and Colt's gym equipment was left in a pile on the floor where they continually had to step over it.

"Here," said Colt suddenly, "we can use just one hamper for dirty laundry. Y'all don't mind?" Tristan wondered if there'd be jockstraps like in the novels he'd read and so made no objection. "Why not just one basket for our underwear? First come, first serve."

Tristan thought he'd die all over again. "You'd wear my gay-boy boxer briefs?"

"You'd wear my straight-boy boxers?"

Tristan covered his eyes theatrically and nodded. Could he have imagined this just four hours previously?

Colt was just putting a family photo on his desk when he said, "I think we'd better establish some ground rules for personal stuff. Tristan knew this would come, gulped and sat on what was now assuredly `his' bed. Colt faced him from his own and without saying it, demanded that Tris look him in the eyes. "Now, rule number one: no touching. Remember that."

"No touching, of course," repeated Tristan dully.

"Rule number 2: We're both guys..." Tristan blushed. "Well, I'm a guy, continued Colt and Tristan knew he was being teased. "I like to jerk off in the morning before we go for our run."

"We?"

"Yeah, I want you to run with me. That a problem?"

Tristan felt he was being pleasantly railroaded, but nodded and even said "Thanks", and meant it.

"I sometimes like to jerk off when I get back and I can't get to sleep without rubbing one out, of course."

"Of course," echoed Tristan who was mesmerized by this frank litany of masturbation.

"I like to have a nice long edging session once or twice a week, perhaps when I don't have classes. Do you know what edging is?" Tristan nodded.

"Of course, if I don't have a girlfriend I need to do it more often. I assume y'all be likewise--not the girlfriend, I mean, but y'all will need to do it too. We could 'range separate times or hang socks on the door knob or sneak off to the restroom stalls."

"Or?"

"Or we could do it in front of each other. I shared a bedroom with brothers, remember, and the football team liked a circle jerk watching porn--straight stuff mostly, except on lesbian nights."

"You know they're not real lesbians, don't you?"

"I do, but don't tell my cock," he laughed, giving it a wiggle. "Is this way too much for y'all?"

"Yes, no. Oh God! I am an only child and even at boarding school... I'm gay and you'll be there ...you know and all..." He couldn't think of an adjective "I'll be, like, getting off on you--I won't be able to help that. You won't like it. I won't be able to help looking."

"I don't mind. Just remember rule number one."

"Look but don't touch?"

"That's the rule."

"I'll try."

"Good, we'll have a great year. Now, if I bring a chick back, I'll give you plenty of warning, but I'll try and use her place, unless you'd like to watch, that is?"

Tristan was not sure.

"Of course the same applies to you and guys. Let me know and I'll sleep at one of my bud's, unless you'd like me to watch, of course."

Tristan was now `beet red' as they say in these parts and shook his head.

"Right," continued Colt, "Farting is okay, but ain't to be used as no substitute to a reply--my brother Dacey used to do that. I thought it was uncouth. And not in front of chicks--they don't appreciate a good fart for some reason. Some of m'buds are black. Not a problem?"

"Of course not," replied Tristan, slightly offended.

"No jammies."

"What?"

"We're big boys, we sleep in the raw."

Tristan felt a thrill. "What about music and lights out?"

"Headphones. I don't know. I train most every morning, early. And I'll have to work"

"Work?"

Colton explained that he was on only on a partial scholarship and the college helped students find part-time employment with cooperative employers; the pay would go towards the next semester's tuition.

"But the University makes a fortune out of you footballers and they don't pay you a red cent. It's a scandal!"

Colton merely shrugged. He'd be clearing tables at a popular pizza restaurant two nights a week and on Sunday afternoons-- `busboys' they called them--and they were paid a pitiful minimum wage.

Tristan began to see that Colt's parents were not well-off, the farm not being productive perhaps. Colt had let slip that his father had not been well. "Another rule," Tristan announced, "You can use my stuff any time, without asking, and I can use yours." Colt nodded. "I'll give you my spare set of keys and have my father put your name on the insurance."

