2 comments/ 11820 views/ 2 favorites Chronicles of an Academic Predator Pt. 01 By: MarkArbour Before you read this story, there are a few things you should consider: 1. It contains graphic descriptions of sex between men. In some cases, these depictions may get kinky, and include borderline S&M. 2. It is set in the early 1960s, an era before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when segregation and discrimination were the norm. African Americans were referred to as Negroes or Coloreds, although the "N" word was offensive then as it is now. I have retained the language of the era because it reminds me how far we have come on race relations. 3. Be aware that the effects of inflation have been profound. A good rule of thumb is to consider that $1 in 1962 is probably similar to $10 in 2008. So just add a zero at the end of any number. * PROLOGUE March 16, 1962 Professor Rosenberg studied the young man sitting across from him. He'd known the young man for three years now, had nurtured him through his doctorate, and now his post-doctorate. He'd encouraged and defended him as one does a protégé, and felt a burst of pride like a father would when the young man's study of French Algeria was published and received wide academic acclaim. Isn't that what old men who have reached the peak of their career are supposed to do? Yet for all their time together, he really didn't know this young man: John Paul Crampton. He wondered if anyone really did. Crampton was a mystery, a closed book. He was always calm, always deliberate, and truly unshakable. He'd once seen a colleague taunt him about his paper to the point that anyone else would have probably punched the guy, but not Crampton. He just let the guy rant and rave, and then calmly rebutted his arguments. Absolutely unflappable. Normally he would expect such a person to be an introvert, and exceedingly shy. Not Crampton. He had highly developed and refined social skills, and was always popular at departmental social functions. Rosenberg's own wife had commented on how charming the young man was. What most people failed to realize was that despite the charm and conversation, after they were done talking to him, people rarely were able to discern any idea about who he really was. To read Crampton you had to really look for the signs. Right now, he was sitting across the desk appearing nonchalant; no one could guess that he was being subjected to the intense scrutiny of his mentor and department chair. The light green eyes betrayed nothing, nor did the relaxed expression on his face. His hands weren't fiddling, his feet weren't tapping...no, this was one cool customer. There it was! Professor Rosenberg smiled in triumph. Crampton had run his hand through his perfectly groomed blond hair. That was one of the only signs of nervousness Rosenberg had ever seen him display. Satisfied with his victory, with finally breaking through that hard outer shell, he decided that he'd tortured the young man enough. It was time to break the silence. "So you've applied for a post-doc at Berkeley, and for assistant professorships at Brown, Northwestern, and Ohio State. I've sent my letters of recommendation to all those institutions, and of course they're glowing." "Thank you professor," Crampton said with a smile. His smiles always seemed fake, but it was the twinkle in his eyes, the only other true sign of emotion one could detect from Crampton, that gave away his pleasure. "So you decided not to apply for the professorship in Mississippi?" Rosenberg could guess why, but he wanted to hear it for himself. "Yes sir. The racial situation down there is just too intense. I'd probably end up getting lynched if I went there." Crampton said this with a wry smile, recalling his recent trip to the Mississippi campus. It had been draped with Confederate battle flags and there were signs and banners saying "Niggers stay out" posted throughout the campus. Not his cup of tea. "So would I. Well, I wish you luck. If nothing works out for you, you know you can stay here at Princeton for another post-doc. It's been a great pleasure to have you here. I've rarely encountered such a promising young scholar." Rosenberg was becoming a bit wistful. "Thank you for everything you've done for me sir. You've really inspired me, and encouraged me. I don't think I'd have gotten my doctorate without you." And with that, the shields briefly fell, and Rosenberg got his biggest present of all: the look of sincerity and affection that shot from Crampton's eyes was priceless. It was gone just as quickly. It was time to end this meeting before it got too maudlin. "Well, good luck Crampton. Have a good weekend, and we'll see you here on Monday." With that they stood up and shook hands. CHAPTER ONE March 16, 1962 I walked out of the office and the meeting feeling pleased with myself. Praise from Rosenberg was rare, a commodity to be treasured. After I left the History Building my feet seemed to automatically take me two buildings down. I entered the building, similar to the others on campus, and made my way to the basement restroom. This place was like a release valve for my sexuality, the only place I went to experience an orgasm with another living being. As I walked into the bathroom, the familiar smells assaulted my nostrils, the urinal soaps, the air freshener, the residual floor cleaner...all fueling my anticipation and plumping my dick. There were two urinals and two stalls. Sometimes I'd come here and there would be no one. I'd wait and wait until I had wasted enough time, then I'd leave. Other days I'd come in and the other stall would be occupied by one of the old trolls that lurked around here. Old men, men over 50, who lurked here hoping a young college guy wouldn't notice how ancient they were, or wouldn't care, and let them suck his dick anyway. Those trolls would camp here for hours, ruining the place for the rest of us. Today I was in luck, or at least I hoped so. The bathroom wasn't empty; there was someone else in the first stall. Only the guy's shoes were visible under the stall, a pair of those new ankle-high square-toed numbers that were all the rage lately. It's unlikely that old trolls would sport a pair of those. I entered the second stall and took a piece of toilet paper from the roll and leaned over to wipe off the seat, not really concerned about cleanliness, but using it as an innocuous excuse to lean over and peek through the large hole in the divider. The hole was large enough to fit a dick through, even a big one, something I'd found out on several occasions. Looking through the hole was almost an art form because you had to look like you weren't looking. This meant stooping down over the seat only a little lower than normal and then only tilting your head slightly towards the hole, forcing your peripheral vision to do most of the work. The last thing I wanted, the thing that would be a total disaster, would be to get caught. Campus cops sometimes patrolled here, looking for guys like me, but just as scary were regular guys, guys