Cupid's Sophomore Year, Semester 01

Finally, wanting to put him out of his misery, I flick my tongue at the very tip of his prick, where a steady drip of precum is flowing. He freezes, as if afraid to move, and I run my tongue all over his hot cockhead. He's panting softly now, still trying to be silent, but I can hear the quiet urgency in his shallow breathing. I open wide and plunge his cock into my mouth. I take but three strokes and then it starts.

Suddenly, he's still. Not moving, not breathing. His chest is a relief map of taut muscle, as if every cell in his body were straining for this release. The cords in his neck stand out, and all down his arms the sinews strain at the skin that only barely hides them.

I hear it begin. The room is so silent, and he is so silent, that I can actually hear the muscles deep inside his pelvis start to spasm. I pull my mouth off his cock and keep up a steady stroke with my hand; I put my ear next to the tip and listen. The pulsations of his impending orgasm are making tiny gasping noises as his semen begins filling the tube that will bring it to the surface. He's almost there--and a good thing too, as his face is now almost maroon with the strain of silently riding this roller coaster of an orgasm.

Then, it happens. The opening at the tip of his cock seems to wink at me, and I hear it wetly open again as the cum rises to the surface. I pump harder, Mitchell tenses even more, and suddenly there's a plume of white arching into the air, raining down on his belly with a sloppy wonderful splashing sound. It is followed by another, even louder ejaculation, and then I lose count of how many follow that. By the time he's finished, by the time he can breathe audibly again, he is soaking wet. The coiled muscles slowly yield all over his body, as softness returns where steely hardness had dominated.

Well, that was fun.

Pleased with my handiwork (and mouthiwork!) I relinquish my grip on his slowly detumescing cock and slide along the bed to lie next to him. His eyes are closed, though not screwed shut as they had been against the strenuousness of his orgasm, but smoothly and softly.

"You are amazing," he exhales, a little shiver racing across his body. His nipples, coated as they are with his spunk, harden as the fluid cools.

"That was just my opening move. I've got a whole playbook."

He smiles, and nuzzles my cheek softly. It's like cuddling with the sexiest puppy in the world--innocence on top of rock-hard muscle.

"So," I venture, calm and collected, "How was it?"

"Unbelievable," he exhales, shaking his head. "I had no idea it would feel that different."

I cock an eyebrow. Different? Different is all I get for that virtuoso performance?

"Different, but fucking incredible," he says, sensing somehow exactly what I was thinking. "Guys just do that better. I mean, I guess they do."

He looks at me, clearly trying to figure out how to say something.

"I kind of have a secret to tell you," he says finally, quietly.

I lean in close and whisper, "I'm really good with secrets."

He smiles.

"You're the first guy who's ever done...that...to me."

I try to look surprised, supportive, understanding, and flattered all at once.

"No! Really? You seemed so...assertive." That's the best spin I can put on his lamprey-like kissing and bizarre dirty talk. I decide it's time for an intervention.

"Before, when we were, like, making out?" I venture.

"Yeah? How awesome was that."

"Really awesome. But, you were kind of, well, talky through it all. I just wondered where all of that 'Do you want to fuck this and that' stuff came from."

He grins. "Well, I had no idea what guys do together, so I watched some gay porn to see how it all worked."

Ah. Now it's all clear--he's been reenacting cheesy porn vids! Now, I consider myself an ambassador for the gay community, so I feel obliged to try to steer poor Mitchell in the right direction.

"Actually, it was kind of awkward."

His eyes jolt up to mine.

"What? You mean, that's not the way that guys talk to each other?"

"No, not really."

"Oh. I guess I figured that's what I should do, because that's what the guys in the porn I've been watching do. I thought it sounded kind of weird, but it was all I had to go on."

I smile, and then kiss him on the nose.

"You shouldn't believe everything you see in porn," I chuckle to him.

"Oh, good," he replies, clearly relieved. "Because what always happens in the videos is the once the first guy gets a blowjob, then he gives the other guy one in return. I'm so glad that it doesn't work that way in real life."

Well, you can imagine the look on my face. A broad smile breaks out across his.

"I'm just kidding you, Josh! I can hardly wait to return the favor. Now, I'm going to clean up, and I want you naked and ready when I get back, okay?"

