Roger, Over and Out

Before you start reading this, you should know that this story is not your typical First Time tale. If frank discussion of LBGTQ concepts, blurred lines regarding gender and sexuality, and sex that isn't 100% heterosexual makes you uncomfortable, then this story may not be for you. There's also brief references to a horrible abusive parent (physically and emotionally but NOT sexually) in one character's distant past, so if such references are deeply upsetting for you, I wanted to give you fair warning up front. It's a very brief bit, and karmic justice was served, if that helps any.

If you're still reading this, I hope that you enjoy this short story, and understand that it is told from a place of positive intent, and informed and inspired by first-hand accounts from people I know personally. I'd like to think and hope that I am presenting things appropriately and respectfully, but there's always room in one's mind to learn more.

All characters in this story are over eighteen years of age, and were also eighteen or older for any sexual activities referenced in their past. All characters are my own creation, and any direct resemblance to persons real or fictional is unintended and coincidental -- except in one case, where it's just a quick throwaway joke about resembling a particular anime character.

Without any further ado -- on with the show!

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ROGER. OVER AND OUT

by MisterWildCard

I'm a student at a small midwestern college, and I never imagined this would happen to me. And if that wasn't already cliché enough, I've got another one for you: call me Ishmael. No really, that's my name -- Ishmael Rosenbaum. My parents named me for an old friend of theirs who died saving my dad's life. And while I'm grateful to that guy, Ishmael Ghorbani, who from all the stories was a really amazing human being, my parents didn't stop and think about the consequences of my name. So let's just get it out of the way -- I've heard every "Moby Dick" joke possible, and I'm just bored with it at this point, so let's acknowledge it and move on.

This all began a few weeks ago, at the start of my freshman year at Ellwood College. It's a small Quaker school that really puts the "Liberal" in Liberal Arts. You get people from all over the world here, from all walks of life, and the school's mission is to give their students a broad-minded understanding of the different kind of people that live in this world.

I got to campus early on "opening day", and went through the whole endless array of hugs and tears and goodbyes from my overly demonstrative parents. They hit the road before lunch, and I was still working on unpacking my boxes and suitcases when I heard a knock on my open dorm room door.

"Hey, are you Mister Rosenbaum?" I looked up and turned to see a middle-aged guy standing there, holding a giant cardboard box under one arm, and the roommate assignment letter in the other hand. He had salt-and-pepper close-cut hair and a trimmed beard, and a wide smile on his face. He was a big guy, too, at least a few inches taller than my lanky six foot frame, with a body shaped like a barrel of bourbon. "I'm Roger O'Malley, pleased to meet ya." He dropped his box on the opposite bed, and held out a huge hand for a shake.

"Just Ishmael, please. 'Mister Rosenbaum' is what folks call my dad -- and it's nice to finally meet you in person." I took the handshake, and thankfully he didn't feel the need to prove his obviously massive strength by crushing my hand like a grape. "I didn't realize you were older, though -- I thought I was rooming with someone my age?"

The bearded giant let out a hearty laugh. "Nah, not me! I'm just another dad. You're rooming with Junior." He paused here, looking me right in the eyes. "My son."

"Dad, we talked about this..." Another figure appeared in the doorframe, and my immediate first impression was My god, I'm rooming with a Boy Band singer. "Junior" was several inches shorter than me, with a narrow face. His black hair was buzzed very short on the sides, but the top was much longer, and styled into a slightly spiky wave. I liked it, it was stylish without seeming pretentious. He had large eyes, soft features, and he had no doubt knocked the girls back home for a loop with those pretty-boy looks. As he stepped in, holding another giant box in both hands in front of him, he took one look at me and stopped dead in his tracks. "...Whoa."

I laughed and struck a deliberately ridiculous pose, like a male model. "It's the hair, right?" I have really long and bright red hair, which I will have to admit I'm really proud of. You don't see a lot of redheaded Jews, so I tend to stand out a little -- and I'll cop to it, I like the extra attention. At that moment, my hair was pulled back into a ponytail, so I reached back and pulled the tie free, letting my hair float down around my shoulders. Yes, I've practiced this move in the mirror -- you would too, if you had hot girls at your high school begging to run their fingers through your hair.

Junior couldn't stop staring. "T-Touga..."

I looked down at my outfit. "Toga? Ah, no, more like a golf shirt and cargo shorts, actually."

