Rory and Sebastian Ch. 18

"Please," he whispered. "Oh, please. Let him fuck me." He gestured to me and I winked back in reply. Harry lay in front of him and Alistair began giving him head as I put on a condom, coated my dick in lube, dribbled some on Alistair's asshole and finger fucked him until I felt he'd opened up enough. As I slid into him, he began to squeal with happy fuck-contentment. The squeals were drowned out by Harry's meat stuffing Alistair's mouth, but you could hear the general gist of them. I pounded on him, angling myself to hit his prostrate.

"Fuck. He's right," sighed Harry. "You really are beautiful."

Harry yanked Alistair off him and came on his face. It wasn't a huge amount, but, then, he'd come twice that night already. I thought that cocaine was supposed to make you last so long in bed that your boner got painful and you couldn't cum. But I assumed that was an urban legend or that Harry had done so much of it in his lifetime that it had stop having an immediate effect on him. I vowed I'd never do it.

With Harry done, I turned Alistair onto his back and wrapped his legs around my waist, as I fucked him for all I was worth, spitting on his cock and jerking it as we went. It wasn't an enormous cock, but Alistair was a good looking guy, who clearly appreciated my moves. I couldn't decide whether I found the fact he still had Harry's cum dripping off his face to be just the right side of sordid to be erotic. Or if it was just fucking disgusting.

Alistair shot a big load over his chest. So hard, in fact, that a bit of it hit his chin. I came into the condom and grunted, "You're so fucking hot," as I blew my nut. I saw him smile tremulously as I pulled out and rolled over.

"Thank you," he smiled.

Alistair left fifteen minutes later, without much of a farewell, although I gave him a hug -- still buck naked -- "It was great to meet you," I lied convincingly. Then I told him two truths, equally convincingly: "You're a really good-looking guy. I hope things work out for you with finding a boyfriend, now that you're out and single." He looked sad at that, but smiled in a friendly way before leaving.

"That was a bit of an asshole thing you did to him when he first arrived," I said, as soon as the door closed.

"What?" asked Harry, clearly taken aback by my tone.

"He was obviously fucking embarrassed for me to know about his marriage," I replied.

"You were about to put your dick inside him. The time for privacy had probably passed, Seb," Harry answered, trying to keep the mood light.

"He's a nice guy," I said, less aggressively. "How did you meet him anyway? Before you started fucking him."

"He used to work in Seattle. He sucked off and got fucked by half the guys in the office. Even a few of the 'straight' ones got their dicks wet in his mouth. The whole way through the time he was married, there wasn't a single week where he didn't have someone else's cum dribbling down some part of his body. On a business trip to Ontario, once, he apparently ended up taking on three gay guys from the Geneva office all at once -- ass, mouth and hand. His wife never knew, until the day she caught up him servicing their accountant." Harry sounded completely unmoved by the story. "Closeted guys his age are all the same, Seb. Fucking pathetic. Still, at least he's good for a few things."

"That seems like a pretty sad story, Harry," I said, reaching for my boxers.

"You sound like my ex," Harry said ruefully, with a soft smile. "He always felt sorry for Alistair, too. And that idiot wife of his. How she couldn't see it... He lives for dick. Anyone can see it..."

"Your ex felt sorry for him?"

"Johnny, yeah. We were together when Alistair first joined the company."

"Oh... Did you two..."

"No. Not until Johnny and I broke up. After that... Well, Alistair's easy. Why not? And he's good at what he does. Don't judge me too harshly, Seb. It may seem like I'm being a total bastard with the way I'm talking about him. But not everyone in our generation was forced to stay in the closet. It's easier now, but that doesn't mean it was impossible back then. People like me, people like Johnny, we all came out and told the truth. People like Alistair stayed in the closet and lied, until they were forced out. And ruined their lives in the process. And the lives of everyone they loved. But it was their choice. It was their choice to live a life like Alistair did."

