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Remembering Rick

By: Turbidus



First things first, as always I enjoyed LarryInSeattle's helpful editing. As has always been and shall always be, any mistakes that remain are my own.

Second, everyone in this story is over eighteen. Everyone in this story, narrator included, is fictitious. I only wish I were twenty-six still.

It may start a little slow for some but the two young men do find their way to a bed eventually. 

Some may be offended by the editorial comments of my narrator. I hope not but if I have offended please believe me, it was not my purpose.

I hope the story captures, at least a little, of the uncertainty and headiness of first love. If I failed, sorry.

I love helpful feedback and comments, including negative ones, if constructive in nature. 

Enjoy

===============

I don't believe in "gaydar." I wish I did. If you do believe in it I have two words for you to consider: "Matthew Shepard." If you don't know who Matthew Shepard was, shame on you. Yes, life is probably better than it's ever been but don't imagine for a minute we live in gay nirvana.

"Gay." I don't really care for the word. It seems too, for lack of a better word, gay. On the other hand I don't like "faggot" or "queer." I know there are some who feel we should re-capture the words. As if our ownership of the words is an antidote for their poison. I doubt it. Hasn't worked for the N-word has it? I imagine our embrace of words filled with hate will simply make it easier for bigots and homophobes to use them while telling themselves that they aren't really bigots. I don't imagine owning the words "faggot" or "queer" took any of the pain out of Matthew's death. 

The word "homosexual" is pretty clear, despite its muddled etymology of both Greek and Latin roots. The problem with "homosexual" is it comes laden with sterile clinical overtones. "Hello, I'm Bob. I'm a homosexual." Doesn't really roll off the tongue does it? Doesn't make you perk up your ears and say, this guy sounds like he'll be interesting, does it? The phrase has all the warmth of: "Hello, I'm Bob. I'm an actuary."

One could say: "Hello, I'm Bob. I'm attracted to members of my own gender." There's two issues with that construction. Again, BORING! Worse, gender has become a very touchy and complicated issue. Based on my understanding of the current world of gender issues, which I confess is likely to be too superficial to allow for meaningful comments, I would have to say: "Hello, I'm Bob. I'm attracted to individuals with a penis, who like having a penis and consider themselves to be 'male' in not only the anatomic sense but societal sense." 

I am sexually attracted to people who have a penis and like having a penis. That's as clear and as simple as I am able to state my case. 

As I scan what I wrote above I feel I need to make it clear that I'm not poking fun at gender issues. I'm poking a little fun at how we tie ourselves up in knots over issues. That's okay, when the tying into knots is part of a struggle to better understand each other. When it strikes me that the tying up in knots is more an attempt to establish that one group's suffering is "superior" to another's, that's when I start to lose sympathy.

It's possible that I'm an unusually slow learner, or that I am gifted with an incredible lack of self-awareness, but I suspect that I'm nothing more than average, although perhaps above average in acknowledging the fact. Through most of high school I was unsure whether or not I was truly more attracted to boys or girls. 

I have acquaintances, and even a few friends, who tell me they had known they were gay from the time they were twelve, or eight, or three years old. I've no reason to disbelieve them but that certainly was not true of me. Hell, even though I have not been with a woman since high school, I'm not convinced even now that I'm exclusively gay. I mean for fuck's sake did anyone see Angelina Jolie in "Gia" and not want to jump that? At least a little, for a millisecond or two? 

I was not hiding from myself. I was not hiding for fear my parents would reject me. If anything, I was hiding from the fact that they would probably trumpet my gayness as proof of their superior enlightenment. (Sorry mom, sorry dad, if you happen to read this.) I was quite aware I focused more attention on the male lead in a movie than the female. I was quite aware that I thought more of men while masturbating than of women, but not exclusively. 

I enjoyed my forays into heterosexual dating. I was not repelled by the taste or feel of a female tongue in my mouth. Breast were a little soft and sweaty for my taste but not unpleasant per se. And though my examination was in no way thorough or exhaustive in nature, my limited exposure to a vagina did not leave me nauseated. I had no trouble getting it up while kissing a girl or to the feel of her hand on the skin of my abdomen. I have never had intercourse with a woman and I suspect the likelihood is low, but the thought does not send proverbial chills down my back.

By the time I donned my polyester robe and graduated, I was pretty sure I was a guy who was attracted to other guys. I may not like the word "gay" but I am forced to concede it is a lot simpler to write: By the time I graduated, I was pretty sure I was gay. I had not ruled out the possibility of falling in love with a women but given I was only interested in asking out other guys, the odds were against it. 

By the time I unpacked my dorm room in 2006, there was more acceptance of gays on most campuses but I did not introduce myself to my roommate as "Hi I'm Rob. I'm gay." I had decided to drop "Bob" and go with "Rob." We got along fine. I never heard him say "fag" or "faggot," not to me or at any time. But you didn't have to go very far to hear that word. It was mostly used in a non-threatening, casual put-down fashion, much as one would call a friend who just kicked your ass at Mario Kart a "cock sucker." One did not really mean that one thought one's friend was a sucker of cocks, but it was a quick and easy all around, general-use insult. 

Just don't fool yourself into believing that both those words can't very quickly become aggressive and threatening.

I've always been leery of grand pronouncements. I did not proclaim my newly accepted gayhood to my parents, or friends, most of whom probably were sure of it before I was, or to my new classmates. I debated joining the campus GLBTG club. I did join for a time. I am not ashamed of being gay. If asked I'm happy to say, "Yes I'm gay." But I'm not defined by just that one trait. I'd rather just be Bob, preferably Rob. (Please spare me. I've heard every "Gay Bob" joke there is. The only one I like is: What do you call two gay men named Bob? Oral Roberts.) Like all clubs, including the Chess Club and the German Club, I found it oddly restrictive. I shared many, but not all, of their concerns. I enjoyed the social events, though I never got a single date out of going to one. 

I never saw Rick at one of the GLBTG meetings or events. He wasn't in the closet exactly but his family was the polar opposite of mine. His parents were part of the Reagan and Falwell Moral Majority. They strongly suspected Rick was gay. As much as he was wounded by their attitude, he strove to provide them the maximum ability to deny. 

We were lab partners in Chem I. Romantic huh? Hey is this a Lewis acid or a Lewis base? I got your Lewis base right here big boy. He was unbearably cute. I thought he was totally out of my league. I knew nothing about his parents at the time but I am by nature, reticent. Plus, I was cautious. I knew very well who Matthew Shepard was. There was nothing about Rick that led me to imagine he and his friends would beat me and leave me to die hanging on a fence in the cold but I bet Matthew thought McKinney and Henderson were unbearably cute too. Don't waste electrons looking, they aren't.

Okay, that's it; that is the last negative thought I'll give vent to. For here on out, nothing but hearts and flowers. However, it ought not to be forgotten that some flowers have thorns.

Even with his nerdy lab goggles leaving red-creased crescents around his eyes, Rick was adorable. I was almost nineteen and I was in the middle of my first big over-whelming crush. I was in agony. Now, in this instance, perhaps being gay is tougher than being straight. You crush on a girl, everyone gets it. You suck it up and ask her out. You might get rejected but rarely does the object of a hetero crush threaten you with physical violence. 

Have you ever been sitting in a lab or sitting in a coffee shop when some gal jumps away from a guy and starts screaming: "You vag monkey, you pussy eater, you think I'm straight, you fucking hetero, you touch me and I'll fucking kill you!"

Rejection always sucks but there is rejection and then there is REJECTION.

I couldn't sleep. There is no way to track how many times I jerked off imagining kissing him, or watching him undress, or lying beside him, or touching him, or...you get the idea. I considered and rejected scores of opening approaches and lines. I even considered letting A Boy's Own Story 'accidentally' fall out of my backpack. I visualized the entire scenario. Rick would pick the book up and glance at it. In the most common scenario, a glance would suffice. He'd look up with knowing eyes. In other permutations, he would turn the book over and over in his hands, read the back cover, his face a mask of questions before his eyes would light with comprehension. However the story played out in my head, the end result was a knowing and loving look would fill his eyes as I took him in my arms. 

You can't get through four years of high school without at least brushing against a little bit of maturity, even if by accident. Despite how the above might sound, I never devolved into the "my life is over, woe is me" depths of a high school crush. I penned not a single angsty ode to unrequited love in my journal. Not one!

Mid-terms were approaching and still I suffered in silence, only my imagination holding despair at bay. You may have guessed already that as I sat and stewed and pined and behaved in a totally ineffectual and dipshitish fashion, it was Rick who broke the ice.

We had finished double-checking our results and were getting ready to hand in the last lab report before mid-terms when he asked, "Rob, you want to get a coffee or Coke or something before tackling the notes?" The old Bob had been unsure, questioning. The new Rob, the new me, was to be certain and questing. Except, it turns out, when he needed to be certain.