who might be offended, guys who might recognize me, guys who might tell the world I was a faggot. I glanced through long enough to make sure that the other guy wasn't an old troll. The best way to do this was to try to get a glimpse of his face, but if that failed, to try to see his hands. Young guys didn't have wrinkled, grizzled hands. In this case the guy had one hand on his thigh, young and taut skin, while the other covered up his crotch. The excitement surged within me as I quickly unbuckled my pants and slid them down, along with my boxers, and sat on the toilet, being careful to hold my hand so it blocked the view of my crotch, only showing a little bit of my blond pubic hair. My pubic hair was just like the hair on my head, thick and dense. The guy in the next stall was carefully moving his right hand. It was innocent enough; it could be construed as someone just scratching his balls. I mirrored the movement, conscious that both of us were staring through the hole. The other guy's movement became more deliberate, showing me a view of his pubic hair, which was bright red. Hot! I could see him move closer to the hole, watching me repeat his moves, becoming bolder now, showing me the base of his hard cock. I showed him mine, plus a little more. Now he was obviously jacking his cock, and I could see it clearly, only partially shielded by his hand. Seeing that I was jacking as well, he removed his hand and gave me a look at his hard dick. It was bigger than mine by about half an inch, so that put it at 7 inches, and pretty similar in thickness. I rubbed my finger on the bottom of the hole, and he stood up slowly, guiding his beautiful dick through the opening. There it was, live and in color, in front of me. I stroked it once or twice then swallowed it whole. Bathroom encounters don't provide much time for foreplay and teasing. He was thrusting against the wall, and I could taste the pre-cum leaking out of his cock. He was getting close, when all of a sudden the bathroom door opened. He jumped back and sat down quickly to make sure we didn't get caught. I noticed that he performed that maneuver pretty well. Pulling a dick as long as his through a glory hole that quickly could cause a really unpleasant scrape. The guy that walked in went over to the urinal, peed, and then left. If it would have been one of the trolls he would have lurked outside the stalls, trying to see through the cracks around the door, hounding us until one of us left. This time I was lucky. As soon as the bathroom was empty again, my "friend" motioned for me to put my cock through the hole. I was so horny, so excited, I had to force my hands not to shake. I felt the fortunately dulled edges of the hole brush against my dick, I could feel his breath flowing around the head of my cock, the humidity and warmth of his mouth as he slowly enveloped it. Then he wrapped his lips around my cock and went for it. He worked on my cock like a pro, driving me nuts with his tongue. I reached the point of no return, and whispered loudly "I'm gonna cum!" Rather than pull back he just sucked harder, and was rewarded a second later as I shot a huge load in his mouth. It seemed like I came forever. My knees were so weak that I thought I was going to collapse, but I regained my balance, pulled my cock out of the hole, pulled up my pants, and left. I didn't feel bad about it, it was simply the custom, the way things were. No reciprocation was necessary. No words needed to be exchanged. That was the etiquette of the bathroom. This was closeted queer life in 1962. I got home to find my roommate, André, lounging on the couch in the front room, wearing only a pair of boxers, offering me a tantalizing view. If I had to describe André in one word, it would be "masculine." He was tall, about 6'2, with dark hair fashionably slicked back with lots of grease. His dark features reminded me of that guy in West Side Story, George Chakiris, but his looks weren't classically handsome; rather they were rugged, with a perennial 5 o'clock shadow and a prominent nose with a big bump in it, a nose that anyone who had been to France would immediately recognize as a consummate Gallic feature. And the nose didn't lie. André was born in France; His family had immigrated to the US when World War II started, part of the Exode. That was the first thing that ignited our friendship, our French connection. I was only "half" French. My mother had been born and raised in the Champagne region, and had raised my brother and me to be bilingual. The fact that both André and I could converse fluently in French with each other had created an instant bond between us, and over the past few years we'd become as close as brothers. He even spent the holidays with my family, and my mother adored him. He knew all of my secrets except one: he didn't know that I'd fallen completely in love with him, and I was determined that he never would. For the past two years we'd been roommates, and become inseparable. We went out together, ate together, double-dated...although those dates usually ended up with him making out with his girl and me politely kissing mine on the cheek. I played it off against my persona, the nice young gentleman from a good family who was simply prim and proper, not some whacked out queer who lusted after his roommate all the time. And that was getting harder and harder, both literally and figuratively. There were only two people who could penetrate my tough shell: André and my mother. Yet even those two weren't allowed into that deep recess of my brain, the part that housed my sexuality. I'd only had "sex" with one guy that I knew, my cousin Billy Schluter, and I think he just wrote that off as some experimental thing from when we were teenagers. "Sex" in any event consisted of jacking each other off, and me blowing him. Now he was in the Navy, married with two kids. With André it was different. It was love. I wanted him more than anything I'd ever wanted. More than the professorship at Northwestern, more than my new Pontiac, more than fame and respect as a scholar. And I was worried, worried that my feelings were starting to leak through my shields. It was getting tougher and tougher to maintain the façade, but I had to. What if he found out? That would be the end of our friendship. He was in the ROTC program, in a few months he'd be off to training, then into the big dangerous world as a Lieutenant. What military man wants a queer best friend? What military man can risk having a queer best friend? Worse, what if he was so disgusted that he told everyone? Professor Rosenberg, with all his nice phrases, well, that would change. Who would hire me? Who would want a queer professor? Worse yet, what if I got arrested? Sodomy is illegal everywhere. What would my family say if I were tossed in jail for being a queer? I would become a freak. He stared at me with a look of concern on his face. The shield was already cracking. "Hey Iceman, what's bugging you?" He called me Iceman to tease me into letting down my guard. No way that was happening today. "Nothing. Had a good meeting with Rosenberg and I was just deep in thought. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be working?" Changing the subject was important. "Nah. Got the night off. Wanna go out dancing? We could call those two chicks we met last week or maybe go stag and try to pick up some new ones?" He always got this sexy leer when he was talking about women. It made me jealous, and uncomfortable. "Sure, let me take a quick shower and change." Dancing would be fun. I enjoyed it. My mother, conscious that a young man should be able to dance correctly, had made sure that I learned the basic ballroom steps despite my total lack of rhythm. I ended up as a very good dancer, from a competence standpoint probably better than André, but I couldn't come close to matching him in passion and style. Barbara and Peggy posed near the bar, making sure they had a view of both the dance floor and the door. Both girls were regulars here, and they were looking for the two guys they'd seen last Saturday. They'd dressed to attract. Barbara, tall and blond, wore a flowing skirt with a tight sweater to accentuate her big boobs. Having found that some guys didn't like tall women, she leaned slightly into the bar, to make herself seem shorter and to push her breasts out even further. Peggy was much shorter. She wore a frilly top to hide her relative lack of cleavage, but her skirt was significantly shorter, designed to show off her best feature, her amazing legs. Barbara spotted the two guys as they walked into the hall, exhaling smoke from her Chesterfield into Peggy's face to get her attention. The guys were as oddly matched to each other as she and Peggy were. Leading the way was the tall one, with his dark hair, dark eyes, and lithe movements. There was something distinctly foreign about him, and that made him intriguing. His friend was much shorter, probably about 5'7, and looked, well, he looked pretty, like a blond Ricky Nelson. Yeah, that's it. That's exactly what he looked like. A short, blond, pretty, Ricky Nelson. Barbara shared her observation with Peggy, which made them both laugh. The laughter attracted the notice of the tall guy, and he casually ambled over towards her, his short friend in tow. Before long they had paired off, and spent the night dancing together. Barbara learned that her partner, the tall, dark, handsome one, was André Clerreault. He was born in France but had immigrated to the US with his grandmother during WWII, fleeing from the Germans. He hated his parents, who had stayed in France and collaborated with the Nazis, and he had no contact with them. For holidays, he went home with his friend, and considered the friend's parents to be his real family now. He never missed a chance to head to the beach, although he didn't surf, and he liked to play soccer and tennis. He was in the Army, so he expected to head off to active duty soon, and after that he was hoping to get stationed in France as part of the NATO force. He loved all kinds of food except Indian, because curry made him nauseous, but he could drink anything. His favorite drink was beer, and even though he drank Old Milwaukee all night he sneered at American beer in general, saying he preferred French and Belgian brands. He liked to swing, twist, cha-cha, did a mean tango, and a wicked "Mashed Potato." He whispered French words into her ear during slow dances, words that she didn't understand but that excited her nonetheless. She let him dance closer than she normally would, felt him grow against her, found herself pressing back against him. She knew that, alone with him, she'd find it hard to say "no". Peggy had chatted happily with her pretty partner all night, but in the end, all she found out about him was his that name is John Paul Crampton, but everyone called him JP, and that he was a professor. And a good dancer. March 17, 1962 I woke up in a bad mood. First of all, there was the hangover from drinking too much last night. The taste of cheap gin was still resident in my mouth, and I fought off the nausea that threatened to leave an entirely different taste instead. As if that weren't enough, I was tired, having gotten no sleep last night. André had brought Barbara home and spent the whole night trying to fuck her. From what I could gather from the thin walls, André had ended up settling with a blow job. At first it had been erotic, and I'd jacked off listening to their groping and panting. After that, it had just been annoying. And finally, today was St. Patrick's Day, which meant that I'd probably end up out drinking again. To clear my head I took a shower. André teased me all the time about taking too many showers, said that Freud would diagnose me as anal retentive, but the water refreshed me and woke me up, and I liked to be clean. André didn't have a car, and he'd need to take his bimbo home, so I left my car keys and a note for him and strolled down to the local diner. Some coffee and some food began to soften my mood, while I delved into the newspaper, catching up on current events. I was soon absorbed in the latest news on the Evian peace talks between France, Algeria, and the paramilitary forces involved in the revolution. So much violence, so many dead. Britain was granting its colonies independence at a rapid pace, and it didn't seem to cause them the same convulsions that it had in France. In France the Algerian Conflict had not only brought down an entire government, it had caused a virtual re-drafting of the constitution. That's primarily because the British viewed their colonies as, well, colonies, while the French viewed theirs, especially Algeria, as a part of France, as much a part of France as Provence or the Midi. But fortunately the conflict was winding down and the Evian talks looked to be successful. Chronicles of an Academic Predator Pt. 01 I heard the song "Peggy Sue" playing on the jukebox, reminding me of my "date" last night, and how she'd tried to get information out of me, which had just made me more defensive. I'd become a master of making small-talk while saying, in essence, nothing, and it was going to take someone a lot brighter and more attractive than Peggy to break down that barrier. Two young men walked by and sat at the table behind me. They both looked to be about 19, one with dark hair and the other with red hair. As they sat, they started speaking, but not in English. I listened more intently, not to eavesdrop, but just to see if I could figure out which language it was. At first I thought it might be Spanish, which I was competent in, but after a few seconds I realized it was French. Not French like the French spoke, not even the heavily accented French that was spoken in Brittany or Languedoc. No, this was a guttural type of French. It was...Quebecois! French Canadians. Listening to them was like an Englishman listening to someone from the Southern Appalachians. Whether I planned to eavesdrop or not, the temptation to hear their accents and diction sealed the deal. "I told you we have to be careful. You can't hold my hand in public like you just did. We'll get arrested, deported!" one of the guys implored. He had a deep, resonant voice, the kind of voice that a sexy guy would have, the kind of voice that you might expect someone who was a good singer to have. "I'm sorry. I made a mistake. It's just so hard, I love you so much and I just want to touch you all the time," said the other guy. This one had a softer, more pleading voice dripping with effeminacy. I found myself trying to figure out which was which, wishing I were sitting on the other side of the table so I was looking at them. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if I were over there, I wouldn't be able to hear them as well. "Just watch it, OK. We're foreigners here, and I don't want to get sent back to Montreal with the word "Queer" stamped on my forehead," Deep Voice said. His husky voice was almost an aphrodisiac. "I love you," asserted Soft Voice. "Do you love me?" "I love you too," responded Deep Voice, relenting and calming down. It seemed to placate Soft Voice, even though it didn't sound very sincere to me. "I hope no one in here can understand us," he continued, the caution returning. I could almost feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I made sure to pay close attention to my paper, and to at least turn the page once in a while. "Not likely," said Soft Voice soothingly. What a contrast they were, Deep Voice so fearful of being outed, while Soft Voice was only concerned with being in love. Nonetheless, they started whispering so that I couldn't hear what they were saying. I could gather that some of their conversation was about money, but beyond that it was too jumbled. Suddenly André appeared, and before I could stop him he began speaking to me in French. I responded in English, which brought a puzzled look to his face, but I motioned him to leave it alone. He shrugged, sat down with a thump, and started reading the menu. I could feel the tension at the table behind me. I could hear the muted whispering, the near panic. Within seconds, they'd gotten their check and prepared to leave. I was listening to André recount his adventures with Barbara the Bimbo, pretending to pay attention, while I waited for the two guys to walk by on their way out. The footsteps started and they were next to the table. I casually looked up and made eye contact with the redhead. He looked at me with a terrified expression. I felt so sorry for him; I broke my rule and actually smiled at a stranger. As he walked away, I noticed his lithe body, his nice clothes, and his new shoes. Those fashionable ankle length square-toed numbers. André rambled on, oblivious as usual. Chronicles of an Academic Predator Pt. 02 Before you read this story, there are a few things you should consider: 1 It contains graphic descriptions of sex between men. In some cases, these depictions may get kinky, and include borderline S&M. 2 It is set in the early 1960s, an era before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when segregation and discrimination were the norm. African Americans were referred to as Negroes or Coloreds, although the "N" word was offensive then as it is now. I have retained the language of the era because it reminds me how far we have come on race relations. 3 Be aware that the effects of inflation have been profound. A good rule of thumb is to consider that $1 in 1962 is probably similar to $10 in 2008. So just add a zero at the end of any number. * CHAPTER TWO March 17, 1962 Those square-toed, ankle high shoes! That was the guy in the bathroom yesterday. My mind was whirling; I had to get out of there, find a place to be by myself and digest this info. I cut André off in mid-sentence and excused myself to go to the bathroom. There were two stalls, ironically enough, so I picked one and locked myself in. I sat there, with my pants still pulled up, pondering what I had just seen. That had to be the same guy. How many redheads with those shoes were there in this college town? How many were queer, as this guy obviously was? Did he recognize me? I tried to recall the look he'd given me on the way out. Was it a knowing one? No, it was a look of fear, of apprehension. I was safe. Luckily for them, so were they. Can't be outing fellow queers. Damn, he was cute though. And he had a really nice ass, the pants he had been wearing were tight enough to make it seem small and cute. When he walked, it was a confident stride, almost a strut. I don't think I'd ever seen anything like it, almost a masculine version of a woman walking and working her hips. The fluid way he moved his body, his talents that I'd already experienced, boy, he must be an amazing lover. I had a vision of his face burned into my brain, distorted by that look of terror, but gorgeous anyway. His face was a long, oval shape, with blue eyes, set back farther and closer together than normal. His nose was long, appropriately matching his face, with a pronounced bridge right below his eyes. He reminded me of Guy Madison, only with red hair. He was sporting a goatee, and even though I'd always thought they were ridiculous, on him it worked. One of Jack Kerouac's followers, no doubt. It was inevitable that my mind would ultimately turn to sex. Was he Deep Voice or Soft Voice? I recalled the visual of him walking out the door, then recalled his cock sliding carefully through the hole in the bathroom yesterday...all of it making me hard as a rock and incredibly horny. I dropped my pants and beat off with a frenzy I rarely used, blowing my load in no time at all. A few minutes to calm down, let my erection subside, clean up, and I was ready to return to the real world. But I'd look out for him. He's cute, he's sexy, and he's queer. André looked up as I returned to the table. "Feel better?" he asked, assuming I'd been taking a massive crap or something. "Absolutely", I responded with complete sincerity. There was an incredibly painful noise dragging me from my desperately needed sleep. I lay in bed, thinking that maybe it would end soon. It didn't. I rolled out of bed, staggered a bit, and went in quest of the offending sound. I walked into the front room to find the TV on. The noise was the test pattern. I looked at my watch. 