Chapter 7: Clowning Around

A gay story: Chapter 7: Clowning Around The Higher Education of Matt Griffith

Chapter 7: Clowning Around

Saturday, August 19, 1995

Author’s Note: Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.

Faced with Matt’s indecision, William intervened. “Matthew, dahling, my willie’s going to shrivel in this air conditioning! Let’s move this along, shall we?”

“Of course,” Matt said.

“Would it be safe to assume that you wish to top?” William asked.

Matt nodded shyly.

“Thought so,” William smiled. “Let’s find you the perfect bottom, then.” Ever the performer, he slipped into salesman mode. He stepped behind Todd and put his hands on Todd’s slender shoulders. “Todd’s our youngest model, just a tad over nineteen. Very low mileage. Loves to bottom, don’t you, Todd?”

Todd nodded. He had a thick, almost curly mass of black hair. That and his piercing blue eyes gave him that boyish Elijah Woods look.

“Or,” William continued, “should you want to fuck ‘GI Joe’, we have Josh. He’s twenty-one, versatile, and has been around the block enough times to give you a thrilling first ride.”

Josh turned slightly, showing Matt both his front and back sides. He was the most classically handsome of the lot, a chestnut-haired All-American boy-next-door.

Matt listened to William’s pitch, eyeing Todd and Josh as they were presented, but also distracted by Jake and those blue high tops. Todd, while beautiful and sweet, looked too innocent. Matt wasn’t interested in deflowering the village virgin. Josh, all muscles and hide, was a birddog of sorts, a loyal, friendly retriever. He would finish the job that a hunter began.

Jake was the real hunter in the room. Trim but not muscled, he had a feline sensuality, a tomcat’s strutty stance. He had that aloof, almost bored look cats feign while only their twitching tails betray their real intent.

And Jake’s tail was twitching.

William stepped towards Luke, but before he could begin his spiel, Luke spoke up. “Give it up, William. We all know Jake’s going to win. It’s those damn shoes!”

Jake grinned. “They are my lucky shoes.”

William filled Matt in on the backstory. “Luke and Todd are our two newest members. Both chose Jake and his shoes. If you pick him, he will be the only person in club history to win three times in a row.”

Matt played it coy. “I haven’t chosen anyone yet. Besides, where are the other two guys? There are only six of you here. I thought there were eight members.”

William waved a hand dismissively. “You’ll meet them soon enough. One is on security detail. The other is monitoring a situation on campus.”

“What situation?” Evan asked.

William spoke in a calming tone. “Let’s not spoil Matt’s initiation. For now, all you need to know is that Adam Maxwell is no longer a student at OC. After Matt chooses his bottom, the rest of us will decamp and regroup at the clubhouse, where I’ll answer as many questions as I can.”

Adam Maxwell. Matt did not recognize the name, but the others did, and they were upset at the news. Matt quickly learned that this Adam kid was one of the two other gay freshmen the group had identified. Josh had been his sponsor. Something bad had obviously happened to Adam. Matt guessed it had been this news that had been troubling William when they met in the lobby earlier.

There was one less gay on campus, one less member of their tribe. Matt couldn’t help wondering which of them would be the last of the Mafioso Mohicans.

William spoke quietly. “You’re all familiar with what is written in the book of Ecclesiastes, that ‘there is a season for every activity under the heavens, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’ This is not the time to mourn Adam’s departure. Not yet. That time will come later, I promise you.”

“This,” William said, mischievously, “is the ‘time to sow.'” He paused a moment to allow his wry joke to take root. “To do that, Matt needs to select his bottom!”

Everyone cheered.

And, of course, Matt chose Jake.

The rest of the guys dressed quickly, wished Matt and Jake a good fuck, and left, intent on regrouping at the clubhouse, wherever that was. William was the last to leave. He told Jake to be sure Matt was back on campus by curfew. He also said they would all meet Monday evening at the clubhouse for a watch party of sorts, to, hopefully, celebrate Matt’s having won his election.

Matt had momentarily forgotten about the election. He had made and hung a couple of posterboard signs. His teammates were eagerly campaigning for him, as was Seth his shower singing buddy.

