Cupid's Sophomore Year, Semester 01

"Yeah, I don't see how that helped."

He sighs, shakes his head, and looks at me pityingly.

"Let's go through this step by step, okay?" he asks me, in exactly the tone of voice one would use to explain long division to a not terribly bright child. "Shithead Question Guy starts here," he places a sugar packet on the middle of the table, "Trying to get a rise from you. Instead of laughing him off, you push his buttons back." He places a pink packet of sweetener to one side of the sugar packet. "That forces him to go more extreme." He leapfrogs the sugar packet over the pink one. "Then you come back at him, and he has to go further. Pretty soon he's going to actually jump you and start beating your head in. So I," and here he places a blue sweetener packet on the very edge of the table, "go even further, saying stuff that's so extreme even his buddies want to call me out on it."

"Yeah, they did kind of scold you," I grant him, grudgingly.

"And that, sir, is how the game is won. With a couple of horrid, bigoted remarks, I undermine him with his buddies, remove the possibility of his saying anything more extreme about your sexual preferences, and unite everyone in the room in the opinion that open homophobia shouldn't be tolerated here. If you're keeping score at home, that's a win--win--win," he says as he plucks up each packet of sweet visual aids. He drops them back into the white porcelain holder on the table and crosses his arms and then grins at me, waiting for me to applaud or something.

I stare at him for a moment.

"So," I grunt. "Which is the real Sky, the hyper-bigot or the 'we've got your back' rainbow warrior?"

He'd clearly been expecting a more congratulatory response. He seems a little crestfallen.

"Neither, really, I guess."

"Surely someone who breaks social dynamics down into sugar packets has a better answer than that. Are you really going to tell me that you aren't sure whether you're sexually attracted to women or men?"

He looks genuinely shocked at my question.

"Who said anything about sex?"

My turn to be dumbstruck.

"Isn't that what we've been talking about? You know that's what everyone in the Campus Pride group thought you meant when you said 'We've got your back,' right? That was pretty out there for someone who's not sure."

"Ah, I get it," he says, but his sip of espresso is less polished this time. "You think all of this had something to do with me, with my sexuality?"

"Well, duh," I respond, because the part of my brain where wit comes from is apparently offline.

"Here's the deal. First thing you need to know about me is that I'm going to be a senator someday. Maybe president after that. Everything I do here," he gestures all around, to the university, "Is directed at that. I'm going to major in Political Science, I'm going to lead the student groups I join, I'm going to get the University Medal when I graduate." He sits back and looks at me, as though saying it has made it so.

"You do realize you were in a Campus Pride meeting, right? And that there were witnesses? That you hugged a gay man in distress?"

He nods.

"All of that is great--I think it's awesome. But how do you get elected once that story gets out?"

The sly grin is back.

"I'm counting on it getting out," he says.

"Well, as campaign strategies go, that's a new one."

He sits up again, clearly eager for the chance to explain.

"Look, you've got to think about electoral dynamics in terms of the big cycles. Back before Reagan, fundamentalist Christians were viewed as unreliable voters, outliers in a primarily secular culture. They tended to get distracted by quaint little biblical things, and that kept them from voting reliably Republican. But after Reagan, the party learned to give them enough of what they wanted to keep them in line. It was brilliant. In one political generation, Christians went from the unwanted fringe to the electoral base."

I nod, mainly to stay awake. Who talks like this? He takes this as a signal to continue. Great.

"Latinos were next. Since the late 90s, the Hispanic vote has swung several southwestern states and sometimes Florida, though the Cuban thing muddies the waters a bit. But you start to hear candidates greeting crowds in awkward Spanish, so you know they're feeling the heat."

He stops raises his eyebrows at me, checking for comprehension. I shake my head, because I have no idea why he's suddenly channeling public radio. He sighs and continues.

"So the next marginalized group to come to electoral power is going to be the sexual minorities. Already in San Francisco and other metro areas it's not possible to get elected without currying favor among gays and lesbians and all of the other categories. That's going to spread over the next decade, until being pro-gay-marriage carries the same weight as saying 'God bless America' at the end of a speech. And that is the electoral wave I am going to surf into office."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"No, I'm dead serious," he replies.

