A gay story: Chapter 5: Big Man on Campus The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
Chapter 5: Big Man on Campus
Monday, August 14, 1995
Author’s Note: Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Matt reinvented himself first thing Monday morning, shedding his aloofness as quickly as William had banished his inner Talulah Bankhead at Johnnies. Matt had to wait until Saturday night for his interview with the rest of the Gay Mafia. In the meantime, he had a life to live.
Standing naked in the bathroom, waiting for a shower stall, Matt struck up a conversation with the kid beside him. The kid, of course, had a towel wrapped around his waist, ready to circumspectly wriggle out of his undies when the time came.
Matt remembered the kid’s vital statistics, having heard them repeated ad nauseum in the previous week. Name: Seth Freeman. Hometown: Perry, Oklahoma. Major: Accounting. Matt asked Seth why he had chosen to be an accountant, bracing himself for the usual God-called-me story.
Instead, Seth told how one year he had watched his dad doing his income taxes and became intrigued. Now his dad let him do the taxes.
“Cool,” Matt enthused.
Seth stood a little taller. He was a gangly red-headed kid who hadn’t yet grown into his feet and hands.
Matt patted Seth’s shoulder as if congratulating him. “You could end up being the Chief Financial Officer of Ditch Witch! I’ll probably be asking you for a job someday.” (Ditch Witch was a world-renowned manufacturer of excavation equipment, headquartered in Perry, Oklahoma.)
Seth grinned and launched into some hometown Ditch Witch gossip.
Matt kept the conversation going, leading it in new directions once the Ditch Witch subject was exhausted. He noticed that the more he affirmed Seth, the more relaxed the kid became. Matt wasn’t flirting with Seth, wasn’t interested in him sexually. This reinvention thing was something William had suggested post hookup. Besides, Matt and Seth had plenty of time to talk. Matt suspected that some of their dormmates had figured out that the shower stalls were the only place to jerk off in private.
After a few minutes’ conversation, Seth surprised Matt. Seth patted his torso towel. “You know I feel silly in this thing,” he confided. “I mean, we’re all guys, right?” He shyly unwrapped the towel, revealing his tighty whities. He draped the towel on his left shoulder, subconsciously mirroring Matt.
Matt gave Seth an encouraging thumbs-up, proud that the kid had come this far.
Seth summoned the courage to strip off his underwear as well. The two of them, friends now, stood naked together, waiting for their dormmates to finish wanking. (Matt, the only person in their communal group to have a private room, didn’t have to worry about a place to jerk. Frustratingly, though, he was under another interdiction from William against engaging in such activity.)
Matt suddenly felt inspired to lighten the mood in the bathroom. He winked at Seth conspiratorially, then started belting out Leaning on the Everlasting Arms. Seth laughed, then joined in.
Later that morning, between classes, Matt searched out the Dean of Students’ office, where he filled out a one-page form declaring himself a candidate for one of two Freshman Representative positions in the Student Government Association (SGA), elections to take place in one week’s time–on his birthday. This, too, had been William’s suggestion: get involved in student government. As they’d lain, post coitally, in the back of the Jeep (arms entwined, cum and sweat and lube drying on their skin, their dicks looking like hungover worms wallowing in their own puke), they had taken their own tentative steps towards friendship.
William had asked if Matt was a Leo. Matt didn’t know. Astrology was a big frowned-upon sin in their denomination, not quite ranking with sodomy (which they had just committed) as an ABOMINATION but much higher on the ladder than, say, gluttony. It turned out Matt was a Leo, his birthday being on August 21. William wasn’t surprised (about the Leo thing for sure, maybe about the birthday news as well), saying that Leos were known for their social prowess and that he saw hints of that in Matt.
They had talked about how Matt didn’t want to be at OC and how his dad was forcing it. (Matt didn’t share the part about his youth pastor.) William listened quietly, then asked if Matt thought he was punishing his dad by staying aloof on campus? Wasn’t that like sitting on the sidelines, self-benched, watching his teammates score the goals?
