Cupid's Sophomore Year, Semester 01

It feels so good to be back with my boys. Dinner can wait.

# 7 #

Saturday morning I discover an unfortunate fact: at 10am the sun sneaks up and blasts through my window, directly on my pillow. Stupid sun.

Completely exhausted from my "reunion" with Calvin and Reese, I reach over and try to adjust the curtains, but the light is glaring through the gap between the curtain and the window frame (I whisper my expletive-laced thanks to the U for providing interior design by the lowest bidder) and I can't block it. Now I'm awake, though, so I might as well get up.

I'm supposed to meet Diggler for lunch today--it took me several dozen text messages to get him to agree to talk with me about some ideas I have for his problem. I'm a problem solver, I am. Especially when the problem involves a dick that's simply too long. Oh, I have ideas.

Seth is snoring away opposite, oblivious to the sun, and to my somewhat clumsy descent from my bunk (the boys got a bit frisky last night, so I step gingerly). The door to the twins' room is open, and they are apparently already at the gym doing their KGB assassin-training calisthenics or whatever. I head for the kitchenette to nuke some water for coffee. The sludge they serve in the commons is horrifying, so I keep a french press in the suite.

Heh--french press. Sounds like what Reese did to me last night.

Fortified by the coffee, I go for a run, and then get washed and dressed. I walk a couple of blocks to lunch with Diggler. I suggested that we meet off-campus, since I don't think he'd want to be overheard by anyone he knows. Even so, I'm not sure he's going to show. I grab a booth near the back, and wait.

It's nearly 12:30 by the time he finally slips in the door, looking furtively around the place until he sees me waving at him. He hustles over, apparently eager for the privacy of the booth. He slides in opposite me, his eyes sweeping the room again. It's like something out of a Grisham novel.

"Were you followed?" I whisper, looking around the room like a spook. His panicked expression tells me that he doesn't get the joke. "Just kidding," I laugh. "You act like you just snuck secret plans out of the embassy."

He smiles slightly, and shrugs, and blushes a bit. I hadn't really noticed before that he's kind of cute.

"Sorry," he says, shrugging again. "I just feel kind of funny about this, is all."

"Funny about lunch? What, you don't normally eat?"

"No, about meeting you. And," he looks around again, "I've never been here. What kind of place is it?"

"It's a restaurant. They serve food here."

"I know that. But it is a..." he leans over the table to whisper to me, "A gay restaurant?"

"Well, it kind of looks that way when you lean across the table and whisper in my ear."

Again, the joke thing doesn't work. I've got to try to stop trying to lighten the mood.

"No, it's just the usual boulangerie-style sandwich-cafe thing," I assure him, as earnestly as possible.

"There are so many plants." He says this as if I surely must have been thinking the same thing. "Seems kind of gay."

"Yes, there are many plants," I say, slowly, trying to calm him down a bit. "Why don't you take a look at the menu and pick something to eat? That'll take your mind off all the suspicious greenery."

He reviews his options on the menu, frowning a bit. "It seems kind of fancy," he says, in the same tone of voice one might use to call attention to dog crap on someone's shoe.

"Look, I have not lured you to a den of iniquity to seduce you with a triple-decker sin sandwich covered with fancy, fancy gruyere cheese, under a canopy of gay ficus plants. This is just a restaurant, and this is just lunch. Think you can get the heck over it, please?"

He blushes a bit and looks a bit ashamed at me. "Sorry," he says, "I'm just nervous, I guess."

"Well, take a deep breath, pick a sandwich, and take a swig of this camomile iced tea with lavender sugar." I push my glass across the table to him, and he looks at it.

"Sounds kind of--" He stops short when he sees my nostrils flare. "Kind of delicious, is what I was going to say," he blurts, smiling anxiously. He takes a sip.

"Not bad," he says. I just hope the herbs relax him a bit. The waiter appears at this moment of relative calm, adorable eyebrows raised in expectation that I will finally order. I don't know where the management keeps finding these beautiful specimens of the waiterly arts, but I wholeheartedly approve of their hiring priorities.

"So, the artisanal sausage..." I begin, glancing at the menu, "How is that?"

His eyes light up. "It's an amazing blend of local pork and heirloom herbs. Delicious. But," he leans in a bit, "It's often too much for one person."

"How big is it?" I ask, innocently. I've been flirting with waiters since I was five years old.

"Nearly a foot long," he says in an awed whisper.