"You have a car!" cried Colton

"No, a truck. Dad bought it for me. It's down in the parking lot. I haven't driven it yet--we came here in his car.

Tristan was instantly towed by the arm by the lightly clad Colton down the corridor and, not waiting for the lift, down the stairs and out into the white light and unbearable heat. There stood a gleaming new vehicle complete with a parking permit on the windscreen. Colton ran around it excitedly like a puppy, letting out joyous cowboy whoops just like in the novels Tristan had read. Unfortunately, neither had brought the keys, so all they could do was look, although Colton stroked it. Tristan was amused. "Hey, rule number one!"

Colton grinned back. "What I wouldn't give for one of these!"

"I'll think of something," ventured Tristan, provocatively, now feeling more confident. "What sort is it?"

"Why, man, it's a Chevvy Silverado."

"Is it a gay boy's car?"

"Are you sure you're gay, dude?"

"Bend me over the tail gate an I'll let you know."

"Hey, man," said Colton seriously, "It's mighty decent of y'all to 'llow me drive it. I'll be real careful, I promise, and the chicks will have to take their high heels off--they can pierce clean through the cabin ceiling with those damn things if y'not real careful and they gets too excited."

Tristan `bust up' laughing as they say in these parts and then they made their way back inside, Colton still unconscious of only being in his boxers and flip flops.

"What about booze?" asked Tristan.

"Hey, no drinking when driving that rig."

"No, I mean generally. You drink beer I suppose. You can't drink here until you're 31 or something ridiculous."

"21 and even if you are caught with unopened beer in your car you're a `minor in possession' and then it's the 'lectric chair. The RA does inspections too."

"Ridiculous country. You leave all that to me. You would have thought you'd have learned from Prohibition. Fancy being able to fight in Afghanistan and yet not being able to buy a beer in your hometown!"

"Liquor touched lips will ne'er touch mine" said Colton with mock primness. More laughter.

Back in the room, Tristan tried to arrange his books on the shelf above his crowded desk and took out his Literature reading list but found he couldn't concentrate. Colt was still trying to do something with the folding weights' bench that had already barked both their ankles when there was a knock at the door. This was just the first of a stream of visitors who came and went, perhaps curious to see the British dude' and to hear his cute' accent, but more likely to socialise with Colt, who was clearly the leader of fashionable society on this floor of Charles C. Selecman House, if not the entire building.

Most of the guys were open and friendly; a couple merely grunted in his direction and immediately began to talk football to the quarterback. Tristan felt that he really must learn at least something about the game--especially here in Texas--and felt inadequate when quizzed on his lack of an ostensible sport. Again he wondered why he was even in this dorm.

Three of the girls instantly became friends. Alexinia was a leggy black girl from Alabama and was a sprinter and hurdler. She was terribly funny and had the strongest accent, although, like everyone else, claimed that Tristan was the one with the peculiar way of speaking. She was what some would call droll and said the most terrible things about her dorm mates. At one point she said quietly, "Sugar, you is a gay boy, ain't you?" Tristan simply gave a brief nod. "Ah thought as much, 'cause you ain't hitting on me and here I am giving out signals like a lighthouse." (She really did talk like that). "Yo' sicret is safe wid me."

"It's not exactly a secret," began Tristan, quietly, before Alexinia shushed him by putting a finger on his lips and then replacing a finger with a sensuous kiss, bending slightly because she was nearly six foot and Tristan was only five-ten. Someone in the room cried, "Wah-hoo!" and Tristan blushed deeply before Alexinia broke into laughter and said something-or-other to the room at large which caused more.