"Isn't that a bit cynical? You're basically planning to use oppressed minority groups to get yourself into office."

"Yes, but once I'm in office I will serve the interests of those groups, as well as the others who elected me. It's a win for everyone."

I stare at him. I'm not sure whether to appreciate his optimism or hate him for his naked self-interest. Heh, naked. I remember him naked.

"But there's one thing you haven't covered," I remind him.

"What's that?" he asks, with the manner of a politician ready for a follow-up question on a Sunday morning talk show.

"Men or women?"

He stops for a second, blinking. Clearly he thinks I've misunderstood the whole concept of his strategy.

"That doesn't matter right now."

"How can you say sex doesn't matter? You're going to tell me that you haven't even considered it? That you don't have any preference at all?"

"I'm not saying that. It's just that sex has always been the trap into which politicians have fallen."

"Wait. First you say that you are going to ride gay men and lesbians to victory, and now sex is the third rail?"

"You're getting sexual identity and sex mixed up," he replies, his Patient Voice returning. "I believe that sexual identity is going to be the next great political boom. In terms of sex, that's a whole different deal. If I were to have sex with someone, that means giving up control of my destiny to that person. Way too high a risk."

"But if everyone accepts everyone's sexual identity, in your little utopian vision of the future--which I am not at all buying, by the way--what does it matter who you sleep with?"

Sky sighs as me, exasperated.

"Because while I could definitely get elected being straight, gay, or bisexual," he replies, still patiently, "Sluts never win."

I look at him blankly.

"More politicians have had their career derailed by sex than anything else. All I need is one person to show up in a tabloid talking about a night of secret passion while I was supposed to be in a committed relationship with someone else, or involving anything remotely dirty, and I'm done. When it comes to sexuality, the American people will tolerate orientation--what they won't tolerate is bad choices. And that's not going to change anytime soon."

He tosses back his espresso, and looks at me with the satisfied air of an attorney who has just finished a devastating closing argument.

I wish I could say that he is full of shit, but a moment's reflection indicates that he's pretty much right-on.

"So, have you had your previous sexual partners sign non-disclosure agreements, or something?"

"Ha! No, I'm not Tom Cruise," he laughs. "I just haven't had any."

This stops me cold.

"Haven't had any what?"

"Sexual partners. Weren't you listening? Too much risk."

"You're a ... a ... virgin?" I manage to stutter out.

"That's what you call someone who hasn't had sex with anyone, yes."

"Wow. That's ... well, that's just bizarre, is what that is."

"Really? I'm eighteen. Until six months ago it would have been technically illegal for me to have had sex."

"Yeah, but that's like the speed limit. It's a suggestion that nobody follows, especially when they're going somewhere they really want to be."

He laughs again at my naivete. "Not if you want a clean record. And no, I've never gotten a speeding ticket either."

"You, my friend, are seriously weird. And, if I may say, I think that by keeping that body to yourself you are depriving the world of a vital natural resource."

"Think what you like, as long as you vote for me." He grins.

I chuckle in spite of myself.

"One thing, though," I begin.

"Ask me anything--my life is an open book."

"When it's time, and you find the right person, will that person be a man or a woman?"

"Most likely. Although I am also open to those who identify somewhere in between."

"No, I mean, how do you identify--gay, straight, bisexual, what?"

"I don't think that way," he says, simply. "I believe that when I meet the right person, then I'll know. If it's a man, then I'm gay. If it's a woman, then I'm straight. If the right one turns out to be a couple, then I'll be bi." He pauses for a second, then looks me in the eye. "So put me down on your list as TBD. I'll let you know when it happens."

So that explains the porn choices--mostly straight, because politicians love to be mainstream, but the threesomes to keep options open.

"Well, I should get going," he says, getting up from the table, "Thanks for taking the time to hear me out. And," he adds, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "for what you said about my body. You're not bad to look at either."

He turns and strides confidently away, as if the presidential helicopter awaited him.

# 5 #

Buzzed from the coffee, staggered by the political science lesson, I make my way back to the suite. The halls are noisier tonight than they were last night--just about everyone's back to campus, and people are getting reacquainted. Along our corridor there's some big party going on, because I can hear a thumping beat and loud voices as soon as I step out of the stairwell. Someone's risking a nasty-gram from the RA.