I notice Diggler blushing furiously.

"Well, Dig, what do you think? Want to share a foot-long with me?"

He makes a weird gasping noise, and presses his hand to his brow. I'm getting really worried about whether he's still breathing when he finally bursts out laughing. Finally, I think I'm reaching him!

"That would be great," he says, a little too loudly. "Let's definitely share a foot-long sausage. We can even take turns biting off the end, how would that be?" More maniacal laughter. He sounds a bit unhinged.

The waiter, ever helpful, says, "Oh, no, sir, I'll have them cut it in half. That'll be no problem at all. Now, would you like an ice tea of your own?" A sly grin appears at the corner of his mouth.

Diggler sighs, surrendering. "Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks."

The waiter nods gravely, and retreats. Diggler glares at me.

"Is this all a big joke to you?" he mutters, accusingly.

"Most things are a big joke to me," I reply. "I find it's better to laugh about things than to cry about them, any day."

"Well, it seems like you're laughing at me." He looks down at the table.

"No, no, I'm not--really! It's just that if you get all depressed and dismal about what's bothering you, nothing's going to help."

"I don't think anything's going to help anyway."

His ice tea arrives, and he takes a swig.

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," I say, pulling out my laptop. "I have a plan for you." I turn the computer toward him, showing him the chart on the screen.

"What's this?"

"It's my plan for you."

He squints at the screen. "You're going to fix my junk with a flowchart?"

"Yeah...no." Deep breath. "My theory is that you haven't had the right stimulation, because you haven't given yourself a chance to find what that is. So, this is a sequence of stimuli that you're going to try. See, here," I point to the first box in the chart, "This is the first thing you do. There are three porn sites listed here that I want you to visit, and see how the big guy reacts. Then you go to the next box, and try those."

He studies the chart.

"This is a lot of porn--it would cost a fortune."

"That's the beauty of my plan. I have a friend who works for a porn site, and he got me a pass that you can use for all of these."

"He just gave you that for free?"

"Well, I told him about your problem, and he was very eager to help." Nick was also very eager to recruit Diggler to work for his site. I don't tell him this.

"So, let's say one of these sites works for me--how does that help?"

"It will give us a sense of what works for you. Once we know what turns your crank, we'll be able to move into real-world testing."

Diggler nods slowly, frowns a bit, then nods more definitely.

"OK, I'm game. Can you send me this chart?"

"Of course. But first you have to agree to view whatever the chart tells you to. No matter what. We have to approach this scientifically."

He looks at me, hard. I can see that he's trying to decide whether he can really trust me.

"Promise?" I prompt.

"Promise," he says, with a sigh of resignation.

"Excellent. I'll email this to you right now."

As I slide my laptop back into my bag, our sandwiches arrive. Diggler stares down at his.

"This would be easier, you know," he says, under his breath.

"What would?"

"Just to cut it down to size."

My turn to gasp. "Oh, hell no! You don't cut the Eiffel Tower in half because people get winded climbing the stairs! All we need to do is find the person who will appreciate--who deserves--what you have."

He looks up at me, eyes glistening a bit, blinking.

"You're...amazing," he says, softly, then looks back down.

"Pssh. I'm just a good judge of character. I can tell that there's a pretty great guy attached to that Eiffel Tower." He blushes, sips his drink. "Now, chow down on your sausage."

I wonder if chamomile tea stings when it shoots out one's nose. By the time he finally stops laughing, I've forgotten to ask him.

# 8 #

Saturday evening comes hot and sticky--the last gasp of summer before school starts, just to remind us what we're going to be missing out on once classes gear up. Tonight is the welcome-back mixer for the Pride Alliance, and as VP I'm pretty much expected to host the event. We're holding it in the student center, in a room that the decorations committee (sorry, "Team Fabulous"--they made me promise to call them that) has transformed into a tiki paradise. Little white lights glitter from the ceiling, palm trees adorn the walls, and there's a genuine tropical vibe to the whole deal. I just hope I'll find my way under someone's grass skirt tonight.

The crowd is larger than I'd expected it to be--lots of new faces, and some familiar ones that I wouldn't mind getting more familiar with. I work the room a bit, then circle back around to my likeliest prospect. Yes, I am using an official event of the Pride Alliance as a hook-up opportunity. I definitely did not sign a vow of chastity when I ran for VP.

"Hey, Mitchell, good to see you."

"Hey, man, you too. How was your summer?"

