0 comments/ 29536 views/ 5 favorites Technically Speaking By: Cal Y. Pygia A month after the bastards at Technicality Tech had fired him, after his supervisor, the Bitch Director of Education Sheila Walters, had lied about him, contending that the graphic arts instructor had been "fraternizing" with his students--and his female students in particular--Jason Stone, in cleaning out his closet so as to have something to do while he was awaiting word as to whether the state of Maine would grant him unemployment compensation, had discovered the royal blue shirt emblazoned with the school's asinine logo, a vaguely humanoid figure made of nuts and bolts--or, rather, of pictures of them--with the name of the school (if one could, in good conscience, call such a place as Technicality Tech a school) sewn under it, in flourishing letters. His first impulse had been to pitch the shirt into the trash, but then a better idea had occurred to him. The shirt might well be an opportunity for revenge--or the chance, at least, to sully the school's reputation. Not that the place's reputation hadn't been sullied plenty already. Last week, the FBI, armed with a search warrant, had carted off boxes of administrative records that agents believed were linked to fraudulent actions. The school was also under independent investigations by the Department of Education and the U. S. Postal Service authorities. Nevertheless, students, like sheep gathering for the slaughter, continued to file through the entrance of the facility that pretended to educate and to train graduates for jobs that they could have gotten by themselves, easily enough, without the vastly overpriced and utterly worthless diploma that the institution conferred upon students upon their completion of one or another of its ridiculous "career paths." The federal government, of course, was a participant in the chicanery that passed, at schools of the ilk of Technicality Tech, for post-secondary education. It continued to award billions of dollars in student loans and grants to students who chose to enroll in such institutions rather than in legitimate colleges and universities so as to ensnare them in lifelong debt, payable, monthly, to Uncle Sam. Not only Technicality Tech, but a score of other proprietary schools of similar dubious distinction and outright fraud had been investigated by the feds, but, always, when enough palms had been greased, the schools were let off from prosecution in exchange for a paltry fine and the promise not to be quite so brazen, next time, in ripping off America's youth and its parents. A little decorum went a long way, especially when it was coupled with a lot of bribery. Technically speaking, Technicality Tech taught--or "trained" might be a more precise word--students for such "career paths" as over-the-road trucking, automotive mechanics, interior design, graphic arts, fashion merchandising, and culinary arts. Most of these "career paths" were decidedly masculine. It wasn't likely that many would remain enrolled in a school that was thought to employ "faggots" and "queers." If the macho men who made up well over half of the school's student population suddenly dropped out, Technicality Tech would be hurting; indeed, the "school" would be hemorrhaging. It might not survive. Jason was taking a trip to Florida, to catch a few rays while he visited his widowed mom. Instead of throwing the hideous royal blue Technicality Tech shirt away, he folded it carefully and included it among the rest of his travel wardrobe. He smiled. As a full-time instructor at the Bangor "campus" of Technicality Tech, he'd been issued the company shirt, which he'd been required to wear during school functions and promotions. Doing so had been mortifying, but Jason had needed the money he was paid every week for "teaching" there, so he'd kept his mouth shut and worn the damned thing as if it were stitched with solid gold thread. Now, since Technicality Tech had a "campus" in Miami, Florida, he'd have a chance to get revenge on Sheila Walters and her whole damned school while he was on his road trip. The Sunshine State had lots of so-called adult bookstores--lots and lots of them. The phrase "adult bookstore" had become something of a misnomer in the electronic age of DVDs and other electronic media, though; if anything, such establishments had become audiovisual facilities. Still, the products--or product, when you came right down to it--sleaze--remained the same. The morning's temperature was still a bit chilly, and Jason had worn a windbreaker over his royal blue Technicality Tech shirt, but, upon his arrival at Sweet Cheeks Adult Books Emporium, he'd removed the jacket so that the logo of the former proprietary school at which he'd had the misfortune of having taught would be visible to one and all. Free publicity had been the whole point in issuing the shirts to the school's staff and faculty members, after all, and, whether in Maine, as an actual employee, or in Florida, as a disgruntled former employee, Jason intended to give the bastards what they