I really couldn't help myself. My hand was down inside my boxers before I knew it, and I was stroking to the sounds of my roomie banging some bitch he had picked up a frat party. We were both sophomores, Shane and I, dorm roommate since day one, and he got so much fricking action it wasn't even funny. But this was the first time he had ever brought one back to the room. He thought I was asleep, passed out after leaving the part at the respectable hour of midnight, leaving him there chatting up the junior year Communications major with the tits and the tight tank top and the artlessly made up dog face.
Shane was something, alright. In those tight t-shirts with his always messed up hair and that earnestness in his voice that made all of us roll our eyes at his sappy, true-believer comments. He didn't work out at all, no weight lifting, just running and swimming and horsing around on the basketball courts. Still he had a terrific body, slender and kinda olive complected with a dusting of dark brown hair on his upper chest and arms and legs. I haven't seen him in years, but my guess is that he didn't really keep it together all that well. But at that point, at nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, he was a sight to behold.
Anyway, he's grunting, all drunk and shit, mumbling something about this bitch's ass. She's kind of whining, totally fucked up too, probably barely conscious of what is going on. The orange light from the street lamp outside gives me a pretty good view of the action. Shane's holding himself up, like at the apex of a push-up, the blanket covering his ass and legs. And he's thrusting and grunting. She's underneath him, legs spread and crappy brown hair scattered across the pillow like a cheap wig.
This goes on for about ten minutes then all of a sudden Shane backs it up, pulls it out of the bitch's pussy or butt hole or wherever he had it, straddles her childbearing hips and shoots a ropy white load all over her prized possession knockers. Shane looks like he's caught up in some extended sneeze, and his body contorts and his tight little abs flex as he spews salty baby batter on her chest and on her face. She objects through unintelligible gurgling, and Shane scoots up further and wipes his dick on her cheaply made-up mouth.
I am, needless to say, agog. I had never even see somebody else jack off, let alone the display that was put on before me. I cum, discreetly, onto my stomach and then try to wipe it up with the waist band of my sleepytime boxers. I do only a half ass job, and as the beer slowly starts to overtake me and I lose consciousness, I am dimly aware of Shane shoving that evening's receptacle out of his bed, telling her that it's time she got lost 'cause he needed his sleep and he didn't want to wake up with her in his bed.
Morning breaks, and I awake to find Shane's bed empty, devoid of his lithe frame and wonderworking cock. I would live for the mornings when he would stumble out of bed, piss hard on straining against his jockeys or against nothing at all. He was raised on some bean fucking farming collective up in Washington State, where they teach about your dick and sex before you learn to spell your own name, so he's not too shy about his body and its many machinations. He had never gotten weird about of course, up to that point, so he never like wagged his dick in my face or forced me to suck it or anything. He just treated it like a runny nose or a case of gas.
He comes back in the room just as I am sitting up and starts to regale me with stories about the rest of the party and Andrea, the evening's acceptable receptacle. For some reason that I still cannot comprehend I tell him to shut up about it 'cause I got an eye and an earful the night before. "No way, dude," he says, "So you saw me shoot my load all over her fuckin' tits?" I answer in the affirmative, and this seems to make Shane really proud that he now has independent confirmation from another guy about his ballistics capabilities.
"Big fucking deal. Most guys are shooters," I say. "Hell I gotta watch out and not get it in my hair." He calls me a liar and tells me that he knew I was a dribbler from the first day. This whole conversation is making me nervous, so I head off to the showers, where I jack off imaging Shane working up a hot batch all over my hairless chest and then licking it up.
Next Friday another lame frat party, but Shane's ill treatment of Andrea the week before has won him no fans among the sorority crowd, expressing this week solidarity despite their constant backstabbing of each other. So it's just the two of us, hugging the keg. The respectable hour rolls around, and I excuse myself as usual, getting ready to tell Shane to be quiet when he comes in, maybe to fuck the chick in the toilets instead this time. He puts down his beer cup and tells me that he's gonna call it a night too.
We walk back to the dorms in silence. I can tell that Shane's not that drunk. I was keeping up with him all night, and I am nowhere near the drinker he is, and I am still able to keep a straight line and could name at least the first ten or twelve presidents.
