The Big Dumb Jock Who Wasn't

A gay story: The Big Dumb Jock Who Wasn't Dear Reader,

This work is longer than usual and will have fewer “juicy bits” than something typically categorized as erotica, and as such I would call it more a romance. My aim was to capture the bewilderment of a young gay man having his first experience in college. My hope was that this work would speak to others who may have had experiences like this, or may have only dreamed of them.

I should have been so lucky to have had someone like Mark looking out for me….

(This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.)

Ceci n’est pas un roman à clef.

The beginning of my freshman year in college at a gorgeous Catholic university, with its immaculate buildings and grounds in full end-of-summer glory, is still one of my fondest sets of memories. Yes, I was shy outwardly, but not within myself. I seemed to have known forever that I was gay, and though I had had a religious education up until then, I had been taught to think carefully about things, rather than simply feel guilty or fearful. It really was a diverse and liberal education by all accounts, and I was lucky. While the early 90s in those environs was not exactly the time to be “out and proud” outside of a parade or demonstration, and I felt the need to be closeted, I nevertheless was internally quite happy with myself, and I had no shame fantasizing about boys. All the time. Constantly.

And fantasizing was about all I had – the internet at the time was for Those Computer Geeks Who Knew; there were no chat rooms brimming with local collective anonymity to help gay boys meet; there were no cell phones to use for flirtatious texting or photo (ahem) sending. Thinking about it now, I feel kind of lonely for myself! But like I said, I’m lucky to have been at ease internally for most of my life, and I don’t have regret about the experiences that made me who I am now.

Moving into the all-male dorm to which I had been randomized with sixty-some other freshmen was as new an experience as I could get. I had never spent significant time away from home, and had always gone to co-ed schools. My only sibling is my younger sister, so suddenly having 250 “brothers” was intimidating, fascinating, and intoxicating all at once. There was an excitement that was almost palpable, that crackled in the air with shouts and hand-slapping and the moving in of boys and their things. And they all seemed nice, and happy that I was there. In retrospect, it was all of the best things about a fraternity without any of the trappings of pledging or rushing or whatever – I was in from the start, and there was an unspoken understanding that we were all obligated to care for each other.

I was reasonably popular toward the end of high school, had a large, close group of friends, and I got along easily with a lot of different people who didn’t necessarily get along with each other. But I was also no stranger to being picked on or outright bullied in my more distant past, and I was often nervous to avoid situations where that could happen, or where I might set myself up for it. Be yourself, but don’t stand out too much. Go along, but don’t be the fool. Imagine kissing him, but don’t let him suspect that’s what you’re thinking.

I had been mailed (with a stamp) the names of my two roommates: Mark Harden whose family lived about an hour from the University, and Rick Schultz, who was from farther afield in Texas. I was in the middle, growing up about a four-hour drive away. The three of us were to share a single large room, and since Mark lived close, he and his dad had measured the room and pre-built a loft for his bed. It was already installed when I arrived with my things, which left Rick and me to decide between a lower and an upper bunk. I wanted these guys to like me, so I was fairly passive about making any decisions or asking for anything, and I ended up with the top bunk. I had never slept that high (and briefly thought about the injuries I might acquire) but Rick probably hadn’t either; the quickness with which he picked the lower bunk when I offered him the choice made me suspect he might be thinking similarly.

There weren’t pictures and videos of Mark and Rick on the internet to look at, so when I met them in person, it was the first time I was seeing them. Mark was buff. Beefy, in fact. Scarily so. He seemed nice enough, but I also felt that if I weren’t crazy about his prefab loft and choice of where his bed and desk were, there’d be little I could do about it. He kind of spoke in grunts and loudly, but he didn’t seem overtly hostile. His hair was a short sandy blond with some curl, and his eyes were a bright pale blue; he was also pretty tan, but I could tell his skin was really fair – the kind that turned pasty in the winter. Rick was quieter with a low, soft voice, darker, smooth features and a lot of freckles, black straight hair, and deep brown eyes. He seemed shier than I felt, and he perpetually wore a dark, fitted baseball cap. Between the two of them, I didn’t imagine us three getting into deep conversations, sharing too much about ourselves. Maybe that was okay, though, since there was part of me I wasn’t comfortable sharing with them.

During the move-in and orientation days, Mark often came and went, since his family was so close and could easily come down for the day. Other parents, including Rick’s and mine, stayed in hotels for at least a day before their travels back home. Rick’s dad was an alumnus and decided to stay for several days, and since my parents had to get back home, and Mark and his family weren’t around, he invited me out with Rick and his sister when they’d get dinner. He was excited to be back at his alma mater, and he was the gregarious story-telling sort – the kind who seems like a riot to his kid’s friends, but not to his kid. Me: buy me dinner and tell me hilarious stories of getting in trouble at this school? Yes please! Rick: heard them all before, don’t embarrass me dad, thanks.

I thought that because of this early friendliness with his family, Rick and I might end up hanging out, but his course of study and quiet shyness would ultimately dictate otherwise. We would be “intimate” in one regard, though: I’d never slept closer to another person, or for more time. That first night, the steel frame bunk with its flaking white paint groaned and rocked whenever Rick turned over, or moved even slightly. “This is going to be a long year, Tommy boy,” I thought.

We got into the routine of classes, eating, hanging out, studying, and sleeping pretty quickly. I had hour-long classes at 8:00 and 9:00, and an 11:15 class. There wasn’t enough time to grab lunch between the last two classes, since the dining hall opened for lunch at 11. This meant I had nothing to do for roughly an hour, and that is how I discovered that for me, falling back asleep in the mornings tends to lead to a sex dream. Unfortunately, like actual sex, thinking about it too hard seemed to prevent it from happening, so by the second week when I was rushing back to my dorm to jump in bed and get to sleep, I often couldn’t. Instead, I would settle for fantasizing about any of an entire menu of cute boys I had met. To this day though, if I snooze or turn off my alarm and fall back asleep, there’s a moderate likelihood of subconsciously having sex with someone unexpected….

The guys from our dorm tended to eat together in one of the two large campus dining halls, and while I started out going over with Mark or Rick, I soon had a group of friends who had similar majors and classes, and who were also more “my people” – nerdy, non-partying types with quirky interests and habits. My group of friends in high school weren’t the drinking sort, so I was relieved to find those in college who weren’t part of the sometimes-terrifying drinking culture. For really the first time in my life, I was being exposed on weekend nights to guys (and some girls) so blotto they couldn’t walk. Though thankfully our room was never used as a “party room,” Mark had quickly turned into a partier, and it was nice to be able escape to quieter places with friends who had more intellectual fun.

Though I had what I thought was a good background in high school chemistry and was planning a career in science, I quickly found out that I was out of my league in my general chemistry course. Several of my tightening group of friends were in the same class, and they would occasionally help me out, as I struggled for the first time academically. Mark was also in the class, and I’d glare at him as he sat with headphones on, obviously paying no attention. I stared in disbelief one day when the professor called on him: Mark took off his headphones annoyedly, the professor asked his question again, Mark answered it without thinking, and then went back to listening to his music. I was even more upset when I found out he was acing tests and simply bored – “Yeah, I had all this a couple years ago, it’s boring shit, Hind-lick!”

Most guys had accrued nicknames fairly early on, and having the same last name as the physician who invented the maneuver to save people from choking, I attracted some rhyming doozies. Of course butt licking was funny to a dorm full of guys. Mark pulled “Hardon” somewhat obviously, but also got “Big Hardon” and just “Hard,” all of which got my attention. (Was it big? Hard to tell. No, you can’t ask, stop thinking about it.) Rick was too quiet for nicknames.

