Rory and Sebastian Ch. 18bysebastiando©
After Nathan, there was Matty and then Eric. Matty was a good looking guy, but he was far too aware of it, and while he was great to look at in bed, like most people who've been told they're beautiful their entire lives, he made no real effort -- either in bed or out of it. Eric was a pretty musical theatre student from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, near our college, but after we slept together, he told me that he had a boyfriend back home in Canada and I got pretty pissed. I told him I didn't want to get caught up in anything like that and left. Fuck, I was angry that night. It brought back a lot of memories that I was keen to avoid and I was livid that someone could glibly hop into bed with someone who wasn't their boyfriend, when I'd torn myself up about one kiss. One that I hadn't even particularly wanted. People always have the power to surprise you and usually in a bad way.
There was also four guys who I really enjoyed having sex with -- Steve, Joe, John and Paul. Steve was a good-looking bisexual guy from Belfast, with spiky brown hair and a cute smile. We'd been friends since we both took a class in Spanish history together in first semester and I liked him a lot. Steve was open, engaging, genuine, friendly and honest. One night we were talking about our sex lives and he was explaining how frustrating he found it when people reacted badly or rudely to the label of bisexuality.
"Dude, I think that's bullshit," I said, honestly. "Fuck! I'm sure it must be more frustrating to be bi than gay. At least most people believe being gay actually exists."
"Nah, I wouldn't want to say that," Steve said, quickly. "I wouldn't want to diminish anybody else's difficulties, you know? It's just frustrating when people act like you're confused or greedy or a nymphomaniac."
We ended up kissing as he left and as I slipped my hand up under his t-shirt, I felt him smile into our kiss. As I took him over to the bed, I felt how hard he was.
"Do you want to be on top?" I asked, removing my own sweater.
"No, Seb," he grinned. "I really, really want to be fucked tonight."
I could never pinpoint afterwards why exactly nothing ever happened between Steve and I. Or why even the question of something happening was never raised. After we were finished fucking, he got up and happily chatted to me as he got dressed, like nothing had happened. The next day, we were back to normal as friends. We drank together, socialized together, stayed as friends and what happened that night never seemed to have any discernible impact on either of us.
Joseph was a finalist student, also doing History, who I met one night when he was sitting next to me working frantically on his dissertation about the Irish War of Independence. I was working on a paper on the South Sea Bubble crisis and looked down in confusion when I'd absent-mindedly reached out to my pile of books and lifted back one entitled "Green against Green." At the same time, the guy opposite me at the library table was glancing down at a biography I'd been looking for called "The Great Outsider." We looked over at each other and our eyes met; he looked like an edgier version of Rory. Brown eyes that seemed to glitter solely through the force of his personality, brown hair (longer than Rory's) and a strange, enigmatic half-smile that seemed to be amused at both himself and the world, all in one go.
"I think this is yours," he said, handing over the biography. "Sorry, lad, I must have set some of my books on your pile. The stress'll do that to you."
I passed over his book on the Irish war. "Not a problem, dude," I smiled. I caught the Irish accent; warm and melodious. Different to Steve's; southern, rather than northern. Slightly less distinct and more musical. There were quite a few Irish students at college and I'd learned, roughly, when to tell the difference- well, that, coupled with the fact that half of Rory's cousins had been Irish and they're picky about that kind of thing.
"How's it going?" I asked, by way of keeping conversation going so that I didn't have to start working again right away. This topic was torture to write about.
"My dissertation," he said, ruefully. "Irish War of Independence. You?"
"South Sea crash. Ye Olde Recession," I joked. "You're a finalist, then?"
"For my sins, yes. It's hard going. First year?"
I answered in the affirmative and that was the beginning of my friendship with Joseph Dempsey. Joe was a nice guy, with a wicked sense of humor, but naturally shy and quite quiet. He had come-out in his gap year after high school and had dated the same guy for all of his time at university. Three months before we met, they had broken up and although he would seldom talk about it, you could tell his heart was still hurting.