Back in the room, Shane pops in a CD and pulls off his shirt and just stands there, one hip cocked, kinda staring at his pillow, looking sexier than shit, in spite of or perhaps because of his total awareness of it.
"Yo," he begins, "why don't you even bring any bitches back here or even make any play at 'em? It's not like you're dogmeat or anything. I know girls that dig you, but you don't seem to give 'em any time."
I don't answer him. He's never brought it up before, and I guess I never really thought about it. I mean, I knew why I never made any play at them - 'cause I didn't want to. I didn't care about them. I mean I liked them, some of them, some more than others, but I didn't really have any desire to feel up their tits or stick my face in their crotch or stick my dick inside of 'em.
Seeing Shane there, though, that made me feel something that the girls could never. We only had one light on in the place, the orange lava lamp that his hippy shit mom gave him when he left home. It was behind him, so it gave him kind of this orange aura, and the light got all caught up in the wisps of hair on his arms and his chest and that spread so delicately across his flat tummy.
"Yo, dummy. I asked you . . . Why are you staring at me like that?"
I looked away, pulled off my clothes and crawled into bed, overwhelmed by the realization that was dawning on me, the clarification of so many years, the solidification of something that before was totally amorphous and inexplicable.
Shane knew though. He knew better than I did.
"Yo, dude. Wake up."
I didn't know what time it was, but it was still dark, but the birds were starting to chirp outside. Shane leaned over me, one hand on my shoulder, the other lifting up the covers.
"Dude, lemme in. I'm cold."
What? What the fuck? Cold? It was the middle of May and we were inside this crappy dorm room without any ventilation. I didn't say anything though, just scooted closer to the wall, and wondered what the fuck was wrong with the boy, who was now climbing into bed beside me.
He lay on his back for about a minute then rolled over toward the wall, same direction I was in. I could feel his knees brush up against the backs of my knees, and it was all I could do to keep from jumping through the ceiling,
"Dude, it's fucking cold in here," he said, as his arm snaked around my waist, and he closed the gap between us.
I was silent. His breath was in the back of my hair, and the little hairs on the back of my neck and on my legs and arms stood at attention. I had never done anything like this before.
"You smell . . . different," he said after inhaling deeply, "not like a girl. You smell like me, I guess."
Still silence from me. We did use the same soap and ate just about the same things and drank the same things. It's understandable. I really, though, had no idea what was going on. My body was electric. My mind was spinning, though half asleep still. And one other thing was going on - my dick was rock hard, and Shane's hand was like two inches away from the head. Just as I realized this, he laid the palm of his hand on my stomach, without moving it. It just lay there, warm and motionless.
"You don't have any hair on you, dude. Why not?"
"I . . . I dunno. I'm just made that way I guess." His hand then began to move, upward though, up my stomach to my chest. His fingers crossed the sensitive area just under my pecs and then across my nipples. My hips bucked reflexively, and I gasped. In that instant of reflex motion I felt his dick pressing into my ass cheeks. He chuckled a little, proud of the reaction he had elicited.
"Did that feel good?" He asked as he met my nipple again on the down stroke. Once more I convulsed, gasped, and felt his dick against my ass. "I guess so."
Just when I thought it could not get any . . . weirder, Shane really went for it. His hand passed across my belly again but did not stop where it had began. His nimble fingers slid under the waistband of my boxers and grabbed my rock hard cock.
"Hmm . . ." he breathed, his suspicions proven. His nose was in my hair now, rooting about, and his hand squeezed my bare cock. "Roll over."
He kept a hold of my dick with his left hand, and I turned to meet his eyes.
"Roll over," he ordered, and I did so. "Let's get a look at this thing."
I was overwhelmed. I watched him kick down the covers with his feet and in one deft movement of his wrist and the back of his hand, tuck the waist band of my boxers under my balls, all the while maintaining hold of my dick. He held it by the base and squeezed it a little and kind of wagged it around in the air like the bat of a baseball player waiting for the pitch. Then he leaned over me and, breathing in through his nose, took my dick into his mouth.