One night I sat on our room’s floor, chemistry book open, staring at problems I lacked some fundamental knowledge to solve. Mark was at his desk in his usual t-shirt with some beer logo on it and soccer shorts, doing some work, but not chemistry because that was so easy for him. I growled angrily.

“Chemistry givin you trouble, Hind-lick?”

“Yeah, it fucking sucks. I mean, how do you tell which elements are diatomic? I can’t find it anywhere!”

“Oh, ‘Hoffbrinkle!'”

“Huh? Who?”

“Hoffbrinkle – H, O, F, Br, I, N, Cl. Those are the diatomic elements in their natural state.”

Just like that. He rattled off knowledge that should have been imparted to me in my year-long high school chemistry course, and in a way that I would never forget for the rest of my life. And he wasn’t snotty about it, he didn’t condescend, he was just… nice. And he spent some more time after that with me, teaching me a couple other things I was struggling with. Ripped and smart – I couldn’t tell whether I should hate him or be attracted. But outside of talking about chemistry, he seemed kind of doofy. Like, I didn’t imagine having an in-depth philosophical conversation with him, ever.

I mentioned before that I was always a bit nervous about being teased or bullied, and because of that, I had my guard up around my roommates. I had to sleep in the same room with them, after all, and it was definitely no good letting them even suspect I was gay. But I started to be a bit more at ease over time as we lived together. There were several nights when I was up way too late typing a paper (I had a word processor, yikes) and they were kinder than I might have been about it. One weekend, Mark and Rick took a local trip with some of their friends, and I had the room to myself. I was shocked to find that I couldn’t fall asleep – I had gotten so used to the bed being in constant motion from Rick’s turning, that a quiet room and a still bed drove me crazy. I missed my roommates! And the second night they actually called me to say hello and see how I was. They were probably drunk, but it was touching at the time.

Speaking of drunk, Mark’s partying started to get out of hand after a few months into the semester. He would come back to the room and stumble around noisily, reeking of alcohol and sweat, and we’d watch him climb up into his loft and occasionally hit his head on the ceiling. He wouldn’t say anything, even when we asked if he needed help. Again, I was unfamiliar with this kind of behavior, and was both annoyed at him, and afraid for him.

One late Friday night, Mark was brought back to the room by some upperclassmen, who left him in a heap on the floor. He wasn’t speaking and wasn’t moving much, even when we shook him and tapped his face a bunch. Rick was fed up and I was worried; we had both been in our beds and nearly asleep. We pulled Mark’s mattress down from his loft and put it on the floor, and then lugged his beefy body onto it. Rick got back into bed, and said, “He’ll be fine,” when I expressed worry. I didn’t know what to do – call for help? Wake up our rector, Father Pat? These seemed to my young and inexperienced mind like ratting Mark out, or getting him into trouble. In retrospect I think he probably should have gone to the hospital, but I was so unfamiliar with so much.

I felt that watching over him would at least be something I could do, so I got a blanket down from my bed and wrapped myself up, sitting next to Mark’s mattress on the floor. It was blowy and wintry outside, my favorite time of year, and I was shivering, but more from worry than actual cold. I watched Mark’s breathing, slow but steady, and he looked like any other sleeping eighteen-year-old. I’m sure he was beautiful in that peacefulness, compared to how I had seen him drunk at other times, but I didn’t think of that at the time. Occasionally he would cough, and I remembered something about laying a person on his side in case he vomits, so he doesn’t choke. I tried, and it sounds silly, but it felt like I wasn’t strong enough, and I gave up. Rick was snoring soundly, and I figured he would be annoyed at being woken up.

I was getting tired, and I had a campus job to go to in the morning. The only thing I could think to do was to lie next to Mark on the floor, and throw my arm up over his chest, so that maybe if he started to have trouble, it would wake me and I could get help. I felt his strong heart thudding against my arm, not too fast, so that was good? His breathing was even, and he didn’t seem to be coughing as much. He was warm, but also he stank of beer. I know that there are lots of stories about sneaking a grope on a passed-out roommate, but that was the farthest thing from my mind; I was scared and scared for him, and I just wanted him to be okay. Despite the beer smell, the gentle rhythm of Mark’s breathing and his steady heartbeat eventually made me feel calmer, and I drifted off to sleep.

The sudden contact of my arm with the floor woke me in the morning. My eyes opened to see Mark lifting his mattress over his head and tottering with it back towards his loft. I turned over, sat up.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked him.

*grunt*

That was all the thanks I got for my night of worry and vigilance. I got up and said nothing more, really wanting to go to my bed, but seeing that it was getting past time to get ready for work. My student job working in the library paid very little, but it kept me from asking my parents for money very often, which felt good, knowing how much they were paying for me to be there. There was time for a late breakfast, and then work until dinner.

The job was rather mundane, reshelving returned books, sometimes other organizational tasks, and it afforded me time to think to myself. In fact, it made me spend time thinking, time I might otherwise have filled with video games or chilling with friends. Some days I wrote papers in my head or worried about an upcoming exam, but today all I could think of was Mark. It was a new sensation for me, to feel the kind of concern I felt for him. Even though I would rather not have been in that situation, I felt it changed me somehow. And when I realized I had basically slept next to a boy, holding him – despite the decidedly non-ideal circumstances – well, I couldn’t stop thinking about that. There seemed to be a lot of thoughts flying around my head.

When I returned to the dorm room after work, I found Mark working at his computer.

“Wanna go to the dining hall?” I asked. We didn’t usually eat together; maybe I was hoping for an apology, or some acknowledgment of having watched over him. I don’t know.

“Nah.”

“Okay…maybe I’ll see you over there.”

Something felt odd in our interaction, and he didn’t look at me. Maybe he was just really hung over? I decided to go see if some of my more usual dinner companions were interested. On my way out, Jeff from down the hall pushed into the room past me.

“Hardon. Dinner.”

Mark got up and looked for his wallet, got his coat. I paused only to see this much, then walked down the hall to search for others to go eat with, feeling unusually slighted.

Dinner with the usual suspects was fun as always, but my mind was elsewhere. Mark was sitting a few tables away with some rowdier guys, and he definitely did not appear hung over. He caught me looking at him once or twice and looked quickly away. Reading anything into what he was feeling was going to be impossible, but that wouldn’t stop my mind from trying. On returning to the room later that night after studying, I avoided interacting with him, and just went to bed.

The following week saw more of the same behavior. Really, Mark and I weren’t friends, but we had been friendly. We would usually talk when we were in the room together, and we often made each other laugh – and even though most of that was laughing at each other, it was the kind of good-natured ribbing that I imagined I’d get from and give to a brother.

But what I was getting now were one-word answers and little other interaction, and there was a palpable sense of distance.

One night later in the week, Rick was out studying with a group for a test the next day, and I decided to try to figure out what was bothering Mark. He was at his desk reading.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, timidly.

“Yeah.” Again, no physical acknowledgment.

“Maybe…I mean… are we okay?” I looked for words to get him just to engage with me.

“What’s this we shit?”

“I just mean… lately you seem… I dunno, like you hate me or something.”

Finally, some engagement – Mark turned his head. “Maybe you wanna tell me where you get off cuddling me when I’m passed the fuck out?”

I felt punched in the chest. All the breath left my lungs and it felt like they would never re-inflate. Here it was, one of my biggest fears, being accused of what was actually true – even when that fact had nothing to do with my actions.

“I…. I didn’t…” stammering, searching for words. My face was becoming red, I could feel it. A million feelings – was I going to cry? That wasn’t going to work. Anger. I had to be angry. I… was angry.

