Cupid's Big Weekend


"And Mom would want me to remember my manners." He holds out his hand. "I'm Calvin."

I take his hand. Again. This time, though, I am already upright, and just slightly less embarrassed than yesterday.


"Nice to meet you, Josh. Funny how we've run into each other lately, isn't it?" He turns and walks away again. I'm frozen to the spot, unable to believe my luck. This is luck, isn't it? Not being killed in a homophobic rage by the object of my stud-lust? Yeah, that sounds like luck.

"You coming," he turns back to ask, not really in a questioning way, but more like a statement of what's about to happen, whether I want it to or not. I do, of course. I come.

"Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the offer." I practically skip to catch up, then realize that if I catch up too quickly I'll miss the chance to watch his lovely ass, those two perfect globes of muscle that I've felt thrusting in my dreams just about every night.

Great. Now I have to try to walk normally with a boner. Can this day get any weirder?

The answer, if you haven't yet guessed, is yes.


The locker room is empty at this hour, after morning practice but before afternoon drills. I can hear my own footsteps echoing across the banks of lockers, but Calvin's can't be heard at all--it's like he's walking just above the ground, rather than on it. There's nothing about his body that isn't in absolute harmony, all the parts conspiring to make him somehow superhuman. And fucking gorgeous.

He turns at the end of an aisle of lockers, and sets his water bottle and shirt down on the end of the bench that runs down the middle of the next row. We're right in front of the shower room, and looking at it I suddenly realize I'm staring at the design inspiration for the big stupid shower on my floor; I've been showering in a locker room shower all along. Did they all used to be that way? I turn, wondering if I should pose this question to my new friend, and suddenly I'm face to face with my most humid wet dream: Calvin, smiling that boyish, dimply grin at me, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his running shorts, clearly about to pull them off. I hope I can withstand the rush of blood to my already aching cock.

"Mind if I take a quick rinse?" he asks, hesitating a moment as if worried that he's going to inconvenience me.

"Oh, no prob. I can wait over there," I offer, nodding toward somewhere in the distance, not sure where. I've never been here before.

"Oh, just hang out here. I won't take long, promise," he nods and grins at me like a kid who wants a puppy. I'd give him the puppy. I'd give him anything. He then whips his hands downward, flings the shorts into the open locker, and bolts past me. I'm so shocked I don't even have a chance to look at his now nude body as he zips past. Damn.

As the water starts running, I'm not sure where to look. I decide that I'll study the lockers for a while. Perhaps I can make some kind of pattern out of the numbers on them that will take my mind off the fact that the object of my every waking lustful thought, and most of my sleeping ones as well, is right now wet and naked not ten feet from me. La la la, looking at numbers, la la la.

"Josh? I said what's your major." Oh, so apparently I'm not supposed to pretend that he's not showering? I'm supposed to carry on conversation? All right then. I sit on the edge of the bench and face the shower, but look at the floor. I'm not sure I'm ready for this, even though I've dreamed of it for months. I suck in a deep breath. I look up. And the air is immediately knocked out of me. Holy fucking fuck.

Calvin is standing under the closest showerhead, the one on the central column that points out to the lockers. He's facing away from me, with his chest to the water. What I see is his perfect back, his perfect legs, and in between his perfect ass. It's all perfect, it's all tan, and it's all wet. And it's all right in front of me. I try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a sort of gasping squeak that even I can barely hear. I can't speak.

Calvin, probably noticing that I'm not saying anything, turns around to see if I'm still here. Now, I've seen Calvin shirtless. I've seen Calvin in a nylon short shorts. I've seen all but about 2-6 inches of him, the part that his red Speedo covers when he swims laps for cross-training. You would think that the unveiling of that last little bit would not be such a big deal. But it is. And it's not just that for the first time I get to see his privates, though that's of course part of it. What really strikes me is that until now I've only appreciated parts of him--his full pectoral muscles, his softball-like calves, the cut below his waist that disappears into his shorts--but now I see how it all works together. And the whole is epic, it's sculptural, it's a symphony of line and curve and motion. He's a perfectly balanced machine crafted by the devil to lead me astray.

