College Guys' Discovery Ch. 02

When Tom and I woke up late the next morning, our heads were pretty foggy. There was a big Gatorade in the fridge and I passed it to my new friend. Tom took a deep swig then looked me in the eye with a sly grin. I shook my head in disbelief and smiled back.

"Glad you didn't get up and bolt without saying anything," I said.

"Didn't even cross my mind. I wouldn't trade last night for anything."

"Cool. Me too. Let's go get some food."

That's all either of us needed -- or wanted -- to say about last night, but it was enough to confirm that neither of us had regrets. I was a little worried since I was the one who first crossed the line, but it was clear now that I didn't need to worry. Tom was thinking the same thing I was: that last night's discovery was just the start of a lot more boundary-stretching fun to come.

Tom and I headed out to a hole-in-the wall hoagie shop whose greasy egg, sausage and cheese breakfast sandwiches put the fast-food versions to shame. We shared easy conversation and parted ways with a friendly pat on the back. As Tom walked away toward his dorm, I said:

"Yo! Tom, I hope you'll show me that film project you told me about; I always liked to discover a new art film."

"Count on it. Just don't expect my high school film class production skills to be art cinema-worthy. But I think you'll like the actress, and I know you'll love the plot."

Walking away, I was struck by how similar we were: two confident 18 year old guys, comfortable in our own skin. We had taken huge leaps beyond our previous sexual boundary lines last night, but it hadn't freaked either of us out. In fact, it seemed to have only made us more confident, ready to seize whatever new opportunities life put before us.

A cute college girl ran past me, her perfect little ass bouncing down the sidewalk in tight little running shorts. No, I couldn't understand at all how gay dudes weren't interested in that. But straight guys who couldn't appreciate another good looking guy on occasion were definitely missing out on something too. There must be lots of different levels of sexual awareness that were more evolved than just the traditional extremes of straight or gay.

Back in my room, I decided that if I could run a couple of miles, then hit the steam room at the new gym, it might clear my head and I could study. I put on some running shorts and jogged downhill to the track behind the gym. I didn't make it even a mile before I had to slow to a walk. The steam room was the last resort to attempt a cure for what ailed me. I shucked my shorts, wrapped a gym towel around me, then headed into the steam.

Nicer than any health club steam room I had ever seen back home, this one had a cold water shower right inside the steam room, with a huge industrial shower head and a pull-chain ending with a triangle, like they have in a factory where chemicals might needed to be quickly washed off. If you got overheated, you could just drench yourself in a deluge of cold water until you were ready for more of the steam heat.

I sweated the toxins out and was about to escape the heat when the steam room door opened. Two guys walked in, giving each other some good natured shit about how poorly they had played basketball a few minutes before. They were either juniors or seniors, so our worlds would not have intersected. We couldn't see each other very well in the heavy mist, but I saw they were just carrying their white gym towels by hand, not wearing them.

They nodded briefly at me, keeping up their animated conversation. One was tall and lean, maybe 6'4', with short dark hair and an attractive face. He had a slightly scruffy look, like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. His friend was closer to my 6'1', with dirty blond and slightly curly hair. Clean shaven, he had a toned body that looked like a swimmer's. They sat on their towels, a typical pair of part-time jocks, completely comfortable with being naked in front of other guys in a locker room setting.

When the basketball talk paused, the taller guy looked over at me and said:

"You look like you've been in here a while. Don't have a heat stroke, dude."

"Yeah, I got pretty beat up last night," I responded. "Sweating it out was the only cure."

The bigger guy said: "I hear that. We partied pretty hard too last night, celebrating turning in a big paper and a project. If this steam doesn't do the trick, the old hair of the dog is the only choice left."

At that, the guys started laughing and trying to recall the details of the party they had been to Friday night. As they talked, going on about some girl that followed them back to their house,, I noticed how they finished each other's sentences. I was enjoying listening and trying to figure out what their world as upperclassmen was like.

After a few minutes, I needed to escape the heat and left the two alone. I stood forever under the cool water in the shower room, a huge white-tiled rectangle with at least 20 shower heads sticking out of the walls. A whole football team could shower here at once. At one point, I turned off my shower and walked naked over to the scales and weighed myself. Still sweating, I retreated back under a cool shower. Just as I was about to get out for good, the guys from the steam room staggered in.