We sat next to each other throughout spring term, working comfortably in the library. My work load was heavy and his was psychotic. One night, after I'd spent far more time in the company of William Pitt the Younger than I'd have liked and Joe had exhausted himself translating a document from Irish into English, we both went for a drink at a bar nearby. One drink turned into three and then into five and that turned into us making out furiously in his apartment. Fifteen minutes later and I was on my back with his sheathed cock sliding in and out of me. The sex was good and Joe was an amazing kisser, but during the kisses, I could sense his loneliness and his desperation. The unseen ghost of his dead relationship was in that room with us and as much as I liked him, it began to make me feel uncomfortable. Especially afterwards. Joe sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing my leg, but gazing off into the distance and slightly hunched over. I got up and kissed him on the cheek, before getting my clothes from where they'd scattered in our pre-sex rush.
"It's okay, Joe," I whispered. "We don't have to talk about this and nothing has to change. I get it. You're not over him and that's okay. I'll see you tomorrow."
We never slept together again and although we continued to work near one another in the library, I could tell he felt uncomfortable around me now. The friendship slowly died and four months later, Joe graduated with a first class honors degree. Part of his dissertation was later published academically and today, he's married with an adopted kid. He and his husband live near to the university where Joe teaches Irish history and his husband teaches something to do with science. From what I can tell, the husband is not the guy who broke Joe's heart in that final year of university. I'm glad about that and happy that Joe is happy. He deserves it and I know he'd be a great husband and father.
There is a tiny, tiny part of me that wonders what would have happened if Joe had reacted differently the first time after we slept together. While I wouldn't change the direction my life has gone in, there's no point in denying that it was simply a friendship that had spiraled into sex, like Steve and mine's had. I had grown to like Joe and, looking back on it, I definitely had a crush on him. His discomfort at the fact we'd slept together did hurt me, not least because I didn't like to see him upset. That encounter with Joe Dempsey was a bit of a turning-point for me. It reawakened a desire for something slightly more serious and I began to enjoy casual hook-ups a lot less than I had done before. In the bacchanalian last week of spring semester, I slept with two different guys -- a blond tennis player called John and a drama student called Paul. When I told my friend Helen that I'd slept with two guys called John and Paul, she made a joke about that being the name of the last pope and that maybe I had some secret fetish for Catholicism. Unbidden, the image of Rory arose in my head and conflated with Joe. The knowledge that I was beginning to look for something deeper moved from my unconscious into my conscious.
Joe Dempsey also changed something else in me. For months I'd happily been bed hopping and enjoying myself. Like I said, I don't regret it too much now and I love sex, but the image of him on the night we'd slept together made me realize that it wasn't always possible for sex just to be fun and devoid of attachments. Not everyone was going to be able to experience it in the same laissez-faire way that me, Steve, Will or Lewis could. Even they couldn't do it all the time. In April, Will broke off our friends-with-benefit style arrangement to pursue dating someone he actually cared about and Steve was dating a girl from our course by the time we left college for Easter.
Spring break was short for us and I didn't go back to Kent, but to Virginia to spend time with my grandparents and cousins. It was great and I had the best time; I begin to think about spending my summer out here. There'd certainly be more to do than in Kent. When I was on my own, I'd think back to my first year at college and about what I really wanted from my second. Since moving to London in September, I had slept with fifteen people: Patrick, Will, Ed, Lewis, Eric, Grant, Keith, Matty, Nathan, Philip, Tyler, Steve, Joe, John and Paul. Fifteen people in eight months isn't doing too badly, but it's not exactly great for your inner self-esteem, either, when you realize that not one of those people was interested in pursuing anything more serious with you.
By the time I returned to London, the final semester was taken up a lot with house hunting. I had decided to move in with two girls, my Irish friend Helen and her friend Jess, and a friend from my course, Peter. I figured if I moved in with any guys from the rugby team, I'd never get any work done and Pete, who played soccer for our college, had become a really good friend of mine over the last few months. He was funny, tall, lean and had a filthy sense of humor. He'd been dating his girlfriend, Ruth, since high school and she was so nice that none of us minded the fact that she'd been down to London to visit and stay fairly often once we had a house together.
