An Extra Year In The Dorm, Part 6
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An Extra Year In The Dorm, Part 6
by Greg Scott
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All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
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Athletic department rules specify that underage athletes are not allowed to be in any environment in which alcohol is served, but I decided to take Brad along to the party at the apartment that was originally supposed to be mine for this year--the year that had turned out to be my extra year in the dorm. I had turned twenty-one a couple weeks earlier, so I was within the rules. I figured that as long as Brad didn't partake, he would be within the spirit of the rules if not the literal interpretation.
Those in attendance would be a pretty mixed group in about every possible way. One of the friends that I had hoped to be rooming with was an African-American guy on the school's tennis team. While race wasn't a dividing line among his friends, he was president of the Black Student Council this year, so I knew that he would invite a lot of his political allies. He was also openly gay like I am, so the campus queer community would also be heavily represented.
The other guy who would have been my roommate was in a fraternity. He was one of those blond, all-American looking boy types. While he was extremely humble--much more so than he needed to be--he had sort of fallen into the role of a campus ladies man. Sorority girls especially seemed to fawn over him whenever he was around. I expected the place to be packed with hetero couples and single frat and sorority types. He could have charged admission and still had to turn away attractive straight students, male and female, who hungered to just be in his presence.
The guy who filled in for me, when I had to back out of the housing arrangements in order to mentor Brad seemed like a nice enough guy, but I really didn't know him very well. I had absolutely no idea who would attend the party at his invitation.
Fall semester is my busiest time because of the time that soccer takes with practices, travel to the away games and such. I do most of my socializing after winter break, so this would really be my first chance to really hang out with a lot of my friends, even though the season wasn't quite finished. Although I don't drink, I was still planning to let go.
Strangely, this would also be the first time that I would be in a social atmosphere with Brad. I was excited by that prospect, because by this time I had grown to really like him a lot after my original skepticism. In truth, I suspected that I was attracted to him, but I wasn't sure how much of that was due to his physical resemblance to Juan.
Now I don't know how long it's been since you've been to a campus party or even if you have been to any. They aren't really confined to the specific address hosting them. This particular party had stretched onto the barren lawn in front of the apartment building. A volleyball net in the front yard explained the lack of any grass or any other plant life. As Brad and I climbed the steps to the second floor apartment that had been almost mine, I noted that all the other apartment doors were open and people, most holding large plastic cups, seemed to be moving freely from one place to the next. Outside our destination, there was a small group of guys gripping mugs with fraternity logos on them. Already their speech was a bit slurred as they greeted me, some actually getting my name right in the process. It was as if Brad didn't exist to these straight frat boys. Of course, if they had known that he was at this university on a full athletic scholarship, they would have been recruiting him like crazy for their fraternity.
We walked into the living room to the sound of a sub-woofer thumping a beat, although the song was totally unrecognizable, since someone had found the equalizer and filtered out everything except for the tribal beat. This was always the sound track of the more exuberant college parties.
Five black dudes holding soft drinks or water were in one corner dancing, with more or less success, to the incessant rhythm. Several mixed couples occupied another area moving in time to the music but mostly screaming at each other in an attempt to communicate. By "mixed," I don't mean racially mixed, although they were; I mean that it was a group of gay couples and hetero couples.
I turned to Brad to ask what he wanted to drink, but I noticed that he was fixated on what must have looked to this small town guy like a scene from a New York or West Hollywood based movie. I quickly wondered if he had ever seen two guys dancing with each other. I think Brad's apparently stunned reaction is what actually made me even realize that the group was mixed in the way that I described.
Just as I was processing all of this--the group, the way Brad must be seeing it, the sounds and the whole scene--a shadow appeared to my left and planted a full-on tongue kiss on me. I think I pushed the guy away, but not before enjoying the kiss for a moment.
When the guy finally yielded to my pushing hands, I almost fell backwards. Brad helped me regain my footing. I actually looked up at Brad before I looked to see the identity of my assailant.
Brad's eyes were as wide as pancakes. He was obviously stunned by the assault on me and, perhaps, by my acquiescence to it. I felt a momentary surge of fear in seeing my roommate's reaction.
After nodding my thanks to Brad for keeping me from an embarrassing fall, I turned to my left. There was the hulking frame of Antoinne, a memory from my freshman year whom I had met through a mutual friend.
"Jimbo," he said gleefully. "I'm hurt that you still haven't called me for our second date. What's it been? Six months?"