Matt had nodded, acknowledging William’s point, although William probably didn’t see the nod, given the growing shadows in the Jeep’s rear.
None of that bonding, none of that advice would have occurred had they not fumbled their way back from the abyss where they had landed when William had stated earlier that he wanted to fuck Matt.
Matt had tensed, his body going rigid, his cock deflating. Buried memories (of the youth pastor, of the threadbare carpeting in the church sanctuary, of pain–searing pain) clawed their way out of the grave to which he had consigned them.
Zombie memories, back to eat him alive.
Matt had awkwardly eased himself out of his position straddling William, wanting to curl into a ball, but because of space limitations, settling for sitting, hunched over, hugging his knees. In his jockstrap.
William had rolled onto his side, facing Matt, propping his head on one hand. He was shirtless, but still in his jeans. “It’s ok,” he whispered.
“Sorry,” Matt had said. “I guess now I don’t have to worry about that interview with the Gay Mafia.”
“Nice try,” William had said. “The interview is still on if you want it.” Then, probably because William was nervous too, he had channeled his inner Talulah Bankhead: “Dahling, you don’t have to fuck your way into our club.”
They had both laughed. Soon they were talking freely.
Matt had a lot of baggage to unpack. He assumed that gay sexual roles (who tops and who bottoms) were static and unchanging AND that they aligned with which of the two presented as masculine (the top) versus the effeminate one (bottoming). William set him straight on that score, asking Matt what was supposed to happen if both guys were effeminate. Flip a coin? Double dildo? And Matt had never even heard the term versatile as regards gay sex. Who knew? William had, that was who.
William had then informed Matt that, while he preferred bottoming, he was versatile. Oh, and there was NO WAY William was going to bottom for anyone who had not himself bottomed at least once, which, William assumed was the case with Matt. Topping involved more than just mechanical, artless plunging in-and-out or up-and-down. Topping was an intimate performance where the bottom would be the critic. “You don’t want to get a bad review, do you? No one’s going to buy a ticket for that show.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Matt had asked. “Bottoming?”
“Not unless it’s amateur hour. Do I look like I have a high threshold for pain?”
Matt hadn’t answered. The zombie memories were still there, still clamoring in his head. But another thought was beating them back: maybe bottoming for William was the baby step he needed to take.
“Can I see your cock?” Matt had asked.
William had hesitated. After a minute he shimmied out of his jeans and briefs. “Ta da” he joked. “This isn’t the stage entrance I had planned.”
Matt had appraised William’s body, its skinny, pale legs with their carpet of black hair. Neatly trimmed bush (as expected). Cock and balls limp and saggy, disinterested in what was happening.
Matt had seen plenty of other cocks in locker rooms over the years. He had never touched one–besides his own. Reaching out a hand, he fondled William’s lumpy cockhead, and began massaging the frenulum (as William had done to him a week earlier). Soon enough William junior stirred and stretched its way to a standing position, very much interested in the goings-on around it.
“That’s bigger than I expected!” Matt had exclaimed. He was rethinking this whole bottoming idea.
William had smiled. “Optical illusion. I’d say we are about the same size. Mine just looks big against my smaller body. Plus, a well-trimmed shrub makes the tree look larger.”
Matt had given William’s cock a few test strokes and was pleased to see it dribble out some pre-cum. He still wasn’t keen on bottoming but planned to soldier through it. “What do I do now? Get on my knees?”
William had coaxed Matt into lying down beside him, facing him. “Throw the script away,” William whispered. “This is Improv. Do only what you want to do. Stop whenever you want to stop.”
“I want to get out of this jock,” Matt had said, pushing it down and kicking it away. His cock, finally freed, sprang up like one of those inflatable tube men businesses use to attract customers.
They had kissed. Their tongues darted into each other’s damp oral cavities. Their cocks, snotting pre-cum, bounced and bobbed, trying to find their own accommodating orifices. Their bodies fused. Tanned, toned, smooth athlete pressed against pale, soft (but not flabby), furred Godmother. Their hands explored, caressing, teasing nipples erect.