We already study together of course, most of the lab partners did. But we usually studied in a group and usually in one of the dorm or library study rooms. We had yet to "get a Coke" before studying. I was trying to process this, weighing his words and searching his tone for hidden meaning, cycling, rapidly, from joy to telling myself not to be stupid, and taking so long he was actually opening his mouth, probably to say, "That's okay, no big deal" when I managed to stammer out, rather too loudly, "Sure. That'd be super." 

Yup, I said "super". I'm sure I got that from something Oscar Wilde wrote. 

A half-assed smile that might have been mingled with a smirk of amusement appeared on Rick's face. I felt my own face grow warm, and cursed, not the first time, my Nordic genes and their tendency to turn my face beet red at the slightest provocation. A clear smile replaced the possibly tainted one and I felt my body relax, just a titch. 

He shrugged his back pack over one shoulder. "Cool. Come on then. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

It sounded like something my dad would say. I smiled. "Let's make like an amoeba and split." 

Rick groaned and retorted. "We could make like a library and book."

I held up my hand. "Enough, I surrender." I didn't need to. I had exhausted my late 70's slang repertoire. 

I dropped our lab folder in the basket and we made our way up the stairs in silence. Melvin Hall is an old building. They remodeled it right after I graduated. I hope they left the old marble steps, sway backed and smooth-edged from generations of feet. All sorts of feet. When it was built in 1904, I imagine it was mostly male feet. It was a science hall after all and Madame Curie was a rarity. I get lost sometimes, picturing all the feet those stairs had supported, and the people the feet were attached to.

Some must have plodded up those stairs, certain they had failed a test, wondering how their folks could afford the cost of tuition and how could they admit they had failed them, wondering if she loves me. Surely, there had to be a few wondering if HE loves me. How many feet were attached to loved ones wondering about brothers in the trenches, the Spanish flu, Hitler, is my brother on Bataan okay? That one staircase must house a million stories, nearly all of them untold, private, many lost forever. 

That day the feet attached to my body did their best not to skip up the stairs. The stairs were broad and our little exchange had allowed most of our classmates to exit ahead of us. We walked side by side. I matched my steps to Rick's. 

The sun was warm but the air made it clear that it was almost mid-October. Standing still, even in the sun, a jacket felt nice. Walking, a jacket felt too warm. I didn't mind. Soon enough, the sun would struggle to warm your face. What to do with your hair when you yanked a crackling, sparking stocking cap off would soon be a daily struggle. Your body would desiccate in the furnace-parched air of the buildings. Your skin would go all flaky and dusty looking. By January, the skin around your fingernails would be so dried out that the skin would split and boy didn't that feel great? I was not, and am not, a fan of winter. 

None of that was on my mind that day. As far as I was concerned a more perfect day had never been visited upon the planet. In my head I was holding Rick's hand as we crossed the campus. There was no question of where we were heading. The Den was not only the best coffee/soda/pizza/burger/video game/pin-ball arcade in town; it was the only one. Their coffee was adequate. Their pizza frozen. Do yourself a favor and skip their scones, a Hostess cupcake would be a better choice. 

I was not playing much tennis that fall and the small pool on campus was generally occupied with phys-ed classes or the small swim team work-outs. I had avoided the freshman fifteen by being careful.

I had a skimmed mocha with no whip. Rick a black coffee. 

He did not immediately pull out his chem notes. I took that as a positive sign. He took a few sips of his coffee before turning to me. "Hey, you hungry?" 

I shrugged, "Not really, are you?"

He raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder at the counter. "I didn't think I was but a pepperoni pizza sounds good doesn't it?"

If I was a more confident person I would have demurred. The Den's pepperoni pizza managed to achieve a dry crust while at the same time the pepperoni floated in a pool of orange grease. I remember wondering if Rick had skipped lunch. I distinctly recall a vision of his wallet. He'd paid for his coffee, his small black coffee, the cheapest option, with the only two bills in his wallet. I understood that he wanted a pizza but couldn't afford a pizza. I could. 

"Yeah, that does sound good." I stood and walked back to the counter. As I waited behind the only other person in line, I asked over my shoulder. "Coffee doesn't sound very good with pizza. You want a Coke?"

"Sure."

I ordered the pizza and returned with the two bottles of Coke. 

Rick picked up his and tipped it toward mine. We clicked bottles and he offered, "Cheers."

He sat, more or less, on my side of table, watching ESPN on what passed for a big-screen TV in those halcyon days almost a decade gone now. When they called our number, Rick retrieved the pizza. I wasn't hungry but I ate a slice. Rick polished off the rest. At some point, his foot ended up resting against mine. When he reached past me for the crushed red pepper flakes, his body pressed against my side. His chair moved just enough so that his leg remained pressed against mine.

Ordering a pizza furnished us the unspoken right to study at that table, at least as long as the Den wasn't busy. I returned the pizza platter while Rick got out his notes and chemistry text. When I returned, rather than get out my own text, I sat close, purely in order to see his notes. 

Luckily, I had a knack for chemistry because I didn't get much studying done at that table. I tried. I really did, if no other reason than to distract myself from my over-powering sense of Rick's presence. Forget not being able to study chemistry, I was afraid I would become so lost in the feel of his leg against mine, his breath on the back of my hand, the smell of his shampoo, that I would forget my own name.

As I sat there, trying to focus, his leg began to move up and down against my own. Each movement of his leg caused me to become harder. It was as if his foot was working a bellows that directly inflated my dick. Throughout, Rick kept up a perfectly normal studying-for-chem-mid-term-exam banter, quizzing me and ignoring my mumbled answers. Anyone walking by, or sitting near-by would think nothing of us sitting together. It was a small campus in a small town. We knew, by sight at least, everyone in the place. At that time I knew nothing of Rick's family but even so, I was not yet ready to openly declare my affection for another guy. I told myself over and over there was no mistaking his gestures but I couldn't quite convince myself to trust my instincts.

Rick leaned under the table, rummaging through his back pack. He stretched further and his hand left the table. As if groping for balance or support his hand fell on my leg, on my erection actually. Rather than jerk away, his fingers squeezed, ever so slightly. When he sat up, clutching a notebook that had nothing to do with chemistry, he looked me directly in the eye for a moment. His fingers closed softly a final time and then returned to his notes.

"Understand?" He asked, head gesturing toward the notebook, a notebook that no longer held any interest for me, or apparently for him.

"Ye.." My voice croaked. I swallowed and tried again. "Uh-huh, I get it now."

"Good." He stretched. "Want to take a break?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My pack had sat untouched beside my leg. I stood as Rick began to stow his stuff. I was very conscious of my boner. My jacket would not cover it. My typical high school trick of hiding it behind a book wouldn't work, not with a back pack. I settled for shoving one hand in my left front jeans pocket. 

Rick was shrugging into his back pack when I turned. My eyes fell on his crotch. His own erection was clearly outlined, except his was tucked to the right. He saw me staring and a huge smile bloomed on his face. Once his pack was settled, he put a hand in his own pocket, and without saying a word turned to leave, knowing I would follow.

The late afternoon sun was dipping behind the trees as we started to walk back across the campus toward the dorm. I kept one hand in my pocket even though my erection had begun to subside. I found myself wondering I had the courage to hold Rick's hand. I wonder how many of the friends I made over the past few weeks would begin to distance themselves once the word spread. 

"Hey, did you hear about Rob? You know freshman dude, kinda big ears. He's gay." Or would it be: "He's a fag. He's a fudge packer. He's a fairy, a fruit, a homo queer pansy."

Straight people always say stuff like: "I don't have anything against gays but why do they have to suck each other off in the bathroom? Gross."

Well, interesting question, hmm, oh hey, how about this? If my roommate comes back to my room and there's a sock on the door knob and he hears later that I was seen going into the room with a girl. Well, no problem. I'm a stud. If he hears later I disappeared into our room with Rick, well that's a different story. It would posit that it is very unlikely I would earn any stud points. What is a great deal less unlikely is that word would get out that I was a fag, fudge packer, pansy, fruit, fairy, homo, or in the best of all possible worlds, gay. 


Remembering Rick Ch. 02



All characters depicted are over 18.

Rick and Rob continue to explore their boundaries and bodies. As with all new experiences, they don't always see eye to eye.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for his editing assistance.

============

When I woke, the room was bathed in reddish light; the sun was setting. If we wanted to eat in the dining hall we'd have to hurry. I had slid off Rick's body, to cuddle along his side. My head was lying on his left arm. My left leg was draped over his thigh and rested between his legs. My mouth tasted like cum, his, mine, both. 

I took advantage of his slumber to stare at his body. He had the well-defined muscles of someone who had spent a lot of time in the gym. That was weird because I couldn't ever recall him in the gym, not that I was there all that often. Maybe we should go together. Guys worked out together without anyone saying anything about it. 

He had a few hairs starting to grow around his areolas. Right in the middle of his chest I counted three black hairs. The fading light slanted across his chest and belly, setting the fine peach fuzz hair aglow. His pubic hair was a tempest of dark tight curls, matted and clumped in the places his cock had continued to ooze and drip as he slept. I loved his cock hard. I found it a little on the trippy side that until that moment I had never seen his cock soft. It looked just as nice soft. Perhaps, I was loving the potential I knew was hiding there but I thought his slumbering cock was as gorgeous as its slumbering owner. I wanted to slip out of bed and take a picture of it, take a picture of his quiet cock, his quiet body. I didn't, of course. I've never taken a photo, at least not a nude photo, of someone without asking first. 