The prettyboy shook his head. "Sorry, had a big case of déjà vu there. You look disturbingly like a character from one of my favorite anime, whose name was Kiryu Touga." He cleared his throat and moved into the room, setting down his box. "Sorry, I'm a big anime nerd. I hope that's not a problem?"

I looked to his dad, who just shrugged, and I shrugged in kind. "A girlfriend in high school dragged me to see 'Spirited Away' once, that's anime, right? I don't know much about it, but it's not like I've got anything against it." I pointed to a signed and framed poster of HOT FUZZ that I'd already set up on my side of the wall. "I'm a bit too obsessed with British stuff, don't have a lot of room in my head for anything else."

Mister O'Malley laughed. "I'll get the next box, you two probably have a lot to talk about."

As his father left, the younger Roger looked at me critically. "Favorite author?"

I held out two hands, as if weighing options on a scale. "Toss up between Agatha Christie and Terry Pratchett."

Roger nodded, brushing off the front of his baggy sweatshirt and loose jeans. It was hard to get a sense of his build with loose clothes like that, but he seemed pretty slender. "Favorite Brit-com?"

I didn't even hesitate. "'As Time Goes By'. God Save Dame Judi Dench."

He pursed his lips. "Huh, don't know that one." As he ripped open the top of the box he'd brought in, he kept going. "Favorite movie?"

I wordlessly pointed over my shoulder with my thumb at the HOT FUZZ poster.

"Right, silly question." Clothing got pulled out of his box, and stacked on the bed. "Is quoting Monty Python going to get me smacked, or get me smiles?"

I made a fake-stern face. "It depends on whether or not you bring me... A SHRUBBERY!"

That got a good laugh out of him. "Oh, we're going to get along just fine."

"What about you, 'Junior'?" I half-turned to one of my own boxes, checking to make sure I hadn't left anything hidden in the bottom folds. "What would your answers to those sort of questions be?"

"Please, just call me Roger. In your case, the answer to every question boils down to 'I could tell you, but it's likely someone or something from Japan that you've never heard of.' Although if you give me a chance, I can provide a crash course as part of my roommate-dues."

"Roommate-dues?" I unfolded the bottom of the box, and flattened it.

"Yup!" He walked over to the second box, and popped the lid. "If we're going to live under the same roof for a year, we're probably going to get on each other's nerves, just for breathing the wrong way or something." He lifted out a box with a picture of a big white robot on it. "So to make up for that, we should each make a point of doing nice little favors for each other, here and there."

I sat down on the edge of my bed. "What, like sweeping the whole room while the other person's out, grabbing a second burger at the drive-thru, that sort of thing?"

Roger grinned. "Exactly! Man, this is off to a good start." He opened the box, and gave a sigh of relief at whatever was inside. "Thank god, nothing broke." As he lifted a plastic robot out of the box, he continued. "But it's gotta be both ways. If one of us just does all the nice stuff and doesn't get anything nice in return, then someone's being an asshole."

"Well, let me start that off, then." I pointed out the window at the parking lot. "I've already got all my boxes and bags inside, so I'll go and help your dad unload his car or truck or whatever, so you can start getting your stuff organized."

Roger actually bowed. "This is awesome, and you are awesome. Thanks, Ishmael."

With that, I headed out the door, and found Roger Senior outside, pulling box after box out of a small trailer hitched to a nicely-maintained Toyota midsize. "Hey, Mister O'Malley, mind if I help bring those in?" With the two of us working together, we had Roger Junior's boxes brought inside in short order, and it wasn't long before our room started taking shape into something fairly cozy.

The only awkward moment was when I picked up a box marked "toys", which Roger immediately grabbed out of my hands while blushing up a storm, pushing the box far under his bed. I didn't see what the big deal was, considering he'd already brought out a dozen or more little robot action figures, but hey, it was his stuff.

At one point while I was out in the hall, coming back from a bathroom break, I overheard father and son talking:

"He seems... nice."

"Sure does, dad. Don't worry about it."

"Junior, I can't help it. I worry. What if he finds out and freaks out on you?"

"Dad, STOP. Not everyone's like Mom. And this campus is one of the most progressive and safe places on the planet, I'm not going to run into red-hat bigots around here. And even if I did... I'll be fine."

"I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad. Oh come on, stop crying! You're gonna make me cry now!"

I went back to the lobby and gave them a few minutes.