wanted. He'd promote their damned "school," all right, although, he was fairly certain, the advertisement he provided for them wouldn't be exactly what they'd had in mind when Queen Cunt Sheila Walters had handed out the shirts on Employee Appreciation Day. Employee Appreciation Day! What a joke, Jason thought. It had about as much reality to it as Student Appreciation Day, when the school doled out single-dip vanilla ice cream cones to the student body, each member of which would pay approximately $45,000 for a worthless associate's degree that would have cost them a third that amount at a community college and would have been respected, to boot. Well, Jason thought, it was time to give back to the school that had given him nothing. If he knew the nature of the typical macho man on campus who tended to enroll in Technicality Tech--and after "teaching" at one of the Maine schools for several years, Jason sure as hell did know the type--seeing or hearing of one of the school's instructors (because, in wearing the school's shirt, he'd made sure that he'd be mistaken for such an employee) perusing certain sections of an adult bookstore would have as detrimental an effect upon the local school's sacred student recruitment and retention rates as discontinuing President Clinton's Don't-Ask, Don't-Tell policy on homosexuals serving in the military would have upon the armed services' recruitment and retention rates. Fortunately, the nuts-and-bolts figure that served as the school's mascot was hard to miss and was well known, even to the general public, as was the name of the school itself. Although Jason would have preferred the heterosexual section, where naked women with big boobs posed provocatively, choking down a ten-inch cock, fucking, or taking a thick, hard prick up her ass, or even the lesbian aisles that featured films of nude women sucking one another's tits, eating each other's sopping-wet pussies, or banging (or being banged) by a sturdy strap-on dildo, he bypassed this fare and went, instead, to the section that displayed gay porn: dudes sucking or fucking or, depending upon the point of view with which one regarded such action, being sucked or fucked. Jason's primary interest in pornography wasn't directed toward its homoerotic component, but he didn't find gay sex to be offensive. In fact, quite the contrary was true. He thought nude men as sexy, in their own way, as naked ladies. He especially appreciated their broad shoulders, deep chests, rippling muscles, thick thighs, and compact buttocks. He also had an eye for thick, long, hard cocks, especially those that were circumcised. Sex was more about power than it was about love, Jason knew; men, it seemed, were more honest about this fact than women tended to be, because the fair sex wanted the music and flowers and sweetness of romance rather than the wham-bam, thank-you-ma'am quickie. As Jason made his way down one aisle and up another of the bookstore's gay section, eyeing the DVD covers, other patrons of the establishment, he saw, gave him either the quick, hesitant, sidelong look of the passerby who intends to continue to pass by or the more studied, direct, appraising stare of the stud seeking a potential one-night stand. In every instance, whether furtive glance or bold ogle, the man who cast his eyes in Jason's direction looked not only at him but also at the nuts-and-bolts mascot of Technicality Tech. Sooner or later, Jason had no doubt, one of the patrons of Sweet Cheeks Adult Books Emporium would be a student at Technicality Tech and would recognize the logo as marking Jason as one of the school's faculty members. The student need not be disabused of the facts that Bitch of the Universe Sheila Walters had fired his ass and that, even when he'd taught graphic arts for the school, it had been at one of the Maine campuses, not one of the ones in Florida. Jason slowed his pace, enjoying the displays of hard, jutting cocks, balls risen high inside tightened scrotums, dripping semen, sperm-splattered bottoms, penetrated anuses, cock-stuffed mouths, and fists pumping blood-engorged penises. He also admired the expressions of intense concentration, discomfort, and ecstasy he saw upon the men's handsome countenances. Within a few minutes of examining the still photographs of studs and twinks stuffing and being stuffed, sometimes a barely legal blond being humped by a muscular black or an Asian giving up his anal cherry to a bronzed Latino among the avalanche of players of the Caucasian persuasion, Jason found that his own prick had stiffened. His cock was as massive as any displayed on the gay DVDs before his wandering eyes, and the high, insistent tent in the crotch of his trousers drew men's eyes as much as did the Technicality Tech logo emblazoned upon his royal blue shirt. To his right, a blond young man studied him. Jason saw his admirer's eyes travel from his jutting cock to his face, and Jason, meeting the young man's gaze with his own, smiled at him. Emboldened, the youth nodded toward the logo on Jason's shirt. "You teach