Before you read this story, there are a few things you should consider:
1 It contains graphic descriptions of sex between men. In some cases, these depictions may get kinky, and include borderline S&M.
2 It is set in the early 1960s, an era before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when segregation and discrimination were the norm. African Americans were referred to as Negroes or Coloreds, although the “N” word was offensive then as it is now. I have retained the language of the era because it reminds me how far we have come on race relations.
3 Be aware that the effects of inflation have been profound. A good rule of thumb is to consider that $1 in 1962 is probably similar to $10 in 2008. So just add a zero at the end of any number.
March 17, 1962
Those square-toed, ankle high shoes! That was the guy in the bathroom yesterday. My mind was whirling; I had to get out of there, find a place to be by myself and digest this info. I cut André off in mid-sentence and excused myself to go to the bathroom. There were two stalls, ironically enough, so I picked one and locked myself in. I sat there, with my pants still pulled up, pondering what I had just seen.
That had to be the same guy. How many redheads with those shoes were there in this college town? How many were queer, as this guy obviously was? Did he recognize me? I tried to recall the look he’d given me on the way out. Was it a knowing one? No, it was a look of fear, of apprehension. I was safe. Luckily for them, so were they. Can’t be outing fellow queers.
Damn, he was cute though. And he had a really nice ass, the pants he had been wearing were tight enough to make it seem small and cute. When he walked, it was a confident stride, almost a strut. I don’t think I’d ever seen anything like it, almost a masculine version of a woman walking and working her hips. The fluid way he moved his body, his talents that I’d already experienced, boy, he must be an amazing lover.
I had a vision of his face burned into my brain, distorted by that look of terror, but gorgeous anyway. His face was a long, oval shape, with blue eyes, set back farther and closer together than normal. His nose was long, appropriately matching his face, with a pronounced bridge right below his eyes. He reminded me of Guy Madison, only with red hair. He was sporting a goatee, and even though I’d always thought they were ridiculous, on him it worked. One of Jack Kerouac’s followers, no doubt.
It was inevitable that my mind would ultimately turn to sex. Was he Deep Voice or Soft Voice? I recalled the visual of him walking out the door, then recalled his cock sliding carefully through the hole in the bathroom yesterday…all of it making me hard as a rock and incredibly horny. I dropped my pants and beat off with a frenzy I rarely used, blowing my load in no time at all. A few minutes to calm down, let my erection subside, clean up, and I was ready to return to the real world. But I’d look out for him. He’s cute, he’s sexy, and he’s queer.
André looked up as I returned to the table. “Feel better?” he asked, assuming I’d been taking a massive crap or something.
“Absolutely”, I responded with complete sincerity.
There was an incredibly painful noise dragging me from my desperately needed sleep. I lay in bed, thinking that maybe it would end soon. It didn’t. I rolled out of bed, staggered a bit, and went in quest of the offending sound.
I walked into the front room to find the TV on. The noise was the test pattern. I looked at my watch. 3am. No wonder. TV programming had ended over 3 hours ago. I clicked it off, relieved to be rid of the din.
I scanned the room, and there was the reason for the test pattern. André was passed out on the couch. The street light shone through the open drapes, highlighting his magnificent form, sprawled on the couch. He was on his back, with one arm draped over his eyes and the other on the floor. His legs were spread wide apart, with one leg on the back of the couch, and one on the floor. I snickered to myself. He must have had the spinnies and needed to keep a hand and leg on the floor to keep the room from spinning in circles around him.
We’d gone out to a local Irish pub, and André had drunk like a fish. I was still hung over from last night, so I only had a few beers. By 10pm he was becoming obnoxious, not in a violent way, but in a way that could provoke other drunks who were. So I dragged him home, pushed him into his room, and went to bed. He must have gotten up, stripped down to his boxers, and come out here to watch TV.
I walked quietly over and looked down at him. His hair was messed up, but that just made him cuter. I decided to fuck around with him, so I tickled his hairy armpit. He moved his arm down to shield it, grunted, but didn’t wake up. I knew then that I was walking on dangerous ground, but the temptation, the temptation that had built up for two years now, was overwhelming.