“I didn’t “cuddle” your stinking drunk ass, dude. I’ve never seen anyone that sick and I was afraid you were going to die and it would be my fault. I put my arm over you so I could tell you were breathing, or if you started choking, or whatever. Believe me, between being that close to your stench and being in my own warm bed, I know which one I’ll pick next time!”

There might have been a tear squeezing into the corner of my eye, but I blinked it back. I said all those words looking at the floor in front of Mark; I couldn’t look at him. Ugh, he had beautiful feet – a though my mind offered, trying to mitigate the emotional storm. When I did lift my eyes, I saw him biting his lip, blushing just a little, and – were his eyes shining? Was it a flare of anger, or tears? Both? There was no time to tell, because he whipped back around and went back to his book.

“Sorry…. Dude.”

That was apparently the best I was going to get. I grabbed some books and my backpack and left our room, slowly and deliberately, purposely not in a huff. I tried to appear calm but I was shaking inside and out. Stood up for myself. Averted disastrous accusation. Back to normal?

Not quite. Mark was no longer curt with me, but in fact seemed to have swung in the opposite direction. Maybe I wanted to imagine it? But no, he was definitely acting differently around me, joking more, but not in a teasing way – almost, more familiar. We didn’t speak about the “cuddling” again. We still weren’t friends, and I didn’t figure we ever would be, but when we were in the same space, I felt a different vibe from him. Just…nicer.

One day I was doing more chemistry homework on the floor (my venue of choice) and Mark was partially sitting with one leg up on the vanity sink that was next to my desk, talking on the room phone, which was on my desk. He was having friendly, animated conversation with his family, talking about his classes. I saw him open my long front desk drawer, just casually, a physical occupation of the hands while the mind engages in conversation. That drawer was where I kept some things I had brought with me to remind me of home.

I watched as he pulled out the brown Matchbox Porsche 911 turbo, opened its doors, closed them, and put it back. Next was an off-brand Swiss army knife, opened the scissors, squeezed them a couple times, cut a piece of his fingernail, closed the scissors, put it back. A cheap (but I loved it) mechanical watch that had a glass front and back so you could see all the gears and the flywheel; looked through it, put it on his wrist, put it back. I don’t think he noticed me watching him, as he was doubly-occupied, but a strange tingling sensation took over the back of my neck and head as I stole furtive glances. It would be reasonable to feel a little bothered by someone going through my things, but the gentleness and the – comfortableness – with which he was doing it… it felt like affection. Was I imagining it? Hard to know. Was I happy imagining it? Definitely.

Things were good only until the next big floor party, unfortunately. As usual I stayed away from the event, but I had to deal with the aftermath. Upperclassmen again carried Mark’s stumbling frame back to our room, except he was conscious this time. He kept crooning a Pearl Jam line over and over, “Don’t call meee DAUGHter….” The guys bringing him laughed. “HEY…I ssaid… don’t call meee DAUGHter…” Rick and I were less amused.

Down came the mattress again, and plop went Mark’s muscular body, approximately onto it. I think he might have knocked a knee or an elbow on the linoleum. “OW. Fuckersss… dddon’t call meee DAUGHter…” I looked on with disapproval.

About this time Ben, one of the sophomores in our section, came in. “Jeeeezis Hardon. Fuckin mess again!”

“We’re kind of sick of it,” Rick volunteered.

“Dmmm’t cmmm mmmm DMMMtmm…” Mark muffled into the mattress.

“Got a big magic marker?” Ben was looking around the room. I opened my long desk drawer – next to the Porsche was the fulfillment of his request. I handed it over.

Ben uncapped the marker with his teeth, grabbed Mark’s arm, and began to draw on his wrist.

I was momentarily shocked. “What are you – ”

Ben finished up, dropped Mark’s wrist, recapped the marker, and, “HEY GUYS!” shouted into the hallway through the open door. “COME SIGN THIS FUCKER!”

I took a look at Ben’s handiwork: Mark now had a crudely-drawn wristwatch. My mouth fell open. I didn’t know whether to be horrified or to laugh out loud. Two other guys from the section came in. “No fuckin way! Hardon’s obliterated again!” Ben showed them his wrist and tossed the marker at one of them, who drew a heart on Mark’s shoulder and wrote ‘Mom’ inside it. Ben grabbed Mark’s shirt and pulled it off his body — he was snoring by this point, and the three upperclassmen rolled him over onto his back.

A line started to form at the door – kind of a perverse autograph session in reverse. Each guy made his mark, drew or wrote something on Mark’s body. A giant penis on his abs that poked up out of his boxers, actual signatures, a pearl necklace. The writing stood out in stark contrast against Mark’s skin which, as I had suspected, by winter had become fair. It smooth, and actually lovely.

Given the level of intoxication of the crowd generally, some perhaps took liberties they might have thought better about in sobriety: Mark’s face was not immune to the graffiti. Someone drew a mustache. Someone else wrote “BISEXUAL” on his forehead. I don’t remember if I joined in or not. I kind of hope I didn’t. Making good on my word though, I chose my bed that night instead of sleeping next to Mark. The fact that he had been singing prior to passing out maybe gave me some reassurance that he wasn’t quite as bad off as the last time.

I didn’t see most of the graffiti until the morning, when I woke up and looked at him as he lay there, still passed out. I went down the hall to the bathroom and brushed my teeth there, then returned to the room. Mark was up, at the sink looking in the mirror. I froze. For a moment I thought he might fly into a rage, or be really upset. He was half-smiling and saying “aww… fuck dudes… what the fuck?” He looked at himself closer and the half smile disappeared. “You… you didn’t have to do my face.”

“I had no part in it dude, sorry.” Again I hope this is true – it’s weird to be glad it happened but also relieved that I could claim immunity. Maybe. I hope.

Mark had grabbed a washcloth and some soap. You can guess how well that was working. He made his fair skin red in places, trying to scrub off the black writing, especially his forehead. Eventually he gave up, put his mattress back up on the loft, and went to take a shower. He made a few joking comments, but I could hear the hurt in his voice.

As he came back from the bathroom, I heard someone shout, “Don’t call meee DAUGHter… YEAH HARDON!” Mark chuckled coming back into the room, but his eyes looked redder than they should have been from just taking a shower.

The weekend passed uneventfully, sliding into another week of classes. Mark was really quiet when we were in the room together. But different from last time, I didn’t sense there were any particular feelings directed toward me. The marker tattoos became lighter day by day, and my heart hurt a little when I thought about him walking across campus, going to class, eating at the dining hall, feeling embarrassed. He wasn’t a hat-wearer like Rick, but he wore a baseball cap low down on his forehead for several days. If I were me then, I probably would have brought it up, talked to him about it, maybe said that I felt bad. I was having feelings of neglect: I was so concerned about his health the previous time he was passed out, but this last time, I hadn’t cared about his dignity. To this day I feel bad that I didn’t stop the autograph session.

Instead we didn’t bring it up, and Mark didn’t talk much. I hoped he had “learned a lesson” (that sometimes feels harsh to say), but I had heard, and worried, that when substances were at issue, one lesson often isn’t enough.

– – – – – – –

The year drew on, finals and holidays came and went. A deep, dark winter set in, and there was rampant boredom and a lot of late-night parties. Mark never had another episode like the previous ones, when he was incapable of taking care of himself. I saw him drunk a couple times, and I worried, but he always ended up in his bed on his loft, and we never had to rearrange the room for him again.

Spring came, and campus thawed. Everyone was excited for the warmer temperatures and reacted as college kids do when out from under the watchful eyes of moms, wearing shorts and t-shirts in not-quite-ready weather. People seemed brighter and more social. I came back to the room from a later class one Friday afternoon to see Mark, who had been out shopping with his family, opening a case of “Zima,” which had been invented sometime around then. A “clear malt beverage” in a cool bottle, like soda for adults, it would become the butt of jokes very quickly. For now, it was new and interesting.