Matt had felt William’s hand on the back of his right thigh, gently pulling the leg up into a bent position where, with that leg straddling William’s body, Matt’s ass cheeks separated.
A part of Matt’s brain had worried, given their positions, how close William’s cock was to his–Matt’s–hole. Another part, the part that was enjoying the sensory overload, surrendered conscious control of his body to a deeper, subconscious desire to mate. It was that part, that pulsing hunger, that impelled Matt to instinctively arch his ass. It was a primal signal hard-wired in the DNA.
William had understood the message.
William had explored the contours of Matt’s crack with his forefinger, softly tracing a line from tailbone, through muscled gluteal canyon, then down to the base of the ball sack.
Matt’s sphincter had tingled each time William’s finger grazed it.
William fumbled around on the floor until he found the lube he had placed there earlier. He smeared some on his finger, then whispered into Matt’s ear: “Just relax.”
Matt had found it impossible to relax–not because he dreaded the moment when William’s finger would be the trailblazer for the soon-to-follow dick–but because he was impatient for that to happen.
And then it had–happened.
William’s tongue had probed Matt’s mouth while his finger explored Matt’s ass. Matt moaned and pushed down, wanting more.
“Fuck me,” Matt had said. He wanted this–not as some baby step towards learning to top (well, that was a tiny factor), but mainly for the sheer joy of gay sex, for sealing his friendship with William.
William had rolled onto his back. His rigid cock pointed due west like a needle on a compass. “Get on top facing me,” he said.
Matt had complied.
“Now lean down and kiss me,” William had said. He pulled Matt to him with one arm. With his other hand, William positioned his cockhead against Matt’s hole.
“Feel that?” William had asked. “I’m going to hold it in place. You’re in charge of letting it in. Take your time. Don’t rush.”
Matt had eased himself onto that pole. It seemed to fill him up, expanding outwards and upwards, flooding him with a warm glow. He had feared this, thinking it would be the proverbial square-peg-in-round-hole: pain and sharp edges. Instead, it was more like one of those old-time skeleton keys (a rigid rod that snaked into a tiny keyhole, each ridge and notch on the key perfectly fitting a counter-matching notch and ridge). And when, after a few minutes, William’s key found Matt’s prostate, Matt understood, for the first time, why Pentecostals spoke in tongues, why they rolled and thrashed on church floors, overcome by the Holy Spirit.
Matt had also squirmed and thrashed, riding William’s cock, his back arched to take it deeper, moaning, gasping. He was in Heaven. Jesus was knocking at his door. (Revelation 3:20: “Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come into him…”)
Matt had looked down into William’s soulful eyes as the two of them rode out the hurricane of Matt’s true deflowering. They were tethered by William’s cock. It was anchored deep inside Matt, a writhing, slithery eel clutching for purchase while Matt bucked and rolled with the storms of passion, sliding up and down on the wet mast, his ass lips furling and unfurling in rhythm.
Or was William’s cock the harpoon and Matt the mythical Leviathan, his tail furiously whipping the boiling sea into foam?
Regardless of the metaphor, it was William who conquered, Matt who surrendered. It was Matt who whimpered as William rescued his bobbing cock and palpated it, encouraging it to vomit up the fluids that were drowning it. It was Matt’s ass that crashed and foundered against the twin boulders of William’s balls. It was Matt who howled out as he neared his crisis.
“I’m gonna cum,” Matt panted, worried about where he was supposed to shoot.
“Let me have it,” William had said.
Matt’s entire body had spasmed. He shot arcs of cum onto William’s chest. Some of the overspray landed on William’s face.
William had smiled.
“Your turn,” Matt had whispered–croaked. He was spent. “I want you to cum inside me.”
William had grabbed Matt’s hips, holding them for leverage as he pistoned Matt’s ass.
Matt had heard William’s soft gasp first, then felt a little tremor in William’s hips, and then he felt the warm seed filling him.