I knelt next to him and ran my fingers up his arm, feeling his strong gaziantep escort biceps, up to his broad shoulders, over his protruding Adam’s apple. I paused to shake him and say his name, but got no response. I shook him harder. Still no response. I damn near punched him. That got a grunt, but no other response.
Suddenly I realized the huge risks I was taking. If he woke up now, and caught me touching him, what would he do? Kick my ass? God knows he could crush me if he wanted to. I stared at him, knowing that I was playing with fire, willing myself to get up and leave the room. He was out, I told myself, rationalizing. If he comes to I can always say that I was just trying to wake him up. After all, he had woken me by leaving the TV on.
I brushed my fingers over his cheeks, feeling the whiskers that always seemed to be on this face. I moved to his chest, gently playing with each of his nipples. He had no hair on his chest, surprisingly. He moaned a little at that. Apparently he like having his nipples played with. Feeling really daring, I leaned forward and blew on the closest nipple, watching the air cool it down and make it contract.
I backed off again, realizing that touching his face, touching his arm, those things could be explained. Even touching his chest was a credible move. But tweaking his nipple with my finger, blowing on it, those were clearly sexual moves. I stared down at his handsome form, and felt the lust surge within me. Two years of repressed feelings, of beat-off fantasies, of lust, and then love burned through my body and brain. I willed myself to get up, and walked away, heading to my room. Suddenly my feet stopped and I turned. Something inside me was telling me to take the chance. It was as if there was a monumental battle going on in my conscience, a Gettysburg in my soul. I should keep walking. I should go back to my room, and whack off. But I didn’t.
I walked back over to him, poking him some more, really trying to wake him up, but he didn’t budge. If he didn’t move, if he was that out, what would be the problem with me just exploring a little more? What would be the harm if I just got a closer look at the man of my dreams? I lowered my face down to his armpits, inhaling his scent, the ripe smell of his body odor. It should have grossed me out, but it didn’t. The pheromones just stimulated me more. I moved my fingers over his abdomen, playing with his belly button. I knew he was ticklish there, and he squirmed as I tortured him. Still he didn’t wake up. I moved my body down so I was directly over his bulging groin. I traced my fingers down his thick treasure trail. I’d always thought it was so sexy and now I was actually touching it. My own cock was throbbing, poking out from my boxers. I panicked and checked to make sure André was sleeping, but he was still out.
This was my point of no return. His boxers were tenting; his cock was hard, or hardening. I’d never seen him hard before. Naked and soft yes, but hard, no. Was it worth risking a friendship? Was it worth taking that kind of chance? I felt hormonal reinforcements arrive on the battlefield in my brain, slowly forcing back the forces of logic and reason.
I rearranged his boxers to let his cock poke out through the front slit. It was massive. I always imagined that he’d have a big dick, and I was right. If I stopped now, I could always say that it was sticking out like this when I came out to wake him up. I still might be able to make up an excuse. But I’d come this far, and the cautious forces in my brain were in full retreat. I traced my fingers gently up the shaft, watching his face for any sign that he was awake. He just moaned and thrust his hips up. I held it in my hand, studying it, gently stroking it. It must be all of 8 inches long. I’d seen big dicks and small dicks during my cruising activities throughout the years, but his was one of the biggest. Not only was it long, but it was fat. Thick. No wonder Barbara wouldn’t let him fuck her.
I continued to slowly stroke his dick, running my hand over the head, pausing to trace the protruding veins with my fingers. I kept checking to see if he was awake, but there was no sign. His moaning was louder, and his thrusts more insistent. I ran my finger over the tip of his cock, rubbing the wet drop of pre-cum from it. I couldn’t resist. I put my finger in my mouth and for the first time, I tasted him. Tasted his essence. I moved closer to add his smell to the palette, the same raw body odor smell now mixed with the natural odors of his groin, making a scent that was both repelling and compelling at the same time.
He’d always complained that none of the girls he dated could suck dick. No wonder. It was huge. But I could. I knew I could. I knew because I’d had lots of practice, and because I wanted it bad. Real bad. Was I willing to risk everything, our friendship, my reputation, maybe even my freedom just to blow the man of my dreams? The thought of him scorning me, hating me, or worse, ignoring me, made me pause. But then my hormones generated a whole new reason. How could I tease my friend, get him all excited, and then just leave him high and dry? A thinking person would dismiss that as ridiculous, but a horny male, with his ultimate goal in sight is easily susceptible to faulty arguments. I leaned over and slowly swallowed as much of his cock as I could.
