-- This first part of the story is told from Rory's point of view. (And the next installment alluded to by Sebastian will be posted within two weeks.) --
I wretched over the toilet and another torrent of sick splattered into the bowl. I had a stomach bug and forty-eight hours earlier I had also been forced to get train-track braces along my bottom row of teeth. My emergent wisdom teeth had started to squeeze two of my front teeth, so apparently I'd need braces for 'only' 8-10 months to correct the problem. Which meant that the entire bottom half of the inside of my mouth was ripped open with cuts and mouth ulcers, while the rest of my body sweated and shook from the force of the stomach bug. All in all, this was not going to go down in history as one of the better weeks of my life.
I walked back into my bedroom and made a bee-line for the welcome warmth of my bed. In the depths of my discomfort, my feelings towards my student bed had swiftly transformed from one of irritable contempt to affectionate dependency. The bed no longer seemed like a lumpen mattress, but a cocoon of nurturing heat. While I burned up inside, my skin felt ice cold; my mouth was cut to ribbons and my teeth felt like they were being pulled slowly, much against their will. Which, I suppose, is precisely the intention of dental braces.
I pulled my covers up around me and contemplated calling Sebastian. Feeling this awful had weakened my defences against him. He was never really entirely off my mind, even in the first full few hectic months of starting a new life at university. There were times, like there had been ever since the start of summer, when I could believe, at least on the surface, that breaking up with him had been the right thing to do. Despite all the extenuating circumstances that could explain, logically, why he'd kissed someone else, the fact still remained that Sebastian liked to party (which he'd be doing a lot of at uni) and he had been quite prepared -- I think -- to withhold the truth from me, until Virginia and Robbie made that impossible for him. Breaking up with him had been practically necessary under those circumstances. Right?
There were times, though, when I was feeling less strident; when I missed him. His allure and the memory of his touch was particularly seductive in the twilight between sleep and awake. It was then that I would curl in bed and imagine the pillow was his chest and that he was here, next to me.
God.
How embarrassing.
I picked up the phone and scrolled down to the 'S' section, but 'Sebastian' was not there. In a fit of self-preserving wisdom, I must have deleted it, lest a moment like this should arise. I didn't know whether to proud of myself or incandescently irritated. In either case, getting up to Facebook him to say 'My mouth hurts and I'm sick. I miss you,' would be pathetic and stupid -- and given how shivery I was, particularly unappealing.
I covered my eyes and tried to get some sleep.
-- From Sebastian's point of view --
Over the first few months of college, Will and I continued to hook-up, with no strings attached. We did it fairly infrequently, but it was fun, safe and easy. He was great in bed and a nice guy, but the romantic spark never materialized. To both of our shared reliefs, I'm certain. There were other guys, too; two more. The first was a guy called Edward. Or Ed, as everyone called him at college. He was slim, with dark hair and blue eyes. One night, after a messy social, he gave me head in his bathroom. It was a great blowjob, but the next day, Ed was a bit awkward with me and didn't speak to me for a few weeks. It turned out that, like Michael Suzette, Ed hadn't come out yet and I had absolutely no intention of getting involved with someone like that. I don't judge anyone's situation, and I really do mean that, but I've seen too many good guys get their hearts broken, and their reputations ruined, by getting involved with a guy who's in the closet - who then blames them for everything that happens. I'd put distance between myself and Michael back in high school and for the same reason, I reciprocally began avoiding Ed once my friend, Helen, told me about his situation. I heard later, years later, actually, that he had come out, but that it had been messy and quite a few hearts were broken in the process. I dodged a bullet.
The guy after Ed was actually the first American I'd slept with. Apart from myself, I guess. If masturbation counts. (I'm kidding.) The guy was studying in London for a year and was two years older than me. He played basketball, was about my height, tall, toned, black and with really incredible warm brown eyes. We ended up in my room one night and I kissed him, softly but with a firm edge in it to let him know what I wanted. His name was Lewis and he wanted the same thing. I felt a sizable erection beginning to grow in his pants and we moved over to my bed. He began smoothly unzipping my crotch and unbuckling my belt.
"Thank fuck, man," he smiled. "I've wanted this since the first time I met you."
"Me too," I responded, as his hand slipped in to my boxers, made flesh contact with my dick and began to expertly massage it to full salute. This felt incredible. Lewis dropped down, as he fished my cock out of my pants, and I yanked my top up off over my head. His mouth was warm, wet and it definitely did not belong to a novice. He began moving up and down, his eyes gazing up as me as my raging boner slipped in and out of his lips.
"Fuck! That feels good," I complimented. "Fuck, Lewis. That's incredible."
"I want it in my ass," he purred. This was an unexpected side of him. Out in public, he was fairly quiet, well-mannered and confidently masculine. In bed though, he was sultry, seductive and downright slutty. I liked that. I've always respected a guy who can cut loose in the bedroom, but has respect for himself outside of it. I liked Lewis and ran my hands across his head appreciatively.
"Don't worry. You'll get it," I promised, "after a bit more of this. You give great fucking head, dude."