Matt’s mind locked onto that word “clubhouse.” He hadn’t seen the place, but, judging by this hotel room, it wouldn’t be a dilapidated shack like the one Alfalfa, Spanky, and the gang used in The Little Rascals. Any group that could afford to rent fancy hotel suites and had a fancy clubhouse was too rich for Matt’s blood.

The door had barely closed before Jake sprang a boner. “Shoes on or off?” he grinned.

“On,” Matt said. He had worried about the propriety of fucking so soon after hearing the news about Adam. He had worried the news might affect his libido. He had even worried whether he could be aroused by someone other than William.

Those worries proved baseless.

Jake was 5’9″, maybe 5’10”. He had shaggy brown and blonde streaked hair and a wicked alley cat smile. He was tan and lean, smooth from the waist up, with softly furred legs and ass.

They stood awkwardly, their dicks straining to make introductions but unable to close the distance on their own. Matt did not want to proceed under false pretenses.

“I think I’m in over my head,” Matt said. “I thought this was just a group of poor college kids like me. I can’t afford to pony up my share of a room like this, much less help maintain a clubhouse.” He felt gut-punched. He had to wave goodbye both to his tribe and this hot guy he had almost been able to fuck.

Jake laughed. “If money were an issue, the only one of us who would be in this group would be William! His dad is loaded, and pours a ton of money into OC. You want to know the real reason William gets away with being such a queen on campus? Daddy’s money buys a lot of blind eyes. Don’t get me wrong. If William ever got caught even holding a guy’s hand, he’d get expelled lickety-split, rich daddy or not.”

“So, William’s dad pays the Gay Mafia’s bills?” Matt asked.

Jake shook his head. “No. Sorry. I was just explaining that William’s the only rich kid in our group. As far as this room and the clubhouse go, those costs are covered by our Alumni Association.”

“Alumni Association?” Matt did not even try to conceal his skepticism. “For the Gay Mafia at OC?” This seemed like a bad Saturday Night Live skit.

Jake shrugged. “Okay, so it isn’t a real association. It is just four guys. Two were OC Gay Mafia. One of the others went to OC for a couple of years, then transferred to OU. The fourth was expelled from OC for sucking cock. But, yeah, they pay for the occasional hotel room so we can hold interviews without compromising the clubhouse. And they pay for the clubhouse. It isn’t like they send us on Caribbean cruises.”

Matt considered the facts–and the numbers. Oklahoma Christian had been in existence for forty-five years, during which tens of thousands of kids had attended. Statistically two percent of those had been gay and had first-hand, intimate experience with the Christian love and grace OC extended to fags. It was not outside the realm of possibility that four such gay kids–now adults–would donate a few hundred bucks a month to make other kids’ lives more bearable.

Matt felt relief washing over him. The fuck was back on!

Oddly, though, Matt wasn’t sure how to proceed. Gone was Cocky Matt, who had confidently carried William to the back of the Jeep and made him lick his pits. In his place was Cocky Matt’s shy doppelganger, Wallflower Matt, a guy who almost wished he had a towel to wrap around his naked torso. He stood timidly, hoping Jake would make the first move.

Jake smiled reassuringly. “You must be thirsty after that long interview,” he said. He went to the mini fridge, retrieved a bottle of wine, and hunted for glasses. Matt ogled him the whole time, mesmerized by the play of light against the hairs on his ass cheeks.

Jake returned and handed Matt a glass. “To new friendships,” Jake said.

“To new friendships.” Matt sipped the yellowish wine. It was cold and crisp on his tongue. The only other alcohol he had ever tasted had been a Bud Light someone smuggled to a soccer team party. (Churches of Christ frowned on alcohol of any kind, but then they frowned on most things.)

Matt’s mind scribbled furiously, trying to write a script for this moment, but it was gibberish. How many times over the last five years had he imagined a scenario like this, played it out in his mind’s eye step by step, stroke by stroke until he spilled his ink into his hand?

Mercifully, Jake came to the rescue–again. “Let’s just chat for a bit. Enjoy our wine.” Jake reclaimed the wingchair he had occupied during the interview. He draped one leg over the chair’s padded arm, his blue clad foot hanging lazily. “Tell me about the first time you remember being attracted to a guy,” he said.