A bit later, I came back with an armful of cold drinks from the basement vending machine, which was greeted with much appreciation. "Check it out, son! Ishmael's already two up on you on roommate-dues!"

I laughed as I handed Mister O'Malley a Diet Coke. "Yeah, Roger was telling me about that. Sounds like a good idea to me!"

"Yeah, I came up with the idea when I was in college," Mister O'Malley said. "Worked out pretty well!" He looked around the room, taking in the posters, filled bookshelves, and the lit display case full of plastic robot figures. "But I think I'm just putting off the inevitable at this point. Junior, it's time for me to go." He stood up, and swept his son into a huge bearhug. "Be safe, son."

"I will, Dad. I promise. Text me when you make it home safe, okay?"

"Oh, that reminds me!" Mister O'Malley pointed to a bookbag hanging off Roger's desk chair. "There's a box of a dozen condoms in there for you..."

"And like that, you've ruined it!" Roger glanced at me while laughing nervously.

I chuckled. "My parents did the same thing, dude, it's cool." I opened a desk drawer, and pulled up a long strip of condom wrappers. "It's all good."

"See? Trust your old man, Junior." Grabbing his boy for one more hug, the big man was fighting back tears. "If I don't leave now, it'll be impossible to get rid of me."

"So GO, you big lug! Before you make me cry again!"

They shared a last quiet hug, and then Mister O'Malley walked out, closing the door behind him with a wave.

Roger let out a long breath, and collapsed back onto his newly made bed.

I busied myself with organizing my bookshelf, but a few minutes later, Roger spoke up again. "So... um... I guess I missed your folks?"

"Yeah, we got here super-early. Don't sweat it, though — they live like an hour away, they'll probably be back around in no time for a visit. You'll meet 'em before long." I continued with my shelving.

"So, you were gone for awhile that one time."

I turned and looked back at Roger - he was sitting crosslegged on his bed, watching me. "Well, I figured you and your dad probably wanted some father-son time or something. He obviously cares a lot."

"He does, yeah. He's super-protective, I was a little worried he wasn't going to let me live on-campus without him around." He was fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt. "Look, I'll just say it. Did you hear me and him talking?"

I shrugged. "A little bit, yeah, before I decided to make a drink run."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What did you hear?"

I sat down on my bed, facing him, and opened another Coke Zero. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But I know you're worried I'm going to freak out about something, like your mom apparently did." I took a sip. "That was when I figured I was hearing too much, and went downstairs for drinks."

Roger digested that, looking down at his hands. "So. Yeah." He let out a long breath, looked up, and stared outside the window for a long moment. "I'm... pansexual."

I took another sip. "Okay."

He looked up. "'Okay'?"

"Yeah. I mean, that's kinda like being bisexual, right?"

A wave of emotions ran across his face. "Eh. Kinda, sorta, not really... but close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades, I guess. You're okay with this?"

I shrugged. "I know plenty of LBGTQ folks back home. My neighborhood's pretty laid back." I took another sip, and pursed my lips. "If it helps you feel any better, I'll trade your secret for one of mine." I shook the now-empty can, and tossed it into the garbage can near the door. "Last May, I got dumped at my Senior Prom, by Jessica Steinhaus, my girlfriend of seven months. That's not the secret part, I'll get to that in a second."

Roger nodded, leaning forward to listen.

"She dumped me in front of the entire school, loudly yelling out how she had been hooking up with Dave Louis, because he had an eleven inch dick who made her feel like a 'real woman', and that I was just a tiny little boy in comparison."

Roger's jaw dropped. "What a bitch!"

"Pretty much. I'm still wondering what I saw in her, besides her having giant tits." I scratched behind my ear. "I left prom in a hurry after that, with Mitzi and Roy, two of my oldest friends who'd been dating since eighth grade, and we got stinking drunk. I mean under-the-table wasted. And while I'm sitting there in Mitzi's basement living room feeling sorry for myself, both of them suddenly decided that they needed to make me feel better — by pulling off my pants and going down on me."

I looked up, and sure enough, Roger's jaw was hanging open. "Both of them?"

"Both, yeah. And it felt... pretty good. Came harder than I ever had with Jessica, and Roy swallowed every drop while Mitzi watched. But I was so drunk, I literally didn't care who was between my legs." I picked up another can, but then decided against it and set it down. "Roy and Mitzi were really nervous about it afterwards, until they worked up the nerve to ask me how I felt about it a few days later... and then invited me to a threesome."