Oh, but that cock. And oh, those balls. They are a wonder to behold, and their image is seared into my brain. People who have seen the space shuttle launch know what I'm talking about--the beauty, the power, the achievement can only be appreciated in person. That's how it is with Calvin's boy parts. I couldn't have chosen a more perfect set of genitalia if I had spent months poring over all of the porn on the net. And I have.

His cock forms a graceful arc out and down from his groin. Perfectly proportioned and richly veined, it tapers only slightly as it curved down to the head, which mushrooms out from the shaft so that the rivulets of water cascading down from his rippled abs break out in all directions as they wash over it. It is a cock shaped ideally to fit the throat of someone kneeling before it, looking up. I hope that would be me, someday.

And his balls? Well, I've always been attracted by a well-filled ball sack, and Calvin's are the gonads of my dreams. Either he's taking a nice hot shower or he has the most beautiful low-hangers I've ever seen. No wonder those boys strain against his jogging shorts, bouncing up and down as he bounds up the stairs. I had caught a glimpse of them at the gym yesterday, but to see them in their entirety is a complete revelation. My mouth falls open as I try to imagine fitting just one of those lovely orbs in it. It would take some work, but I've never shied away from hard work. Damn.

Oh, shit, I've done it again. Calvin's looking at me, eyebrows up. Why is he looking at me that way? Oh, right, what's my major? Come to think of it, am I majoring in anything? I go to college? I think the steam is getting to me.

"I'm undeclared right now," I manage to squeak out.

"Oh, gotcha," Calvin nods, approvingly, I think. And then he takes a big pull on the soap dispenser and starts washing. Oh my god he's rubbing the soap all over that amazing body. He smooths suds over his chest, and under his arms, and across that washboard stomach (the irony!). He swabs down his legs and feet, and then pauses for a moment. Is he going to ask me to wash his back? Will I suddenly find myself in a porn story like the ones I'm always reading and wanking off to on Nifty? It always seems like guys have trouble washing their backs, and I would gladly pitch in if assistance is required.

But no, he was just regaining his balance after washing his feet so that he can lean over to get another squirt of soap. Then he washes his back. There's only one area left, and I stop breathing while I wait for the scrubbing to start. He turns around to get one more dollop of soap, and then he stays facing away from me. Damn, the best part of the show and I'm on the wrong side!

However, Calvin first soaps up his ass. And he's determined to do a thorough job of it, apparently, because there's soap everywhere as he lathers his cheeks vigorously. Then I see him work his fingers briefly and lightly into the cleft, scrubbing gently but purposefully in the valley where my dreams come true. It's an awesome performance.

And it's only half over. Now he turns back around, grabs a last bit of soap, and gets to work. He caresses his cock and balls in a way that I can only describe as lovingly, perhaps a little playfully. I wonder if his cock is plumping up a bit. Then he grips his balls, one in each hand, and rolls them gently around, squeezing and massaging them carefully.

"Gotta check for nut cancer," he says, and he seems to be perfectly at ease with me watching him do so. "Forgot to do it last week. My uncle lost his left one because he didn't feel the lump until it was too late. So, undeclared, huh? Any ideas so far?"

Was he really talking about testicular self-exams and my academic career in the same breath? Who is this guy?

"Well, I might try Math, or Psychology. Maybe English. I guess I'm more undecided than undeclared." I'm trying to make sense and watch him rinse his amazing body at the same time. Multitasking was never my strong suit.

"Funny. I've known what I want to study since I was 8." He turns off the water, and stands there dripping, naked, still grinning at me. Pinch me, I have to be dreaming. "Can you toss me my towel?"

I toss him the towel that I see hanging in his locker. He catches it, and a whole new vista of bodily delights unfolds before me, as he rubs every bit of his hard and flushed body with his soft, thick towel. I think my dick went into shock 5 minutes ago, as I can feel nothing in my crotch but rock-solid weight.

"And what is that?" I finally think to ask. "That you want to study?"

"Kinesiology. Sports medicine. It's always just seemed like my thing." Hehe. His thing. His thing is currently right about mouth level with me, happily bobbing up and down a bit, smelling like soap and making my mouth simultaneously water and go dry. Calvin is standing next to me, rubbing the towel on his hair, making Little Calvin (who is not so little) wave at me like it wants to shake my hand. No, no, the pleasure is mine, dear sir.