Rachel and Leesha were gymnasts and attractive in a conventional sort of way. They too lived on the floor above and were evidently party girls despite taking such serious subjects as Trombone, Cheerleading and Community Service, and were full of plans for future festivities of an increasingly riotous character. Their brightness and refusal to entertain anything overtly serious for even a moment Tristan found oddly therapeutic, as he was perhaps the opposite. He sat on his bed, with Rachel to his left and Leesha to his right. They quizzed him mercilessly about Colt, but Tristan was able to supply little information. Shortly afterwards they cornered the quarterback in the open closet and Tristan heard Colt agree to take them both as dates on the coming Saturday when there was to be a party at a fraternity house to which the sporting inhabitants of their dorm (including presumably Tristan) had been given a general invitation by one of the brothers.

"I hope it won't always be like this," said Tristan when the last of the visitors had returned to their own digs, "I'll never get any work done."

"Football pre-season will be startin', not to mention classes, but company is just what you need."

"I suppose I am a bit of a recluse. It's my emo idiom." Colt merely snorted as he searched for his shorts. Tristan continued: "I'll do the washing if you will change the beds and hoover the floors now and then, but you'll have to show me how the machines work and I don't know how to iron."

"Deal," replied Colton. "But we say, `vacuum'. One of the chicks will do the ironing if we don't make it a sexist thing. Y'all just leave that to me, Roomy, I can make them do anything."

"I thought you only used your powers for niceness, not evil?"

Tristan realised that he had not had any lunch and was quite hungry when Parker texted. Americans have their evening meal early, while it was still broad daylight, and Texans even earlier Tristan found, so they were in the main cafeteria by five and it was quite crowded by the time they had secured a table. Colt and Parker were on meal plans and showed their cards. Tristan paid for his own.

The food was dreadful, even by British standards, and Tristan again wondered how he was going to survive the year. There were burgers and chips and deep fried objects listlessly reposing in bains-marie that Tristan could not begin to guess at. Mayonnaise anointed just about everything and he saw that that breakfast menu was rich in pancakes, bacon, maple syrup and pastries as well as fried potatoes. Everything was lubricated by sugary drinks.

"This shit will kill you," said Tristan hotly as he watched a proprietary brand of cheese being actually sprayed from a can onto a sugary brioche bun. Parker put down his pizza slice and stared at him. "It's all full of sugar, salt and trans-fats," he continued. "It's the corporations and the advertising industry that has got you hooked on this junk."

"Hey, hold on Michael Moore, we're big boys and we gotta eat," said Parker.

"Yeah," said Colt, washing down his side of Doritos with Coke, "and this beverage is the national drink of the South, he said pointing to the paper cup that was the size of waste basket. What's yo' skinny ass got on his plate?"

Tristan moved his arms to reveal a piece of steak sitting alongside some sliced tomatoes and cold asparagus. There was no mayonnaise or bottled dressing. His drink was fresh pineapple juice. "The protein is good and the sugar in the juice is at least natural. Nothing from a factory."

Tristan's piety, if not asceticism, was hotly debated at the table, even as they were joined by some of the others. Alexinia declared she was on his side and supplied some facts that sounded scientific. Tristan remained surprised that the University's sports training did not cover diet and began to wonder about Colt and Sports Medicine. But then, the whole country (just about) was fucked, he concluded gloomily.

"Tomorrow we're going to buy a fridge," declared Tristan on the walk back. "I don't know where we'll put it, but it has got to go somewhere. I can't live on that crap and I won't let you either."

"Hey! Now who's the bossy one?"

"We'll get fish and unprocessed meat --no more pork chops--even if we have to send to Dallas," continued Tristan, undaunted. "We'll have fruit and vegetables. You'll eat steamed chicken breasts--skin off--for protein--as many as you like. Johnny Wilkinson did that."

"Who's Johnny Wilkinson?"

"Former England Rugby player. Very self-disciplined." At this last he gave Colton a beady look.

"And an electric fan," he continued when they opened the door to their stifling room.

"Yo the man, Roomy, but how are wee going to pay for these things? Your daddy is very generous, but..."

"I have some of my own money--from my grandmother--Mum's mum. If I want to make my life and your life better by spending a few bucks, I will."