“Dude, you wanna try this?” He handed one to me. I figured why not? He tossed a bottle opener at me when I wasn’t quite looking and it bounced off my chest, clattering on the linoleum. We laughed. “Yer a spaz, Hind-lick.”

It tasted pretty good to a college freshman (what did I know?), and I admit it felt special that Mark wanted to share one with me. It was a lazy, sunny late afternoon, one of my favorite things. We sat and talked with some others who had come by, and who also partook. Rick was gone for the weekend, apparently a wedding at home.

Afternoon slid into evening, there was dinner to be had, and I had planned to go study afterward. Such was the life of most students in our dorm, even on a Friday night, when the semester started to lean hard into its second half and there were grades to worry about, and finals looming. I got back to the room to find Mark there with another guy from our section, Casey, both enjoying Zimas. Or at least drinking them.

“ZIMA!” Mark almost threw one at me.

I bobbled it and caught it. “Sure, I guess.” I was a drinking lightweight in college, and wasn’t getting much “practice,” if you want to describe building tolerance that way. Dinner had been good, my buzz from the prior Zima had worn off, and really I wasn’t crazy about Nietzsche just then, so I figured I would put off the night’s studying at least for now. Casey left, and Mark and I drank and chatted about our couple of professors in common.

There was a commotion from the hallway. Heavy, pounding running, and laughter. We got up and leaned out the door to see what was going on, and were almost clipped by Matt, a bigger guy, running past with Jim, a smaller guy, on his back. Just behind them was another matched pair, big John carrying skinny Shawn, also running. There was duct tape on the floor at the end of the hallway, apparently a finish line, and when Matt passed it, he began to shout and whirl around, making Jim hold on tighter.

“Crazy fuckers,” I volunteered. Mark agreed, but –

“Bet we could take ’em. You’re small enough. C’mon Hind-lick!”

I barely had time to put down what was left of my Zima. I know Mark didn’t actually carry me out into the hallway and throw me up into the air over his head and onto his back, but that’s how it felt. Neither of us was wearing shoes, and while I had jeans and a sweatshirt on, Mark was in his usual soccer shorts and beer t-shirt. Matt and Jim, the reigning champs, were lining up next to us.

Maybe it was the alcohol in my head, or the fact that I had to hold on for dear life with my arms around Mark’s muscular chest, burying my face in his neck in anticipation of hurtling down the hall, but I felt suddenly in a zen-like space. There was a brief moment before the “shotgun” when nothing was happening, but I was closer to Mark than the night I fell asleep with my arm over his chest. He didn’t smell like beer and sweat this time, and he wasn’t a cologne-wearer, so I was buried in Old Spice deodorant and… Mark. His fair, soft skin was warm on my face, and I could feel his heartbeat and his large chest expanding and contracting like I had that night. His cotton t-shirt was worn to the point of silk-softness. I felt like I was on the back of a Roman centurion, who was wearing only a tunic that hinted at his muscles beneath, like so many marble statues appeared in museums. Now, if I had to choose between this and my bed, I-

“GO!”

Bounding, thumping, wind in my face. Mark’s body sprang into action and we raced down the hall. Well, he raced – I held on and buried my face further. It was all a blur of me bouncing blindly in the air, and I can’t really remember much. I know we didn’t win, though, because the next sensation I do remember was one of falling forwards. Things happened too quickly to piece apart, but when we were no longer in motion, Mark was swearing and getting up, and I was on the floor holding my left knee, which hurt like crazy. Matt and Jim were whirling again beyond the finish line and also fell down, though less traumatically.

“You okay dude?” Mark was trying to help me up.

My knee was throbbing. “Yeah… I guess. You weren’t drunk driving me were you?” As I clambered to my feet and my knee protested more, I held onto the wall. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry…you need help?” He watched me take a few pathetic limps down the hall, and before I knew it, he had actually thrown me into the air this time, and I was in his arms. “Let’s put you on Rick’s bed and see if you need to go to Student Death.” The health center was known for its questionable care.

The centurion carried the fallen down the hallway and back into our room. He lowered me into Rick’s bed, and of course I banged my head on my upper bunk rail. “Fuck!” I was seated at last, but not comfortably. The knee felt better a little bent with no pressure on it, though.

“Oh shit dude, fuck I’m sorry, haha. I’m just… fuck I’ll leave you alone.” He had been kneeling beside me and got up. I could tell he felt bad.

He turned away, and I grabbed his wrist and held it. I don’t know why. Maybe the heady scent of Mark had gotten to me, or maybe it was the Zima; both were apparently intoxicating. But I recovered quickly, turning his wrist over and looking at it.

“Sorry, I was going to check the time on the Magic Marker Watch but you’re not wearing it.” Maybe that was a mean dig. He had improved his behavior immensely since that incident, and was a model student, but I felt the immediate need to hide my feelings and distract from my touching him that way.

“HA-HA, fucker. Very funny.” He didn’t sound amused.

“I’m sorry. That was…I really didn’t do any of -” Here it came, the conversation we should have had.

“It just hurt, y’know?” He walked to the door and shut it, locking it to prevent the crazies from spilling in; the races continued apace outside, with pounding and yelling. Mark grabbed another couple Zimas, opened them, and came back and sat next to me on Rick’s bed. He handed me one. “This might make yer knee better.” I didn’t know what to say.

He changed the subject as we sat there, talking about classes again, wondering what Rick was doing down where it was warmer. We drank at a college pace while talking, and got through a couple bottles each.

Yeah, I know, I know, here’s the cliché part of the story where two guys are drinking alone in a college dorm room together, but I had never done any of this at that point, so put yourself in my shoes.

“I’m sorry about the tattoos.” I burped. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Yer fuckin marker dude!” He was familiar with the contents of my desk drawer.

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know what-”

“And whatever, have some fun, but my FACE!”

“I know.” I genuinely felt bad.

“And what they wrote…”

I looked over at him. His voice had faltered at the word “wrote.” His eyes were shining, like the day I came at him about being accused of cuddling. But he didn’t turn away this time, and I was a lot closer. I could see them brimming slightly. His jowls looked sunken and his chin wrinkled. He turned away then.

His voice quavered. “Is that what they think?”

I was blown away by his vulnerability. My heart was thumping so hard I could hear it in my ears. Now my voice shook, for different reasons. I was uncomfortably familiar with exactly what I knew Mark was feeling inside.

“Whatever, no one’s bi. Or gay,” I reassured, pathetically, hating myself a little. “Or whatever it’s -”

“People are.”

I was shaking now. I was sure he could see, or at least feel me shuddering. It was that kind of sternal, whole-body shudder, when chemicals are flying around the body and you’re about to go over the hill on a roller coaster, or meet someone on a date for the first time. We were sitting closer now too, and I felt cold. Beads of sweat dropped from my armpits inside my hoodie. I hated that feeling.

Mark sniffled, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I was mad at you around then. But I woke up with your arm around me and…”

“On you, thanks.”

“…and then that other time I got up and my forehead said “bisexual” and… Jesus I wanted to die. Did you ever feel so fucking like… you were so naked your skin was torn off? I mean…”

“Yeah, a lot.”

“…I mean that’s a fucking LOT and what were people going to think if they saw your arm on me and -… did… what did you say?”

“I said yeah, I’ve felt just like that. A lot.”

“Oh.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. My trembling was at the point where there were bursts of it, and relative calm in-between. We hadn’t moved and our legs were now solidly against each others’. Our shoulders touched. There wasn’t any effort to make space between us, from either side.