Antoinne seemed to be almost anything except hurt. I think his real intent was to announce to anyone in the room who could hear that he had scored with the star of the soccer team. Two things interfered with his triumphant declaration. First, almost nobody on campus really cared about the soccer team. Second, I don't think anybody except Brad and me could hear a word that he said.
"Hello, Antoinne," I said.
"So how long has it been?" he repeated his inquiry as loudly as he could.
"Over two years," I said. "I've been busy."
I had some encounters during my freshman year that I'm not exactly proud of. My few hours with Antoinne would top that list.
His name was just a nickname. I don't remember what his real name is, but I do remember that it is something rather ordinary for an American from the Midwest. He got the nickname because of his annoying habit of French kissing any gay guy he met. His friends, although maybe associates is a better description than friends, decided that he needed a French sounding name to go along with his habit, although I don't know that you can really say that shoving your tongue uninvited into someone's mouth is really a part of genuine French culture.
We met at the first meeting of the Gay-Straight Alliance that I attended on campus. After the meeting, everyone was engaged in casual conversation. Once Antoinne was sure that I was a gay member and not simply a friendly straight guy, he planted his first sloppy kiss on me.
Under normal circumstances, I probably would have been disgusted, but that was the first time that I had entertained a tongue in my mouth since my college adventures began. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it felt great. It also seemed as if it was a real coming out after a meeting in which everyone kept their sexual orientations secret primarily so the straight members didn't feel excluded.
He invited me out for a burger that night. I couldn't accept because of the athletic department policies, but we met the next day for a late lunch at his off-campus apartment. I never got to eat a bite of food at that lunch and I had skipped the meal at the dorm, so I paid for my abstinence at practice that afternoon when my energy level reached empty.
At the non-lunch, I assumed that Antoinne came from a wealthy family, because his apartment was in a building occupied primarily by faculty or professionals who wanted to live near their downtown offices rather than in the suburbs. The place was decorated in a way that I had never seen. It was very modern, and, although I don't really know anything about this sort of thing, I had a sense that all of the furniture was very expensive. It certainly seemed to me like real leather.
I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was impressed. Even I could tell that the art work on the walls was original. Once I hit the bed, I knew that I would probably never feel another bed that was so perfect. No, it was not a crass water bed; it was a regular mattress, except that it just sort of surrounded me.
Of course, he didn't take me to the bed immediately. First we had to prepare to go to the roof-top swimming pool. Antoinne had a selection of swimming suits, in various sizes, for me to choose from. I thought that a little strange, but I figured that if he had money that it wasn't for me to tell him what he should buy.
He was a gentleman in letting me have my own fashion show in the bathroom, complete with a full length mirror to assess myself. I chose a model that was more modest than most of the collection; one that also allowed me a bit of free movement, which I find more comfortable than the form fitting designs.
When I emerged in my selected attire, Antoinne was waiting for me, standing in a statuesque pose in the living room. He leaned against the arch leading to a too formal dining room with his arm bent enough to show his sizeable bicep.
Antoninne has the face and body that a lot of guys would worship. He's large, blond, toned, tanned and, as his swimming suit revealed, has a basket that would make any gay man's mouth water--and maybe a few confused straight guys, too. You can tell that much of the facade is not totally natural, of course, although the hair is. The muscles require a great deal of gym work and the tan is a little too perfect to be real. Still, he is a remarkable specimen; some might say delectable.
All of that is not really "my type," but you need to remember that I was nearly nineteen years old, new to the world of college temptations, openly gay and permanently removed from my first love. When I joined him in the living room of this bizarrely tasteful place, I was awestruck.
Except for us, the pool area was vacant. We played and romped, like college boys will. I experienced his tongue probing my mouth again and again, and there was no turning back.
While the suits had come off, we didn't bother to dry before hitting that marvelous bed. The sheets were either satin or silk. I don't think I could tell the difference, and I didn't bother looking for a label.
"You are such a hunk," he said before pushing his tongue into my mouth again.
It was a thoughtful compliment, but I had a sense that he might not be talking to me as much as he was speaking to himself. He was looking directly into the large mirror on the wall next to the bed. I followed his gaze. When my eyes reached the mirror, I needed to agree with him, whichever of us he was describing.
With his tongue still exploring the depths of my throat, he executed a move that I don't think an Olympic gymnast could accomplish. He flipped his body so that he was lying face down. At the same time, and in the same fluid motion, he pulled me on top of him in a way that my extremely anxious cock was nestled between his ass cheeks.
