Cumming of Age at Harvard 2
The usual disclaimers apply. Go away if you don't belong here. As the intro to Part One says, this is a pretty accurate account of an event from the dim past in what seems these days like another country. We're in Cambridge, Mass., and it's November 1956, and tomorrow afternoon the Bulldogs are gonna get it at Soldiers' Field. But meanwhile it's the night before The Game, and your narrator is about to begin learning how to play another game.
Comments to dorsalslit@hotmail.com.
CUMMING OF AGE AT HARVARD. PART TWO.
My cold and trembling hand barely hit the door. S. must have heard me enter the foyer and opened up just as I knocked. He pulled me in, closed the door, and pressed me to him.
"Let's greet in the French way," he said, and I felt a smooth cheek against mine--the left and then the right. His cologne was a sharp scent. My knees went weak. He released me, but not before a tight squeeze. "Glad you're here. Let's go. I'll grab my coat."
Whew. Breathless again. Was that direct or what? He must have known I had plenty to process just then, so he did most of the talking while we headed for the concert. Good thing. That's how the French get acquainted? Vive la France! We walked side-by-side, close and fast, and his breath was like smoke in the frosty air. Before I knew it, we'd reached Sanders and joined the crowd in the tall gothic lobby.
The doors hadn't been opened yet. I could hear sounds inside of piano-tuning and looked around the room. Anybody there I knew? Anybody there who'd know I was on a date with my hot French prof? Anybody there who knew the jumble of feelings racing through my mind and tingling through my body? And then the ushers got the doors open. You couldn't reserve seats, so S. and I ran upstairs to the balcony and grabbed a couple of places, front row, center.
Sanders doesn't have individual seats, only pew-like affairs, and ours filled up with a dozen or so undergraduates and their dates and all our heavy overcoats. We had to sit close, thigh-to-thigh, which was just fine with S. and, after I'd calmed down a bit, more than fine with me. He was making small talk about the hall, its dusty gothic details, corbels and carvings, its acoustics. So this was my first chance to get a good look at the prof outside the classroom.
He looked fine. As we'd walked here, I'd been conscious of our similar body types--tall, slim, tense--and we'd moved in easy unison. Now I got a closer look at the guy, and not from a student's-eye view, for a change. Carefully dressed, but not overdressed. Manly and slim. Good shoulders, large black eyes, long dark hair, pale and elegant features with a prominent nose and eyebrows, full and sensuous lips. Very full and sensuous lips. Or had I mentioned that? He spoke softly, using his hands while he talked about Sanders. As interested in architecture as I usually was, tonight I was focusing on my teacher. And he knew it.
I don't remember much about the concert. The Yalies filled the stage for the first half, our guys took over after the interval, and both clubs pulled together for a final number or two. Pretty standard program--Palestrina, madrigals, Schubert and Brahms, some fight songs, the alma maters (all rise). I was more interested in the merchandise than the music, checking out the livestock on show down there, mentally stripping a few of the hotter guys. And I imagined that my date was doing the same.
I couldn't help but be intensely aware of his physical presence, his fragrance now a little muskier. After all, we couldn't get much closer without public indecency. (Hmm. Wonder if he chose this concert and these pews for a reason?) And we stayed in our places at intermission, talking about music, mostly. He sang some, I played some. Those eye-meets we'd had in class took on another dimension now. Our knees strayed together, accidentally and then on purpose. Our glances started to assume a new meaning--new to me, anyhow, and a little scary. His hinted at a kind of knowledge that didn't involve French irregular verbs.
Both glee clubs cleared out after an encore or two, and then we were back in the lobby. S. didn't make it a question: "You'll come back to the apartment for a drink, won't you." Oh, yes I would, and we were on Trowbridge Street and back in that shadowy foyer in less than ten minutes. I stood back while he fiddled with his keys and got the door open, then followed him inside for another, less innocent French hello.
His sitting room was small, very warm, and impersonal--clearly a grad-student apartment whose furnishings had all come from someplace else except for a few framed engravings hanging here and there. A tiny galley kitchen occupied one corner. Next to it a door led, I discovered later, to a large bath. Next to this, a crowded bookcase. His desk with neatly stacked papers was under the one large window, and against the long wall, a door into another room (the bedroom?) and a sofa with an easy chair and reading lamp.
"Let's get comfortable," he said, tossing his overcoat and jacket into the easy chair, and I did the same. Which meant that the only place to sit was the sofa. Where I sat. "What would you like to drink--Coke, wine, something stronger?"
I was thirsty and my mouth was drying up again. "Just a Coke, I guess."
"Sounds good. For me, too." He pulled the ice and a couple of bottles out of the fridge and filled our glasses. "It's a cold, cold night. I'm for a splash of something to warm the spirit. Join me?" He produced a bottle of Bacardi and topped off his Coke.