Matt sank into his previous hot seat. He did have the presence of mind to turn it so that he had a full-on view of Jake’s loveliness. “Is this more of the interview?” Matt asked, worried. Earlier, as Clown, Jake’s questions had focused on Matt’s sexuality. (Why the Dallas Cheerleaders poster? What had Matt done with girls?) Now this.

Jake laughed. “The interview’s over. I’m just making conversation. I’d like to know you better. That’s all.”

While Jake spoke, his draped leg swung hypnotically. Matt’s gaze went from the swinging blue shoe to the brown, hairy, nest that framed Jake’s cock and trailed into his ass. These hairs were darker than those on the rest of his body. Matt ached to explore the valley between those cheeks.

Matt sipped more wine. “I was six or seven years old. My dad took me to watch a high school basketball game. Wellston, Oklahoma. The ‘Tigers.'” It was the first such game Matt remembered. Wooden bleachers sticky from decades of spilled soda. Whistles and shouting and buzzers echoing off the walls. Players scrambling from one end of the court to the other, seemingly at random.

Jake leaned back in his chair as if settling in for a good conversation. It was not lost on Matt, though, that Jake’s ass edged forward, spreading his legs a tad more, allowing light into the hidden crevasse Matt longed to explore.

“We were seated right behind the home bench. Towards the end of the game, one of the players got substituted out. He’d been running hard. There was less than a minute on the clock. Their team was winning. This player absently stripped off his jersey and started mopping the sweat from his face and neck.”

“Go on,” Jake said. In his semi-reclined position, his pink ball sack was beautifully framed by his dark pube and taint hair, a friar’s bald pate rising above his fringe. Jake’s scrotum was exactly the kind of plump coin purse a prowling cat would have, with just enough room for its two kidney shaped testicles and no more.

Matt’s throat went dry with desire. He sipped more wine. “The only shirtless guys I’d seen until then were either kids my age or older guys like my dad. You know, paunches, spindly arms, saggy chests.”

“Scary stuff,” Jake agreed.

Matt continued. “I was too young to know about sex. I just remember thinking that kid was beautiful. It confused me because I’d never heard anyone describe a guy as beautiful. Girls were the ones who were supposed to be beautiful or pretty. I’d never thought of a girl the way I did that guy. I just wanted to hug him, to connect with that beauty in the only way my little mind could imagine.”

“Aww, that’s a wonderful story,” Jake said. “Thank you.”

Matt asked Jake the same question, about the first time he knew he was gay.

Jake met Matt’s gaze and held it. “I’ll be glad to answer that if you really want to know. But eventually you’re going to have to make the first move here.”

Matt gulped.

“You have to venture out of the shallow end of the pool, baby,” Jake said. “Eventually we all do. Not everyone gets a friendly swim coach like me.”

Matt took one more sip of wine, then set the glass on the floor. He gave up on the idea of scripting this scene, remembering William’s advice when they had hooked up in the cargo area of Matt’s Jeep. “Throw the script away,” William had said. “This is Improv.”

Matt crossed to Jake, crouched beside the chair. He leaned in and kissed this beautiful boy. He planned to do more than hug him.

Matt explored Jake’s chest with one hand, teasing his nipples. Quickly, though, Matt’s hand migrated south, inexorably drawn there by a force greater than gravity. Their tongues were locked in an ancient dance, exchanging saliva as prelude to other exchanges.

Jake slid down in the chair, eased his leg higher on the armrest, offering accessibility.

Matt’s fingers read their way to the hole as if the soft hairs beneath them encoded the map in a sort of braille. He paused at the sphincter. Instinct had led him this far but left him stranded with uncertainty. All he knew was that he wanted to plunge into the deep end of that pool, to make intimate connection with Jake. He hesitated, on the edge of the cliff.

Swim coach to the rescue! Jake broke off the kiss. “It takes lube, baby. Assholes aren’t self-lubricating like vaginas. Store-bought lube is the gold standard, especially for fucking. There’s some in the dresser in the bedroom. Pre-cum is second best. Saliva will do for fingering and maybe fucking–for guys smaller than you.”