Calvin gets dressed in a flash, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head and slipping board shorts on smoothly up his legs. Whoops, there goes that beautiful cock, swallowed up by the waistband of his shorts. I hate those shorts for stealing it from my view. No underwear, I notice. I guess Calvin takes casual Friday pretty seriously.

"Here, take this one," he says, tossing me a shirt. I had forgotten I was still wearing that rag of a shirt in tatters around my neck. I slip it off over my head, and I'm suddenly aware of how slack my body seems in comparison to the stacked muscle of my new friend. I'm not in terrible shape, but I'm not in his league by any stretch. I have a 4-pack, tops. I pull on his shirt. It smells like grass and meadows and, what's that? Ahh, testosterone. Intoxicating.

"Thanks again," I manage to say, meaning it. He's given me the shirt off his back, sort of, and enough masturbation material to last me until I wear all the skin off my dick with rubbing. It's been a good day, and it's not even noon yet.

"Hey, you had breakfast? I'm starving."

What did I do to deserve this? I want to know so that I can go back and do it again and again and again.

"You know, I missed breakfast this morning." This is a lie.

"I think I'm going to grab a Jamba. Wanna get one?"

"Sure. Sounds good." This is another lie. I hate Jamba Juice. But I would drink radioactive monkey piss if he asked me to. So Jamba it is.

"Awesome." He grabs his pack, turns, and heads for the door. I follow, because he asked me to come along, and I will do whatever he asks. I hope he will return the favor.


We're walking through lower campus, on the way back to the dorms with our Jamba Juice. I am struggling to choke down some vile mixture with guava or some shit in it, along with a clot of gritty nutrient powder that will probably make my hair fall out. Calvin, meanwhile, is sucking vigorously at the straw of his ridiculously huge tub of juice smoothie. He clearly loves the stuff; I can tell by the way his cheeks are sunk in as he pulls on that straw. Good god he can suck. This is very promising.

I have no idea how we got to his residence hall, nor what we were talking about as we walked here. I've been focusing mostly on the fact that this man I've been lusting after from afar is now less than a foot from me. And, having spent an hour with him, I have to say that my suspicion that his beauty was only skin-deep is sadly mistaken. See, I have always had this theory that the more beautiful a person is, the shallower he or she is. By this reckoning, Calvin should have been about a quarter-inch deep. But instead, I have found him to be funny, generous, and luckily completely clueless about the fact that I've been stalking him for months. This is going pretty well.

"Well, it's been nice to meet you, Calvin." I stop and point vaguely in the direction of my dorm, on the opposite end of the quad from his. "I'm over there."

"But don't you want to come up for a minute? I don't have class until 2:30, and you're fun to talk to." No one's ever said that to me before, at least in such a sincere way, and I'm completely charmed. This boy could be The One.

"Yeah, I've got class at 2:30 too. Might as well." I hardly know what to think. Why is he doing this? How does this play out? Whatever. I don't care. I just want to spend more time with him, and he's on board with that, so let's go.

He swipes his ID at the door, pulls it open, and up the stairs we go. He's on third floor, like me, but his room is much nicer than mine; it appears to have been remodeled more recently than the Eisenhower administration. He tosses his stuff on the dresser and flops down on the futon. Do I sit next to him, or across from him? I decide to take my chances and sit next to him. This is going so well, we may be making out in a few minutes. I hope this guava crap hasn't given me bad breath.

"So, now that we've covered school," he says. So that's what we've been talking about. Good to know. "What about you. Who is Josh?" Oh my god do they teach jocks to talk like this at team-building camp or something? I have no idea how to answer this.

"Uh, I'm just a guy, I guess." And now I'm talking like a third grader again. Shit.

"Have a girlfriend?" He asks, and again with the grin and the dimples. He's so genuine, and adorable, and everything. And I do mean everything.

"No, actually." Okay, big moment. Do I tell him, or let it come out gradually? On the one hand, I don't want to get thrown out of his room for coming out too abruptly. But on the other hand I want to be honest with him, and he's been so nice so far. What to do?

"I've never had a girlfriend. I'm gay." That's what, apparently. I surprise myself by laying it out there just like that. I don't have much experience coming out to people; though I've known that I'm attracted to men all my life, I've really only been "out" for about a year. I've had a couple of people react badly to it, though (I'm looking at you, Uncle Phil), so I'm usually pretty cautious. Not today though. I look at him, right into his eyes, to try to figure out how that went over. You can always see violence coming if you look into their eyes. I hate that I have to know that, but I do, so there you go. I cannot tell what he's going to do. He seems a bit flummoxed.