As I walked down the hall, the noise gets louder, until I reach my door and notice that the doorknob is vibrating with the beat of the music. Great--apparently the party is at my place. I swipe my card and open the door, and I walk right into a wall of humanity. The room is full.

"Josh!" I hear Dexter, or Porter, call out to me as I shut the door behind me. "You're here!"

"Yeah, and so is everyone else!" I call back.

"We invited the guys from the water polo team over for a little reunion," he explains, looking genuinely apologetic and just too fucking sweet. If he's the gay one, I just want to kiss him. If he's the straight one, I just want to kiss him.

"Well, that explains all the tall testosterone in the room," I reply with a grin. He laughs.

"I know, right? It's like being a kid in a meat store!" Ah, it must be Porter. He winks at me and grins that blazing white grin. "Come meet the guys."

Porter introduces me around. I've never really been into water polo, not since I found out they had boarded up the observation glass that looks into the pool from underwater. If I could watch a dozen Speedo-wrapped parcels bob up and down, smashing into one another, I would get season tickets--from the bleachers it's just not as much fun. But these guys are as tall and graceful and muscled as Dexter and Porter, and I am quite pleased to make their acquaintance.

Once I've met everyone within shouting distance I settle into the corner and watch the goings-on. There are no women here--teammates only--and that's fine with me. The guys are telling each other about their summer vacations, and as the evening wears on the talk turns from surfing exploits and horrible bosses to which beach boasted the women with the most flexible morals. One of the twins' teammates launches into a story about dating two women at once, which went well until each found out about the other. He was able to effect a detente, however, by having sex with both of them at once. He recounted the scene, in his family's beach house, when one of the women knelt before him and sucked his cock and the other knelt behind him and stuck her tongue so far up his ass he thought that she was trying to french-kiss the one in front.

This anecdote was quite well received.

A little later, as the party was calming down (gatherings without booze do that) I hear one of the guys say, "Hey, dudes, Diggler's going to do it. In Dex's bedroom!"

I look to Porter, wondering what this means. He comes over to me to explain.

"You should go see," he says. "I think you would...enjoy it." He smiles.

"Who's Diggler?" I ask. "Kind of a funny name."

"Yeah," he chuckles. "It's a nickname, from Boogie Nights. We call him that because his cock is, and I'm not kidding here, longer than you've ever seen in your life."

"Well, I don't know about that. I mean, I've seen--" I stop talking as I see him shaking his head slowly side to side. He holds his hands out in front of him, ridiculously far apart. "No way, come on," I say--my turn to shake my head.

"I shit you not," he says gravely. "You owe it to yourself to go look. He doesn't do this very often."

"Do what?" I ask, squinting suspiciously.

"You just have to see it," he says simply.

I'm not one to shy away from any mystery involving an enormous penis, so I go. There are already half a dozen guys in the room, so I claim roommate's privilege and climb up onto the bunk opposite the futon. The other guys stand around the futon, where sits the one named Diggler, who is reposed with Buddha-like calm among the somewhat boisterous crowd. Then, he takes a breath, and the crowd falls silent.

He nods toward the door, and the guy closest to it pushes it shut. Then Diggler stands, and in one smooth motion, drops his shorts to his ankles. I can't see anything yet, because I'm up on the bunk and he has bent over to pull his feet through the leg holes of his shorts. Then he flops back on the futon and I see that he is naked from the waist down.

And it is amazing.

Porter, if anything, sold it short. It is so long you almost forget what the base looked like by the time your eyes reach the tip. It is thin, but it must be a foot long. I think I'm drooling a bit on Dexter's pillow, which is kind of exciting all on its own.

The other guys in the room are silent, and then it hits me--everyone in here is staring at one of their teammates who is showing off his third leg. Doesn't this strike any of them as odd? And what is he going to do now?

Diggler glances around the room, checking that all eyes are on him (he doesn't look up to the balcony, where I lie, gaping). Then he grasps his cock firmly with both hands, and he leans forward.

Oh my god is he going to...? Yep, he is.