Colton shrugged and pulled off his clothes, save for the plaid boxers and threw himself on the bed, fully occupied with his phone. Tristan did the same and all was quiet for a while until Tristan spoke. "Sorry about snapping before. Like I said, I've been a bit of a shit lately since I've lost my family." Colt looked over. "Well, I have. We were a happy family--of sorts--two years ago. There was a pause. "Well, I thought we were happy, but I was away at School, mostly. Dad was a philanderer. Not with Cylvah--she's just the latest. It was Mum's divorced sister, my Auntie Jean, apparently, and it had been going on for a while. Mum kicked Dad out and he eventually moved to Dallas. Do you know Globoco?

"Yeah, everyone in Texas knows Globoco--natural gas and stuff."

"Well, Dad is a vice president of the shale oil subsidiary--one of half a dozen vice-presidents."

"Shit!"

"Yeah, shit. When Mum took up with a new man--someone who worked with her at Close Brother's-- who had a family of his own, there wasn't much room for me and I acted out a bit. I was dispatched out here to Dad to finish school, but he's not really interested in me, his gay son. He still resents that I sided with Mum initially. I'm close with Gran though. I'll send her an email when I'm set up."

"I'm sorry, man, that's a rough deal. Maybe you will eventually work something out with y'dad--he seemed okay."

"Did he say goodbye to me today?"

Colt reflected for an instant. "Don't think so; Cylvah did--she kissed you on the cheek and called you, `baby'."

"There you are. Like you said, maybe one day."

Presently, he spoke again. "Thanks for helping me today." Colt took the headphones off and Tristan repeated what he had said, adding, "I don't just mean with my collapse, but making me socialize with your friends."

"They're your friends now."

"Yes, but you made it happen. And the jogging in the morning."

"Running. And maybe some weights; y'all too skinny. We'll get you some Texas Bro clothes. No more black skinny jeans."

Soon it was time for the bathroom and they went together, Tristan also wearing nothing but his boxer briefs but with the added precaution of sandals for fear of the floor. As he had predicted, Colt took great pains with his teeth--the gift of the electric toothbrush being much appreciated. There was an orgy of flossing, then rinsing and gargling and inspection in the mirror.

When they returned, Tristan was suddenly nervous, like a new bride. Colt flopped down his bed and returned to his phone. Tristan moved around the room, trying to rearrange it for the essential fridge and electric fan. He tried to open the window wider, but it was stuck--no, screws had been fitted to prevent suicides. The television would have to go. He'd give it to the Student Common Room at the end of the corridor on their floor. The jocks would love it for watching their sports and if Colt wanted one for their room, he'd buy a smaller one. He returned to his bed, stubbing his toe yet again on the folded weights' bench.

He glanced across to Colt. His hand was lightly resting on his crotch, but one finger was lazily moving as he concentrated on his phone. "Lesbian porn?" he called.

Colt took off the headphones and grinned. "Yeah, these two chicks are bored because their boyfriends have gone to the baseball when they had promised to fuck them and the first one--the one with the clear plastic stilettos--says she's feeling tense and the second one--the one with the qualification in remedial massage..."

"I get the picture," interrupted Tristan, "She probably got it from here. You should sign up."

Colt laughed and in a couple of swift movements, raised his hips and ripped off his boxers, throwing them across the room and hitting Tristan in the face. "Breathe deep, Bro, it's been a hot day."

Tristan did inhale and wondered if he was going to pass out, but he wanted to see his naked roomy, so he disentangled them from his face and eagerly turned his eyes to the grinning Colton who was now grasping his thick cock and wagging the intriguingly blunt end in his direction. Tristan had already factored in that it would be a magnificently proportioned piece but still, the reality of it was like seeing the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls for the first time, having only read about them in a Lonely Planet Guide.

"And on your phone?"