By the time his tongue needed to withdraw from my mouth because of the combination of geography and physics, he had managed to instill in me the complementary desire to coincide with that which was within him. He wanted to be fucked; I wanted to fuck. Sweet and simple.
Next to us, I noticed a condom still in its wrapper. I have no idea when he put it there, but there it was, as if I needed a still further cue as to my role in this choreographed event. Like a porn stud, I tore the foil with my teeth and masterfully sheathed my dick, demonstrating far more experience than I actually had.
My experiences led me to believe that I would meet resistance on my first attempt, but rather little pressure was needed to breach the blockade to reach my warm, smooth, tight and totally satisfying goal. For some reason, I am reluctant to be totally honest at this point. If you insist upon the full story, though, I have never had a physical sensation more completely satisfying except for the climax that would eventually follow.
"Your cock feels fantastic!" Antoinne shouted.
I said nothing.
"How big are you?" he asked, but I don't think he wanted a specific answer.
"You're like a horse," he said, I assumed in a complimentary way.
"Do you like my ass?" he asked, meaning that my silence needed to come to an end. I needed to think of something other than what I was feeling physically.
"Oh, yeah," I managed to say.
"Tell me," he demanded.
"I like your sweet ass," I mimicked as I felt his ass grip my dick even tighter.
"Tell me what you like about it. Do you love it?"
He seemed intent on me working in exchange for my pleasure.
"Yes, I love your sweet ass," I replied, pleased that I had combined his words from two separate exchanges without really giving any thought to it.
I decided to reach under him in hopes of distracting him enough that he would cease his questions.
My hand gripped what felt to me like a huge cylinder of fire. I mean that it was hot in the literal sense. I imagined it was filled with burning charcoal. It felt as big around as a soda can. For a quick moment I wished that it was pounding into me in the same way that I was pounding furiously into Antoinne. Thinking about it later, I wasn't sure that I could have handled its diameter, but at the time, as I touched it for the first, that thought sounded like the most wonderful idea that I had ever had.
I moved my hand along it length.
"Oh, yeah," moaned my bed mate.
I continued my motions, but I was actually focussed upon the excruciatingly wonderful pressure that was building within my penis.
"Do you like my thick cock?" asked Antoinne. "Do you like how it feels in your hand while you pound my beautiful, round ass?"
"Yes," I struggled to say.
"Tell me," he insisted.
"I love your thick ass while I pound your tight cock," I replied non-sensically.
Fortunately for the moment, at least, Antoinne did not notice my jumbled words. I couldn't have straightened them out in any case, as my pent up cum worked its way toward the slit in my dick and the deep cavern of the ass protected by the condom.
"I love you Jim," a now unrecognizable voice shouted in the room.
Hearing my name associated with those words of affection, I started to unload into the latex sleeve, although I imagined my cum coating the insides of this ass, this work of natural art, aided though it was by health club equipment.
"Did you hear me? I said 'I love you,''' he clarified as if I had not understood his thunderous proclamation.
"Thank you," I replied with what seemed to me to be a logical response.
At that moment, he started shooting thick globs of his own stuff onto the special sheets. That event actually caused me to shoot a few final drops into the tip of the condom, although I had thought that I was already finished after my tumultuous brief thunderous ejaculation.
"Do you love me?" Antoinne asked.
"Sure," I replied. I really wanted a nap, but I had to get to class.
"When will you call?" my sexy but annoying partner pressed as I finished putting on my clothes without showering. I could smell latex on me, but hopefully nobody in my classes or at the practice that would follow could.
"Soon," I replied, assuming this was just a part of the post-sex ritual. I knew I had no intention of calling this sexy but too-needy guy.
Now at the party, I heard the same tone in Antoinne's voice.
"Will you call me this time?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied, although I was more concerned with Brad's reaction to this whole scene.
"When?" he pressed.
"Soon," I said, echoing my promise from two years before. "Soon."
"Can we go back to the dorm?" Brad asked. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here."
"Yeah, let's go," I agreed.
We worked our way through the door, still guarded by the fraternity clique, across the crowded yard and through the amber glow of the street lamp illuminated streets to the athletes' residence hall. Neither of us talked.
If I hadn't accepted my coach's challenge, I would have been hosting rather than leaving that party. I also wouldn't be walking with this easily shocked young man beside me.
At the time, I gladly accepted my current circumstance and wouldn't have traded it for a full night of partying in that off-campus apartment. I preferred walking next to my silent roommate.
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