He really groaned at that, and tried to thrust into my mouth, but I held him down. No way was I going to let him ram that thing down my throat. I had to be in control. “Come on baby, that feels so good” he purred. I smiled. He must think he’s dreaming. I certainly thought I was.
I’d thrown the dice, taken my chance, risked everything. The decision was made, the die was cast. I threw caution to the wind, determined to enjoy this, even if it was the last meaningful interaction we ever had. I began to work his cock like a pro. I took him deep; let him feel the back of my throat as it spasmed, working to master my gag reflex. Then I moved up to the head and swirled my tongue around it, teasing the bottom of his head with the tip. He was really moaning now, and leaking like a sieve. I savored his taste. I slid my hand up the legs of his boxers and stroked his balls. I was surprised, because unlike his cock, his balls were actually on the small side. That didn’t make playing with them any less fun.
I kept working his cock, putting everything I had into it, enjoying every minute, knowing this was probably my one and only opportunity. I felt his balls start to rise and knew he was close. If he came, it might wake him up, but I couldn’t leave him like this. I’d come this far. Then, without warning, he came. He let out a soft roar, that’s the only way to describe it, and shot stream after stream of cum down my throat and into my mouth. I swallowed most, but saved some, savoring his taste. I’d never been a big fan of the taste of cum, I mean it was OK, but this was André.
Nervously I looked up at his face, where he had a blissful smile, but still seemed to be sound asleep. I squeezed the last drop of cum out of his dick, licked it off, and tucked it back into his boxers. I almost ran to the bathroom, spit the remaining cum out of my mouth into my hand, and used it as lube to jack myself to the biggest orgasm of my life.
I went to bed and lay there, reliving the last hour. At the time, it seemed worth it. Now that I’d satisfied my urges, now that I’d experienced nirvana, I feared for the consequences. Would he wake up in the morning and remember everything? Would he come in and beat me up? Would he yell at me? Or both? André wasn’t a violent person. I’d never seen him harm anyone intentionally. I was prepared to believe that he had feelings for me, that he cared, or at least used to care about me. No, he’d probably get up and be so thoroughly disgusted he’d just leave. He’d avoid me at home, ignore me when he saw me, or, if he was feeling polite, just make excuses not to be around or not to do things with me.
The night was passing by at a snail’s pace. I couldn’t sleep. I was flat on my back, wide awake; torturing myself with all the possibilities, all the potential forms of retribution André could take. In the end, I decided that I’d rather deal with anger and violence than to be ignored. Would life even be worth living if he truly hated me? Or even if he wasn’t my friend? I began to wish with all my heart for a time machine to take me back to just a few hours ago so I could re-live those moments. How could I risk something so important to me?
Somehow I had managed to doze off, but the morning sun woke me the same as a loud klaxon would have. I was scared shitless. I almost tiptoed out of my room to the bathroom. Suddenly there was a banging on the door. “Let me in man. I gotta take a whiz,” he said urgently. I opened the door and André came bursting in, whipping out his dick, the dick that I now knew so well, and let loose a strong stream.
“You were really messed up last night,” I ventured. “You must have passed out on the couch.”
“Yeah,” he said while shaking the last drops of pee out of his cock, “I was stoned. I don’t remember a thing after we left the bar. But I woke up happy, so I must have had some good dreams”
I laughed, relieved, and proceeded to tell him what an ass he’d made out of himself, and how we probably should drink somewhere else for a while. I was reminded of the “miracle” of St. Elizabeth of Hungary who was secretly carrying food to the poor in her apron to hide it from her husband. When he demanded to see what was in her apron, she opened it to reveal nothing but flowers.
March 20, 1962
Over the weekend, France and the Algerians had finally signed a peace accord, ending their almost eight-year war that had killed over 150,000 people and wounded another 200,000. Since I was the resident “expert” on the subject, Rosenberg called a departmental lunch and asked me to brief them on events. I’d had all of two hours to prepare, and the only new information I could get was from the newspapers, and American ones at that. It wasn’t much. I’d have to wait until the latest edition of LeMonde was flown in from Paris.