"Well, the linebacker comes into the locker room (which is curiously empty) save for his coach who congratulates him on a great game. The linebacker complains of cramp in his buttocks and the coach who just happens to have a qualification in..."

"I get the picture. And you're obsessed with footballers."

"And lacrosse players--Parker's hot." Colt snorted.

"Get your gear off and rub one out, we've got a busy day tomorrow."

"I don't know if I can, with you watching."

"I won't be watching you--unless you put on heels. You'd best watch me."

"You're an exhibitionist."

"Nah, just get off on folks watching me."

Indeed there was much to watch and the data on Tristan's phone was wasted. Colt's body was a work of art and it strained, flexed and dimpled in a most attractive way as he worked on his meat. He worked on his nipples too, flicking them and twisting them until they were erect. Pencil erasers', was the clichéd simile, Tristan had read, but he could think of none better. He periodically pulled his ball sack, but Tristan couldn't see it clearly and had no idea if it were shaved or hairy, but he guessed that Colt's balls would be large and pendulous, as everything else was so irritatingly satisfactory. Colton's eyes remained glued to his phone and so the free hand was busy indeed. The pooched' blunt end was intriguing and Tristan lewdly imagined kissing it. Before he knew it, Tristan had broken the silence and hoped he had not violated some rule: "I thought all American boys were circumcised."

"Liberal parents, remember," came Colt's reply, without his taking his eyes off the action on the phone.

"Wish I were uncut," replied Tristan mournfully, looking down at his decidedly average cock set in trimmed pubes.

"We work with what we got, man. Glad y'all payin' attention."

There was silence for a while as they each performed after their own fashion until Colt spoke: "Day-amn, I sure do leak a lot o' cock honey."

Tristan burst out laughing at this and his erection started to wane.

"What? You never heard it called honey'? What about cock snot'? `Dogwater'?

`Love gravy?'"

Tristan was now beside himself. "Biscuits-and-love gravy!"

Colton was laughing too and suddenly jumped to his feet and stood in the only patch of clear floor space. Fuck, he is beautiful,' thought Tristan. His cock is huge and those big balls do indeed hang low. His butt is perfection.' Tristan's erection returned with urgency.

Colt placed his arms behind his head and began a little dance, "Just for my roomy's benefit". It was lewd and would have been a sensation in any gay club. He moved beautifully too--with the fluid grace of a professional as he gyrated his hips. His fat cock flopped around and he could make it do a windmill'. Then he stood still, with his legs apart and Tristan was transfixed with fascination as a long stream of love gravy' descend towards the linoleum like a stalactite. It was only about two inches from the floor before it broke off and pooled with an audible splat. Even so, another load burbled from his foreskin and it was repeated. This trick was done three times more before Colt jumped back onto the bed, this time on his back and with his feet raised on the headboard. Half a dozen strokes saw him `get his nut' as they say in the South and this, Tristan was unsurprised to see, was spectacular too, with the first rope jetting right over his head and onto the weights bench and several others covering him from the chin down.

"Holy shit!" Tristan exclaimed and when he looked down he had found he had cum without even touching himself--just like in the videos.

Colt was grinning at him. "That might do for tonight; too fuckin' tired for another." He wiped himself down with a towel he had produced from under the bed. "Here!" he cried and threw it across the room to the startled Tristan who just looked at it. "Go ahead, I don't mind." Tristan knew what he meant; he smelled it and extended his tongue and tasted it. "See, I don't need no pineapple juice to make my cupid's toothpaste taste purty, gay-boy." He was right. He wiped up his own modest load and threw it back. "Zunder m'bed when y'all need it. Tho' I warn y'all: It should be washed thoroughly every six months, whether it needs it or not."

They both laughed and it seemed an appropriate moment to turn out the rather cruel overhead fluorescent tube and to pull down `the winder shade' which had been negligently left up all this while and then go to sleep, although Tristan's mind was in such turmoil that he considered, for no more than a moment, about taking another one of Dr Korporal's pills to help him cope.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.