"Can't complain. Yours?"

"It was awesome. Spent the whole thing at the beach. Pulled a few kids out of the waves, collected a nice paycheck."

I met Mitchell during the spring semester when he showed up as a model in my Life Drawing class. As soon as he walked into the studio he took my breath away. He was beautiful in regular clothes, but when he posed with his shirt off I was barely able to hold a pencil. Then, second hour, he took it all off, and I would have had better luck dipping my cock in paint and trying to capture his likeness that way. He was tan all over, and he had the most gorgeous body, top to bottom. Oh, that bottom.

"So," I venture, testing the waters a bit, "You're here."

"Yep, I'm here," he nods.

"Does that mean that you've decided?"

Mitchell, I'd found out once I chased him down after class, was on the horns of a dilemma. He had dated women since high school, but lately had started to draw some interest from men (not hard to figure out why, since he looked like six feet of sex), and that had made him a bit curious. I, naturally, had tried to help him in his struggle of self-definition. Alas, summer came before I could really lay hands on the issue.

"I think so. I mean, I'm open to new...stuff." He looked at me with arched eyebrows. God, I hope he means he's open to my stuff.

"I see. That's terrific. Is there anything I can do to, um...help you? With your...stuff?"

"You know, I think there might be," he says, then sips his drink and grins at me. Hot damn. "How 'bout we slip out of here and we'll see?"

Oh hell yes.

"I think that that can be arranged. Give me five."

He nods and smiles, and I make a lightning circuit of the room, welcoming the newcomers and expressing regrets for my sudden need to depart. Emergency, can't be helped, you stay and have fun, don't worry about me. Then I'm back to Mitchell.

"Let's go," I mutter as I walk briskly past him. He glances around, then follows me out. In the hall we're giggling like middle school girls, pleased indeed with our transgression. He leads the way to his car--it hadn't occurred to me that he would live off campus. I'm fine with that, though, since it's hard to be intimate in a dorm room without shocking the roommate. Or the neighbors. Or people walking by outside--I tend to be a little loud sometimes.

Mitchell's place turns out to be a tidy little studio stuffed into the rafters of a big old house a dozen or so blocks from campus. Standing in the place that is his alone gives me a pang of jealousy, but then I remember that my living alone would mean not having the twins' asses to look at in the morning as they groom. Seems kind of a stiff price.

Mitchell sits on the bed, looking expectantly at me. I sit next to him, and I can suddenly feel the nervousness radiating from him.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, I am," he says, uncertainly. "This is what I want."

I'm still not believing him. But before I can try to reassure him that we'll take this as slowly as he needs to, he suddenly clamps his mouth on mine with a force that's a little terrifying, honestly.

Is he kissing me?

He's doing this sort of licking-slopping-smacking thing that makes me wonder whether he's trying to chew my gum for me. But I'm not chewing gum.

I try to ease him up a little by grabbing his jaw with my hands, holding him down so that I can actually try to kiss him, because I've dreamed of this moment, of kissing him, and it was romantic and hot and not at all like having a Saint Bernard maul you, which is what this feels like.

"Whoa, dude, slow down," I murmur, hoping to come off suave and suggestive. I just don't want to get my tonsils hoovered out.

"You're making me so fucking hot!" he blurts, again lunging for my mouth.

I'm trying to figure out what I might have done to provoke this reaction, but I'm kind of distracted by worrying about whether my fillings are still in place--such is the force of his rummaging through my oral cavity. Jesus he's going to be tasting the burrito I had for dinner if he keeps at it!

I push him back, with effort.

"Mitch, buddy, take a breath," I finally manage to say through all of the saliva pooling in my mouth. It's mostly his.

His only response is to fix me with a somewhat savage glare. Then he whips off his shirt, and--I wish I were kidding here--his pecs start to jump, in turn, like a meat see-saw.

"Do you want to fuck this?" he growls at me.

"What?" is the only thing I can think to say. What, exactly, am I supposed to want to fuck--his bouncing boobs? They're nice and all--if anything, he's got an even more amazing body than I remember from art class--but I don't know what the hell he wants from me.

He reaches for me, and in a blur of motion my shirt goes the way of his, and now we're both naked to the waist. Then he's on my mouth again, his tongue doing what feels like a swab for strep. And he keeps up this constant refrain of moaning and grunting that makes every laxative commercial I've ever seen spring horribly to mind.