He kisses me, a lovely, soft, lingering kiss. This guy's a keeper!

He gets up from the bed, and pads over toward the bathroom. It takes me about twelve and a half seconds to strip off everything I'm wearing. In fact, I'm already reclining on the bed, striking as casual a pose as I can with a raging boner, when I hear a key sliding into the lock. Mitchell must have heard it as well, because he's suddenly standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his cum still running down the front of him, as the door to the apartment swings open.

For a moment, there is silence as we all look at each other.

None of us is at our best, really. I'm fully naked, with a rapidly shrinking dick in my lap. Mitch is damp with semen, his face a mask of horror. And in the doorway stands a woman who, judging from her expression, would rather have walked in on her own grandparents doing it doggy style than on the two of us. We are a still life.

Finally, Mitch finds his voice.

"Thea, I--"

"SHUT! UP!" the banshee--apparently named Thea--shrieks.

Oh, this doesn't look good.

"I can explain," Mitch tries again, gamely.

Actually, I'm not sure he can. And if he does explain what we've been doing, will that really help?

"I don't want to hear it! I can see damn well what's going on here." Her voice manages to be both shaky and deafening at the same time, which is a neat trick.

I look over to Mitchell to see how he's reacting to this strange person who has barged in and let loose with the Medea act. He's now a ghostly white, and he's shaking all over. Yeah, this is not good.

"Thea, I--" he tries again, but he seems to know that he's not going to get very far with it.

"Shut the fuck up, Mitch. We're done," she says, and her voice breaks as she says it. "And to think I came over here because I was worried about you." She seems on the verge of tears, and then she masters herself. She looks back over at me, disgust on her face. "So I guess--this--is your migraine?"

"Thea, this isn't what--"

"Oh shut up, Mitch. Look, when you're done fucking this piece of shit, you do me a favor and fuck yourself, okay?"

She takes the key from the door, throws it at him (she's a pretty good shot--the key smacks him square in the chest, but he doesn't even flinch at the impact), and then slams the door behind her. Her angry footsteps fade down the stairs.

The entire interaction took probably thirty seconds, and yet we now inhabit a completely changed world. I sit stupidly for a minute, until Mitchell breaks the spell by gasping. Startled, I look over to see him convulsed with great wracking sobs, silent at first, until he finally manages to take in some air, and the room is filled with his keening.

This is shaping up to be the worst first date ever.

"Mitchell? Mitch, come here," I call to him, holding my arms open. I'm not sure he can hear me over the rattling grief issuing from his rasping throat. Finally, though, he stumbles in my direction, and I wrap my arms around him as he crumples on the bed. I hold him until he exhausts himself with crying.

I hoped that I would end the evening naked, in bed with a hot guy, dripping wet. I just didn't think it would be tears that soaked me.

* * *

It's 5:30 in the morning when I awaken. Mitchell is curled up next to me, sleeping peacefully, his soft, warm breath on my neck. Poor guy. When he wakes up he's going to remember last night's horrible scene with that shrieky woman, and then he'll have to figure out what he's going to do.

This is the downside to specializing in guys on the sexual fence. There's a lot of fun to be had--when years of repressed dude-lust break loose, the ride can be exhilarating--but there's also the potential for a lot of drama. And there are real risks, too--there's a chance that when Mitchell comes around he'll see me not as the sexy liberator, but as the faggot who seduced him away from his girlfriend, charming as she was. The tough part is anticipating what reaction he'll have.

This one could go either way. I decide to make a decorous exit before Mitch awakes. I slip out of his bed, which disturbs him not at all--he went down hard, emotionally drained (and drained in another way--the memory makes me smile). I pull on my clothes from last night and jot him a quick note on the whiteboard on his fridge ("Mitch--Text me when you get up--We should talk.") I add a smiley face, hoping that will smooth over any disappointment he might feel at waking up alone after being blown by a guy--and blown off by a girl. Poor Mitch. But part of me suspects he might be relieved to have some time to himself to think things through.