at Technicality Tech?" he asked. "I do," Jason said, rather than using the past tense "I did." "What do you teach?" "Graphic arts." "Which campus?" Jason's smile widened. He was glad he'd had the forethought of looking up the locations of the Florida campuses of the school before he'd made the trip down from Maine. He named a campus nearby. "How come I haven't seen you around the school?" "I'm new." "How new?" Damn, the kid was thoroughgoing in his skepticism, Jason thought. "Brand new." "How'd you get the shirt, then? They only give them to teachers who've taught for a year or more." Jason, of course, was ready for this inquiry, too, having taught for several years at a Maine campus. "I taught before, in another state." The former instructor expected the blond to ask which state, but he didn't. At last, he seemed satisfied that Jason really was affiliated with Technicality Tech. The young man's next question was as blunt as it was unexpected: "You gay?" Jason, who, if anything, was maybe bi, nodded. "I'm here, and I'm queer," he said. "I didn't know Technicality Tech hired faggots," the blond said. There was an undercurrent of disdain in his tone. Jason acted as if he hadn't noticed the hint of contempt in the young man's voice. Probably, it was directed at himself more than at Jason, anyway, the former instructor thought. After all, the young man was cruising the gay section of the emporium, not the heterosexual aisles, which suggested an interest in homosexuality that the kid, perhaps, was loathe to admit, even to himself. "They didn't ask," Jason declared, "and I didn't tell." The student indicated the DV D-lined shelves. "See anything you like?" Jason, ignoring the merchandise toward which the young man had nodded, stared directly into the blond's sky-blue eyes. "As a matter of fact, yes, I do: you." "I'm Guy," the blond said. "I used to go to Technicality Tech." "You dropped out? He nodded. "Why?" "The school sucks, that's why. It's a joke. I mean, the fucking feds are investigating the place." The so-called school was definitely a joke, Jason thought, but maybe Guy's sexual orientation had made him more than a little uncomfortable among the school's many homophobic macho men as well. Based upon Jason's own experience as an instructor for the school, most of the student body didn't look with kindness upon faggots. Even if Guy had managed to keep his own sexual orientation a secret, he would have felt unwanted among the student body's flagrant heterosexuals, and their constant references to sex with women and their jokes about gays would have made Guy feel unwelcome. Probably the hostile environment of testosterone-soaked heterosexuality had been as much responsible for his dropping out of Technicality Tech as the FBI's raid and the investigations of the school by the Department of Education and the U. S. Postal Service. "You have a place nearby?" Jason asked. Guy nodded. The former instructor smiled at the former student. "What do you say we go there and get naked?" Guy hesitated, but only for a moment. "Okay," he agreed. Still stiff, Jason followed Guy from the store. As they passed the heterosexual section of the emporium, Jason heard a deep male voice call, "Guy? That you, man?" There was a pause, and then the same bass voice boomed, "Whoa! Who's the dude with you?" The speaker paused again, looking in the direction from which his former schoolmate had come. Seeing the hard cocks and tight asses of the gay performers featured on the rows and tiers of homoerotic features, the speaker taunted the blond: "I didn't know you were a fucking queer, Guy--or should I say 'Gay'? But, believe me when I tell you that, come tomorrow, the whole damned school's going to know--and --" here he raised his voice to a yell--"everybody's going to know that Technicality Tech hires queers, too!" * * * Jason had introduced himself to Guy as Mr. Adams, before offering his first name, James. If he and the young man were going to become sexually intimate, it was fitting, he thought, that the blond know both his first and his last names, even if both were merely aliases. Before leaving Sweet Cheeks Adult Books Emporium, Jason had had no intention of actually having sex with another man. The former instructor was not turned off by the male anatomy, finding the lean, hard muscularity of the male physique (and the rigidity of its thick member, when its owner was aroused) sexy. He was attracted, aesthetically, if not sexually, to the male body, including its genitals, but he'd never indulged his attraction to other men physically or sexually, and he'd had no intention of doing so with Guy. He'd pretended to be interested in having sex with the blond only to cement the rumor that Guy's deep-voiced schoolmate was sure to broadcast around school the next day, to wit, "Technicality Tech hires queers!" But the displays of all that male nudity, of the handsome bronze faces, oil-slick and perspiring bodies, broad shoulders, deep chests, six-pack abs, sinewy thighs, and compact asses had aroused him, and Jason had realized