That summer semester between April and June I ended-up having sex with four more people, despite my vague intention to quit the sex-heavy lifestyle. As if I was being taunted by what I was potentially distancing myself from, the sex with all four of those guys was absolutely fantastic. Jamie, an indie kid in the year above me with a cocky smirk and a "v" on his abs, fucked me so hard over my room's desk that I swear I had the elusive double male orgasm and shot a huge wad of spunk onto my laptop. Lee was a guy from my class who, by his own admission, planned to sleep with anything and everything until graduation. He was ridiculously arrogant and, I suspect, slightly stupid, but the sex was mind-blowing. Tim was a friend of Peter's, visiting from their home in Scotland; he was tall, like Peter, and thin, with cropped light brown hair and hazel eyes. Like Peter, he was a really sweet guy. He also turned out to have a massive cock, which I experienced firsthand (if you'll pardon the pun) after a game of shot roulette got out of hand one night, resulting in us stumbling into my room to fuck our brains out. He was easily about nine inches long and it hurt, in a good way, as I felt his head break in through my back door. Tim reminded me of myself in a lot of ways. He was laid back about sex and enjoyed it. He was on top first and then, when we'd gathered our breath, it was my turn. When it was over, he gave me a playful smirk and rubbed his ass, "Fuck, lad, I'll not be able to sit down properly for a week after that."
"Worth it," I laughed. "A good fuck is always worth it."
But it was the two nights that I went to bed with a guy called Harry that ended up teaching me the biggest lesson about myself and what I wanted in life. The sex with Harry was out of this world; a no-holds-barred fuck-fest. But the feelings that came along with it were far less enjoyable.
Harry, to be clear from the start, is over twenty years older than me. He's a businessman from Washington State, who my father used to work with and who never married, never settled down. I had vaguely remembered hearing about him, in passing, when my father was talking about a company he'd done some work for in Singapore, years earlier. But if he'd ever been to the house or met our family, I didn't remember him. On the afternoon when I submitted my last piece of work for the summer semester, I got a phone call from my dad.
"Hey, Dad. What's up?"
"Hey, son. Did you get your work handed in okay?"
"Yep. About twenty minutes ago."
"Bet that feels good?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. What's up?"
"I know you probably have plans to go out and celebrate tonight, but could you do me a favor?"
"Maybe," I said, instantly wary. I suspected I'd be asked to say hello to one of Dad's colleagues, who was in town on business but who Dad couldn't meet himself. Last time we'd been wheedled into this favor, Evan and I had ended up spending 90 minutes in conversation with a personality bypass number cruncher who couldn't talk about anything but the FTSE 100. Which I didn't know anything about and Evan didn't care anything about.
"Harry Martyn is in the City on business for a couple of nights and he's there on his own and he doesn't know anyone. He took me and your uncle Simon out for drinks when we were in Seattle and he's been a good friend to me. I'd like to take him out myself, but..."
"You're in Cardiff," I finished for him, with a smile.
"I'm in Cardiff," he said. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't ask on the last night of your semester, but Harry's been a great friend to me and Simon and he'd do the same if we were stuck in town for a few days with no one to show us around. He's working with a Japanese bank in the City and if you met him for a drink or coffee this evening, I know he'd really appreciate it."
I groaned but agreed. My parents had raised all of us to have manners and in fairness, any time Dad or Uncle Simon were staying where their close business partners lived or worked, them and their families were equally good to them. I knew Dad hated traveling and the loneliness that could come with it, which is why he was doing it less and less as he got older, and I figured I may as well do a family friend a solid and meet up with him for a pint. I took down Harry's number from my father, called him and arranged to meet him at a bar near his hotel in Mayfair at 7:30. That would give him time to arrange dinner plans for later, if he had any, and me time to meet up with my friends back at college, too.