“Thanks, coach,” Matt grinned. He reached over and milked Jake’s cockhead until his fingers were slick with pre-cum. Soon enough Matt’s middle finger was deep inside Jake, tapping his prostate, eliciting low, guttural moans.

It was time to fuck.

Matt scooped Jake out of the chair, carried him to the bedroom, and set him on the bed.

Jake watched as Matt retrieved the lube and slathered it on his dick.

“Roll over,” Matt ordered. There was urgency in his voice. “I’m going to fuck you face down.”

If Jake was surprised by Matt’s new authority, he didn’t show it. He rolled over and spread his legs. His blue-shod feet dangled off the edge of the bed. He arched his ass in readiness. “Remember to go slow,” was all he said.

Matt straddled Jake’s hips. He separated the ass cheeks reverently, gazing down at the hole–the first one he had ever beheld–as if it were the Holy Grail and he a Knight Templar. This had been his fantasy for five long years–fucking a guy facedown. He knew, on a certain level, that this was rooted in his own experience, his thirteen-year-old self pinned down, penetrated, sobbing with pain. It didn’t take a psychologist to understand that some portion of this fantasy involved Matt’s rescuing his younger self. He would be the penetrator. He would be on top.

But this time things would unspool differently.

There would not be blood. There would be no sudden rage at Jake, calling him a filthy faggot, ordering him to clean up his mess and go home.

Matt would be gentle and caring. He would not take more than he gave. He would ensure that Jake was sated. Or, to borrow William’s imagery, he would earn a five-star review.

Matt teased the hole’s edges apart, stared into the tiny slot that looked barely able to accommodate a finger. Matt had often pondered whether these wonders were round and puckered like a cat’s, cratered like calderas, or yawned open like Venus fly traps.

This one was a perfect little buttonhole. It was outlined by a tiny, pale, pencil line ridge. Matt’s throat went dry–again. There was no wine to wet it this time. He swallowed. “Your hole is beautiful. You are beautiful.”

Matt positioned his cockhead against the event horizon of Jake’s Pink Hole. He applied pressure, trying to squeeze in.

“You’re too high,” Jake advised.

Matt corrected the angle, pushed again.

“Still too high.”

On Matt’s third at bat, the buttonhole surrendered its secrets, much as the cave of treasures had opened for Ali Baba when he’d uttered the magic phrase “Open Sesame.” Matt watched his cockhead squeeze inside, was fascinated as Jake’s ass sealed over it.

Matt gauged the depth of penetration by the atmospheric pressure moving down his shaft. Eventually he reached the limit. His ball sack grazed Jake’s ass.

Instinctively, Matt waited, giving Jake’s body time to adjust.

Matt lowered his upper body until his chest was against Jake’s back. Matt found Jake’s hands, clasped them with his own, fingers interlocked. He eased Jake’s arms to an outstretched crucifixion position. Matt’s mouth was near Jake’s left ear. “Ready, beautiful?” Matt asked softly.

“Yes.”

Matt’s legs were inside Jake’s own. Matt spread his legs, stretching Jake further, gaining, in the process, more real estate to penetrate.

Matt bred Jake, rolling his own hips until his pubis bone ground against Jake’s sacrum, feeling the gorge building, adjusting his stroke to elicit the same Pentecostal mewlings from Jake as Matt had sputtered while impaled by William.

Matt pumped through his orgasm, his final thrusts delivered like the sharp taps of Morse Code.

Matt rolled the two of them onto their sides. With his left arm around Jake’s chest, Matt held him close, his cock still buried in Jake’s ass.

Matt hawked up a wad of spit into his right palm. Then he reached around and grasped Jake’s cock.

Jake moaned.

Matt whispered in Jake’s ear. His voice was low, commanding. “There’s no time to get more lube. No time to milk you for more pre-cum. You’ve got this little wad of spit. That’s it. Now cum for me. Cream my hand. And when you do, I’m going to lick my fingers and swallow every drop. We’ll each have the other’s cum inside us.”

It took only a few strokes before Jake’s entire body stiffened. Rigor mortis of the orgasmic kind. No wonder, Matt thought, the French called this the “little death.”

Matt cupped his hand to capture the jets of warm cream.