"Holy shit," I muttered, as my eyes rolled back into my head and my head pressed into my pillow. I can't remember if he was any good on an objective level, but at that point it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to my dick in my whole life. I mean, he knew what he was doing, but how well it was executed, his rhythm I can't remember. But he certainly seemed enthusiastic about it. After he got the whole thing unit slicked up with spit, he formed a ring with his fingers in front of his mouth and stroked in time with his sucking. The room was spinning.
Shane meanwhile had pulled his dick out of his jockeys and was pawing it inconsistently. He was hard as a rock, too, and I could see threads of pre-cum running out of his slit onto my sheets. It was and remains one of the most amazing images I have ever seen - Shane's lean, muscular back and the back of his head, his hairy, sold legs and that gorgeous cut cock, and all of it while he sucked on my dick like he hadn't had a meal in weeks.
After a couple of minutes of this I was getting close and had the common decency to try to pull his head away rather than just letting fly into his mouth. He felt my balls, felt that they were nestled tight against my body and looked up at me.
"How was that? Were you close? Was I any good?"
"Uh . . . yeah, great, totally," was all I could manage at that moment.
He was still rubbing his hand along the belly of his dick, and he saw me looking at it.
"You wanna . . .?" He asked. For a dude who was wiping his dick on a sorority girls face just a week ago, he was sure was demure in this context.
I just nodded, and this was all the encouragement he needed. I got the feeling that I was not his first dick, but even if I had not known otherwise, it would have been plainly obvious that I was not about to give him his first blow job. He took my other pillow and tucked it under my head, so that my neck was craned a strange angle. I didn't really get it until he had kicked off his jockeys and was kneeling beside my shoulders, pressing his dick down at the base, pointing it at my mouth. I looked up at him, and he was giving me this wicked smile and then, I'll never forget this, he winked as the head of his dick hit my lips. Like the inveterate cocksucker that I would become I instinctively opened my mouth and allowed him in.
He coached me a bit on the technique - watch the teeth, focus on the head, yes, you're really supposed to suck, no not that hard, lightly, make a vacuum with your mouth. I never quite got the hand thing down, but Shane wasn't complaining. Like most things I didn't really come to enjoy the experience until I could relax. Once he had taught me the technique and began to semi-absentmindedly slide his dick in and out of my mouth, then began for me the transcendence. His smell, the look of him above me, his breathing and most of all the feeling of his dick in my mouth and his balls grazing my cheek - well, I was hooked for life.
I had almost forgotten about my own dick, until Shane snapped out of his reverie and took hold of it. It was still rock hard, exhibiting that mythic mind of its own. He gave it a few good pumps, and I could feel the jizz welling up inside of me. He could tell too, and as he continued to stroke me and as I continued to suck him he leaned over me, and as I came he caught most of my load in his mouth. Some landed on his cheek, some on stomach, and as he wiped it up with his fingers and put it to his mouth, his own cock got that much harder and that much thicker, and I prepared myself for what was to come.
Down my throat he flowed and out the corners of my mouth. I knew, somehow, to swallow, to remove all but the head of his dick and to keep sucking and swallowing as jet after jet flowed down my gullet into my belly. Shane's body shook above me and his head was thrown back and his heavy breathing turned into chuckling.
He lay down beside me and pulled my face toward his and kissed me softly on the lips. Dawn was breaking outside, and we both feel asleep, naked, on top of the bed.
That certainly was not the last time that Shane and I had sex. That summer and most of junior year it was almost a daily thing. His womanizing slacked off considerably, though he still took one out for a spin every now and again. It would make me a little jealous but not much 'cause he always seemed to find his way back home to his old roomie. That fall we moved out of the dorm and into separate apartments, I alone and he with some people from his major. I guess he missed the collective atmosphere of his childhood. So my place was the sex place and his place was the party place. People kind of knew in a way, I think, 'cause we were really affectionate with each other, nothing weird of course, no kissing, but there was a lot of touching and wrestling around.
Then one day, in March of junior year, Shane just disappeared. He cleaned out his room in the middle of the day when everybody else was at school, left a check for the next month's rent and just disappeared. I got a postcard from him that summer from Tibet. He had met up with his mom and step-dad and was gonna take some time off from school. He promised that he would write again, but he never did.