My brain was throbbing and my ears were ringing. “Mark I’m so sorry. Can I… ask… did it bother you so much because… it’s true?”

Like, entire days went by waiting for him to speak. Or push me away. Or run. But none of that happened. Instead he slowly leaned on me a little harder, and gently put his head on my shoulder. My throat started to ache like before crying. I swallowed hard and blinked back tears. I sniffled and my emotion mixed with the scent of Mark.

My voice was barely a whisper. “I… would never hurt you.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

His head slowly picked itself up off my shoulder, and he took my hand in his and squeezed it, just for a second, before letting go. Then he pushed himself up and bounced on the bed, putting a few feet of space between us, turned towards me, and leaned against the wall at the head of the bed. I looked over at him. He was smirking.

“So what’s your deal, Hind-lick?”

He did that upwards nod at me that he often did, when he was taunting someone, or in conversation when he indicated he was done, and the other person should speak. It was cocky, stupid, and I used to hate it. Why did I think it was hot now? I wanted to throw myself at him. I never, ever thought of him that way, because my mind just wouldn’t go there with someone I had to share living quarters with – pure self-preservation. But all bets were off now. The green Umbros rode up on his thick thighs, and though he was leaning back on his elbows making his chest concave, the silken grayer-than-it-should-have-been worn white t-shirt rippled over his defined features. I swallowed my feelings like I had just a moment earlier, and returned service –

“You first dude.”

“Pussy. Fine. I was a scrawny fuck in high school and a total nerd like you, and I got picked on. Hard. It sucked. So my senior year and all last summer, I went to the gym all the time, and became the Man I Am Today.” He flexed a bicep and turned his curled fist outwards. As if he had to; his arms looked gorgeous all the time.

“Why were you picked on?

“Y’know, the usual accusations. Nerd. Faggot. Mama’s boy.”

“Did you ever do… stuff… with dudes?”

“Nah. Banged a chick at prom, but it was, murr, nothin really. We were both drunk.”

“So how do you know?”

“Time’s up Tom-boy. You go.”

The room suddenly grew bright for a half second as my sympathetic nervous system kicked in, dilating my pupils, and my heart started to pound. “I’ve always known, but…well I just know.”

“What all have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even pussy dude?”

“I’m thinking it’s probably not my thing.” The words crashed out of my mouth. “I had a girlfriend who grinded on me once while kissing me, but it weirded me out a little.”

“Pssssh. So what do you even know?”

I was a little defensive. “I know how I feel. There was this guy -”

“Uh huh, now we’re gettin somewhere.”

“- in my senior year, who sat behind me in calculus. Shawn. He was the captain of like, all the fucking teams at the school. One day I was leaning back, with my hand resting on a chair leg like this,” I demonstrated, “and his knee grazed my forearm just above the wrist. I moved it away, because y’know, that’s what you’re supposed to do. But then I moved it back. And again, his knee grazed my arm but then it stayed there, and so I didn’t move. And like… my whole body got hot. We sat like that for like several minutes, I could feel the warmth from his knee. And then class was over.”

“Wooo, pretty magical encounter there.” His sarcasm dripped. But was he getting into my story?

“Yeah, well, that started to happen every day, all period. Sometimes I would move my arm to rub his knee, sometimes he moved his knee and rubbed my arm. But every day it was obvious we were touching each other on purpose. Then one day after senior pictures came back, he was writing out headshots to friends, and a girl came and asked him for one. He wrote one out for her, and she left. I turned around, looked at the pics, then up at him, and said, ‘Where’s mine?'”

“WHOAAAA fuck Hindy!”

“Yeah. He blushed like crazy. But that was it. I felt bad and didn’t talk to him again.”

“But the knee thing?” He was totally into the story.

“Continued all year. There were other guys too, with feet under the desks-”

“Yer like a footsie slut dude!”

“Yeah, well take what you can get. Anyhow, this other guy John, in another class, ugh he had these eyes.”

I couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth, to Mark of all the people in the world.

“They were ice blue, so beautiful, just like-” holy crap I stopped myself, but I looked right at the eyes I was comparing.

“AWW!” He leaned forward and cuffed me on the shoulder. I turned red, but recovered quickly, continued.

“Anyway John sat in front of me, and y’know, you stretch out and “forget” to pull your feet back, then he bends his knees and his feet crash into yours and you’re both all, “Sorry, sorry,” but it keeps happening and then at one point neither of you moves them. We did that for like a year.”

“Round, round, get around, you got around, yeah” Mark serenaded me with a musical reference older than both of us.

“Well ANYway…here’s the part where the two stories come together. Shawn was the son of one of the teachers at the school and captain of like every sport. John was a total stoner-slacker-guitar-player. These two had no reason to know each other, much less hang out. But one day after school, I saw the two of them talking by some lockers and… just the way they looked at each other, and the smile on Shawn’s face. I knew.”

“Haha they were doin it dude!”

“I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t even know what I would have done if I got to be in a room alone with either of them. I’ve always been left out because I was too scared.”

We didn’t say anything for a second, as if that statement resonated deeply with both of us. It had been getting dark, we hadn’t put on any lights in the room, and the dorm was getting quiet for a Friday night. And then it happened. Mark stretched out his leg toward me, and gently rubbed my thigh with his foot. It was huge and beautiful, and I wished I hadn’t been wearing jeans. I wanted to put it in my mouth, but I settled for picking up his other foot and massaging forcefully it with my thumbs. It was an interesting contrast, deep strength from smaller me, and a gentle caress from my big jock roommate.

“Where’d you get good at that, dude?”

“Dunno, just… I can tell how it would feel and I want you to… feel like that.”

We stayed like that for a little while (“Get the other one dude!” “Aright, aright, sheesh”) and as the light got even dimmer, I could barely make out a bulge in Mark’s green Umbros. My rager was concealed by my jeans, but he found it with the foot I wasn’t massaging. It was no fair – he sort of slid into touching me, but I would have to lean forward to reach him, and I was, once again, scared.

Fuck it. I leaned forward and firmly grabbed Hardon’s hardon.

“Hey there!” he protested.

“Whatever, I want to see if you deserve the “Big” part of your nickname.”

“Well, you could fuckin ask!”

I sat back, chastened. “Yeah, I’m s-”

“Shuttup and c’mere Hindy,” he chuckled.

He patted the bed next to him. I shimmied between him and the wall and leaned back next to him. We fit in Rick’s lower bunk bed like a camping tent, smashed next to each other. I didn’t waste any time. Hell, I’d already groped him. I slid my hand under the waistband of his shorts and boxers, and found what I was looking for. Warm, slightly damp, silky smooth, and rock hard, Big Hardon was in my hand. It felt fair like his skin looked in the daylight, and strong like his arms. I could tell from years of holding my own that his was slightly bigger – but not much. I smiled at that.

And then I felt him groping at the button of my jeans, and took a sharp breath in. My mind was reeling.

“What, I don’t get to compare?” He paused for a moment.

“No, it’s just…it was a surprise.” I helped him out and took care of the button and the zipper. My cockhead was already creeping out of the waistband of my briefs. Mark’s strong, soft hand was there in a second, doing what I was doing to him.

“Shit, Hindy, for a little guy…!”

I turned my head towards his. “Yeah, well, we’ll surprise you.”