3am. No wonder. TV programming had ended over 3 hours ago. I clicked it off, relieved to be rid of the din. I scanned the room, and there was the reason for the test pattern. André was passed out on the couch. The street light shone through the open drapes, highlighting his magnificent form, sprawled on the couch. He was on his back, with one arm draped over his eyes and the other on the floor. His legs were spread wide apart, with one leg on the back of the couch, and one on the floor. I snickered to myself. He must have had the spinnies and needed to keep a hand and leg on the floor to keep the room from spinning in circles around him. We'd gone out to a local Irish pub, and André had drunk like a fish. I was still hung over from last night, so I only had a few beers. By 10pm he was becoming obnoxious, not in a violent way, but in a way that could provoke other drunks who were. So I dragged him home, pushed him into his room, and went to bed. He must have gotten up, stripped down to his boxers, and come out here to watch TV. I walked quietly over and looked down at him. His hair was messed up, but that just made him cuter. I decided to fuck around with him, so I tickled his hairy armpit. He moved his arm down to shield it, grunted, but didn't wake up. I knew then that I was walking on dangerous ground, but the temptation, the temptation that had built up for two years now, was overwhelming. I knelt next to him and ran my fingers up his arm, feeling his strong biceps, up to his broad shoulders, over his protruding Adam's apple. I paused to shake him and say his name, but got no response. I shook him harder. Still no response. I damn near punched him. That got a grunt, but no other response. Suddenly I realized the huge risks I was taking. If he woke up now, and caught me touching him, what would he do? Kick my ass? God knows he could crush me if he wanted to. I stared at him, knowing that I was playing with fire, willing myself to get up and leave the room. He was out, I told myself, rationalizing. If he comes to I can always say that I was just trying to wake him up. After all, he had woken me by leaving the TV on. I brushed my fingers over his cheeks, feeling the whiskers that always seemed to be on this face. I moved to his chest, gently playing with each of his nipples. He had no hair on his chest, surprisingly. He moaned a little at that. Apparently he like having his nipples played with. Feeling really daring, I leaned forward and blew on the closest nipple, watching the air cool it down and make it contract. I backed off again, realizing that touching his face, touching his arm, those things could be explained. Even touching his chest was a credible move. But tweaking his nipple with my finger, blowing on it, those were clearly sexual moves. I stared down at his handsome form, and felt the lust surge within me. Two years of repressed feelings, of beat-off fantasies, of lust, and then love burned through my body and brain. I willed myself to get up, and walked away, heading to my room. Suddenly my feet stopped and I turned. Something inside me was telling me to take the chance. It was as if there was a monumental battle going on in my conscience, a Gettysburg in my soul. I should keep walking. I should go back to my room, and whack off. But I didn't. I walked back over to him, poking him some more, really trying to wake him up, but he didn't budge. If he didn't move, if he was that out, what would be the problem with me just exploring a little more? What would be the harm if I just got a closer look at the man of my dreams? I lowered my face down to his armpits, inhaling his scent, the ripe smell of his body odor. It should have grossed me out, but it didn't. The pheromones just stimulated me more. I moved my fingers over his abdomen, playing with his belly button. I knew he was ticklish there, and he squirmed as I tortured him. Still he didn't wake up. I moved my body down so I was directly over his bulging groin. I traced my fingers down his thick treasure trail. I'd always thought it was so sexy and now I was actually touching it. My own cock was throbbing, poking out from my boxers. I panicked and checked to make sure André was sleeping, but he was still out. This was my point of no return. His boxers were tenting; his cock was hard, or hardening. I'd never seen him hard before. Naked and soft yes, but hard, no. Was it worth risking a friendship? Was it worth taking that kind of chance? I felt hormonal reinforcements arrive on the battlefield in my brain, slowly forcing back the forces of logic and reason. I rearranged his boxers to let his cock poke out through the front slit. It was massive. I always imagined that he'd have a big dick, and I was right. If I stopped now, I could always say that it was sticking out like this when I came out to wake him up. I still might be able to make up an excuse. But I'd come this far, and the cautious forces in my brain were in full retreat. I traced my fingers gently up the shaft, watching his face for any sign that he was awake. He just moaned and thrust his hips up. I held it in my hand, studying it, gently stroking it. It must be all of 8 inches long. I'd seen big dicks and small dicks during my cruising activities throughout the years, but his was one of the biggest. Not only was it long, but it was fat. Thick. No wonder Barbara wouldn't let him fuck her. I continued to slowly stroke his dick, running my hand over the head, pausing to trace the protruding veins with my fingers. I kept checking to see if he was awake, but there was no sign. His moaning was louder, and his thrusts more insistent. I ran my finger over the tip of his cock, rubbing the wet drop of pre-cum from it. I couldn't resist. I put my finger in my mouth and for the first time, I tasted him. Tasted his essence. I moved closer to add his smell to the palette, the same raw body odor smell now mixed with the natural odors of his groin, making a scent that was both repelling and compelling at the same time. He'd always complained that none of the girls he dated could suck dick. No wonder. It was huge. But I could. I knew I could. I knew because I'd had lots of practice, and because I wanted it bad. Real bad. Was I willing to risk everything, our friendship, my reputation, maybe even my freedom just to blow the man of my dreams? The thought of him scorning me, hating me, or worse, ignoring me, made me pause. But then my hormones generated a whole new reason. How could I tease my friend, get him all excited, and then just leave him high and dry? A thinking person would dismiss that as ridiculous, but a horny male, with his ultimate goal in sight is easily susceptible to faulty arguments. I leaned over and slowly swallowed as much of his cock as I could. He really groaned at that, and tried to thrust into my mouth, but I held him down. No way was I going to let him ram that thing down my throat. I had to be in control. "Come on baby, that feels so good" he purred. I smiled. He must think he's dreaming. I certainly thought I was. I'd thrown the dice, taken my chance, risked everything. The decision was made, the die was cast. I threw caution to the wind, determined to enjoy this, even if it was the last meaningful interaction we ever had. I began to work his cock like a pro. I took him deep; let him feel the back of my throat as it spasmed, working to master my gag reflex. Then I moved up to the head and swirled my tongue around it, teasing the bottom of his head with the tip. He was really moaning now, and leaking like a sieve. I savored his taste. I slid my hand up the legs of his boxers and stroked his balls. I was surprised, because unlike his cock, his balls were actually on the small side. That didn't make playing with them any less fun. I kept working his cock, putting everything I had into it, enjoying every