A pleased smile flashed across Lewis's face and he dived back onto my penis. He slurped and slobbered over it, but never took his eyes off my face as he did so. I was going to give him the fuck of his life. That's why he wanted and he'd earned it.
"Get on your back," I commanded. Lewis pulled himself off my dick and as I moved down the bed, he moved up it. "Legs in the air," I said, in the same tone. He complied and I flicked my tongue across his puckered asshole. He purred slightly above me, as I began to tongue it properly. I love rimming; I always have. It's warm and intense, personal and sordid. As my tongue began to slip further and further into Lewis's dilating hole, I felt his toes curl in the air above me. I smirked and pulled my head away to spit on him before gently pushing the spit inside him with my finger. He let out a gasp and a whispered, "Fuck, yes," and I decided to mess with him. All in the name of bedroom fun.
"You still want my dick, Lewis?" I taunted, moving my finger in and out of him.
"Yes," he replied; his eyes closed.
"More than this finger." In. Out. He nodded and bit his lip.
"How much do you want it?" In. Out. In. Out.
"So much. Please."
I reached over to the bedside table and rustled around for some condom and lube. Once I'd sheathed up and cover myself with lube, I began to slowly ease into him. A contented look spread across Lewis's face and I leaned down to kiss him once I'd buried myself, balls-deep, inside him. Our tongues pressed slowly against one another and I felt his asshole contract around my cock a bit; I wondered if he was doing it on purpose. If he was teasing me and pleasuring me.
"I've wanted you inside me since the first day I met you," he groaned, repeating his earlier point. "You're. So. Fucking. Hot."
I began to pick up my pace. It was an energetic fuck; one by two athletes. Sweat was pouring off us forty minutes later, with Lewis now on top of me, and riding me just the way I liked. Sweat slicked down his abs and fuck knows how much noise we were making. With a load groan, he shot a huge load of spunk all over me, spraying across my neck, chin and face. I grabbed onto his waist and held him in place as I roared with orgasm into the condom. When it was over, he collapsed onto me and I put my arm around him.
"Fuck. That was intense."
"Yes, it was," I agreed. "You're welcome to stay, if you want."
"Cool, dude. Thanks."
We fell asleep in each other's arms and the next morning, we fucked in the shower. Like Will, Lewis soon became a regular in my college bedroom. He was a beautiful man, and a fantastic fuck.
It would be easy, now, to say that I regretted that next year of my life. What could be termed my 'slut' year in college. It would be easy to say that, now that I'm married to the love of my life, who I met in high school. It would easy to say that, but it would be fundamentally dishonest. I don't regret it. Why should I? Rory and I went down the path we were meant to go down. I really do believe that. And both of us worked out of our system what needed to be worked out. In many ways, I guess you could say I'm glad it happened. And not just because of the sex.
Over the next year, after Ed and Lewis, I went to bed with fifteen more people, excluding intermittent fuck sessions with Will and Lewis. Of those fifteen, three were bad and four were forgettable. Of the eight that qualified as good sex, four were phenomenal. There's a red-blooded instinct in me, the frat boy, the jock, or whatever you want to call it, that makes me want to tell the story to you, in detail. After all, this is what this is, isn't it? A stroll down memory lane; the story of a life that was defined by love, with a bump in the middle? So I will, at some point, go through them; all the good ones, anyway. I think I'd like that. And, yes, a little bit of it would be boasting. However, after the Lewis story, perhaps one further point of information should be clarified, before returning to the guy talk. It's a point of sentiment and it's an important one.
In that year of adjusting to life at university, when I did well for myself in terms of my sexual partners, it's worth noting that I did not go off the rails. I did well at my studies, I made friends, I socialized and I kept in touch with my friends back home. I was well-adjusted, I guess you could say, and I never let myself get into a situation that I would regret or was uncomfortable. There was one encounter, actually, where I came very close to regretting, but given that I learned an important lesson about myself via it, I suppose it's technically untrue or misleading to say that I 'regretted' it, even. Anyway. As the months passed and the new life -- friends, lovers, work, school -- built-up around me, the conscious knowledge of missing Rory faded. The recognizable, unavoidable thump of pain at our separation went away. But, looking back on it, the absence of him remained with me, even though I was not always aware of it. It would trite and stupid, a talk-show-worthy platitude, to say that I threw myself into bed with those guys to distract myself from the fact that I couldn't have Rory. I didn't; I had sex with them because I liked sex and because I could. That may be an unpalatable statement to some, but it isn't to me. I was nineteen/twenty years old and single. I wasn't a monk. Anyway, I digress and I'm ranting.
At no point, however, did I fall in love and there was always some special piece of me, of my mind or heart, or whatever it should be called, that I didn't give to any of the guys I encountered. But which I had given freely to Rory. I didn't really go on dates and not just because that culture isn't as big in the UK as it is in the US. As the months rolled by, I stopped thinking about Rory all the time, but I would catch myself referring to him as 'my boyfriend,' or 'my ex,' or telling people, 'I just broke up with someone.' These phrases would slip out, without me noticing. My life in that year was happy; it was fun. But I did not have him and it would only be when I saw him again that I decided that would need to change.
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