It was really dark now, and I felt more than saw that he had also turned his head toward mine. His breath was warm on my face and of course smelled of Zima. Fuck, was this really happening? I leaned in ever so slightly and breathed in. We luckily had good aim in the dark, and our noses slid just perfectly past each other. Our lips touched. For a split second I was so incredulous that I didn’t move – neither did he. But then he pressed his lips around my bottom lip and sucked gently. I leaned in and did the same to his upper lip. Mark’s lips were nothing dramatic in the daylight, kind of thin and unpronounced, but in this moment they were full and pink and tasted like a boy. I had tasted girl, but this was more…my taste.

Some head turning, and more gentle sucking later, Mark’s tongue was parting my lips. For as gruff as he typically seemed, he slid his tongue into my mouth so sweetly. It was also huge, and it felt like it filled my mouth. I made the next move and put my hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer. My mouth felt full but I wanted more. We made very little noise, both conscious of where we were.

He stopped touching my cock, took my head in his hands and pulled away from me. He gave my lips a little peck and hopped out of the bed. All I could see was his shadow against the light streaming in from the transom window, but he was very clearly taking off his shirt, then his Umbros. He left his boxers on.

I similarly hopped out of the bed and got out of my jeans, which had been cramping my style, honestly. I took my sweatshirt and undershirt off, leaving only my briefs and socks on, and we stood there, facing each other. It felt like there was electricity between our bodies, and as he approached me, I half expected a static shock. He put his large arms around me, one around the small of my back and the other around my upper back, and pulled me to him. My skinny chest met his chiseled pecs and abs, and I sank into his body and his kiss. I put my arms around his neck and held on, feeling weightless and like I couldn’t feel the floor.

He actually had picked me up briefly, and was so strong he didn’t have to squeeze me and lean back to do it. I just floated against him. His cock had found its way out the fly of his boxers, and when he let me back down, it was caught between my legs, which I closed together around it. He moaned slightly. This felt – this was so right. Still kissing me, he put his hands on my hips and began to thrust back and forth just a small amount. An idea pushed its way into my spinning mind.

When I was bored of studying and horny in the library (only about most of the time I was there) I used to look for distractions among the books. The Greeks provided a lot of distractions, and the vase paintings of bearded men placing their phalluses between the thighs of slighter and fairer boys reminded me of just the way Mark and I stood now. I often wondered how this would feel. Now that I had a sense, I wanted to try it the way I’d read about.

“Do you have any lube?”

“Uhh…dude I’m not sure I wanna…”

“No…just…for this. Like we are. I saw it on ancient Greek vases.”

“Yer a nerd.”

“C’mon.”

He shrugged, and pulled out from between my legs to go look. This of course felt worse for him than for me, because friction, and rated an “ow, FUCK!” I giggled slightly but also felt bad. “Yeah, for… that,” I said, as if that was needed. That got a “fuckin Hind-lick” under his breath.

He found a small bottle in his things and bounded back, holding it out to me. I looked up at his mattress and pointed at it.

“Wanna take this down, put it on the floor for old time’s sake?”

“I guess, and fuck off. Fuck you,” he laughed.

“Well, you’re gonna at least pretend to,” I poked back.

We took his mattress down and put it in the corner of the room that wasn’t spotlighted by the transom window. Mark threw a sheet from the laundry over it and I took off my briefs. I sat down on the mattress and yanked his boxers down. His softening erection was eye level, and I buried my face in his pubes and ran his cock along the side of my face. I had never seen gay porn but was just going from the gut. His scent was pungent and unexpected. I wasn’t sure I loved it, but could probably get used to it. He moaned slightly and then I slapped his ass.

“Now you c’mere.”

We lay down on our sides next to each other, fully naked for the first time together. He kissed me, and we touched each other for a little while. I felt the deep channel that ran down his spine, a valley between his lats. Where it ended at his lower back, his perfectly round glute curved outward, concave hip around to the side as his leg was up over me, quads, knee. Then the reverse journey. I felt him shiver slightly when I returned to the lower back, traveled up the valley to the base of his neck, around to his ear, and settled on the strong jaw that was so gently part of his kiss. Then he grabbed my left wrist, slowly but firmly. I remember the amount of pressure he used, and it told me simultaneously that he wouldn’t hurt me, and that I would do anything he wanted. He pushed my arm over to the mattress, prompting me to lie on my back, came over top of me, and slowly let his weight rest on me.

I remember when I was in grade school, there was a TV commercial for Hanes with Boomer Esiason of the Cincinnati Bengals wearing only underwear. It was pretty racy for the time and is still hot as fuck. I remember I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I somehow knew I wanted “Boomer” to just… lie on top of me. We had this couch with huge, very heavy cushions in the basement, and one day after I saw that commercial, I went down there, took two of the cushions, and put them on top of me imagining it was him.

This was a lot better. A linebacker, not a quarterback (sorry Boomer), was lying on top of me, kissing me. I could barely breathe but I didn’t care. His hardness was digging into my leg, and I grabbed his ass and felt how round it was. A couple of taps on his thigh and he responded by rolling off of me slightly. I found the lube, uncapped it, and squeezed some over my balls, then over his throbbing cock, rubbing it around in both places. He put his erection between my legs and moved up slightly, snugging it under my balls. His cock was shaped perfectly with a slight upwards curve, and it contacted me along its entire length. I closed my legs, and he laid himself back on top of me. He started to move his hips, gently fucking me between the legs.

“How does this feel so tight dude?” He kept going, slowly. I was glad he didn’t try to go faster. I wanted him to do this for hours.

I grunted under his heavy weight, “It’s… amazing.” It truly was and my ears were ringing.

He heard my struggle to speak and lifted himself up slightly. This allowed me to feel his chest and look at his beautiful, muscular body as he continued to push his hips into mine.

I was breathing easier now. “Please do this… forfuckingever.”

He snorted a laugh. I did too. And my laughter made my throat stretch and burn, and suddenly my eyes were wet, and tears were streaming from my eyes, down my temples. I sniffed, and wiped my eyes, literally overwhelmed with emotion. Sobs made their way up my chest and I tried so hard to suppress them, but a couple came out.

Mark stopped. “Dude, am I hurting you?” He started to move as though he might get up.

I grabbed both his straining biceps. “No. I’m sorry… I. Just… It’s so amazing. You’re amazing. You’re so… beautiful.”

I couldn’t see his eyes, but saw his chin wrinkle slightly in some reflected light, like it did when we were talking earlier. He leaned down and kissed the tears off my eyes, and then kissed my lips. I could taste the salt of my tears between our kiss. His tongue gently found its way into filling my mouth, and as it did he began to push between my legs again. As he kissed me deeply, he started to go faster, and I dug my nails into his back slightly. He moaned into my mouth.

Mark was really pressing into me now, and it felt like his cock was even larger. He stopped kissing me and was breathing heavily, his forehead pressed into my neck, still keeping his full weight off me. I was breathing heavily too – I think I’d been holding my breath kissing him. My head was spinning. I could tell he was getting close, and then he said as much.

“Please… please cum into me Mark,” I panted.

My hands on his hips felt their excursion as they crashed into me a little harder now. His muscular ass tensed with each stroke. When he actually came, so many things happened at once that I’m grateful how heightened my senses were. I felt his huge dick pulsing between my legs, and his hot cum pooled between them, warming a path as it flowed downwards. He groaned a low and rumbling sound, and his throat vibrated on my shoulder. My hands felt his back suddenly become wet as his skin poured sweat. He lowered his body to mine and his chest was damp too, causing us to stick together. His Old Spice deodorant filled the air, along with the scent of Mark, which was more subtle, but infinitely better. We lay like that for a moment, and the time felt infinitely quiet and tender.

Mark rolled off of me and jumped up to get a towel. He wiped himself off, and then came down and gently wiped between my legs. Again, I had no experience of any kind, so I didn’t know how sweet that was – some hookups with other guys would see a towel simply tossed at me, if at all.