minute, knowing this was probably my one and only opportunity. I felt his balls start to rise and knew he was close. If he came, it might wake him up, but I couldn't leave him like this. I'd come this far. Then, without warning, he came. He let out a soft roar, that's the only way to describe it, and shot stream after stream of cum down my throat and into my mouth. I swallowed most, but saved some, savoring his taste. I'd never been a big fan of the taste of cum, I mean it was OK, but this was André. Nervously I looked up at his face, where he had a blissful smile, but still seemed to be sound asleep. I squeezed the last drop of cum out of his dick, licked it off, and tucked it back into his boxers. I almost ran to the bathroom, spit the remaining cum out of my mouth into my hand, and used it as lube to jack myself to the biggest orgasm of my life. I went to bed and lay there, reliving the last hour. At the time, it seemed worth it. Now that I'd satisfied my urges, now that I'd experienced nirvana, I feared for the consequences. Would he wake up in the morning and remember everything? Would he come in and beat me up? Would he yell at me? Or both? André wasn't a violent person. I'd never seen him harm anyone intentionally. I was prepared to believe that he had feelings for me, that he cared, or at least used to care about me. No, he'd probably get up and be so thoroughly disgusted he'd just leave. He'd avoid me at home, ignore me when he saw me, or, if he was feeling polite, just make excuses not to be around or not to do things with me. The night was passing by at a snail's pace. I couldn't sleep. I was flat on my back, wide awake; torturing myself with all the possibilities, all the potential forms of retribution André could take. In the end, I decided that I'd rather deal with anger and violence than to be ignored. Would life even be worth living if he truly hated me? Or even if he wasn't my friend? I began to wish with all my heart for a time machine to take me back to just a few hours ago so I could re-live those moments. How could I risk something so important to me? Somehow I had managed to doze off, but the morning sun woke me the same as a loud klaxon would have. I was scared shitless. I almost tiptoed out of my room to the bathroom. Suddenly there was a banging on the door. "Let me in man. I gotta take a whiz," he said urgently. I opened the door and André came bursting in, whipping out his dick, the dick that I now knew so well, and let loose a strong stream. "You were really messed up last night," I ventured. "You must have passed out on the couch." "Yeah," he said while shaking the last drops of pee out of his cock, "I was stoned. I don't remember a thing after we left the bar. But I woke up happy, so I must have had some good dreams" I laughed, relieved, and proceeded to tell him what an ass he'd made out of himself, and how we probably should drink somewhere else for a while. I was reminded of the "miracle" of St. Elizabeth of Hungary who was secretly carrying food to the poor in her apron to hide it from her husband. When he demanded to see what was in her apron, she opened it to reveal nothing but flowers. March 20, 1962 Over the weekend, France and the Algerians had finally signed a peace accord, ending their almost eight-year war that had killed over 150,000 people and wounded another 200,000. Since I was the resident "expert" on the subject, Rosenberg called a departmental lunch and asked me to brief them on events. I'd had all of two hours to prepare, and the only new information I could get was from the newspapers, and American ones at that. It wasn't much. I'd have to wait until the latest edition of LeMonde was flown in from Paris. Still, I labored on gamely, describing the conflict and the terms of settlement as best I knew them. I looked around the table at these scholars, some of the brightest minds in the world, assembled here in the History Department of Princeton. Rosenberg beamed at me with pride, most seemed genuinely interested, some seemed bored, and a few were openly hostile, jealous of the high esteem that Rosenberg held me in, and jealous that he treated me with greater respect than some of them. Well, respect is something you earn. Guess they needed to work on that. I left the building about the same time that I did on Friday and wandered down to my favorite building with my favorite bathroom. I was hoping the redhead would be there. I walked into the bathroom, the same smells assaulting my nose, acting like an aphrodisiac once again, increasing my pulse and hardening my cock. There were two stalls in the bathroom, and both were occupied. I walked past the first stall, pretending to check to see if someone was in there, but in reality trying to see who was in there. It was an old troll. Shit. That bastard had cock-blocked me plenty of times. Glancing at the second stall I saw the familiar square-toed shoes, so I slowly walked past the door, peering through to see if it was my redheaded friend. It was. I stood against the wall as if waiting for one of them to finish up, but positioning myself so I could see through the crack between the door and stall. He looked at me and I looked away, avoiding eye contact. When I looked back at him, he looked away. Finally our eyes met. His had a pleading look about them, a look that told me that he wanted me, wanted me bad. He slowly moved his hand, showing me part of his hard cock. I moved closer, making sure the troll couldn't see me, until I was right up to the crack, peering directly in at him. I could see that he'd put a piece of toilet paper over the hole to block the troll. A man after my own heart. He spread his legs wide giving me a great view of his cock and his pubic hair. He had nice balls, covered with the same furry red hair that formed the bush just above his cock. His red hair fascinated me. I noticed that his pubic hair seemed to rise to a point just below his abdomen where it flowed into his thin treasure trail, seemingly mirroring the goatee on his face that flowed in the opposite direction. My hand was stroking my cock through my pants...it was almost a subconscious action. He began stroking his cock with purpose, looking me in the eyes as he did, so I could feel the raw lust and sexuality pierce right into my soul. I looked at his eyes, then at his cock, then back into his eyes. Suddenly his mouth made the shape of an "O"; he aimed his cock into the toilet, and shot his load. Instead of watching his cock, I kept my eyes locked on his as he shot, and it felt as if we came together. At that point I realized how much self control I had lost. I was in a vulnerable situation, standing next to a stall, peering in, with a raging hard-on. I quickly moved to one of the urinals, pretended to pee, waiting for my erection to subside. I heard the stall door open, footsteps behind me, the door opened and closed, and he was gone. I still didn't know if he was Deep Voice or Soft Voice. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again. I sat in my apartment, thinking, for once, about something besides sex. Spring Break, a week off, and I had no plans yet. Should I do the fun thing and drive down to Florida and hang out on the beach for a few days? Or should I do the right thing, be a good son, and go home? Home was Claremont, Ohio. Claremont, Ohio: a big town, or a small city, depending on your perspective, situated about 50 miles outside of Columbus. Claremont was one of those places where you may not know everyone, but you know who everyone is. My family was one of the three leading families in town. My father, the indomitable Jack Crampton, President of Crampton Construction, had expanded our family's construction business, which had really taken off over the past few years. He'd gotten away from houses and segued into buildings and roads, and he used his contacts in Columbus to nail down some of the big road construction deals. Interstate projects had kept him particularly busy. These days he spent more time in Columbus than he did in Claremont. The business was his life, his one consuming passion, and my older brother Jim was following in his footsteps. Jim was just like my father: looked like him and had his unique combination of analytical and sales skills. He was just like the cliché: Tall, dark, and handsome. He'd take over some day, and he'd do a great job. I'd always thought we were the richest people around...that is until I went to Harvard for my undergraduate degree. The power and money that some of my classmates wielded (or their families did) made ours look like chump change. That was an eye-opening experience for me, one that helped me learn to appreciate the material side of life without obsessing about it. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself. Chronicles of an Academic Predator Pt. 02 The other two leading families were the Hendricksons and the Schluters. Bill Hendrickson ran (and owned most of) the local mill. He was a pretty rough and tumble kind of guy, but had a good heart. I guess you had to be tough to run a mill and deal with the mill workers. His daughter is married to my brother, so I see them pretty often. The Schluters are the "old money" in Claremont. Barry Schluter is a descendant of one of the city founders, serves as the local judge and owns a shitload of land. He's also my uncle, married to my father's sister Gail. The cool thing, and a rarity I'm sure, is that all three of these guys worked together, usually for the good of the city. Schluter had control of the local government, Hendrickson dominated the local economy, and my father had tight state political connections. I continued my deliberation between the sun and sand of the Florida beaches or the filial choice, to go back to Claremont. It would be great to see my parents, my brother, my relatives, but with Billy Schluter gone I didn't have any friends there that I really wanted to see. I'd wander around the house for a week, bored out of my mind. André burst in, interrupting my train of thought. André always seems to dominate a room. From his entry to his exit, his raw persona just demanded attention. "Hey André, wanna go to Florida or Ohio next week?" I asked. Why not let him make the decision? "Can't go anywhere man. Gotta work." He said this matter-of-factly, as if it wasn't a big deal, as if we hadn't been talking about going somewhere all semester. He knew we were supposed to leave town, and he was just tossing this out casually, hoping I wouldn't make a big deal out of it. Fat chance of that. "I'm confused. I thought we agreed to go out of town next week?" My sudden calmness and deliberateness warned him that I was pissed off. "Old man Caro needed me to work. He's done so much for me, I couldn't say no. So I promised I'd work Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday." He looked at me, pleading with his eyes for me to understand. He was such a nice guy, of course he couldn't say no to anyone who asked for his help. "That's too bad." He waited for me to say more, but there wasn't anything. The frustrating thing is that I knew he'd already made the commitment and that nothing I did would change that. And, quite frankly, if I really thought about it, I probably wouldn't want him to either. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to have to pay the price, a little guilt, for caving to old man Caro. "Look JP, how about if we wait until Tuesday to leave? Maybe we can go back to Claremont? We can leave after I get off on Tuesday. I'll make sure I'm done by 7." I just looked at him. Then I relented grudgingly. "That will work. My parents will be happy to see us. I've got to run back to campus and hit the library. I'll catch up with you later." I could feel his eyes on my back as I left. What a great spring break. Hanging out in a deserted college town, then with my parents. Whoopee. March 24, 1962 Friday. The last day before Spring Break. Most people were bailing out already, trying to get out of New-Fucking-Jersey as fast as they could. Not me. I had nowhere to be. Just go home and beat off. I was feeling sorry for myself. I found myself walking to my favorite bathroom once again. I knew why. I wanted to see my red-headed friend again. Maybe he'd be stuck in town too? I checked all week for him, but he wasn't there. I hadn't seen him around campus either. I'd found myself taking longer routes around campus just to see if I could spy him. I'd even made a point to stroll down by the diner a couple of times a day, just to see if maybe he was in there. I don't know what it was about him, but I was becoming a little obsessed. I forced my emotions back where they belonged, deep in my psyche. I walked down the familiar stairs, and I was about to open the door when I heard loud voices in the restroom. I opened the door a crack and peeked in. There was my red-headed friend, handcuffed, leaning forward against the sinks, with a look of absolute terror on his face. This was real fear, complete and uninhibited horror, on a scale so much larger than I'd seen on his face at the diner. He had tears running down his cheeks. "You're under arrest you fucking faggot." The man behind him must be a cop. "You put your dick through the hole in the wall, that makes you a fuckin' queer, and it means you're going to jail you sick bastard!" This guy was on a roll. I gently shut the door and fled up the stairs. The smart thing would be to just get the fuck out of there. I had too much to lose to get involved. That kid's life was ruined. He'd probably go to jail. He'd at least get kicked out of school, probably deported back to, where was it? Montreal? What would his friend say? Man, he was in some deep shit. The only times I'd seen his face had either been when he was scared, like he was at the diner, or close to blowing his load, like he was last time in the bathroom. Yet this time, his expression went way beyond that. Figuratively, he was tied to the tracks and the train was coming. I'd always done the right thing, the proper thing, at least as far as anyone else knew. I'd never seriously defied the law, gotten