It was probably just the normal cycle of sleep arousal but as I gazed at his cock it began to roll over. It had been lying down in the left crease of his groin. As it rolled, I could see the "V" where the flange of his cock head merged. The thin line that ran down the underside of his cock was easily seen, even in the fading light. His balls rested against his right thigh. His cock seem to pause there, as if it had done nothing more than roll over into a more comfortable position, but every beat of his heart caused it to grow, almost imperceptibly. As it grew, it continued to roll toward the middle of his belly. I watched, hardly breathing, until it rose to stand above his pubic hair. 

I no longer cared if we missed dinner. 

I'm right-handed but my left arm was on top. I wasn't too worried. I could cope. As my hand neared my mouth I could smell our cocks on it. I licked my hand, mostly along the inside of my thumb and first finger. I wrapped my hand around his cock. At first I just held it. Rick's breathing remained slow and steady. He didn't stir.

I began to slide my hand over his cock, loving the way it felt in my hand. I loved the way it felt so recognizable, "why yes, that is clearly a cock in my hand", yet so foreign all the same. It wasn't quite as long as mine but it was thicker. It felt heftier in my hand than my own dick. I rubbed my fingers over his cock head. His crown had a more pronounced flare than mine. His circumcision was cleaner than mine. I had a small turtleneck of crumpled skin around the top of my shaft. Rick's was smooth. With my eyes closed I could barely feel the remnants of his foreskin. For the first time in my life I wondered what it would be like to play with an uncut cock. I'd seen them in online porn but had never really projected myself into those scenarios. What, I wondered, would it be like to go down on Rick if he was uncircumcised? 

My fingers explored the softer ridges of his veins. He had a monster vein on the top of his shaft. I couldn't see it, not without pushing his cock up and I didn't want to risk waking him, but I could feel it. I traced it with one finger tip. 

Stretching a little, I was able to cup his balls. His armpit tickled my nose. Our exertions had left him smelling ever so slightly stronger, not a stinky smell, a musky man smell. 

His balls were heavy. I mentally tried to compare them to my own. I thought they were bigger. A wave of insecurity flooded my mind. Were my balls too small? Did the ridge of skin, the skin I was now convinced was evidence of an incompetent botched circumcision, disgust him? Was my cock too thin? Too long? Was that possible? Oh fuck, he was totally ripped and I'm a pudgy slug. I tried to tell myself I was being a total dork. I wasn't fat. I had never worried that I was pudgy before. Could you see the outline of my abs? No, but my stomach was flat and if you felt it, there was muscle under your fingers. 

"Why did you stop?"

Rick's voice startled me and I jumped. He laughed. 

"You forget I was here already?"

"Nnnoo. No" My stammer is something I had mostly overcome by college but even today, under stress, it trips me up.

Rick rolled onto his side, forcing me to move my leg. We laid there, nose to nose. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "Rob, what's up, dude? You aren't losing it on me are you?"

"What? No! I was looking at you..."

"No," he grinned at me. "You were jerking me off. And it felt pretty friggin' hot."

I smiled back, or tried to. I counted this as our second "date" but even on the third, or thirtieth, date no one wants to find out their lover is a writhing mass of insecurities. Total buzz kill. I didn't want to lie. So, I told the truth, just not all of it.

"Glad you liked it. I was looking at your body and I got a little freaked out by how freaking hot you are. I mean, fuck dude, your body is baller. When do you have time to work out? You didn't get that cut walking back and forth to class."

He blushed. He honestly, totally, heart-meltingly, blushed. 

"Don't be a simp. I go to the gym in the morning. There are a ton of guys more ripped than me. I'm a skinny. Besides." His voice trailed off.

"Besides what?" I encouraged, still enraptured over the way he had blushed when I complimented him. 

"Nothing dude." 

I decided to play dirty. I reached between our bodies and found his cock and began to fondle him.

"Come on. Besides what?"

He looked down between us. "That." 

"Huh? 'That', what 'that'?" I asked, baffled.

"That, my dick." His voice was very soft. 

"What about it? It's one of your top ten features, dude."

"Are you fucking with me?" His voice was angry enough I drew away, surprised. 

"It's fucking tiny, dude. I've got a baby dick," he continued.

"Dude you are totally, bat shit, whacked out of your skull. You have a perfect cock. It's not even small, much less tiny. If you want to go by size alone, fine, you're average. But beyond size, it's a glorious cock. That's part of what I was freaking on." 

I rolled away so I can see him better. I traced the parts of his cock as I talked.

"First of all, the head of your cock fits perfectly." I moved my hand and pointed at my own dick. "Look at mine. The head is too big. My dick looks like one of those trees in the Lorax book. Look at the way the head of your cock flares. You have no idea how that felt sliding past my lips. Look at my dick, where some drunk med school drop-out whacked my foreskin off. It's fucking ugly. Now, look at yours, fucking smooth as whole milk, you can't even see it hardly. Finally." I grabbed his balls and he jumped. "Finally, you got some big ass 'nads. You're a fucking sperm bank. If God hadn't made you gay you'd be a total breeder, dude." I move my hand back to his cock.

"So, spare me the penis anxiety bullshit."

"It's not bullshit. Your dick is twice as long as mine."

I gave a bark of disbelief. 

"Stand up." 

"What?" Rick asked, looking perplexed.

"Stand up," I repeated, rolling over and out of bed. 

He followed. We were almost exactly the same height. I pulled his cock down, making it horizontal to the floor. I did the same with my own. I pushed my hips forward until the head of my cock touched his pubic bone, beside his cock. His cock was less than an inch from my belly.

"Mine looks longer because it is a fucking lollipop stick. So, can we drop the dick shit, dip shit?"

Rick offered me a lopsided grin. "'Dick shit', 'dip shit'? That's the best you got?"

"Nope," I said as I dropped down onto my heels. "This is the best that I got," I finished before taking his cock back into my mouth.

My touching and talking about his cock had him mostly hard. There wasn't much growing left to do but as I swallowed him, pushing my nose deep into his pubic hair, I felt him get harder with each thump of his heart. His fucking cock was pulsing in my throat. I was getting a cock tonsil massage without having to move a muscle. I held him there, breathing through my nose, pressing my tongue against the underside of his shaft. I could hardly move my tongue but I could press and relax. 

He tried to pull away but I followed him with my mouth. I grabbed his ass with my hands and pulled him deeper. His pubic bone was smashing my nose but I didn't care. I experimented. I tried tightening the muscles in my throat. I wasn't sure anything was happening until I heard a soft moan above my head. 

"Fuck Rob. How are you doing that?"

To answer, I'd have to pull his cock out of my mouth, my throat, and I wasn't about to do that. I inhaled deeply. I swear to God the scent of his cock, his pubic hair, the cum drying in the hair, nearly made me cum. I groaned around his cock and he shivered. His hands clamped onto my head. 

I exhaled the breath I had taken, but through my mouth, blowing my hot breath around his twitching cock.

His fingers tightened. He pushed against my mouth. It was hard to swallow in this position. I could feel spit begin to leak onto my chin. I wasn't gagging or choking. I simply couldn't swallow with his delicious fat cock in my mouth. An idea that had been flitting through my mind began to hammer incessantly at my thoughts. I was afraid he wouldn't like it. I was afraid he'd be grossed out if I asked him to do it to me but I couldn't rid myself of the vision. 

I risked letting go off his ass with my right hand and cupped his balls. I imagine they weighed a pound a piece. I loved them and hated them. I loved them for their heft, their total screaming maleness. I hated them for withholding the cum I was obsessing over. 

"Give it to me. Come on." I chanted silently.

I brought my hand to my chin. I wiped the spit off my chin and even managed to wiggle a finger into my mouth, beside his dick, taking care not to scratch or poke him with my fingernail. I told myself if he tensed, tried to pull away, I'd stop. I steeled myself and worked my hand past his balls and began to rub. I nearly dropped his cock and shouted for joy when rather than pulling away, he lowered his body, crouching enough to open his legs. He was making it easier for me to do what I want to do, what I had been afraid would freak him out. 

I still had not moved my head or mouth. My breath snuffled in and out of my smashed nose. My tongue worked against the bottom of his shaft, and when I remembered to, I tried to do the throat muscle tightening trick. 

My finger rubbed along the ridge that ran from the back of his sack to his asshole. I took my time, partly because I was nervous and unsure and partly out of fear he would come to his senses and push me away. I took my time but finally my fingertip encountered the firmer, roughed ring of his asshole. I hesitated, then ran my finger over and around it. I was rewarded with more shivers, more tightening on the fingers that gripped my head. 

Rick shifted and I tensed.

"Hang on a sec," he panted. 

