The Higher Education of Matt Griffith By: Jack Chandler
Copyright 2024. All characters depicted in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any actual person.
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Chapter 4: Fairy Godmother (August 11, 1995)
Shortly after soccer practice ended that Friday, Matt drove to Johnnie's. It was 6:04 p.m. when he arrived. He immediately spotted William in the dining area. Who could miss him? He sat at a booth, ankles crossed, primly sipping a soda. He held his glass in one hand, while pressing the straw to his lips with the forefinger and thumb of his other hand.
Matt's chest swelled with anticipation. He had waited a week for this moment. He bypassed the order line (an old couple who were having trouble hearing the teenaged cashier), beelined between tables (most unoccupied), and slid into the seat opposite William.
William appraised him with an arched eyebrow. "Looks like you came straight from practice, dahling."
"Yeah, no time to shower," Matt grinned. He leaned back in the seat, resting one arm along the booth's wood-railed top, trying to appear nonchalant when he felt the opposite. His hair was damp. He wore a sweaty jockstrap underneath his jeans. He felt the moisture trickling down his balls and imagined it was pooling near his ass-crack. He was certain that if he stood up, he would see a little puddle in the booth's vinyl seat. The things he would endure to finally get laid.
"Poor thing," William said. "You must be hungry. I arrived early and ordered some food." He gestured to a plastic tray with three burgers, a bag of fries, and a soda. "Go ahead and eat. I hope you don't mind, but I had them hold the onions. I can't abide the taste of onions on a guy's lips."
"Thanks!" Matt tried, but failed, to suppress what he knew was a goofy, puppy dog smile—not because William had bought him dinner (well maybe partially for that reason), but mainly because he felt desired—by a guy. Matt had never been on a real date. This felt like one. A slightly weird one maybe, but a date all the same. Whatever it was, it gave him goosebumps. (A thought niggled in the recesses of his awareness, reminding him of that other time he had felt so desired. How he had trusted that man, too. How he had been used and humiliated.)
Matt grabbed a burger and took a bite. He remembered something he wanted to ask, so he swallowed quickly. "Why meet here? Why Johnnie's?"
William picked up a fork, used it to probe the fries, searching for a perfect specimen. He speared one and took a dainty bite. "This is not a place most people would pick for a date. If someone were to see us here, they would assume we're just buddies. If they were to see us at Chilis, for example, they might be suspicious."
Matt grasped the logic but doubted anyone would be fooled, given William's demeanor and mannerisms. All William needed to complete his Hollywood-starlet look was a scarf around his head and over-sized sunglasses. Not for the first time did Matt wonder how William not only survived—but thrived—at OC. He also wondered—again, not for the first time—what it was exactly about this pale, skinny, effeminate kid with a big head that entranced him.
William looked quizzically at Matt as if waiting for Matt to catch up with the conversation. It was that universal look one gives someone who has missed a punchline. After a moment, William fluttered one hand towards the nearly empty dining area, "It doesn't hurt that this place is dead, and the few customers who do show up have one foot in the grave."
Matt laughed. Now he got it.
"You have a nice laugh," William said.
"Thanks." Matt started to relax. He ate more of his burger.
"I hear good things about you on campus," William said. "Bit of an exhibitionist in the bathroom, standing naked while waiting for the shower. Some people think you are a little aloof. That Dallas Cheerleaders poster is an interesting touch."
Matt had started to take another bite. Instead, he put the burger down. His spidey sense alerted him. This seemed borderline creepy. "Are you spying on me?"
"Never, dahling." William batted his doe eyes innocently. "If anyone is being spied upon, that would be me. You really aren't very subtle during chapel, you know."
Matt felt violated. He sorted through his memories of the last week, trying to recall anyone who had been in his room to even see the poster. He crossed his arms, almost hugging himself. He felt stupid sitting there in a swampy jockstrap. Anger seeped into his veins much as the sweat had seeped into his jeans. He wasn't going to be gas-lighted into thinking that William was the real victim here. There were things he would not do to finally get laid.
"I seem to have upset you," William said.
No shit. Matt stared straight ahead, forcing himself to take calming breaths. Re-centering. Reminding himself he was not a thirteen-year-old kid anymore. He was not trapped. He was an adult and he had options.