I either have the take the initiative or smother him with a pillow. As murder tends to result in unfortunate mug shots, I decide on the former route. I break the squelching thing that he thinks is a kiss by putting both hands on his chest and pushing back firmly. Taken by surprise, he flops backward on the bed and looks up at me, stunned into silence. Thank god.

I pounce on him, straddling his hips, and begin undoing his pants. Perhaps if I get him naked and boned up he'll stop slobbering and grunting.

I reach my hand into his pants--gold mine!

He's not wearing underwear, the dirty boy, and my hand wraps around a hot shaft of throbbing cock. Actually, I can't quite wrap my hand around it, as it's just too thick. I remember his package being hefty in Life Drawing, but he's even bigger on the bone.

"Mitchell, you brought more to the party than I expected," I purr, fondling his prick but keeping it under wraps. I want him insane with anticipation before I unleash this monster.

"Oooh, fuck yeah," he breathes, his eye rolling back in his head.

Now that's more like it. I run my fingers up and down as he writhes beneath me.

"Oh, yeah, squeeze my cock, man, squeeze that fucking cock! You like that cock?"

I answer his insipid rambling by squeezing quite firmly.

"Aiee!" he squeaks, his body folding instinctively to protect the family jewels. He's panting suddenly, which I hope will keep him from talking any more.

"Sorry, bro," I whisper into his sweating face. "Got carried away. Lie back and I'll be more gentle with it."

He lies back on the bed again, somewhat gingerly, as if expecting that I might try to pinch his cock off at any moment. To reassure him, I undo the top button on his pants, and kiss the patch of golden skin that is exposed as I push the fabric open. I pull the zipper down a bit, and kiss the next bit of perfect flesh that appears. Zip, kiss, zip, kiss, and then I'm running my lips across the base of his cock, feeling the carefully trimmed pubes I remember from drawing class tickle across my nose. He is warm and tasty and I'm finally feeling like this date is going in the right direction--you know, down.

Then he starts up again.

"Oooooh, yeah, stud," he moans, thrashing his head around. I feel his hands on the back of my head, pushing me down onto his cock. "Fuck, yeah, lick that cock," he grunts, "Lick my fucking cock! You like that fucking cock, do you? Oh, shit, yeah!"

Oh hell no.

I shake his hands off my head, and sit up. I fully intend to tell him that this just isn't on, that I can't work his cock while he insists on working his jaw, but then I look at him, stretched out before me. He is fucking beautiful, and he has a charming sort of crestfallen look as he tries to figure out why I've stopped traveling down Fellatio Boulevard.

New plan.

"Hey, let's do this," I growl at him. "I'm going to give you the best fucking blowjob you have ever had."

"Oh, fuck, yeah," he groans, clearly pleased that I'm still interested.

"And in return..." I murmur.

"Yes?" he grunts, urgently. "Anything. Anything you want."

I smile.

"In return, you are going to be absolutely silent. No talking, no moaning, I don't even want to hear you breathe. Nothing. One sound, and I stop. Deal?"

He looks at me, clearly a bit puzzled. To seal the deal I reach out my right hand, and run my fingers slowly up the length of his beautiful member. It surges in response, and I know I've got him.

"Deal," he whispers, desperately, and then lays his head back down on the pillow.

Not wanting to allow time for second thoughts, I dive on his cock like an eagle on a garter snake. Or, more fittingly, a python. An anaconda. Dude is thick. I grab it up and sink the tip into my mouth. A sharp gasp escapes his lips, and I freeze.

"Sorry," he whispers. "Won't happen again. Promise." Then he closes his eyes and tries to breathe silently.

I turn my attention back to the big boy in my hand, which is throbbing now and steely hard. It occurs to me that this may be the first time that his cock has felt the inside of a guy's mouth, and the realization makes me giddy. I am eager to welcome him to his new orientation, and I stroke the fat length and suck hard on the plump head.

Looking up from my work, I can see Mitchell writhing in silence. He is clasping the sheets in both hands, knuckles white, and a misty sweat is breaking out across his chest. His nipples stiffen as evaporation cools them. He's thrusting into my mouth now, his abs flexing and stretching as they force his cock further toward my throat.

I pull off his cock, grip it tightly in my hand, and then spit on it to really get it lubed up. Mitchell's back arches, and I can hear his feet behind me struggle for purchase on the blanket as he thrashes. I stroke hard and fast, enjoying the stressed urgency that is coursing through his body.