"Are you kidding me?" I thought to myself. "That's exactly what I intend to do. Hang on."

He turned slightly and I shifted with him. The floor was hard on my knees. I don't think I could kneel on a hard floor for that long these days. Back then it didn't matter.

He lifted his left leg and rested his foot on top of the bed. My heart raced. He wasn't running away. He was running toward what I wanted to do.

I couldn't really see him. If I rolled my eyes upward, I got an out of focus vision of what would become, one day, a thick lovely happy trail. I could tell he had one hand on his head or face. That arm fell and I felt his fingers on mine, touching his asshole. His fingers were wet. He was wetting his ass. I rubbed the back of his hand with my fingers. When his hand moved, it gripped his left ass cheek and pulled it aside. 

I pushed with my finger tip. He pushed back. When my finger popped into his ass he gasped and the hand on my head clenched. I worked my finger in, slowly. My finger wasn't as wet as it should have been. I know that now but like knees on hard floors, at the time the fact was not relevant. 

I had to go slow but soon my finger pressed into the groove that runs around the firm walnut of his prostate. I'm not sure if I knew what I was feeling back then but I suppose that doesn't really matter. What mattered was when I pressed against it, his hips bucked against my chest and his cock seemed to swell to twice its size. 

I pushed a little harder and my fingertip slid past the groove and onto the mound. I began to move my finger in circles over it, pressing harder. It felt more like two walnuts than one. There was another groove separating the two halves. As I pressed hard, Rick pushed harder. 

A second, or maybe less, before he filled my throat with his load, I felt the mound beneath my finger clench and contract. 

Rick didn't say anything. He held his breath, panted, held his breath. His hips twitched against me and once more, both hands clutched my head. I didn't really have to swallow this time. He was pumping his load straight down my throat. I could barely taste it, which was disappointing, but that was the only disappointment. I was rather proud of myself. I had gotten him off without moving my head. I had milked him with my throat and tongue. 

His ass squeezed and I pulled my finger out. It stuck a little and I heard him gasp. When it was free, he pulled away. I let him this time. He put his left foot back on the floor, sat on the bed and flopped back, nearly beaning himself on the wall. 

I sat over on my ass. My knees sang a "thank you" chorus. I rested the side of my face on his knees. That wasn't very comfortable so I moved to lean against the bed and rest my head on his lap. The back of my head brushed against his still quivering cock. I surreptitiously glanced at my right hand. The index finger was smeared. That was a little gross but I asked myself what had I expected? A little soap and water was not a particular high price for the fun I just had. I didn't want Rick to freak, so I kissed the top of his leg, climbed off the floor and went into the bathroom to wash my hand.

When I returned, he was still lying on the bed, feet on the floor. His breathing had slowed and his cock was napping in the crease of his left thigh again. I knelt beside him on the bed. He let me kiss him but didn't have the energy to kiss back. I lifted his head up and leaned back against the wall, trying not to gasp at how chilled it felt on my over-heated skin. I crossed my legs and let Rick's head rest back on my ankles. My boner brushed the top of his head. I had a vision of jerking off, of cumming on the top of his head. I wasn't sure he'd like that so I push the image aside. 

I leaned forward to massage his chest. My dick pressed against his head. 

"Did you like that?" I whispered and immediately chided myself for being so insecure that I needed confirmation. He'd cum like a gallon after cumming once already. Duh? Of course he liked it, dipshit.

"Mmm hmm," was his only answer. 

I began to play with his nipples, casual like. His eyes remained closed. His breathing was deep and steady as if he were asleep or meditating.

"How did you do that with your throat?"

His voice startled me. I shrugged, though he could not see it. 

"I'm not sure I just sort of tightened it." 

"However you did it, dude it was fucking intense."

"Good. I'm glad you liked it."

His eyes opened and his face twisted into a half smile, half smirk. "Like it? Yeah, I liked it. Maybe too much. I don't know if I want you to have that much power over me."

As he pulled his feet onto the bed and rolled onto his side, I shifted down the wall to give him more room. He laid his head in my lap again, facing my dick. He started to stroke it. 

"Somebody still has a chubby," he snorted, looking at me with one eye. I nodded.

He gently pulled my dick forward and I felt his tongue lick over the top of it. 

"Mmm," he whispered. "You like that? You want me to suck your cock?"

"Yes. I like that. I want you to suck my dick. Please."

His mouth fell over me and began to move. After a few strokes he pulled away and clambered to his knees. His hand returned to my dick.

"I liked what you did with your finger."

I nodded. 

"You want to do more?"

I wasn't sure what he meant. More as in him sticking his finger in my ass or more of me sticking my fingers in his ass. I decided either was okay.

"Like what?"

"I want you to fuck me," he replied, heat in his eyes. "I want you to fuck me in the ass. That's what." 

As he spoke, he laid back on the bed, managing to keep a hold on my dick.

"And then," he grinned. "I want to fuck you."

That was exactly the fantasy I had been jerking off to for days but hearing it said out loud, hearing the words in my ears, made it so much more real. I found myself starting to say "no". I licked my lips, stalling.

I nodded, tried to speak, swallowed and finally managed to spit out, "I think that would be cool."

Rick grinned. "Me first."

"Now?"

His grin widened. "Why not?"

"Uh, I don't have any condoms or anything."

He raised up to rest on his elbows. "So? You said you've never done anything like this right? That's true isn't it? Even with a chick?"

I nodded.

"Neither have I. I trust you. There's no way I have AIDS or the syph or anything and there's no way you do. So why do we need condoms?"

"I don't have any lube." I didn't want to mention the smears on my finger. 

"You got any hand lotion? That's what I use." 

I stared at him and he stared back.

"You mean you never play with your ass, dude?" he asked, clearly unbelieving.

I shook my head. "No. I mean I've thought about that. And yeah, I'd like to try it with you but no, I've never played with my butt." My curiosity got the best of me. "What do you do actually? Put your finger in your butt?"

"Sure," he answered without hesitation. "Seriously bro, you've never done that? Not once?" 

I shook my head again.

"Wow," he whispered then he laughed. "This will be fun." He nodded toward the wall. "Your suitemate, what's his fuck, he gone this weekend too?"

"I don't know, probably. If not he should be at supper." 

"Go check," Rick ordered.

"Huh?"

"Go knock on the bathroom door. See if anyone is over there."

I climbed off the bed. My dick pointed toward the sky. A few twists and turns in the conversation, plus a bit of confusion were no match for the state of arousal I was in. I walked into the bathroom. Two rooms, four students usually, shared a bathroom. Mike and I had lucked out, our suitemate was a single, Darren. I turned the door knob leading to his room. It was locked. I knocked twice, twice more.

"Darren?" Then louder, "Darren, you in there?"

There was no response. As I turned, Rick was entering the bathroom.

"You have a towel I can borrow?"

"Uh, sure, yeah." I pointed to my closet. "There's an extra in there."

As he turned I noticed a drop of cum hanging from the head of his cock. When he returned with the towel, I bent at the waist and quickly took his cock in my mouth, then straightened.

He looked at me quizzically, "What was that for?"




Remembering Rick Ch. 02



"I missed a drop," I said, trying to grin my most sultry grin.

"Right on," he whispered, then kissed me. I let his tongue enter my mouth. He stepped back too soon.

"Come on," he ordered, stepping past me. "Let's get cleaned up."

He leaned into the shower and turned the nozzle toward the wall before twisting the handle. I smiled. I did the same thing. I hated getting splashed with cold water. Rick would dart his hand under the water periodically, checking to see if it was hot yet. When it was, he adjusted the temperature and stepped in. He backed under the shower, threw his head back and let the water run over his face and hair. When he straightened, his eyes and one hand beckoned me.

I joined him in the shower. It was a small shower. There was no way for our bodies not to touch, not that I wanted them to not touch. He handed me a bar of soap.

"You wash me first, okay?" 

I took the bar from him and began to soap his body. I paid scant attention to his pits, giving them a cursory scrub. My hands lingered on his chest. I can still feel how hard his pecs were and the sharp points of his tiny nipples. When my hands reached his cock, they took their time. Even though he'd recently unloaded down my throat, I could feel him begin to respond to my touch. He surprised me when he turned away and leaned his chest against the wall of the shower. Warm water cascaded down his back. It funneled toward his ass crack. I knew what he wanted. 

I worked my soapy fingers between his ass cheeks and began to wash his asshole. He pushed against my fingers and I replied by letting one slip inside. With the soap it was easier. I moved my finger in and out. Wishing it was my dick and not my finger. I wondered if I should fuck him in the shower. That would be hot.

"Use two," he whispered, his head hanging between his arms.

I pushed with two fingers. They entered him without resistance. I moved them inside him and, feeling bold, added a third.

"Oh, fuck yeah, Rob," he gasped and pushed back against my fingers. I was afraid to push my fingers too deeply inside him. At the time, I pretended to myself I didn't want to hurt him but now I can admit I was afraid my fingers would encounter stool. I wanted to fuck him, wanted badly to fuck him but the idea of stool on my cock bothered me. It still does. 