William shed the starlet act. He leaned forward. "Can I get a do-over on that? Another take? I was channeling my inner Tallulah Bankhead. Nervous habit. Sorry."
Matt gave a curt "whatever dude, go ahead" nod. He had no idea who Tallulah Bankhead was, nor did he care to find out.
"Remember I mentioned a secret gay club? There are eight of us. I cannot tell you much more until you become a member—if you become a member. We had to vet you first. Not every gay boy on campus gets invited to join."
"Vet me? By breaking into my room?" A part of Matt was obviously intrigued about the club, even flattered to hear he was being considered for membership. Another part wasn't going to ignore the invasion of his privacy.
"No one broke into your room. Resident Advisors have master keys to all the rooms. They regularly snoop for porn and alcohol. Never keep a journal, by the way. And before you ask: your Resident Advisor is not in our club. He just has a big mouth."
Matt sighed, slightly mollified. The anger leeched out of him. He uncrossed his arms. Eight guys! Had he found his tribe? Why were some excluded? "What does this club do anyway?"
"Part social club, part broken hearts support group, and part protection plan. That last one—protecting each other—is the most important. I guess I should go ahead and tell you we call ourselves the `Gay Mafia'".
Matt laughed, thinking this was another joke. "So that makes you the Godfather, right?"
"Godmother, dear," William tutted. "Godmother."
Matt smiled. Seeing the uneaten food, he remembered how hungry he was. He picked the burger back up and polished it off. He weighed reaching for another.
"Anyway, dahling," William said. "I've recommended you for membership. If you're interested, there will be an interview in front of the whole club on the 19th."
"I'm interested.," Matt said.
"Good. You're even sexier when you're mad," William grinned. "Not that I was trying to make you mad."
Matt felt that goofy smile spreading across his face again. William had described him as sexy! He was back on track to finally get laid AND he had found his tribe! His cock stirred, trying to breach the swamp, trying but failing.
Matt didn't take the Mafia thing seriously. He had watched all three Godfather movies, which was his main source of information on organized crime. (Mafia guys were uber-hetero, hardened criminals saturated in violence—not gay college kids vamping around like starlets, handing each other Kleenex's after failed romances.) Matt's main take-away from the Godfather movies was that the young Michael Corleone was hot, the older one not so much. And he remembered that other gangsters showed Michael respect by kissing his ring.
Matt tried a joke of his own, a risqué one. "So, Godmother, how soon until I get to kiss your ring?"
William's dark eyes twinkled. "Good one, dahling! Witty. Double entendre. Perfect! Frankly, I was a little worried earlier when you weren't tracking the conversation." William paused, then pretended to look at an imaginary watch. "Wherever has the time gone? If we're going to continue your education, we need to get going. You do want to continue your education, don't you?"
"Yes," Matt smiled. He had a ring to kiss—a pink one.
As Matt exited the booth, he self-consciously checked the plastic seat for the expected puddle. None was visible, but he wiped the seat with a paper napkin anyway.
Twenty minutes later Matt parked his Jeep on the same rutted farm drive they'd used for last week's hookup. He loved that word—hookup—now that he was in the club (the hookup club, which didn't really exist, as opposed to the Gay Mafia, which did exist, but which did not count him a member—yet.)
William supervised preparations, telling Matt to fold down the back seat. The resulting rear storage area was about four feet on each side, three feet tall, which made Matt wonder about the mechanics of fucking in that cramped space. And kissing. He recalled William's earlier comment about onions, which made him worry about his breath. Deciding to play it safe, he rummaged for mints in his glove box, found some, and popped two in his mouth.
William retrieved a small tube of anal lube from his pocket, placed it on the carpeted floor.
Just seeing the lube made Matt's mouth go dry. This really was going to happen!
They both stood beside the Jeep now, the vehicle shielding them from being seen by anyone on the road—not that anyone had driven by since they'd arrived. Gnarly scrub oaks, probably planted during the Depression to slow dust storms, lined the rutted drive. The red prairie soil was baked hard, spiderwebbed with cracks. These were the dog days of summer, the hottest days of the year. Even now at dusk it was 86 degrees.