that he was, indeed, attracted not only aesthetically but also sexually to other men, that he truly was bisexual, not strictly heterosexual. He knew that he could enjoy sucking and being sucked, fucking and being fucked, asserting his manhood and acquiescing in his newfound femininity. It was also possible that he felt pity for poor Guy, who would be outed for sure by his former schoolmate tomorrow. Jason could all but hear the proclamation: "Guy is a fucking faggot! I saw him with some older dude--a teacher here at Technicality Tech--coming out of the gay section of Sweet Cheeks, holding hands and kissing! Man! It was totally fucking disgusting!" The part about holding hands and kissing would be a lie, of course, but it would also likely be only the start of the falsehoods that the schoolmate's tales out of school would initiate among the other members of the student body. Jason had no doubt that, by the end of the school day tomorrow, the students would swear they'd seen Guy sucking Jason's cock before the instructor had drilled him up the ass. Suspicion would also arise concerning the other male faculty members, and their every word and gesture would be scrutinized for any sign of homosexuality. Jason had no doubt that, in many cases, the students' scrutiny would pay off, as more and more "faggots" were ferreted out among the faculty and the staff of their school. Within a week, both retention and enrollments would reach all-time lows. Indeed, Jason hoped, the school might not survive the rumors of homosexuality that would pervade not only this campus but many others across the state and the nation. It was too bad, though, that his own success in gaining revenge against Sheila Walters the Bitch Queen and Technicality Tech had to come at such a great cost to Guy. Jason decided to go through with his charade by actually having sex with Guy, if the blond young man was still inclined to do so. It was the least he could do to make things up, as best he could, to the former student. As it turned out, Guy was still interested, very much so, and both men were soon naked in each other's arms, kissing and being kissed. "You a top or a bottom?" the former student asked, between increasingly fervent kisses. "Don't know," the former instructor replied. "I'm new to this. You're my first time." Guy grinned. He seemed to like the idea that he'd be initiating Jason into homosexual sex, that he, the former student, would become the former instructor's teacher. "You're the bottom, then," the blond told his guest. "This time, anyway." Jason considered Guy's statement. "What does that mean, exactly?" Guy sat on his couch, his thighs spread wide apart. He nodded toward his stiff-standing cock, the purple crown of which was adorned with a clear drop of pre-cum, or Cowper's fluid, that resembled a diamond. "Suck my cock, for starters." The carpet was a bit rough under the weight of Jason's kneecaps as he knelt on the living room floor of Guy's apartment, but the discomfort was mild and quickly forgotten in light of the glorious erection that rose, towering, from the goldilocks that adorned Guy's groin. The young man had big balls, and they were high inside the contracted pouch of his risen scrotum. Leaning forward at the waist and laying his forearms along the bare thighs of his young paramour, Jason licked the smooth, velvet-soft flesh that enveloped the blond's balls, pausing to kiss the oval gonads before licking the underside of the youth's thick, erect cock as he trailed the moist, pink tip of his wet tongue along the stiff, standing member. At thirty five, Jason had never sucked another guy's cock before now, but he'd had his own sucked by a few women who were practiced in the art, and he'd seen women fellate male porn stars in a lot of movies. In a couple of bi flicks, he'd watched men suck other guys' pricks, too, so he had a fair, if unpracticed, understanding of how the act was performed, and he'd put it to as good use as he could in pleasing the young man seated, as if he were a king upon a throne, before him. Parting his lips, Jason bowed low, taking Guy's cock into his mouth, and the young man moaned softly as he felt the older man's lips, teeth, and inner cheeks brush along the column of his stiff, hard cock. Guy's penis was enveloped by the warm, soft wetness of the interior of Jason's mouth, and the former instructor let the ring of his lips slide back, up the rock-hard cock, all the way to its tip. Letting Guy's glans slide free of his lips, Jason kissed the purple crown atop the scepter of the youth's manhood, tasting the salty drop of Cowper's fluid that has formed at the tip. As Jason watched, another drop seeped up, filling the tiny slit that was known, among physicians, at least, as the glans meatus. A second drop oozed through the urethral opening, and the welling fluid overflowed and trickled down the side of the glans. Eagerly, Jason licked the salty nectar from the tip of Guy's prick, and the young man, who had closed his eyes and let his head loll against the back of the couch, groaned.