It was several years later when I confessed that to a lover. He looked at me astounded. "Christ Rob, you are such neophyte sometimes. Of course you don't. Hell, hardly anyone enjoys a dirty fuck. There are a few scat daddies out there but not a lot." 

Rick pulled away from my hand and turned again. He leaned into me, kissing my chest, as his hands held his ass cheeks apart so the shower could rinse his ass. 

"Your turn."

We switched places. Before turning to face him, I rinsed off my hand. I saw only soap suds. His hands felt fantastic. He could barely touch my dick. I was too close to cumming. 

"Turn around," he commanded. I did not hesitate. 

I pressed my hands and chest against the wall as his fingers began to explore my virgin ass. The feel of his fingertips gliding over my pucker felt as good as I had imagined. 

"Okay, relax now," he warned. "If you tense up it'll hurt."

He pressed against me. It felt uncomfortable. He kiss one shoulder. 

"Relax, bro, relax. I promise it will be worth it."

I can't say I relaxed all that much but I didn't pull away. There was a little pain as he penetrated me. He kept whispering and murmuring reassurances to me. I told myself to stop being a pussy. His finger wasn't as big as some of the craps I had taken. I focused on my breathing, focused on the way his finger felt, focused on wanting him deep enough inside me to do whatever it was my fingers had done to him. He was patient; I will always give him that. He pushed and pulled, a centimeter, no more at a time, until finally I felt the intense pressure I imagined he must have felt. I heard myself moan.

"Told ya, bro," he whispered. 

He pulled his finger out. I started to turn but he held me in place. I peeked over my shoulder. He was re-soaping his hand.

"It will be easier now," he reassured me. It was. 

His finger slid back inside my ass and there was no pain. I tensed again when I felt two fingers against my pucker hole but once I relaxed, that was fine as well. 

We both jumped but thank God neither of us yelped when someone knocked on the door.

"Mike? Rob? Dude you going to be long? I gotta date and I'd like to get cleaned up."

I turned. Rick was ashen. I thought he was going to be sick. I held a finger to my lips. He nodded. I leaned next to his ear.

"When I open the door, slip out and go into my room. Just be quiet. It's no big deal."

He nodded, still looking terrified.

I pushed the door of the shower open and stuck my head out. Rick slipped out behind me, grabbed a towel and did a tiptoe trot into my room. I made a note to try to cover the trail of his wet foot prints.

"That you Darren?" I shouted louder than I needed to.

"Who the fuck else would it be? Not to be a dick but I don't want to be late. I'm hoping to get somewhere tonight. I don't want Jill all pissed off from the start."

"I'm done," I called back as I turned off the shower. I stepped out and grabbed my towel. My dick had softened a little but not completely. I hoped he wouldn't notice. I wrapped the towel around my waist and reached over to pop the inside lock so he could get in.

Darren barged in. He was such a narcissist I needn't have worried about him noticing anything. As always, he came in naked, towel over one shoulder. He had no idea, I don't think, that I was gay. He wouldn't have cared. He assumed everyone wanted to look at him in all his glory. He was okay but not that hot and definitely not my type. I brushed my hair as he jumped into the shower. I didn't expect and I didn't receive a thanks. 

I went into my room and closed the door, locking if from my side. It wasn't unusual for Darren to barge in with only a cursory knock. 

Rick stood dripping beside my bed still looking like he seen a real life predator or the acid dripping creator from the Alien movies.



Remembering Rick



You think that might have anything to do with why a guy doesn't bring a guy back to his dorm room?

We didn't go to my room or his. We did stop at the grape arbor. Being in the middle of the campus, the grape arbor was not a make-out locale. Perhaps in the 1920's it was a good place for a straight couple to steal a quick kiss, but a straight couple could French each other in church nowadays. It was, for us, a discrete place to share a first kiss. 

Once again, Rick was the initiator. As he let his book bag fall off his shoulder, he turned, and kissed me. In my own defense, I was considering doing the same. It was a very nice kiss. It was strange, and extremely exciting, to feel his stubble on my lips as we kissed. That was a first for me, having never dated a hirsute woman. I let one hand rest on his arm. I probed softly with my tongue and he parted his lips. And that was it. We both broke the kiss at the same time. It had been a very nice kiss but we had reached our risk taking limit, for the moment anyway. 

We sat on one of the wood benches that ran along either side of the arbor. The paint was peeling. Most of the leaves had fallen but the entwisted vines offered a semblance of privacy. I had no idea how old the grape vines were. The main trunks were as big around as my arm, twisted and hairy. I reached between us and intertwined my fingers with his. That was the first time I risked initiating contact. Thank God he did not pull away. The risk was not high. To a casual observer we were just sitting there. A casual observer would have no idea how hard my heart was beating.

I cleared my throat. "I've never done anything like this before. I mean not with a guy."

"Neither have I." 

"Have you dated girls?" I probed. After a moment, Rick nodded.

"A few." He paused before continuing. "My parents are very strict, very religious. The girls I dated where from church. My folks would have insisted on a background check if I dated someone outside of our church." He chuckled but there was little humor in the sound. "If they knew how hard it was to fight off those 'good' girls they'd have shit a brick."

"I think my parents will be okay with the fact that I'm gay."

I surprised myself. I had never said that aloud before. I ran the phrase back and forth in my head, trying to decide if I was ready to say it again. 

"Shitting a brick would be about the mildest response my parents would have. My mom would wail, or faint, maybe both. My old man would probably rend his shirt. I've always imagined he regretted the lack of good rending of clothes moments in modern society. This would be his golden opportunity. Buttons would fly, he'd pull at his hair and fall to his knees and beseech God to delivery me from sin, or kill me. He'd go for deliverance first but in a pinch he'd settle for death. A dead son would be a chance for him to demonstrate his willingness to accept God's will. Later, he would realize he could have demonstrated his righteousness by exiling me from his life but there would always be the risk I'd show up and ask for money."

I had no idea what to say to that, so I said nothing. 

He turned to me. "What do you think we should do?"

I smiled. "I take it you mean other than study chemistry."

Rick rolled his eyes. "Duh."

"I want to kiss you some more, that's for sure." I shrugged. "I want to touch you. I want to see you naked. I want to..."

He interrupted me. "Do you want to touch my dick?" I nodded. "You want to put it in your mouth, suck it?"

I nodded again. "Yeah, actually I do. What about you?"

He grinned. "Sure, I'd love for you to suck my dick." He cut off my protest. "I know what you meant, dude. I want to do those things too." We were both quiet for a time. "You've never done anything like this, seriously?" he asked finally.

"No, nothing. I've dreamed about it a lot but I've never had the chance to do anything about it. I was," I paused. "In high school I was never completely sure. I dated a few girls, waiting to see, if thinking about other guys would fade away. It sounds stupid I guess but I wondered if maybe it really was just a 'phase' that I'd wake up one morning, laugh about it, and go have wild sex with a posse of cheer leaders."

Rick looked at me with interest. "Really? Not me. I dated because it would have seemed weird not to but I never enjoyed it." He cocked his head. "Did you get excited, making-out with girls? I mean get a boner?"

It was my turn to look surprised. "Yeah, sure. You didn't?"

Rick shook his head. "Never. I would always have to act like it was going too far to let a girl touch between my legs. I didn't stop them because I thought it was a sin. I had already decided I didn't believe in God. I just didn't want them to find out I was limp as a spaghetti noodle. Kissing was okay, that would start to get me excited but as soon as they'd want me to touch their boob, instant buzz kill. A squishy sweaty ball of fat in my hand held zero interest to me. Worse, negative interest. I could hardly wait to escape and wash my hand."

"Cool. I mean that's fine, I think. It never bothered me to make out with a girl but it was always sort of 'okay'. I mean if all there is for dessert is vanilla ice cream, okay. I'd prefer chocolate chocolate chip but vanilla is okay. Same with girls. The difference is, I've had chocolate chocolate chip. Until now the idea I would enjoy making out with another guy was an untested hypothesis."

"Oh, so I'm a science experiment now?"

"Yup. I have hypothesized that I would like to have your dick in my mouth. I have further hypothesized I would like to have my dick in your mouth. Now that I have a hypothesis, I need to design an experiment to test the hypothesis. Jesus dude, you've never read Bacon? This is how science works."

"And if the hypothesis is disproved?"

I shook my head. "Unlikely."

"Bias? You don't sound like a very good scientist to me."

"Maybe not." We fell silent again. 

"So, what kind of experiment are you thinking of?" Rick asked, standing as he spoke.

I stood with him and risked another kiss. This time I put my hand behind his head and our tongues began to play against each other immediately. 

"Mike, my roommate, is gone this weekend. He's taking off tomorrow after his 10 o'clock class. I can blow off my afternoon class. What do you have?"

"Calc but I'm done at 2:00. Should I come by after that?"

"Sure." I pick up my pack. "Bring your chem stuff, we do need to study, in between experiments."