arrested, or even gotten a speeding ticket. Yet now, as I rounded the narrow stair case, I was contemplating something very illegal. Something that, if it failed, would land me in deep shit. As deep as that kid in there. The only interactions I'd I had with him had been basically with my dick. Why did I feel such a strong need to help him? Why was I willing to risk so much to save him? I stared at the fire extinguisher on the wall in front of me and slipped my gloves on. I heard the door open below, heard the cop growl "You first queer, and no tricks." They started walking up the stairs. I made my decision and grabbed the fire extinguisher. The stairs made a switch back, with a wall in between, so as I crouched on the next flight, they couldn't see me as they walked up. The steps got closer and closer. Then I saw a shoe on the riser in front of me. It was a square-toed, ankle high shoe. He took one more step, and I jumped up, spraying the fire extinguisher in the cop's face. He reeled, blinded by the chemicals. Then I took the extinguisher and smashed it into his face, knocking him down the stairs. The red-head looked at me, amazed. "Come on," I whispered loudly, "Let's get the fuck out of here." I dropped the extinguisher and we both ran from the building. I threw my jacket over his shoulder so it would hide the handcuffs, and we rushed to my car as fast as we could without arousing suspicion. I found myself wondering if the cop was dead. I decided that he probably wasn't, and realized, much to my surprise, that I really didn't care. I opened the car door, pushed him in, jumped in myself and took off. Neither one of us said anything as I headed off campus and out of town. I think we were both too keyed up to talk. As soon as we were on the highway, heading south, I calmed down enough to start planning our next moves. "I don't suppose you can slide your hands out of those cuffs?" He looked at me dubiously. "Do you think if I could have, I would have been sitting here with them on?" That's the first time I'd ever heard him speak, or at least knew that it was his voice. It was the Deep Voice, the resonant sexy voice. I was secretly relieved, because it went with his overall cocky demeanor and good looks so much better than his friend's squeaky, effeminate voice would have. "Fine. Be a smart ass. You can keep them on for all I care," I said in my normal monotone voice. The silence returned, but I felt my anger building. Then, for the first time since I can remember, something extraordinary happened. I lost my self control, and actually yelled. "You know, you sure have a weird fucking way of showing your gratitude. I risked everything to save your sorry ass. You would have ended up in jail, thrown out of school, deported...." I glared over at him, and then continued. "I should just toss you out of the car, handcuffs and all, and let you try to explain it to the locals." He said nothing. Interestingly enough though, I didn't care, at least not at that moment. It dawned on me that venting my anger like that made me feel much better at first. Then, after I calmed back down again, I felt like an idiot. That's why I never lose control. You always regret it afterwards. I sighed, and that seemed to prompt a response from him. "Look man, I'm sorry if I seem like a fucking ingrate. I guess I'm still a little shaken up. It's like I saw my whole life flash before my eyes, you know? And then there you were, spraying the cop with the fire extinguisher and knocking him down the stairs like you're Attila the Hun or something." That made me laugh. "So I'm the knight on the white horse, and that would make you the damsel in distress." He laughed with me. He had a deep laugh, and when he smiled his cheeks sported two cute dimples. "More like some cat in a red Pontiac rescuing a fag," he joked wryly. I looked at my watch. It was almost 3pm and time to consider options. I started looking for a hardware store and found one when we hit Trenton. "I'm going to go in here and try to find something to cut those hand cuffs off. I'm thinking a hack saw? I don't spring convicts very often, so I'm not sure exactly what we'll need. I figured I'd go in alone. You might arouse some suspicion." He grinned at me, then felt them with his hands. "Not that I've spent any significant time shackled up to know what to do with them either, but some chain cutters might be useful too." So I went in and dealt with the plodding old man in the hardware store. If he moved any slower he'd be going in reverse. I got into the car and drove down the road about a mile until we found a secluded place to pull over. I pulled out the chain cutters and went to work on the links connecting the cuffs. It wasn't easy, and it took some assistance from the hack saw, but I finally got the chain cut. He wisely kept a good look-out, but fortunately I'd found a pretty good place to pull over. I started the car off and began driving again. "I figured with the chain cut you have free hands and you can work on the cuffs?" He nodded, and started sawing away on them. "So what's your plan, now that you've sprung me?" he asked. He had a really playful sense of humor, one that I found both disarming and relaxing. "Well, my first instinct was to haul you off to some motel, keep the handcuffs on you, and just have my way with you for the next week." His humor was contagious. "Here, let me see if I can put them back on," he retorted, which made us both laugh, and made me think about how much fun it would be to actually have him chained to a bed for a few days. "Seriously though, I thought I'd head down the Delaware Coast, maybe find a motel on the beach, and then try to figure out what to do next. We'll need to find out if I killed the cop or not, and whether or not there's a massive man hunt on for you. That work for you, or did you have some pressing social engagement this evening?" I heard my humorous comment fly from my mouth. Amazing how he had that effect on me. He seemed suddenly somber. "No, I have nowhere to be, and nowhere to go." I regretted his change in mood. "Well, you do now. By the way, my name's JP." It had suddenly occurred to me that I didn't even know his name. "I'm Peter. I'd shake your hand but I seem to be indisposed." We both laughed again. "Nice to meet you, Peter. Anyway, I thought we'd start looking around Dewey or Rehoboth Beach, so when we get there keep your eyes peeled for a good place, OK? He looked over at me, slightly worried. "That sounds like a good plan, but I don't have much money, and these are the only clothes I've got. I basically have nothing." By the time he'd finished his sentence, the worried look had changed to despondency. "Don't worry about it. I got it covered." Thanks to my parents, money was not something I had to worry about. "I don't want to be a charity case" he said with a degree of pride in his voice. "Well, you don't really have a whole lot of choices right now do you? So be a good fag in distress and look out for motels will ya?" We both laughed at that, and traveled on.