Being an old friend of rum-and-coke from my trips with pals to Juarez, I readily agreed.
S. brought the glasses over to the sofa table and sat next to me. "Warm in here. The landlady keeps it that way, not that I mind it tonight." He kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie. "How about you?"
"Feels good tonight," and I followed his lead, slipping out of my shoes and tie. The drink was grateful, not too strong, and I sank back into the cushions. We beat around the bush for a while, doing the obligatory chat about school and his class (we were reading Andre Gide's "Thesee," a gay-inflected novel that hinted plenty about S.'s extracurricular interests). Small talk: he was from Philadelphia, Quaker background, had gone to Haverford and liked the warm, small-school atmosphere there.
"Not much coziness here in Cambridge," I added. "It's great being with you tonight, but otherwise there's not much mingling. Faculty, deans, tutors--they live on another planet from us undergrads."
"Oh, that's not the way it has to be." He laughed and moved closer. "How do you like this particular planet, John?" It was the first time he'd spoken my name that night, and it gave me a shiver. I took a big gulp of my drink.
"I think I'm liking it right now, Mr. S," I managed to get out, and swallowed some more.
Another chuckle. "Just call me Sam out of class, OK? We won't stand on ceremony, not on my sofa, anyway." And I felt a gentle pressure on the back of my neck. Surprised but not surprised, I tensed up and then, soothed by the soft probing of his fingers, started to settle down. "How does that feel?"
Great. Terrific. I can't believe this is happening. Then I found my voice. "Warm hand. Feels good." I leaned back into it.
"Has anybody done this for you before?" Now his hand was cupping the back of my head, stroking my hair, running his fingers beneath my open collar. It had become very quiet in the room. Everywhere his fingers touched, I felt alive.
"Nope. Never." I was still tense, but began to relax when he touched my cheek with the back of that hand and traced the outline of my ear. "But do it some more." I felt myself leaning into his touch and, then, into his shoulder.
His right arm slipped around and pulled me closer. It felt natural. My heartbeat began to slow. He took my left hand in his, and we sat tight together for a while, feeling the cold outside, the warmth here, listening to the ticking of the house.
"You don't have to say anything. But I'll bet you've never been with a man before, right?" I nodded. He went on. "Let me guess. You're about nineteen, right?" I nodded again. "I was a little younger than you when I knew for sure. We were on a boat headed for South America. My cabin mate showed me what I'd been missing. It was quite a beginning."
He rubbed my shoulder. "I'd like us to get close tonight. But I don't want to go anyplace that you don't. OK?"
I nodded again and whispered with half-closed eyes, "Yes. Sure. Please." He pulled me tighter to him. I was ready to find out what I'd been missing, too.
"How about this?" he said and touched my crotch and its now-rigid contents. "You're warm, aren't you?"
"Oh, yeah." Without thinking, I put my hand on his package, felt his own stiff dick, and couldn't believe what I was doing. "So are you."
He reached over and unbelted and unzipped me. I sank back, opening my legs to offer permission. My hard cock was straining against my briefs, and Sam's experienced fingers pulled him free and out of my trousers. He drew in a breath, intent upon my manhood. "God, you're beautiful. I'd hoped you'd be circumcised. God, I want you."
I squeezed his dick through his clothing in reply, feeling up my first mancock, and then looked down at my own hard-on. Little John isn't a monster--just under seven inches--and like me, he's narrow--but when aroused, he's a take-charge kind of guy. His engorged cock-head gleamed a shiny reddish purple, the corona deeply flared, the meatus sunken and open like a pair of thirsty lips. A sheen of precum lay on the head, and a crystal drop glistened in the gaping piss-slit. The dorsal vein bulged large and low on its throbbing shaft. A sassy, exquisitely sensitive left-over tab of foreskin depended from the frenulum. My little man pulsed regularly, expectantly, in time with every beat of my heart.
Sam touched his finger to my liquid piss-slit, drew out a string of pre-cum, touched it to his lips and licked them. My cock flexed violently, involuntarily, and if anything, grew even more erect. But he did look incongruous poking out of a pair of dark tweed pants. Sam, speaking thickly, asked, "You won't tell the Dean about this?"
I answered, also with difficulty, "I don't know any deans." And he gently but with some difficulty replaced my now not-so-little John, zipped me back up, and pulled my cheek to his lips. "I want that beautiful boycock." Then he rose from the sofa.
"I'll be in the bedroom. I want you to come to me. But only if that's what you want." He stepped into the bedroom, and I stayed on the sofa. For what seemed a long time. Wondering and wanting what might be in the next room.
I stood up and heard myself say, "Will this make me 'that way'?" No answer. Then I knew what I needed to do and, unbuttoning my shirt, walked into Sam's room.
Next installment in a couple of days. Comments to dorsalslit@hotmail.com.