We walked back to the dorm. Rick was on the ground floor. We arranged to meet to walk over to the cafeteria for supper, which was hardly unusual. The cafeteria was crowded. I listened half-heartedly to Rick banter with our tablemates over their respective NFL teams prospects for the rest of the season. My parents never watched sports, except tennis and even then only the US Open. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation. 

As we were walking, en masse, back to the dorm, Rick asked casually, "So, tomorrow after calc, your room, acid-base problems?"

I nodded. We walked into the dorm and went our separate ways. 

I had calc the next day as well, just in a different section. I might as well have slept in. The symbols and numbers transformed from old friends into dark hieroglyphics that if translated, would unleash the most hideous of curses. Sociology and Modern Society, which followed, was its usual joke. The topic of the day, had nothing to do with the assigned reading, which didn't bother me because I read the entire text the first weekend of the semester, was the proposition put forth by a very dykey professor that there could never ever be consensual sex between a man and a woman because of the inherent societal power imbalance between male and female. Sex between a man and a woman was therefore uniformly and unequivocally always rape. I thought the whole argument portrayed women in a pathetic light but having recently decided I no longer had a dog in the fight, I spent the time trying to build a visual image of Rick's cock based on the outline I had seen in his jeans. 

Class, finally over, the guys walking away confused by the glares most of the gals seemed to be directing at them, I stopped at the cafeteria and tried to eat. A bowl of watery, over-salted chicken noodle soup and piece of carrot cake were all my churning stomach would accept. I went back to my room, brushed my teeth twice, Scoped once, did the huff and sniff test in my hands, and Scoped again. That still left me with almost two hours before Rick would arrive. Mike stopped in long enough to brush his own teeth, pick up his dirty clothes and say, "See ya."

I went over the calc sections covered that morning and, amazingly, was able to focus enough to make sense of it. Like most of the semester so far, it was review of concepts I had already covered in high school. Feeling relieved, I allowed myself to drift into fantasies about the afternoon, telling myself that was a bad idea. Rarely, if ever, did my fantasies survive running into reality. 

By quarter till 2:00 I was pacing, unable to sit or lay still. I rinsed again with Scope, trying to laugh at myself and failing. At ten till, I panicked about my clothes. How could I have not thought of that? My jeans were okay. What about my feet? Did they stink? I quickly shed my socks, sniffing them. What about my tee shirt? Should I change into a button up? Having Rick slowly unbutton my shirt might be pretty hot. Fuck, what about my underwear? I knew it was clean but should I have any on at all? I was reaching for the button of my jeans when there was a knock on the door. 

I shot a glance at the clock, five minutes till 2:00. What the fuck? I hurried to the door and could not stop myself from sniffing my armpits. I was a total basket case.

Rick stood there when I opened the door, looking totally chill, totally normal. I couldn't help thinking, "What a dick," out of jealousy. How dare he not be nervous?

I stepped aside and he entered the room. 

"I'm so nervous I could barely eat." He chuckled as I closed the door. 

"Really? You look chill dude. I was sort of hating on you for not looking nervous," I confessed. 

Jacket still on, back pack over one shoulder, he took my face in both hands and kissed me. He kissed me much harder than the two times under the arbor. His tongue pushed deep into my mouth. He pushed his crotch against mine for a moment before breaking the kiss, but did not step back.

"Forgive me?" He whispered. 

I answered with a kiss. After that, things got a little crazy. Not to sound like an old fart, I'm only twenty-six, but I've begun to mistrust my own memories. I catch myself remembering some event and wondering, "Wait a sec, did that really happen or have I re-played this in my head so many times I've forgotten which parts I may have embellished a bit?"

Be that as it may, this is what I remember.

Rick let his pack drop to the floor. I slipped my hands under his jacket and eased it off his shoulders and tossed it onto the desk and then we were in a full body embrace.

His hands still clutched at my face. My arms went around his back and pulled him close. Our crotches pressed against each other as our dicks raced to see which could get hard the fastest. He still had not shaved. He had at least a four-day growth of whiskers. As our heads turned, swapping positions, I could feel his whiskers rub against my face. 

I freed my mouth from his and kissed the side of his neck, right where it joined his shoulder. He shivered. I kissed my way up the side of his neck, loving the feel of his stubble on my lips. I nipped at his skin, not hard, not sucking, I had no intention, or desire, to mark him with a hickey. When I kissed behind his ear, a spasm pushed his body against mine and he groaned. 

Only Shakespeare could describe how glorious that soft groan in my ear sounded. I've heard many since and some were nearly as special, nearly as hot but none is ever as special as that first true groan or moan or hiss of passion and desire one elicits from a lover. 

We shuffled together, me backward, and sat on the bed. Ever the one with the weakness for drama, I considered falling backward on the bed with him. The picture of one of his teeth breaking off in my scalp killed the idea. I scooted back in the bed and we sat, cross-legged, facing each other.

When we leaned into each other, it was Rick's turn to tease my neck. His technique was similar but distinctive, employing more tongue and less nipping as I recall. We quickly realized that sitting, knee to knee, was not the most comfortable position for making-out. We stretched out on my bed. I found myself, leaning over him, supporting myself on one elbow. I had one leg nestled between his. I made no attempt to avoid pressing my hardon into his thigh. 

We resumed our kissing. My tee shirt hung away from my body. It was only natural that Rick's hand found its way underneath it. The sensation of his warm fingers trailing up and down my back made me shiver. I shifted, lying now on my side beside him. My tongue continued to play around in his mouth. My lips kissed along his neck and behind his other ear. I worked my way toward the middle of his neck and tongued the hollow of his throat, before working my way back to his mouth. 

Rick had been the bold one earlier in the week. He had been the one to press his leg against mine. He had been the one to drop his hand into my lap and he'd been the one to initiate our first kiss. That afternoon, the roles were reversed. He had opened the gate and I had tentatively tested the feel of the grass under my feet, that afternoon I wanted to run. 

My hand found its way to his shirt. I was pleased that his was tucked in. I wanted him to know I was untucking it so that I might get to his body. I wanted there to be no mistake. I was not content to simply make do with what was available to me. I wanted it clear I would be opening some doors myself. I would create my own openings. I tugged the tail of his shirt out of his jeans and began to stroke his belly.

I reveled in the feel of the scant hair below his belly button. His chest was smooth. He was right about one thing, boobs. Cupping the firm muscles of his chest was much better than squeezing a boob. As I trailed a finger around his nipple, it grew firm, just like a chick's. Amazing. I caressed it and in a moment of inspiration, having never felt a girl's breast to this extent, pinched his nipple ever so gently. As his moan filled my mouth, I tugged on it and his back arched. His erection pushed against my leg, still cradled between his. 

With a reluctance born out of the fear that this was all just a dream, I broke our kiss, pulled my hand from under his shirt and managed to almost sit without kneeing him in the balls. Using my one free hand, I pulled my shirt off and tossed it to the floor. I considered my new, my first, lover's body and then slid over him to stand beside the bed. I urged him up with one hand and then pulled his shirt off. I gestured for him to lie back and he did. I turned and pulled his shoes off, then his socks, before climbing back onto the bed. 

I straddled his waist. When I leaned over him, our crotches pressed together, then the naked skin of our bellies, followed by our chests, and then our mouths reunited. His hands, both of them now, began to stroke my back and play along the waist band of my jeans. I willed him to cup my ass and he did. As his fingers squeezed and kneaded my ass, I ground my dick as hard as I could, without actual pain, into his hardon. 

It seemed like we held this position for hours but realistically, allowing for my youthful lust, it was probably only a couple minutes. I do know that this is a true memory. I had known exactly what I intended to do as I had stood beside the bed and relieved my lover of his shirt and shoes. 

I inched lower, regretting the loss of contact with his hardon, but desperate to proceed. I had intended to kiss his nipples but his collarbones and shadowed swales above them distracted me. They simply demanded to be kissed, so kiss them I did. I kissed all along them, from shoulder to sternum and then switching to the opposite side. I lingered for a time in the hollow of his throat before kissing my way down his sternum. 

My hands had crept up his sides. They now pressed his arms above his head. My fingers encountered the soft tickle of his armpit hair. Yet again, circumstances forced me to reconsider my plan. I kissed across his chest, skirting his nipple at the last moment and savored the way he twisted beneath me, trying to force his nipple into my mouth. His squirms were accompanied by the most delightful mewl of disappointment. I willed him to be patient. We had all weekend.

I kissed my way along his lats, jealous of their definition. When I pressed my nose into his armpit his back arched and he moaned. Jesus, how to describe the scent? It was mostly but not entirely deodorant, Old Spice. Beneath that was his smell. I would become more familiar with it over time after begging him to skip the deodorant for a few hours. It never got into actual stink but his smell, the smell of fresh sweat and, for lack of any better description, the smell of MAN, was a huge turn-on. I nuzzled his pit for a while and then, tentatively, began to kiss it. That, I as was to discover, was another reason to skip deodorant before making out. Some deodorants contain a type of aluminum compound, and they are all very pucker inducing. If you've ever tasted pickling alum you'll know exactly what I mean.