William gazed up into Matt's eyes. "Hookup 101", he said, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Matt on the lips.
Matt returned the kiss. He stooped slightly so that William wouldn't have to stretch. He caressed William's face.
William whispered softly: "Let me see you in your jock strap."
Matt was happy to oblige. He broke free and shed his shoes, kicking them aside. The bare earth radiated heat into the soles of his feet. He was unbuckling his belt when he felt William's restraining hand on his arm.
"Slow down, slugger," William said. "The best sex is 50% performance art. Think about your role here. What can you do? How can you act that will heighten my desire and make me impatient for more?"
Matt paused. He had never thought of sex in this way—not role-playing, which he'd heard about, and which involved made-up names and stories. That seemed weird, outside his comfort zone. What William was describing—playing a role— (Matt's playing himself, inhabiting his own story) seemed doable. He remembered William's instructions from a week ago: No shower. No deodorant. Jockstrap. He had puzzled about that over the last week, trying to understand the connection. Suddenly the answer was obvious: this was about sweat—the smell and maybe even taste of it.
This was about raw, animal masculinity. He could do that.
Locking eyes with William, Matt slowly peeled off his t-shirt. (Matt was proud of his golden tan, his defined—but not chiseled—musculature. He was not so proud of the fact that he had no real body hair besides his pubes and pits.) He rolled the shirt into a ball and used it to wipe sweat from his torso. He could feel William's gaze tracking the shirt as it slid across his pecs, down his abs.
Matt closed the distance between them. He slowly raised the shirt to William's face, gesturing for him to sniff it.
William grinned. He buried his face in the shirt, inhaling deeply.
Matt dropped the shirt, scooped William off his feet, and carried him fireman style to the Jeep's rear bumper. Matt set William down on the bumper, then leaned him back into the carpeted cargo area, hungrily kissing him.
William moaned softly—surrendering.
Matt felt empowered. He raised his left arm, exposing his pit, and slowly maneuvered it to William's face. The distilled testosterone was catnip to William, who nuzzled it greedily.
"Kiss me," William whispered. "Taste yourself."
Matt did as instructed. Their mixed saliva had a new salty tang to it. Matt's cock ached. He desperately wanted to grind against William, but remembered both William's previous admonition against rutting and that evening's advice about sex being a performance art. He focused instead on removing William's shirt.
This was the first time Matt had seen any of William's body besides his face, neck, forearms, and hands. Even with the Jeep's rear storage area shrouded in shadows, William's pale, milk-white skin glowed, like a waning moon on a cloudy night. He had no real musculature, no soft body fat. His skin was drawn taut over his frame. He had the small, almost flat nipples of a young teen. Unlike a young teen, though, his chest had a small patch of the same shiny black hair that covered his head. The patch narrowed into a treasure trail that snaked down his abdomen and disappeared below the waistline of his jeans.
"You're beautiful," Matt said huskily. Instinctively he raised William's left arm and lowered his mouth and nose into the neatly trimmed black clump.
"I'm a civilized girl," William said. "I wouldn't be caught dead without deodorant."
Undeterred, Matt licked and teased the skin until he had rooted out some flavor. He repeated William's line from a few minutes earlier. "Taste yourself." They resumed kissing, their tongues darting and exploring, saliva, salt, and sweat essence infusing and defusing. It was intoxicating and intimate.
Matt guided William's hand to his belt buckle, almost whimpering while William fumbled it loose.
William unbuttoned Matt's jeans, then wrestled the zipper down.
Matt sloughed off his jeans, revealing the jock strap. He eased William onto his back and straddled him. As expected, Matt felt the Jeep's ceiling pushing down on his shoulders. Tight quarters. He hunched forward, then rubbed the jock's cotton pouch against William's mouth.
William used the tips of his teeth to gently bite and suck on the pouch.
Matt's crotch-rubbing turned into thrusts—gentle at first, more urgent with time. He was enjoying the feel of William's lips and tongue, but he was thinking of William's other hole, already planning to free him of his jeans and underwear.
Matt felt William's hands grip his ass cheeks, thought William was just pulling him closer, but then felt fingers exploring his crack, nearing his hole.
"I want to fuck you," William said.