As he leans forward, he sticks out his tongue and touches it to his cock. I hear one of the guys below me gasp. Diggler's tongue flicks around the head of his cock, and the shock and envy in the room is almost palpable.

But he's just getting started.

He suddenly opens his mouth wide, crunches up his abs, and takes the top four or five inches of his cock into his mouth. He's sucking his own cock! The gasper below me makes another soft cry of amazement, and I hear several of the guys in the room shift around as if they too have suddenly sprung wood like me.

Now that Diggler has accomplished the enviable feat of stuffing his own cock into his mouth, I expect the show is over. That would be enough to secure his reputation for length far and wide. But as soon as he pulls back, leaving his dick shiny and wet, he plunges down again, taking maybe even a little more of his cock into his mouth. He repeats this motion several times.

Is he really gonna? No, he wouldn't. Would he?

As his head bobs up and down more and more quickly, the room is silent except for the sound of his exertions. I don't think anyone else is breathing. I notice that his balls are starting to pull up a bit--they're dwarfed by his cock, of course, but they seem a bit on the small side in any case. Now they are snuggled tightly against the base of his towering member.

He lets out a small groan, and pulls his mouth off his cock for the first time since he started. He grips the thin pole even more viciously, and about every third stroke he swoops down and throats his cock again. His pace is increasing, and it's clear he's about to blow.

He sits bolt upright, clenching on his cock, and groans a deep rumble. I expect the blast is going to hit the ceiling, given the caliber of the weapon, but Diggler's cock instead oozes milky liquid from the tip which runs over his hands and paints the length of his prick all the way down. He closes his eyes and sighs, which makes his about the least boisterous orgasm I've ever witnessed. It seems a little too little for such a bizarrely public performance.

Meanwhile, the sharp scent of Diggler's cum is hitting the nostrils of his audience. I have found, in my checkered past, that nothing will clear a room of straight men quite as quickly as the smell of another man's semen. There is a concerted shuffling toward the door, and only one of the guys says anything at all--a murmured "Dude," intoned in equal measures of wonder and embarrassment.

The last one out closes the door, leaving just me and the now drained Diggler. He drops his cock, which flops out before him, dripping a bit onto the futon, and leans back. He wipes his hands on his boxer shorts, which are crumpled next to him. I suddenly realize that he doesn't know I'm here.

I'm about to announce my presence (with what words I have no idea, because what does one say after such a performance?) when I hear noise from the futon--Diggler is crying. Crying! Why a guy with a foot-long cock is crying after having made all of his super-meaty teammates green with envy is beyond me. But there he sits, sobbing quietly, still naked from the waist down. His cock, meanwhile, has shrunk to a mere 10 or 11 inches. The guy is clearly a show-er, not a grow-er. But, of course, I've already seen the show.

I can't just lie here forever--it feels creepy. I first rock my hips side to side to judge the status of my hard-on--it has faded to merely stiff from the rock-hardness it attained during the show. Should be presentable.

"Dude?" I say, as quietly and calmly as I can. I don't want to scare him, or embarrass him any more than I have to. Despite the exhibitionistic display, I can sense that he could be very upset that someone's watching this aftermath.

He startles, looks up at me, and jumps to his feet and thrashes about trying to pull his shorts on.

"Hey, don't freak out," I say calmly, hoping that he won't hop around with one foot caught in his shorts and crash into the TV.

"What are you doing up there?" he asks, clearly upset.

"I was just watching the show, man," I reply, making my way down off the bunk. "The orchestra was full when I got here, so I headed for the cheap seats."

He stares at me, now realizing that I'm not one of his teammates.

"Who are you?" he asks, angrily.

"I'm Josh. I'm Dexter and Porter's roommate. And," I add, with what I hope is a winning smile, "I'm your biggest fan."

This seems to make him even more upset.

"Well, the show's over," he says with an air of grim finality, and begins slipping on his shoes.

"It was awesome," I say, unable to hold back any longer.

"Huh," is his only reply, which I'm not sure whether to count as a chuckle or a grunt of disgust. He's clearly still upset, and a rational person would simply fall silent and let him escape.

"So, how long have you been able to do that?"

See, not rational.

He looks at me, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth quivering. He seems to be working something out in his head--like differential equations--and then he sighs again.