I didn't care. He was wiggling and bucking and moaning; that's all that mattered at the time. I moved to his left. This time, knowing he liked it, I moved more slowly, dragging out the anticipation. I spent more time sniffing and nuzzling before, giving into his increasingly desperate moans, I opened my mouth to kiss and lick. The thrusting of his crotch against my leg became so intense I was afraid he was about to cum. The thought of making him cum in his pants, using nothing but the pressure of my leg and the teasing of my tongue, was so entrancing I almost altered my plans. But I resisted. 

I shifted so that my body hovered over his. I let my hair, uncut since arriving at college, brush across his chest. His hands reached for my head and I let him tug my head towards his mouth. Instead of kissing, he pulled my face against the side of his.

"Please." He whispered. I kissed him, trying to put only tenderness in the kiss, and whispered my reply.

"Soon." I kissed the hollow of his throat. "Soon. I promise."

I kissed my way to the middle of his chest, swept my hair back and forth over it and at long last, took one of his nipples between my lips. In the abstract, I might have thought them too small. The nipples themselves were smaller than a pencil eraser. Their sides, dark brown, the tips almost white, little frosted candies. The areolas were the same dark brown and also quite small, hardly larger than the nipples that rose from their embrace. As I said, in a photo, or on a random guy, I might have found them disconcertingly small, out of proportion to the nicely developed pectoral muscles they guarded. But they were Rick's, and for a moment they were also mine, so they were perfect.

I circled first one nipple, then the other, with my tongue, circling and flicking and nipping with my lips, until his body writhed beneath me. I gave each a final, harder nip, more a bite than a nip and his hands clutched at my hair. I paused and put his hands above his head, pressing them gently into the mattress, willing them to stay.

Rick did not have washboard abs but I could feel a hard narrow valley as I kissed my way from his chest to his belly button. I picked a tiny bit of lint from it and then laved it with my tongue. I too was growing impatient and my mouth lingered only a moment before moving lower, moving to play in the small tuft of soft black hair that was beginning to crawl down his belly.




Remembering Rick



I was lower in the bed now. It was my bare chest he was shoving his hardon into now. I worked my hands under his ass and began to squeeze. Starting at the bony crest of his right hip, I kissed and licked my way across his lower belly, just above the waist of his jeans. I brushed his belly with my hair.

I put my mouth atop the bulge in his jeans, blew out my breath and felt the material grow hot beneath my lips. From above me, a second soft hissed, "please" reached my ears. 

I moved to sit beside him. My hands were shaking as I unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down. He raised his butt as I slid the jeans off. His underwear started to come off as well but snagged on his erection. I wiggled the jeans off his legs and feet and dropped them to the floor. 

He wore Jockey bikini briefs. They were so wet I could easily see his cock head outlined. So close, yet I paused to stroke his legs, his feet. I trailed my fingers over the dark hair that ran from the back of his big toe, over the top of the arch to disappear in the forest of dark hair that covered his legs. Little tufts of black adorned the big joint of each toe, even the little toe. I had no idea if he was ticklish and it was certainly not part of the plan that had sprung, full grown, into my mind as I stood beside him only a few minutes earlier, but I had to kiss his feet. 

They didn't smell, well a little, but hardly more than his armpits. It wasn't an odor as much as a scent, a pheromone. Not knowing if he was ticklish, I kissed the top of each foot, then waited. When he bent his knee and rolled his foot to the side, I had my answer. As I kissed the top of his foot and down to his toes, my hand found his dick and his wet underwear. I did little more than rest my hand on it but his back arched and he moaned a third, "Please." 

I had a reasonable guess of what he wanted. It was certainly what I wanted. 

I didn't waste time kissing my way back up his legs, though I longed to do so. By that point, I was tormenting myself as much, if not more, than I was tormenting my lover. 

I pressed my face into the right side of his crotch, the side where his underwear had pulled down the lowest. His cock was still hidden by the damp cotton. Running away from the cotton, arcing along the bottom of his belly, a tan line separated the brown of his belly, a soft brown, the brown of coffee with too much cream, from the pale skin that hid beneath his underwear. The hidden skin appeared all the whiter in contrast to the crisp dark curls that coalesced just above the top of his half-off briefs. 

I rested my head on his thigh, my cheek and lips brushing against the damp cotton and the heat and firmness of his cock. His scent filled my nose and fanned the fire burning in my skull. I kissed his cock through the wet fabric as my fingers played in the small patch of exposed pubic hair. 

I lost myself in the sound of my fingers in his hair. I could hear it in the ear that was on top and I could hear it, strangely amplified, in the ear pressed against his pelvis. The tones that reached me through the air were, sharp, crisp, metallic. The tones that echoed through his flesh were deeper, not as sharp but more resonate. Though muted, they filled my ear. 

I nuzzled his cock with my nose and the sound of the cotton rubbing against his hair added its voice to the chorus. Rick was silent. He no longer moaned or groaned. I heard no hissing, just the quick shallow breaths of his excitement. 

He held his breath when I lifted my cheek and hooked my fingers in the waistband of his briefs. I pulled it out, unhooking it from his cock. I stopped there, letting my anticipation grow, part of me steeling myself for disappointment, before slipping the fabric down and exposing him.

I was not disappointed. His cock was beautiful, and not, as with his nipples, just because it belonged to him. It would have been a thing of beauty in isolation. It could have been an icon for all that was exciting about being young, being male, and being lost in lust and passion. A decade has yet to pass, from that moment to this, but I find myself wondering, at only twenty-six, is that youthful exuberance of the flesh already fading? Does it take a few minutes longer before I'm hard? Does it take more than a passing thought to get me hard? Does my cock still drip with excitement as it once did? Do we really get so very few years when youth, ability, and possibility overlap? 

I worried about none of that at the time. To be frank, I stared, just stared for the longest time. The head was shiny and slick. As I gazed, a clear drop of fluid welled from the slit and ran backward, clinging to the crown before stretching into an exaggerated rain-drop icicle and falling into the tangle thatch of his pubic hair. This may be one of the memories that are false, but I believe I could see my reflection in that drop of pre-cum, a tiny, upside-down face that elongated and disappeared as the drop freed itself from his cock. 

The image is vivid, even now. I think of it often and wish I were a painter, a realist like Geddes or that Russian dude that paints all those rain streaked windows. He'd be perfect. The left lower foreground would be the back of my head. Unless cropped short, my hair is a mess. It is neither fish nor fowl. It is neither straight nor curly. When it is long it is mostly wavy, but the waves are interspersed with eddies of tighter curls and cowlicks. The point being, it would not just be a blob of dark paint. A good painter would have contrasts of texture and lighting to deal with. As it happens, in real life, the window was behind us, on the far side of the room, so the light was truly behind us. If we'd been in Rick's room the shade would have been drawn, his room was on the ground floor. Mine was on the third floor, the window was uncovered and the room was full of the most gorgeous late afternoon yellows and golds. 

You could do a series of paintings, the first a realist scene, the other an abstract of the color tones and textures of my hair. In the realist version, beyond my head, and the focal point of the composition, would be Rick's cock. The background would be filled with the contrasting tones of untanned abutting tanned, a second mass of hair, darker, coarser, curlier. And, oh please Jesus, include the soft butter brown skin of his belly and the copse of dark hair below his belly button. 

The focal point would not actually be the head of his cock, but the dangling drop of pre-cum. The careful observer would see my face in the drop. Upside down, eyes wide in wonder, forever trapped, forever nineteen, the world always and forever ahead of me.

I thought of none of that at the time, of course. Such thoughts are for later. 

I eased his underwear off, standing as I did so. He looked at me and I looked back. I held the wet front of his briefs to my nose and inhaled. He smiled. I dropped them to the floor. When my hands dropped to the top of my jeans he started to sit up. I stooped, put a hand on his chest, kissed him quickly and urged him to lay back down. I did not make a show of taking off my pants. It is quite true I had been teasing him, and myself, but a strip-tease has never been part of my style.

I thumbed open the buttons, and tugged my jeans and underwear off in one motion. I has hard, of course, and my own underwear was pretty damp. Both joined the jumble of clothes heaped on the floor beside the bed. 

I knelt beside Rick. My eyes devoured his body. His short hair, lighter than mine, his hazel eyes, the double arch of his upper lip, the stubbly whiskers, darker than the hair on his head, the mass of hair, darker still, of his armpits, his chest, the silly small nipples, belly and finally, that beautiful penis towering over its nest of dark curls. 

Rick's cock was not one of those monster cocks that seem to only exist in the world of porn. Guys, everyone take a breath. It's called "selection bias." Relax. Even amateur sites suffer from selection bias. How many guys with five- and six-inch dicks want to risk posting a photo? I'm versatile, tending to bottom more than I top, but I don't want some newel post of a cock shoved up my ass. 