“Mark… would you lie back down with me?” I was vibrating internally.

“Oh shit, sorry dude. Your turn I guess.”

It wasn’t what I meant – I had just wanted to cuddle (for real this time) – but I would certainly take it. Mark lay next to me and cupped my balls as I started to stroke my still-raging erection. This wasn’t going to take long, as I was so stimulated. I could feel myself getting closer, but then Mark stopped cupping my balls and sat up. He moved down toward my hips, and I felt his mouth close around my scrotum, making me gasp audibly. Then he moved away slightly and blew on it, driving me crazier, making me stroke harder. Finally, he swirled his tongue in a circle between my balls, which quickly tightened up on either side of my cock as I shot strings of hot cum all over my belly. Shaking, breathing heavily, and then laughing, I grabbed the towel and wiped off.

“Where. The fuck. Did you learn to do all that? You never messed with guys?” I challenged.

“Oh yea, prom chick made me do all this kinda stuff to her down there. I figured it’d translate.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘message received.'”

We both got up, cleaned up a little more, and agreed to go down to the showers at different times so as not to arouse suspicion. Mark went first, and I tidied up a bit, found new sheets and put them on his mattress on the floor. It was after midnight, and in my still-emotional state, I wanted Mark to sleep next to me. I’d dreamed of sleeping next to someone in a romantic sense for years, and when could there have been a more appropriate time than after my first serious sexual experience? When he returned, I put the idea to him. He seemed hesitant, like he wasn’t expecting the request. Grabbing his arm, I wrapped it around myself, turning, and pressed my back into his chest as we stood there.

“Fine,” he shrugged.

I went to shower. When I returned, Mark was lying on the mattress. He had taken one of the University-issued blankets that had been balled up in his area and wrapped himself in it. I took from my bed the afghan my grandma crocheted for me when I was a year old, that had wrapped me all my life up through puberty, and in which I had cuddled myself when I dreamed of the boys I would someday kiss. It was home, it was me, and I wanted it over me after this new experience.

I was in full atmosphere-creating mode, and went over to Mark’s desk, turning on his desk light. He asked what I was doing and I said, “Just, something,” as I rifled through his CDs and found the particular Pearl Jam one I was thinking of. They more or less plagued my high school years, and I couldn’t say I was into them, but they were solidly entrenched in what would become nostalgic memories later. I had never heard “Yellow Ledbetter” before Mark played it in the room one day, and it captivated me – it sounded to my ears surprisingly gentle and sweet instead of the band’s usual angsty and jarring gestalt. I wanted to hear it now because it had become associated with Mark in my head, so I put it on, very quietly (it gets louder at the end).

Holding my blanket over me, I knelt, then lay down on the mattress. Mark turned over away from me. My chest sunk a little – I had thought we might face each other – but I worked my arm under his blanket and up over him. He took my arm and pulled it around his warm, muscled torso, making my heart race. I cupped one of his pectorals and buried my face in the back of his neck, drowning in his scent. Kissing his neck, unable to help myself, I sighed.

“Yer in romantic mode now Hind-lick.”

I blushed in the dark and felt less clothed than I was. “Pssh whatever dude.”

“We’re not like, boyfriends now or somethin.”

I think my heart stopped. I definitely stopped breathing, and realized I was completely, utterly unprepared for this territory and really, who would I even talk about this with tomorrow?

“That’s ok yer not my type anyhow,” I managed.

He snorted, “Wasn’t how you sounded earlier!” I kneed him in his butt.

“Ow, fucker!” He tried to kick back but missed.

“Look, I’ve never been in this kinda situation before,” I ventured. “I know exactly how it feels to be scared and I’m not dumb about things. But like, Rick is gone for the weekend and we only have like a few more chances to do what we just did again, and I’m probably gonna want to take some of em. If you want to, or whatever, y’know… whatever.”

He grunted. “That’s fair I guess. But I’m not g-”

I cut him off. “You don’t need to be anything but right next to me right now.”

Eddie Vedder’s plaintive strains were floating over from Mark’s stereo. The song ended; I had thought about putting it on repeat, but decided not to, and there was silence. Pretty soon Mark was snoring softly. He always was quick to fall asleep. I regularly stayed up much later than both of my roommates, and Mark used to poke fun at and marvel about how much energy I seemed to have despite “never” sleeping.

Right now I definitely wanted anything but sleep, and not to miss a moment of being this close to him. Never in a millennium would I have imagined this could happen. I wouldn’t say I was attracted to him before this day, but now things were different. I could feel his warm heartbeat, and the expansion and contraction of his chest while he breathed. I didn’t have to worry that he was going to stop breathing, or throw up on himself. He wanted my arm around him. And he wouldn’t – God I hoped he wouldn’t – be cold and distant tomorrow and the next week, because we were cuddling for fucking sure right now, and we both knew it.

The morning was a blur. Mark got up unceremoniously (read: he didn’t kiss me. I wanted him to) but he did take his still-warm blanket and put it over me. I rolled over into the spot where he was and felt his lingering warmth. He sat at his computer and flipped it on, put on some more Pearl Jam, and didn’t say anything.

“Good morning,” I got up, folding the blankets. “Guess we should put this back up?”

“Yeah,” he grunted and got up to help me with his mattress. I could have eventually done it by myself, but he made it look effortless. He stood there and I moved closer to him, wanted to hug him again and kiss him. But I felt the smallest resistance, like when the same ends of two magnets are just close enough to be at the edge of their fields. I put my head down, and he leaned over and pecked me on the top of my head. Then he tweaked my nipple.

“Aahh, fucker!” I swatted his hand. He snort-laughed at me, like he always did.

The rest of the day was spent doing schoolwork, hanging with friends, going to eat, the usual things. Part of me wanted to stay in the room the entire day with Mark, but I knew that wasn’t going to be what happened, even if I asked. I definitely wasn’t as engaged with my friends or studies as usual. My mind was still vibrating.

That night I hurried back to the room after dinner, pretending to “study in my room” (I never did that) and trying to tell myself that I wasn’t waiting for Mark to come back. Hours went by, no Mark. When he finally did show up, it was about 10:30, and he was wearing a backpack full of books. My excitement to see him came out as-

“Hey! Where’ve you been?”

“Uhh, studying? Mom?”

“Oh. I. Um…”

“You were waiting fer your husband to come home to dinner?”

I cast my eyes down and could feel my face blush – or did it run white? My breath sank to my toes. It must have been obvious.

“Uhh, I’m sorry,” he said, cuffing me on the shoulder. My mind was reeling and I was talking to myself: Just don’t fuck this up. You don’t have any clue or the slightest idea of what to do. Just. Sit. Breathe.

We sat in our respective areas in the room for a while in silence, Mark doing stuff on his computer and me pretending to do anything, but just waiting. After a while I heard the characteristic sound of him turning off his computer, then his desk lamp, sounds I had become so familiar with meaning “I’m going to bed.” He went to brush his teeth at the sink next to my desk, where I was pretending to read. My heart raced, then sank. He climbed up into his loft. There was probably no room for me up there.

“‘Night, Butt-lick.”

“Yeah, ‘night.” I brushed my teeth too, took out my contacts, turned out my light, and climbed into my upper bunk. My jelly knees would barely do the job of getting me up there. Staring across to his loft – they were perfectly on a level – I could see him wrapped in his blanket with his back to me. I had the thought that we had essentialy been sleeping next to each other the whole year. I had the further ridiculous wish that my arm would stretch long enough to reach over, and find its way under his blanket and around his chest. Such a thought had never crossed my mind before, and that in itself was kind of funny to think about. But my heart ached right now.

“Mark?”