Looking mildly surprised to see me still showering, they chose shower heads across from each other and drenched themselves in the cool water. I couldn't help but notice that their cocks now looked half-hard, longer and thicker than when I had noticed earlier. Could they have been playing around in the steam room?

Figuring I'd never know that answer to that question, I walked over to the towel rack where there was a stack of fresh towels. I grabbed one and dried myself off on the way back to my day-locker. I took my time getting dressed and left the gym. The two guys caught up to me as I was walking slowly uphill back to the dorms, the taller one calling out:

"Hey, dude. How was the cure?"

"Better, but by no means cured. How about you?"

"Definitely hair of the dog for us. It's a slow weekend around here, so we figured a few beers over at the Tavern was our next move. Maybe catch a game on TV. Join us for a cold one?"

I stuck out my hand, "Will. Will Mason. Glad to meet you."

"I'm Scott," the taller guy said. "And this is Ty. Good to meet you too. So what do you say?"

"Shit; it's only 2 o'clock. I think I need to try to do some reading. But thanks for the invite."

"We'll be at the Tavern. If you change your mind, share a pitcher with us. Ty's buying."

"Will do. Thanks again and see you around."

Back at the room, I thought about how unusual it was for a couple of upper classmen who didn't know me to be so friendly. Freshmen guys were frozen out of the social scene because of the fraternity system rules (no access to frat parties until sophomore year, by university decree). Then I thought about them coming into the steam room without any sign of anything but straight-jock-in-the-locker-room behavior -- until I left and they thought I was gone for good. I couldn't get those semi-boners in the showers off my mind.

I had no reason not to walk over to the Tavern and take them up on their offer of a cold beer. I thought for a second about texting Tom and asking him to join, but decided this was an adventure best explored solo.

I felt a little self-conscious walking up to their booth in the half-empty bar. My fake ID had worked here several times, but you never know when luck will run out. Scott saw me from a distance, slid over and patted the seat:

"Thought you might show up. Glad you did. Sit down. It's Will, right?"

We reminded each other of our names. There was a clean third beer mug already on the table already. Ty poured me a draft.

"Salud." Ty said, raising his glass and clinking mine in a toast.

Scott was quick to make me feel welcome: "Glad you joined us. We were getting tired of just talking to each other anyway."

"I appreciate it. I haven't met a lot of guys other than fellow freshman. The social scene's a bit slow for us new arrivals, to put it mildly."

Ty had a big friendly grin, but didn't say much. Scott, on the other hand, was good at keeping the conversation going:

"We all lived through that first year, a lot of bonding with other guys left in the same boat. That's how Ty and I got to be good friends. But believe me, you'll get through it and it's a lot more fun starting next fall, when a new crop of ladies arrives."

We talked a bit about where we grew up and how we ended up here. Ty was from El Paso, which explained his Spanish "Salud!" instead of "Cheers." He and Scott, friends since mid-way through freshman year, now lived off campus in a rent house a few blocks away from where we were sitting. Scott, the more gregarious of the two, said he grew up an Army brat, not really from anywhere. His four years here were the longest he had ever stayed in one place, and his four would be stretching into five because he had changed majors and needed the credits to get into a graduate engineering program.

Three pitchers of a really nice micro-brew led to an increasingly open and easy conversation. Ty always quietly insisted it was on his tab when I offered money.

When Ty got up to take a leak, Scott said there was no need to keep offering to pay. Ty's dad was a self-made man, no college degree or anything, but had gotten rich as a car dealer in El Paso. He wanted Ty, who had been serious in high school, to cut loose more in college. Scott explained that he wanted Ty to have what he never had, and was living vicariously through his son. So he sent Ty $1500 a month as "beer money." Ty had decided to always buy the drinks or anything else that stoked a party, unless he was in the company of someone with as much disposable cash as he did -- which was rare.

When Ty came back to the table, he was holding three tequila shots. Not $3 well shots, but a smooth sipping tequila, he reported, "100% agave, real tequila, made by a little craft company called Patron." He pronounced in "puh-trone."