It's a longish walk back to campus, and I break it up with a stop at the only place I come across that's open: Professor Poof's Donut Emporium. The donut jockey behind the counter doesn't look happy to be the guy who has to open this dump, so I grab my coffee and cream-filled long john (what else?) and finish my walk to campus. It's still really early when I get in, so early that even the twins are still asleep. I slip into my room as quietly as possible, so as not to awaken Seth (though I'm not sure why--it's not like he's suddenly going to care that I haven't been in all night). I climb up to my bunk and lay back, hoping to get a few hours of actual rest after the strange night at Mitch's place.

"Josh? You're back?"

Wait, did Seth actually notice me?

"Yeah, I'm back," I answer, ridiculously. He obviously knows I'm back.

"I was worried when you didn't come back last night."

"Um, thanks? It's okay, though. Sometimes that happens." Sometimes it happens that I end up suddenly away for a whole weekend, like when I met Calvin and Reese. As I said, drama is a frequent side effect of my questionable erotic choices.

"Okay." He turns over, and that's the end of the conversation. A strange, short conversation. I guess there's more to Seth than I thought. Hmm.

# 9 #

I spend Sunday lazing about, in denial about classes starting on Monday. The early-morning conversation with Seth has put me in a strange mood, so I suggest to the guys that we have dinner together--kind of a Sunday thing. They humor me, going along with the idea, and we break bread together that evening (seriously, you have to break it, by cracking it on the edge of the table--gotta love the dining commons).

Classes go well during that first week--enough eye candy to keep it interesting, but not so much that I won't get any work done. The most target-rich environment is my math class--this is the math class that guys in the Engineering programs have to take. A good number of them are clearly working their way through college by doing construction work. Or stripping. Because, damn.

My meeting with the Athletic Director comes on the second afternoon of classes, and it goes really well. I manage to come off not looking like a total perv, which is a pretty important qualification for working in the locker room. I lock in a schedule of towel management every afternoon after my classes are over (that's the shift Calvin recommended, as most teams practice then).

Wednesday after classes I head for the newly opened athletic complex, and make my way through the maze of locker rooms. At the towel desk is my new supervisor, who is the spitting image of every nightmare PE teacher I ever had in high school. He looks me up and down and clearly doesn't like what he sees; he grudgingly admits me to what he considers his private domain, and spends about a half-hour scolding me not to let anyone walk out of the Towel Use Zone into the Towel Exclusion Zone (seriously, he has marked these out on a map) holding one of the precious towels. He is thankfully interrupted in his fifth repetition of the rules covering the swim team's special towel needs by the arrival of the diving team coming from practice. They are hot, wet, and hot. They emerge from the showers, dripping and naked, and come to me for a towel. I give it to them--after they approach the desk with their muscles pumping and cocks wagging. Best job ever.

The rest of the afternoon shift is a parade of flesh. The divers are followed by the football players, then the water polo team (I have met many of these guys, but had only seen one of them naked before now--Diggler, though, is not among them today), then the track team, and then I lose track. So many penises. I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight.

Somehow I make it through the week, my head filled with enough fleshy goodness to keep me wanking all weekend long. On Friday evening, though, my plan to spend the weekend rubbing myself raw goes out the window when I get a text from Diggler.

"Grab a drink tonight?"

Oh hell yes.

"Yup," I type back. "Where?" As I'm not technically old enough to drink, this matters.

"My place?"

Oh double-hell yes.

"Sounds good. Now?"

"Sure." And he sends me his address.

Diggler's apartment is in a medium-sized complex several blocks from campus, and I walk there in the twilight, a few well-endowed butterflies bumping into the walls of my stomach. I'm not sure what to expect--the problem with texting is that it doesn't give you any sense of how the person on the other end is feeling as they type. Is Diggler's invitation a sign that he's made great progress, and wants to show me the happy results (oh please oh please) or is he disappointed and angry and wants to work me over for giving him false hope?

Before I can figure out whether I'm going to be greeted with a hug or a punch in the face, I'm here. I push the button corresponding to his apartment number, and he buzzes me up instantly. I take the stairs rather than the elevator, trying to exhaust those damn butterflies, but it doesn't work. I arrive at his door, take three deep breaths (I saw that once on a show about giving birth, and though I never expect to be in labor, it does kind of work to calm me down) and then knock.

The door opens.

"Hey, man, thanks for coming," he says, holding the door open and gesturing me in.