As soon as I met Harry Martyn, my cock began to twitch. He was in his forties, I'd guess, and in great shape. His hair had a few streaks of silver, he was well-dressed, with a well-kept dark beard and a strong jaw. When he shook my hand, it was a strong handshake and he smelt of just the right amount of cologne. The man was definitely a silver fox. As we both ordered a beer and got to talking, he told me how he'd only been in London a few times, because his end of the business world was mostly with the States and Asia. He said he liked London as much as any big city, but since he had no real interest in history, he couldn't get as excited about it as he knew a lot of people would. He mentioned that he'd had to Google who Anne Boleyn and Thomas More were when his cabbie had pointed to the Tower of London as they drove past to tell him that's where the famous queen and the Catholic saint had died. I smiled politely at that and felt my attraction waning slightly. Even if you knew nothing about history, when someone points to the Tower of London and says a famous woman was beheaded inside it, at the very least some of the ads for "The Tudors" TV show should probably appear in your head. But when Harry got to talking about what he was good at -- namely business and sports -- he sounded less arrogant and less dismissive. He sounded upbeat and confident.
"Do you play any sports yourself, Sebastian?" he asked, over our second pint.
"Rugby and horse-riding," I said. "I like to swim, too."
"Rugby," he nodded. "Well, you've got the build for it -- although, I'll admit it's not a sport I know a lot about. I was a quarterback back in college, myself."
I nodded. I could see that.
"So, are you enjoying college?"
"I am," I said, setting down my drink after a sip. "It was a lot to get used to at first, but, yeah, I really like it."
"I bet the girls go wild over a guy like you. Good looking, athlete, American."
I laughed a little. "Well, if they do, Harry, that's not much use to me."
"Oh," he said and I saw a spark of interest in his eyes. At least he wasn't a homophobe, I thought, not that I'd have moderated my answer if I thought he had been. "Well, I bet all the guys go crazy then too."
I shrugged and smiled. "I do alright."
"I bet you do," Harry laughed. "I was the same as you, back in college. I did alright."
"With the boys or the girls?" I teased.
"With the boys," he answered, staring at me.
"Really?" I smiled. I definitely had not expected that. "I must have a crappy gaydar, Harry. I did not get a gay vibe off you at all."
"Ditto. I might have dressed up if I'd known."
"You look just fine," I answered, as I realized that we had now slipped into openly flirting with each other.
"So do you," he replied.
Ten minutes later, Harry and I were talking about fun things to do in London and he rested his hand on my knee underneath the table. I felt a jolt of pure electricity between us and I looked at his smirking eyes, deciding what to do. On the one hand, this guy was a colleague of my father's and yet I was planning to swap cum with him as soon as I could. I wanted it; he wanted it. But he still worked for my father. Not that I assumed he'd say anything, but I needed to hear out loud that he wouldn't, because as much as I loved sex, I loved my father and his respect more.
"You wouldn't tell people if we fucked tonight, would you?" No point playing coy about it, I reckoned.
He smiled at my candor. "Absolutely not. Would you?"
"So, if I take you back to my hotel room," he said, quietly, "and ram-fucked the shit out of you all night long, you'd keep your mouth closed?"
"Not when I'm in the hotel room," I joked. "But, yeah, I want to, but you work with my dad."
"Not that often. And you're an adult; this has nothing to do with him."
That was all I needed to hear. I finished off my drink, re-arranged my boner underneath the table and stood up. I figured Dad probably didn't even know Harry was gay or if he did, wouldn't have thought it was relevant.
"Let's go then," I said.
He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and walked out with me. We hailed a taxi and when the driver wasn't looked, Harry rubbed his hand over my denim-clad crotch. We took the steel and glass elevator in his soulless, business hotel up to the eighth flower and as he slid his electric key card into the look, he turned to me and winked. The phallic imagery was too much for either of us to ignore. The second we were in through the door, he pressed me up against the wall and kissed me. It wasn't exactly a falling on each other kind of thing. No clothes had come off, but I felt his firm dick through the fabric of his pants as he pressed against me and his tongue, forceful and insistent, invaded my mouth. I felt unexpectedly weak and heady in this guy's company and I liked it.
"That's an impressive hard on, you've got there," he whispered, throatily.
"Right back at you," I said, pulling him back in for another kiss and unbuttoning his shirt. When I'd pulled it off him, he took me over to the bed and he sat down on it. He kicked his shoes off and reached down to remove his socks. As he unbuckled his belt, he looked at me and said, "Strip for me, Sebastian."