Scott interjected: "Hell yeah! No limes and salt for this stuff, Will. Sip it slowly, no shooting, because this is how real Mexican tequila is meant to taste."

More "Saluds" and clinking of glasses followed. I had never tasted good tequila before. Man, it went down smooth, kind of the 30 year old scotch my uncle poured on special occasions, but it tasted a lot better to me than scotch. I was getting pretty buzzed.

Ty opened up a lot after the tequila shots hit us, telling me a little about his dad's over-the-top attitude. Ty was still embarrassed about it, but had decided to have as much fun as he could while still maintaining his grade average. He told me about how Scott had really helped him loosen up and make the most of a great situation. But he also said that he and Scott were both determined to do well in school too, and that they had each other's backs on where to draw the line: when to party and when to study.

"Yeah, we've pushed each other to all kind of crazy new heights of debauchery for sure," Ty said, "but we're not shy about calling each other out if we see the grades slipping or the partying getting out of hand. I'm shooting for academic honors, to pay my old man back the only way I can for all he is doing for me."

Scott added, "And I'll be applying to graduate engineering programs after this place, then I'm going to make enough money to always pay Ty's way wherever we go."

I was impressed by how these guys were living life to its fullest -- but also how they were there for each other too, keeping each other in line and helping each other achieve their goals. They told about a deal they made to always tell each other about every grade they received and to serve as each other's motivation coach if anyone was screwing up. This was a deeper and more mature friendship I was used to. It made me start thinking how my own friendships measured up.

Ty patted me on the back as we walked out and said: "Come back to our house and try the good stuff my dad bought last time he visited. You'll never order a Jose Cuervo again. What else does this slow Saturday night have to offer?"

"Not anything worth doing," I said. "So, sure, and thanks for the invite."

We happily stumbled out into the street. It was only 5:30 or so but already dark, as winter had set in. We laughed and talked as we walked the short blocks to their house. The house turned out to be a large duplex and they lived upstairs. It was much nicer than my cramped dorm room. The living room had a couple of long, comfortable couches. The coffee table between them featured a tall and obviously well-used bong as its centerpiece.

Scott loaded a bowl while Ty went to his room to retrieve the fancy tequila. He put on some music, now playing through what I noticed was a really sweet sound system. The living room was dimly lit just by the kitchen light. I saw some big wet snowflakes falling through the window and a string of white Christmas lights someone had put up a little early on the house across the street. "You smoke, Will?" Scott asked as the water in the pipe started to gurgle. I watched him inhale a monster hit, hold it a few seconds and slowly exhale.

"Sure," I said, following his lead, but pulling less smoke through, not wanting to overdo it. Even so, I got a nice lungful of obviously high quality bud. These guys definitely traveled in style.

Ty poured three generous shots and we sipped the ungodly smooth golden tequila. Ty explained more about real agave tequila, where it came from in Mexico, and the differences between the real stuff and the American brands used in cheap margaritas. Everybody kicked off their shoes and we sank into the couches, laughing like stoners do at whatever anybody said.

I entertained Scott and Ty with stories about being a freshman and being frustrated by the girls our age who were only interested in the older guys. I told them about road trips with other hopelessly horny freshman guys and the trouble we got into at a nearby nursing college where there were lots of girls but also lots of house rules. They thought my storytelling was hilarious and we laughed till we coughed, and then laughed some more.

I managed to think through the fog enough to tell them how much I appreciated their hospitality today, how unexpected it was, and how they had made a hung-over Saturday way more fun than I had any right to have. I told Ty the tequila education was something I wouldn't forget, despite the excellent smoke, and thanked him for all his generosity. Ty put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a warm, buddy-like hug.

"Will, that's the second or third time you've told us today that you appreciated being included, appreciated the drinks, and generally thanked us. You're a good dude and must have been raised right. I can't tell you how many times over the last three years that I've bought a few rounds, or more than a few, or supplied some other kinds of fun -- and nobody has said a word to acknowledge it. So, I appreciate your words, man. Thanks for saying thanks."