I didn't stay long after that. I said goodbye to Harry and made my way back to my college halls, through the darkness. It was a warm night and my mind wandered. I had just participated in a three way and it had not been entirely of my own free will, even though it would be equally untrue to say that I had been forced into it. Part of what had repulsed me about it, in hindsight, was the sight of Alistair, pathetically touched by even the faintest sign of acceptance from another gay guy. Alistair, who had -- as Harry had so callously said -- ruined his own life entirely by being unable to deal with his sexuality. Even now, he wasn't dealing with it properly; he was reduced to being nothing more than a booty call for ex-colleagues, who knew he was so desperate and lonely that he'd never object to being called at midnight to participate in a threesome with a guy he hadn't seen in years and another that he'd never met. Maybe, I thought on a stupid whim, he had actually loved the wife he'd betrayed so many times? Maybe he was driven by his lust for other men, but in his own weird way, maybe his wife had been the one he'd loved. She could have been the one he loved being with or loved the idea of being with. Who knew? Maybe he was cast adrift now in a world that he didn't understand and didn't want to be a part of? All I did know was that the thought of Alistair Irwin made me sad. Hopefully making him feel desired and mentioning the possibility of him finding a relationship had been the best thing I could have done for him tonight?

Harry Martyn, however, made me even more uncomfortable. I had been telling the truth when I'd said that I didn't like the way he'd mocked Alistair and I was a bit taken aback by his casual drug use in front of me. Nor had I appreciated his imposition of a threeway on me. But it wasn't necessarily any of that which jabbed at me like a splinter underneath my skin; it was more what Harry represented. Harry Martyn was a tall, well-built and athletic; he was also gay, American and socially confident. We weren't the same person, but we were the same type. There were a great deal of similarities and looking at what passed for Harry's life, I felt a chill wind of unease that my own could one day turn out like his. Harry was still good looking enough to get men into bed with relative ease; my own track record over the last year proved that I had the same tendency. Yet, his life had descended into a kind of ugly nihilism. It wasn't enough that he'd gotten a guy he was attracted to into his bed for a weekend of no-strings fun, he had to add drugs into the mix. And then, after that, he had to one-up it and add another guy as well.

Rory had once said that religion was necessary to prevent against nihilism, because it was a force of validation that also came with enough rules to stop people running amok with their baser instincts. At the time, I'd disagreed with him, thinking in part of some of the things that leaders of his own religion had done to pursue their baser instincts. However, now that I thought back on the examples of Harry and Alistair, I thought that Rory may have been right, but too narrow in how he saw it. Religion, in its own way, is a kind of a form of love. It's an illogical projection of feelings and subjugation of pure rationalism in a process that sees us submit ourselves to a force, person or entity outside ourselves. Maybe love is what guards us from self-destruction, I thought. Religion gives you something to live for, but so does love. And they both come with a set of rules.

I was a few weeks away from my twentieth birthday and I had already slept with twenty-three people. Twenty-four, I remembered, counting Alistair. That was actually a very, very high number and of those twenty-four, only two had any interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with me. One of them was a vicious psycho called Joshua Peterly and the other was... well, the other was the great guy, wasn't he? But not only had I not slept with Rory until quite late on in our relationship, but I had deliberately avoided it. I had consciously decided not to have sex with him until the time was right for us as a couple. That decision told me more than anything else that I knew that relationships didn't usually start out with sex. Or, rather, they wouldn't for me. Rory had been, so far, the great love of my life. If I wanted to fall in love again, then I had to stop behaving like I had tonight. And it was not until I was walking back from Harry Martyn's hotel room, with my ass and cock still slightly raw from the energetic but depressing sex we'd had together, that I reached this realization in full. Twenty-four people was a ridiculously high number to have reached before your twentieth birthday, even for a beer-swilling jock. I saw what my life could be like if I didn't start taking things a little more seriously; it could be like Harry's. Desperately trying to reach a high whenever I could. My life could be like Harry Martyn's and I did not want that. Just like that, I reached the point my brother Evan had once told me about reaching with himself -- I was tired of sleeping around. I got back in to my college room, showered, crawled into bed and cried, for the first time in months. I didn't know what I was crying for exactly, but I let it all out in big guttural sobs. It had been a long time coming.