Rick's cock was probably six inches, maybe five-and-a-half. I'm not sure. We never measured it. He was circumcised. I confess that at the time that was a relief. Other than on porn sites, I had never seen an uncut cock. I don't think that it would have mattered, unless it was cheesy. Nowadays, I find uncut cock quite enticing, if it's clean. I don't mind sweat. In fact, my favorite is a guy who has just finished a run or a work out. Sweat enhances the scents of a man's body. I love it. But clean sweat please, thank you.

I think Rick and I were both sweating a little that afternoon. It wasn't terribly hot in the room, even with the sun pouring in. The drops on our brows and the trickles on our sides were the product of body heat and desire, not the temperature of the room. 

As my eyes lingered on his body, I stretched out my hand. I needed to see if his cock felt as slick and smooth as the sheen on the skin suggested. I touched his cock for the first time. I moved closer. Our legs touched. 

His cock throbbed in my hand. I tried to decide if it felt like my own. It wasn't as if I had never had my hand around a hardon before. I guess it felt the same. I knew it would be hard. I knew the head would be softer. I knew if I rubbed my fingers and palm over the head it would be easier to stroke his cock. So I did.

I didn't stroke him for long. I knew that if I was in his position I would be on the edge of spewing and I didn't want that yet. I used my fingers and my eyes to explore his crotch. This was new territory. This was a place on my own body that was not accessible to my eyes. I fondled his balls and watched his sack crinkle and wiggle away from my touch, only to suddenly relax and fall into my palm.

I lifted his balls up and tilted my head. I could see the ridge I was so used to feeling with my fingers. Like me, or at least as far as I could tell by feel, Rick had a line of hair that ran backward from his ball sack towards his ass. It was not as curly as pubic hair. In future years I would learn the technical name for this ridge was the raphe. I couldn't see his asshole. Despite the nearly overwhelming lust that had engulfed me, I was afraid to ask him to lift up so I could see it. I ran my fingers back along the ridge. When I got to the mattress, he pulled his right leg up, bending the knee. That offered a slightly larger opening but not enough to see, or feel, all the way back to his ass. 

My fingers walked their way back to his cock. I wrapped my fingers around the base, leaned forward, and put my lips around the crown. Whether it was the proximity of my nose to his pubic hair, the added sense of tasting his cock and precum, or a combination of all the above, his musk increased in intensity until it was all I could smell. I began to run my tongue around the head of his cock, sliding up the middle and over the slit, making a figure eight or the symbol for infinity, take your pick, over the top of his cock head. 

That first time, my first time giving a blow-job, smokin' the pole, goin' down, suckin' cock, givin' dome, take your pick, I didn't use my hand for anything other than to hold his cock up straight for my mouth. Just as I would never enjoy having a newel post up my ass, I also don't like one shoved down my throat. I love, LOVE, giving oral but not gagging and retching. Yuck. Rick's cock was the perfect cock for a first blow job. I could easily take the whole shaft in my mouth without gagging, or much anyway. I was kneeling beside him. I wanted to take his cock in my mouth straight on so by necessity, my head and mouth resorted to a certain twisting motion.

I didn't really suck, I don't think anyone does, but I did press my tongue against his shaft as my mouth slid up and down. Not to brag but looking back, I think I did pretty well for my first time. 

Although, let's get real. At that age and in that situation, it was Rick's first blow-job, too, I could have licked the head a half-dozen times and he would have gone all Vesuvius on me. He didn't warn me he was going to cum. Like I said, it was his first blow-job, too. He'd never let a girl go anywhere near that far with him. I didn't care. I wanted his cum anyway. 

I had taken his whole cock in my mouth, for maybe the fourth or fifth time, when his hands clutched at my hair and his back arched. At first I couldn't taste his cum, he was so far back in my mouth. I struggled against his hands, not to get away but to pull back enough to let him fill my mouth, which he proceeded to do. I couldn't swallow it all. Some ran down his shaft. That was perfect, actually. It gave me an excuse to keep licking his cock. 

At times, after jerking off, I had touched a finger to one of the puddles on my belly or chest. Cum is sort of weird isn't it? Part of it is clear and watery and begins to run down your sides almost immediately. Part is thicker and whiter and rests in rounded globs on your skin. It's slick when you rub it but sticky enough to pull into a strand between your fingers. I had, once or twice, put the dipped finger in my mouth. It was the watery component of my jizz, the thicker stuff was too heavy to stick to my finger. The first time I did this I didn't think it really had any taste at all but slowly my mouth woke to this new sensation. Can we dispel with the myth that cum tastes salty? It does not. Mine doesn't. Rick's didn't. No one's cum I've ever tasted was salty. 

It's a subtle taste but one that lingers. If you could figure out a way to make the flavor of gum last as long in your mouth as jizz does, you'd make millions. I've tasted cum that was almost bitter and some that was almost sweet. The only real constants I've found are: 

1)Somehow you know it's cum. You could blindfold someone and give them different sips of liquid and I'm certain they would always know which one was cum.

2)The flavor lingers in your mouth, coating it.

3)At least for me, it always makes my mouth feel a little numb.

Rick's jizz was, as I remember it, on the sweet side. 

When his back fell onto the bed, I did actually suck his cock, softly, milking the last of his cum into my mouth. When I licked the shift, his fingers tightened in my hair. I knew he was over-stimulated and reluctantly stopped and rested my face on the top of his thigh. I watched his dick grow soft, slumping to rest in the curl of his pubes. Cum continued to ooze from the head. When I was sure it was okay, I lifted his now soft dick up and engulfed it again with my mouth. 

Finished, for now at least, with his cock, I moved up and lay my head on his belly. His hand stroked my head, his fingers pulling the curls straight, as I listened to the thud of his heart gradually slow. We lay there for a time, a fairly long time I think, relaxing against each other. My dick ached but I ignored it, focusing instead on the feel of his skin against mine. Sucking him was great, better than great, and the acts we would explore in the future would also be great, but equally prominent in memory and wonder was the feel of his skin against mine.

I needed to feel more of it. My free hand began to roam up and down his thighs, as low as I could reach. I was too far away to hear the crinkle of his hair through his body, but in between his breaths and the thud of his heart, I could hear it, faintly with the ear that was not pressed to his stomach. My hand traversed the thicket of his pubic hair and began to explore his side and belly. My arm was pressed over his cock. I could feel it beginning to rouse itself once more. I needed to feel more of his body against mine. 

I crawled atop him, forcing him to straighten his right leg so that I could straddle him, and draped myself over his chest. Our cocks rubbed together. I arched my back enough to get my mouth to his nipples. I re-explored his pits, wetter now, then his neck, and finally his mouth. It never occurred to me he might not want to kiss me after cumming in my mouth. The first time someone objected to that I was, frankly, flabbergasted. 

Rick did not mind, or if he did he never admitted to it. As we kissed, his fingers clutched at my back. We kissed for a long time. His cock grew hard against mine and we found ourselves rubbing against each other. I was considering cumming that way when Rick spoke for the first time since his soft "please." Something that already seemed as if spoken ages ago.

"Scoot up." I looked at him puzzled. He put his hand on my hips and pushed. "Scoot up. Sit on my chest."

I had not been entirely sure why he wanted me to do that. I had been hoping he'd want to return the favor, although that's not the right word, and blow me but I moved up as he asked. I didn't want to sit on him. I was not a big guy but even so. I knelt. His left hand moved from my hip to cup my ass cheek. His right moved to my front, where it found my dick. 

He went right for the head, rubbing his hand over it. Now it was my turn to moan softly. He glided his hand up and down my shaft. I started to move my hips, fucking the tunnel of his fist, when he stopped. Being kinder, or perhaps more desperate than I, he did not make me say "please." His left hand pushed against my butt as he raised his head, opening his mouth. I was finally blessed with understanding. I pushed my hips forward and felt his tongue and lips engulf the head of my dick. 

Because of the tilt of his head, I also felt the stubble on his chin against my scrotum. His right hand tightened and urged me forward. I moved my knees forward until they pressed into his armpits. I could feel his sweat on my knees, or could have if I was capable of feeling anything beyond his mouth on my dick. 

By raising his head as much as he could, Rick could take half my dick in his mouth. That is not a brag. My dick was no larger than his, he simply could not flex his head forward any further. His chin rested on his chest. As his head began to bob, his hand began to stroke the part of my dick that wasn't in his mouth. I more or less lost control and began to fuck his mouth. His hand kept me from shoving myself so far into his mouth that it would make him gag. 

I came harder than I ever had before, maybe since. My whole body quivered. I heard someone whimpering and part of me knew the person whimpering was me. That part of me that maintained a sense of awareness of the real world worried we were being too loud. It was Friday afternoon in a dorm. The place was far from deserted. That part of me was a very, very, small minority at the time. 

As my ejaculation fade, so did my whimpers. I freed myself from Rick's mouth and hand and slid my body down his, until his hardon pressed against the cheek of my ass. I moved to lay my head beside his but he intercepted me. Both his hands grasped my head and pulled me to his mouth. 

As we kissed I realized he had not swallowed my cum. It was there in his mouth, now in my mouth, on my tongue. 

We swallowed together and then slept.