"No prob. You had me at 'grab a drink.'"

He smiles, and I figure it's going to be okay. I step in, and he closes the door behind me. His place is small but furnished in a way that one rarely expects to encounter in a guy's apartment--that is, tastefully. The furniture clearly is of mixed origins, but he's put it all together in a way that works. The lighting is soft and indirect, and a candle burns on the kitchen table.

"So," he says, "I promised you a drink. What's your pleasure?"

Oh, it's you. Especially you standing there with your flickering candlelight and your stubbly jaw and your arched eyebrows.

"What have you got? I'm pretty slutty when it comes to drinks--I'll take anything." Anything at all.

He smiles.

"Well, since you're not exactly legal..." he begins.

I sigh. He's right--I'm not legal for one of the two things I want to do with him right now.

"I'll just make us some coffee." He turns and starts scooping coffee into a Bialetti. If it has to be coffee, at least he knows how to make it.

"Nice place you have here," I say, turning around, taking in the room.

"Thanks," he says, coming to join me once the coffee maker is on the stove. "It beats the hell out of the dorm, I'll say that much. My mom picked it out for me, since we were at nationals when I had to get a lease signed."

"Did she pick out the furniture and stuff too?" Naturally, finding a huge-dicked guy with perfect design sense is too much to ask.

"Nope, she just found the place. I put it all together the week before classes started last year."

"It's really nice," I say, silently thanking the universe for maybe coming through for me, just this once.

"Yeah, that's what girls always say too. Then they get suspicious, because I'm not supposed to know how to pick out throw pillows or whatever, and then by the time we actually get down to it I guess they figure it's not working out because I'm not really into chicks. Sucks."

Well, this turned mopey all of a sudden. Luckily, he's interrupted in his dismal monologue by the Bialetti sputtering on the stove, and he turns back to see to the coffee. I find a spot on the sofa near the window and try to figure out how to be supportive. This may be harder than I'd expected.

"Here," he says, handing me a steaming mug of coffee. A very nice mug, in fact, not just some freebie he picked up from a diner somewhere. I take a sip, trying to emulate Sky and his Bond-perfect coffee style. The coffee is very strong, and very good, and very...spiked.

I look up and smile. He smiles back, and raises his mug in a toast, then takes a seat in a chair opposite the sofa.

"Kahlua. It's a trick I got from my dad. He throws some into his coffee when he doesn't want anyone to know he's drinking."

Is it too soon to be in love with him and his Kahlua and his candles and his throw pillows? Yes. Maybe. I'm not much of a drinker, so even this little bit of liqueur hits me pretty hard. A delicious warmth spreads across my chest, and Diggler's apartment is suddenly the best place in the world.

But I mustn't forget, there's work to do.

"So," I ask, raising my eyebrows. This is my signature move--it lets the person I'm talking to decide what I'm asking, and how much to answer. If the response is "So, what?" then I know I have to take the lead.

"So, you're probably wondering why I asked you to come over." Oh, he's going to take the lead. Swoon.

"Well, I figured it had something to do with the porn plan." He nods. "How's that going?"

"Pretty miserably, at first. Then it was better, then it got disgusting--I mean, really, some of those sites you made me look at? Ugh. But then it got better again, and then it was amazing."

"That's great!"

"Yeah, sort of. But it kind of leaves me wondering what to do now."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like this. The first few sites were just your normal porno, right?"

I nod. "Normal" is about the kindest word I could use for these hetero-only plain-vanilla why-bother sites. But I had to start somewhere.

"Those were like the sites I've been to before, and didn't have luck with. And it was the same this time--the quality was better than I'm used to, don't get me wrong--but it was like...a little spark, but no fire, know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean." His lack of enthusiasm about one-man one-woman is promising indeed.

"So then I went on to the next set, and there was some pretty awesome stuff. The lots of guys and one girl was great, and the lots of girls and one guy was even better--cuz dude, those girls know how to pass the time while they wait--and then the lots of everybody all at once was good too, but it was kind of hard to know where to look."

He's been taking my assignment seriously. I like this.

"But even though there was interest," he nods significantly toward his lap, "We didn't get the result we were hoping for."

I love that Diggler and I are now so in this together that "we" have expectations for his genital performance. I nod supportively.