"Whoa. Never done that."

"I won't lie, it was a little weird. Like everyone was just... trying too hard, which just made it awkward. I came in Roy's mouth again that night, while Mitzi played with herself watching us. It was okay, but... meh." I shrugged. "So I'm pretty sure I prefer women, but obviously some part of me is into guys too, or at least doesn't mind the idea. So that makes me a little bi, I guess." I shrugged. "Does that help at all? Outing myself, so to speak?"

"Actually, yeah. It does, thanks." Roger stood up. "So you're not freaked?"

"Nah. I mean, unless you're hiding another secret, like it turns out you're actually Henry the Eighth, returned from the grave to stir up more shit, I think we're good."

Roger flashed a half-smile. "I'm pretty sure I'm not a British King."

"See? We're all good, then."

The next few days went by in a blur. Roger and I got swept up into the whole "New Student Orientation" process, which ran the gamut from amusing to dull, from fun to annoying, and everything in between. We both made new friends, but still made a point of hanging out together.

We compared notes on who among our classmates we found "enticing", as Roger put it, and found a few similarities. We both thought that Michelle Delgado, the stacked brunette down the hall, was an absolute feast for the eyes, especially since she only seemed to wear yoga pants and tight t-shirts everywhere, leaving nothing to the imagination. Even so, I thought that Johanna Nguyen, who lived in the next dorm over, was probably a better prospect for me -- we'd made lingering eye contact a few times during some of the orientation talks, and I found out that she was in the same Beginning Acting class that Roger and I shared, so I intended to investigate that to the fullest.

Roger had some prospects of his own as well, as it turned out. On the fourth night of orientation week, I went down into the basement to refill on vending machine snacks, when I heard some odd sounds from the laundry room. I peeked around the corner, and saw the back of Lawrence Luciano, a veritable mountain of muscle who had enrolled here specifically to join the men's lacrosse team. He had his pants down around his ankles... and Roger was kneeling in front of him. I stepped back from the door before Roger saw me, and I was about to turn and quietly sneak away to leave Roger to his fun, when I heard Lawrence utter the following words:

"You tell anyone about this, you little pansy, and I'll fucking kill you. Now suck it."

That stopped me cold. This was way beyond "talk dirty to me", threats like that were just sick, and I turned back around again, trying to figure out what I was about to do, when Roger spoke up. "The hell? Fuck you, Lawrence. Don't you dare fucking threaten me." I heard Roger stand up. "Get out of my dorm, and don't you ever talk to me again."

"Get back down there, faggot, we're not done ye---OH GOD!" I rounded the corner, hands raised, only to find that Lawrence was doubled over, clutching his crotch. Roger had just kneed him right in the balls, and stood over him ready to dish out more.

"You ever so much as look at me again, Lawrence, and I will end y-- Ishmael?" Roger's eyes went wide, and in that moment, Lawrence reached up and grabbed Roger's shirt, trying to pull himself up. Roger pulled away, but Lawrence's grip was like steel, and the t-shirt ripped open like tissue paper.

Underneath Roger's shirt was a pair of breasts. They were bound down by a tight wrap, but the cleavage and overall shape were unmistakable.

"You ASSHOLE!" Roger's open-hand slap rang out across Lawrence's face like a gunshot, and Lawrence went down like a ragdoll. Roger walked up to me, took a deep breath, and held out a slightly shaking hand, the palm bright red from that huge strike. "Ishmael, can I borrow your shirt, please?" Without a word, I pulled off my own t-shirt, and handed it over. Roger slipped it on, took a deep breath, and mumbled out, "Come on. I'll give it back in our room. We need to talk."

As we walked up the two flights to our room, I thought back over the last few days. Roger had always gotten dressed in the bathroom rather than in our room, or waited until I wasn't around, but I had just figured that was shyness rather than anything else. A few dozen questions flitted through my mind, but I threw all of them away just as quickly -- I didn't need to know. Roger wanted to talk, so I'd let Roger talk, and I'd just listen. Roger was my friend, and my roommate. Having breasts didn't change that.

Moments later, I was sitting on my bed, and Roger was pulling off my shirt, and then the tattered remains of the shirt Lawrence had clumsily destroyed. My shirt was thrown onto my bed, and Roger sat down across from me on the other bed. "I'm not Henry the Eighth," Roger said.