Ty was affectionate with me in a comfortable, completely natural way, giving me a one arm shoulder hug like you would an old friend who had just done something for you. It felt nice. We sat there for a long time, just soaking up the pot buzz, the music and the company.

Scott broke the spell, stopping himself from hitting the bong a third time and saying we had better lay off the smoking or we'd all fall asleep.

"And it's just 7 o'clock. The night is young! Ty, what do you think about something to wake us up a bit?"

Scott was the instigator as he had been all day. I kept thinking back to all the thinly-veiled drug references they had made. I guessed the next thing I would see were lines of coke being cut up on the table where the bong currently held court. Ty didn't open his eyes, but said he really wasn't up for any more blow after last night and that besides, we didn't want to lead Will here astray any more than we already had. I stayed quiet to see where this was going, knowing I would probably be led pretty much anywhere these guys were going at this point.

"So, Will," Ty started, "have you even done molly?"

"No, never had the chance," I said, recognizing the slang term for powdered ecstasy. "But I'm game if you'll keep me in the fairway and out of the rough," soon wincing at the lame golf analogy.

"Well, if you've never done it, that shit can change your world. Right Scotty?"

"Fuck yeah! I didn't know you even had any. We haven't done that in ages."

"I didn't have any -- until last night. And it's old fashioned X, not molly. That freaky little girl stuffed some pills in my hand about 5 in the morning. I just remembered it when I went to my room looking for a lighter. I looked in my jeans -- and there they were. She was dealing and wanted me to have these as a sample. She was babbling on, saying I'd get a real deal if I'd buy 100 hits and "warehouse" them for parties.

"Dude!" Ty said. "That's awesome. "See, letting that chick do all our blow ended up paying a dividend. More than one dividend, now that I think about it."

I was just sitting back on the couch, listening as they talked about last night, about how both of them had obviously both fucked that girl, and how Ty came into some ecstasy. Ty produced the pills and got a tall glass of water from the kitchen. We each swallowed one without any hesitation. No turning back now, I thought.

While we waited for the drug to take effect, Ty explained the active ingredient, MDMA. Ty turned into a neuro-chemist, telling me exactly what serotonin was, how the drug blocked the serotonin re-uptake in the brain and that our brains were about to be flooded with serotonin. "That," he said, "will cause euphoria, warmth, uninhibited sharing of thoughts or feelings and probably a need to touch and be touched."

Ty talked about how some cutting-edge psychiatrists had used MDMA to break down barriers in emotionally closed patients and how some patients had overcome seemingly impossible emotional barriers, like talking about long-buried memories of childhood abuse, through controlled use of the drug in a therapy setting. I was looking even more forward to its recreational properties after hearing Ty's scholarly report.

"And don't get freaked out if I want to put my arm on your arm or shoulder, and don't hold back grabbing onto us. It's what X does. It makes you need to touch and feel the warmth, figuratively and literally. It feels too good to let any inhibitions hold you back."

"Don't worry," I assured him.

Ty went on: "I'm not trying to talk around an issue here, or to be creepy or anything. It's not a sexual thing. Hell, when you're peaking on good X, you couldn't even begin to have sex; your dick shrinks up and wants to disappear. So believe me, this isn't some weird set-up. It's just a natural and completely comfortable need to touch and be touched by your friends. I can feel the warmth of friendship itself with some good X, just by putting my hand on a friend's arm."

"I've read a little about ecstasy and I get what you're saying -- at least as much as I can, never having tried it. My friends and I hug each other when we haven't seen each other in while; so do most of the males in my family. Showing and being shown some affection is a good thing in my book. I liked it a lot when you put your arm around me a little while ago. It felt good, like being accepted as a friend. So, just be my guide."

Scott and Ty smiled broadly. Scott walked over and grasped my hand as in an old-style hippie handshake, saying "You're about the coolest young dude I've met in ages, confident without being cocky. I can't wait to roll on this X with you."

Within 20 minutes or so, we all felt flushed in the face as the X started to work its wonders. I pressed my head back into the couch to just let it flow over me. Euphoria, but with a surprising sense of calm and "all is right with the world" swept over me. Wow, wow, wow... it was like a gentle warm wave, consuming me in a calm, sublimely happy way.