Over summer, I decided to spend my time working on my grandparents' ranch in Virginia. My demented grandmother would still ideally have liked to refer to it as a plantation, but we had all firmly explained to her that outside of "Gone with the Wind," calling anywhere a plantation now would be considered hideously offensive. I worked hard on the ranch and toned up even more, which I was pleased about. I got a little bit of color and got to hang out with my cousins for longer than I had done in years. I drove the pick-up truck round the estate and got properly back into my equestrian stuff. I went back to spend a week in England and moved up to London early in September. The situation with the new house was great -- it was a little bit further from the main lecture hall than I'd like, but otherwise, it was perfect. Me, Pete, Jess and Helen got on great and Pete's girlfriend, Ruth, was a lovely girl.

Bit by bit I began to notice a friend of Peter's called Daniel, who called over to see him a lot. They were on the soccer team together -- or football, as they'd good-naturedly yell at me when I called it soccer. Daniel was about 6', with messy sandy colored hair, a few freckles and a great smile. I knew he was gay, from something Peter had said about him earlier, but I didn't pay too much attention to it. I found myself enjoying his company and laughing at his impressions of Peter's thick Scottish accent. A month later, to my great surprise, Daniel hung around in the kitchen while I was washing up and asked me if I'd like to have dinner with him. I'd no idea that he had any romantic designs on me and I'd never thought of him in that way before, but I figured that it was a good thing. I'd gotten to know him and appreciate his humor, his wit and his personality. Wasn't this what I was looking for? We went to dinner a few times, then a movie. Things moved forward naturally and we kissed on the second date. By the fourth date, I brought him in to start making out and when he tried to move below my belt, I shook my head, kissed him softly and said, "Let's take things slow, Dan." He soon became the person I texted the most and I looked forward to spending time with him more than anyone else in uni. Peter, Helen, Ruth and Jess thought the whole thing was adorable or hilarious by turns and I was teased remorselessly for my little grins when Daniel called or messaged me.

At the end of October, we had a week off from college, known as a 'reading week' -- essentially a joke of a concept, in which students are given a week off to catch up on their reading, which most of them actually spend catching up on their drinking and socializing. Peter persuaded me to come spend a few days with him and his family at their home in Edinburgh. We booked tickets on the overnight train from London to Edinburgh and got on at eleven o'clock on the Friday before reading week technically started.

*

The train sped north through a thunderous rain-storm and Peter took the upper bunk, since he was lighter and shorter than me. We reached Edinburgh the next morning and Peter's dad, a 50-something carbon copy of Peter, met us at the train station. They lived in a beautiful apartment in the city center, with amazing views of the famous castle and Arthur's Seat. Our evenings were often spent in the pubs or houses with Peter's school friends and their college friends. There were a lot of Scottish, northern English and Irish students around and they were warm, welcoming and fun. Very, very little reading was done.

On the Thursday morning, I left Peter in bed nursing a brutal hangover and made my way to see some of the sites in Edinburgh that only a secret history nerd like me would fully appreciate and which a native like Pete had no interest in, of course. I stopped off at the palace of Holyroodhouse, where the tour guides claimed you could still see the blood stains soaked into the floor of where Mary, Queen of Scots' secretary had been stabbed to death in front of her in the 1500s; I saw the great church where the Presbyterian religion had been founded and wandered through the imposing cavernous archways of Edinburgh Castle. Maybe it was just the über-geek in me, but in my head, it looked like Hogwarts. (I'm not even a little bit ashamed of that. Harry Potter is amazing and always will be.) After the castle, I made my way through the city center in search of somewhere to grab something to eat, before heading back to Pete's -- figuring that he was bound to have at least braved being vertical by this late stage of the afternoon. As I passed a tourism guide center, I saw a few leaflets advertising tours to Saint Andrew's University where Kate Middleton and, more importantly to me, Rory Masterton had studied. The university was a bit of a drive out of Edinburgh, but I figured that Rory was bound to have been in to the city a few times to look around and hang out. I wondered what he'd made of it?

Figuring that I was bound to find a sandwich shop near here, I passed by an enormous hotel that had been built at the height of the railway boom in Britain and as I rounded onto Princes Street, I walked straight bang into the black-cashmere-sweater-wearing figure of Rory Masterton.