"Yeah, right. Good one. Hah!" He laughs, as if I've made a great joke. I haven't, of course, unless he thinks that my sexuality itself is a joke.

"No, seriously. I'm gay."

He stops laughing. He tenses. He stops sucking at his straw. He seems completely dumbfounded. I have no idea what he's going to do next.

"What are you talking about? You can't be gay." He seems so certain. I guess the guys whose dicks I sucked in senior year were wrong about me. I'm not gay, because Calvin says I can't be!

"Well, I am. I hope that's not a problem for you?"

"Look, I don't get this. You seem like a nice guy. I don't understand why someone like you would say you're into messed-up shit like that." Whoa, there. What's that about?

"Messed-up shit like what?"

"You know, what gays do. The gerbils and the leather and the little boys and stuff."

"Calvin, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Look, I know about gay stuff. We had this health teacher at my school that told us all about it. He knows, because he used to live the gay lifestyle. But then he found religion and he was cured. He told us about how gay people put gerbils in their asses for fun, and how they all like to wear leather and beat each other, and about how they do perverted shit with little boys." Calvin's getting a little uncomfortable now, I can tell. He's shifting a bit on the futon, and he's put his drink down.

"I see," I say in the calmest voice I can muster. "Just because you had a sick fuck for a health teacher doesn't mean that gay people stick rodents up their asses. Gay people are just like you and me. There's nothing perverted about it." It's taken me a couple of years to get to the point that I can just lay it all out like that. Damn, I sound like a Gay Crusader. In spite of my shock that Calvin has suddenly turned into some right-wing zombie, I'm kind of proud.

He looks at me as if I've sprouted a second head. His brow is furrowed.

"But gays are that way because they've been smothered by their moms, or molested by a priest or something. They're sick, and they take their sickness out on kids. It's a cycle of self-destructive self-loathing."

That's got to be from an evil pamphlet of some kind.

"That's what he told you? He's the sick one." I get up to leave. "Look, I'm going now. This is too much for me."

He sits there, watching me get up. He seems stricken somehow. He's still trying to figure this all out.

"No, wait," he blurts, getting up from the futon and coming over to me. "Wait. I need a minute to get this straight." Ha ha. Good one. "You're telling me that you are seriously, 100%, no-shit gay?"

"Yes, I am seriously, 100%, no-shit gay. Or 99%, because I kinda got wood for Katy Perry once. But other than that, yes, that's me, gay gay gay. Now that you know, I'm going, because you're scaring me a little with your gerbils and your pedo stories. That's some sick stuff there, dude. You should be mad at him."

I'm out his door and down the hall before I realize I'm still wearing his shirt. I turn around and go back. He's still standing there, looking overwhelmed. God, he's beautiful, even when he's acting like a messed up homophobe.

"Look, uh, thanks for the shirt. I'll wash it and get it back to you tomorrow." That done, I'm on my way again.

"No! Josh, wait. Come back. I want to talk to you." He's looking at me with those puppy eyes again, but this time no grin, just that stricken, shocked expression. How can I leave him now?

"OK, but only if you stop it with the sicko gay stuff. I don't want to hear any more about that, all right?"

"Deal. Just don't go. I need to talk with you."

I go in. He shuts the door. And then it gets weirder.


He gestures toward the futon, and I sit down. He doesn't, though; he's pacing up and down the middle of the room, clearly working over our conversation of the last few minutes. I'm intrigued. I wait. I mean, I wait and watch. He's beautiful even when he paces. Now that I know what's in those shorts, I can't help picturing him without them on. Is it wrong to get boned up when your friend is having a crisis like this? Fuck it. I'll just enjoy the view.

Finally, he stops pacing. He turns to face me, and I see him struggling to come up with words. The suspense is killing me.

"Look, I'm sorry if I offended you. You seem like a really nice guy, and I didn't mean to come off sounding like a jerk. I've just never met anyone who thought he was gay before."

That seems unlikely. And a little insulting.

"Calvin, I don't think I'm gay. I know I'm gay."

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