Still, I labored on gamely, describing the conflict and the terms of settlement as best I knew them. I looked around the table at these scholars, some of the brightest minds in the world, assembled here in the History Department of Princeton. Rosenberg beamed at me with pride, most seemed genuinely interested, some seemed bored, and a few were openly hostile, jealous of the high esteem that Rosenberg held me in, and jealous that he treated me with greater respect than some of them. Well, respect is something you earn. Guess they needed to work on that.
I left the building about the same time that I did on Friday and wandered down to my favorite building with my favorite bathroom. I was hoping the redhead would be there. I walked into the bathroom, the same smells assaulting my nose, acting like an aphrodisiac once again, increasing my pulse and hardening my cock. There were two stalls in the bathroom, and both were occupied.
I walked past the first stall, pretending to check to see if someone was in there, but in reality trying to see who was in there. It was an old troll. Shit. That bastard had cock-blocked me plenty of times. Glancing at the second stall I saw the familiar square-toed shoes, so I slowly walked past the door, peering through to see if it was my redheaded friend. It was.
I stood against the wall as if waiting for one of them to finish up, but positioning myself so I could see through the crack between the door and stall. He looked at me and I looked away, avoiding eye contact. When I looked back at him, he looked away. Finally our eyes met. His had a pleading look about them, a look that told me that he wanted me, wanted me bad. He slowly moved his hand, showing me part of his hard cock. I moved closer, making sure the troll couldn’t see me, until I was right up to the crack, peering directly in at him.
I could see that he’d put a piece of toilet paper over the hole to block the troll. A man after my own heart. He spread his legs wide giving me a great view of his cock and his pubic hair. He had nice balls, covered with the same furry red hair that formed the bush just above his cock. His red hair fascinated me. I noticed that his pubic hair seemed to rise to a point just below his abdomen where it flowed into his thin treasure trail, seemingly mirroring the goatee on his face that flowed in the opposite direction. My hand was stroking my cock through my pants…it was almost a subconscious action. He began stroking his cock with purpose, looking me in the eyes as he did, so I could feel the raw lust and sexuality pierce right into my soul. I looked at his eyes, then at his cock, then back into his eyes. Suddenly his mouth made the shape of an “O”; he aimed his cock into the toilet, and shot his load. Instead of watching his cock, I kept my eyes locked on his as he shot, and it felt as if we came together.
At that point I realized how much self control I had lost. I was in a vulnerable situation, standing next to a stall, peering in, with a raging hard-on. I quickly moved to one of the urinals, pretended to pee, waiting for my erection to subside. I heard the stall door open, footsteps behind me, the door opened and closed, and he was gone. I still didn’t know if he was Deep Voice or Soft Voice. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again.
I sat in my apartment, thinking, for once, about something besides sex. Spring Break, a week off, and I had no plans yet. Should I do the fun thing and drive down to Florida and hang out on the beach for a few days? Or should I do the right thing, be a good son, and go home?
Home was Claremont, Ohio. Claremont, Ohio: a big town, or a small city, depending on your perspective, situated about 50 miles outside of Columbus. Claremont was one of those places where you may not know everyone, but you know who everyone is. My family was one of the three leading families in town. My father, the indomitable Jack Crampton, President of Crampton Construction, had expanded our family’s construction business, which had really taken off over the past few years. He’d gotten away from houses and segued into buildings and roads, and he used his contacts in Columbus to nail down some of the big road construction deals. Interstate projects had kept him particularly busy. These days he spent more time in Columbus than he did in Claremont. The business was his life, his one consuming passion, and my older brother Jim was following in his footsteps. Jim was just like my father: looked like him and had his unique combination of analytical and sales skills. He was just like the cliché: Tall, dark, and handsome. He’d take over some day, and he’d do a great job. I’d always thought we were the richest people around…that is until I went to Harvard for my undergraduate degree. The power and money that some of my classmates wielded (or their families did) made ours look like chump change. That was an eye-opening experience for me, one that helped me learn to appreciate the material side of life without obsessing about it. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.