Snort. Grunt. “Yeah?”

Christ, I was a mess inside! What was I going to say? I thought about a million options. Can we sleep together again? Do you wanna talk? Can I rub your back? Would you fill my mouth with your massive tongue again and never take it out until we get old? All of these ended, in my mind, with No.

“Nothin, sorry.”

He rolled over to look at me from his loft. His eyes reflected some of the light from the hall. I hoped he couldn’t see mine, which were wide with anxiety, or that I was breathing a little harder, or that my heart was doing that ridiculous Looney Toons bounding out of my chest so hard it could smack him in the face across the room. How can you have the experience I had and then sit and look at the person it was with, who is lying across the room and not touching you, by his own choice? What was going to happen tomorrow when Rick came back? How the fuck was I going to sleep in this room again?

My mind raced through a hundred thoughts – what if he didn’t want to be gay? What if he wasn’t gay? Wasn’t “bi” a “gateway drug” for straight dudes? What if he hooked up with a girl? Jealousy. Hurt. His lips on mine. Scared. Tweaking my nipple. Sinking. His head on my shoulder. Breathing.

He was still looking at me. I could make out that his eyes were open, saw him blinking. Could he see mine? I sniffed, took a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly as silently as I could, but it caught in my throat and I coughed a couple times.

Mark sat up slightly and swung his legs out of the loft, jumped down, ignoring the ladder like he usually did. I watched him grab his mattress, slide it out, put it on the floor. He threw his blanket on it, then stepped over it to my bunk, folded his arms up high and leaned on them on the edge of the bedframe, looking at me.

“C’mon.”

“Mark I know it’s stupid, this is dumb and there’s no way yer gonna be my boyfriend or something, but you’re the first guy-”

“Tom. Shh. Stop. C’mon.”

There was the verbal equivalent of that pressure with which he grabbed my wrist the night before, turning me on my back. Gentle but strong, safe but unyielding, irresistible. I felt myself swinging my legs down from the bunk and floating to the ground as though he were carrying me. Eyes transfixed on Mark, I grabbed my blanket without looking back at the bed, and lay down on his mattress. He took my briefs off, then his boxers. He went to get the lube. Then he rested his full weight gently on top of me and filled my mouth with his tongue. So overwhelmed, I instantly wanted to cry, but got control because crying would just get in the way of what I wanted more in this very second than anything I had ever wanted in my life. This was my drug, he was my dealer, and here was my next hit.

The rest of the night was more or less a play-by-play repeat of the previous night. Which was just fucking fine because, I mean, God – that was the best thing I had ever physically experienced. But tonight Mark decided to run the option instead of the standard play of turning over and going to sleep. After we had gotten cleaned up, he sat down cross-legged on the mattress, with a blanket around him, and motioned for me to come closer.

“Sit down on my lap, but face me.” I did as requested. My legs were sort of bent around him and his around me. “Now, take a deep breath, and kiss me, and when you do, breathe out all the way. Then just follow my lead, and keep kissing me.”

He wrapped the blanket, and his muscular arms, around us both. I didn’t care what he said before and after “kiss me” – I would have done anything, so long as that was included.

Deep breath as requested, our lips met and locked together, open-mouthed. I breathed out, and my breath disappeared into him as I felt his chest expand. Then nothing happened for a few seconds. The world stopped. I started to feel fainter than I already was, and wanted to-

Breathe.

The world spun again. Mark breathed back into me, warm, full air that satisfied the increasingly pressing need of my lungs and heart. My light-headedness gave way to a feeling of floating, suspended in his arms, like a superhero had caught me falling from a building and was now flying us both over the top of it, over the whole skyline. I opened my eyes and saw his closed, waited a second, and breathed back into him, closing my eyes again.

We went back and forth like that a few times, sharing breath, a closed system of just the two of us with no entry of outside stimuli, forget the whole world. I couldn’t see, didn’t hear, didn’t want anything but breath from the beautiful boy attached to me and holding me so close.

It was clear that our lungs were extracting the available oxygen from the air we shared, and each breath seemed to satisfy less, grow smaller. Mark pulled back after he breathed into me the last time, and I heard him take a new, deep breath of the air between us. He was coming towards me again and I quickly exhaled and kissed him to catch-

Breathe.

His breath filled me again. Maybe we did it a few more times, but eventually just transitioned to slow, gentle kissing, with tongue, and teeth, and ears, and jawbones, necks, and back to just lips. At some point we had lain down facing each other, still kissing. Our lips were getting chapped. And it was truly late, and we were getting sleepy.

“What…where did you learn that? Prom chick again?” I wondered, starry-brained.

“Nah, I duno, I think I thought about it when we had to practice CPR for lifeguarding. Kinda weird, huh?”

“No. Um. That’s not the word I’d use.” I gave up, figuring that telling him how it made me feel would just be more “boyfriend language.” We lay in silence a little longer, then I broke it again.

“Mark?”

“Yeah Tommy?” He dispensed with the nickname and used my real name. Even better, an affectionate version that nobody called me.

“What happens when Rick comes back?”

Silence. The superhero and his rescue crashed to the ground.

“Wull, he’ll just have to walk around the mattress to brush his teeth.” I could hear the eye-rolling in his voice.

It hurt, a little, but I managed a smile. Then back to a frown. “I’m scared how I’ll feel.”

“I tried to get you used to it but you started boo-hooing in bed, so…”

I pushed away. “Oh, thanks for all the fuckin favors, dude.”

“I told you I don’t want a boyfriend.”

My heart searched for validation, mutuality. “Will you at least tell me you got out of your bed because you wanted to, and not to stop my ‘boo-hooing?'”

He took a deep breath and sighed. He kissed me forcefully, almost bit my lip, then relaxed slowly, parted my lips with his soft tongue and filled my mouth with it once again, pulled it back, and so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, eased up until we were no longer kissing, but close enough to.

He spoke. “I’ll take ‘There’s yer answer’ for $200, Alex.” Again, with him, that was probably as good as I was going to get, verbally. Good enough for now. And I certainly liked the non-verbal portion.

Then as often now, I wore my heart on my sleeve. Turning over, I pulled Mark’s arm over me and held it. It was heavy, and his smooth, fair skin was a thrill to touch the way I wanted. I launched into a story.

“There’s this episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Data makes a daughter, Lal. She eventually develops emotions, but it’s too much for her circuits, and she basically melts down. Before she dies, she tells him she loves him, but of course he can’t feel that for her because he doesn’t have emotions. So she says she will feel it for both of them.”

My heart raced and I gathered my will.

“I love you Mark. And I feel enough of it for both of us.”

“Jeeezis yer a nerd Hind-lick.”

My circuits were melting down. I wasn’t hopeless – my story was nerdy, on purpose, and I was intellectualizing a bit, trying to distract my mind from the emotions that were taking it over. But I also meant – felt – what I said, and as much as I anticipated every word of Mark’s reply, it still stung a little. In retrospect I should have given him a break. He wasn’t ready to deal with these feelings any more than I was. We both were good at hiding them, but the difference was I could no longer hide them around him. The floodgates weren’t open, they were blown off the hinges.

“Yeah, well,” I managed, “you are too, even though you pretend you’re not.” I worried after that was out of my mouth that the potential double-entendre was too much, but he didn’t say anything. We drifted off.

As would happen a few other times in my life, when I was particularly anxious about something I felt was really a Big Deal, I woke the next morning with my heart rate at 120. The words rushed to my mind, “Rick comes back today.” My stomach twisted, my heart began to bound. Maybe that’s what made Mark stir, because his arm was still tight around me.

His huge, strong hand moved to cover my chest where I would’ve had a pectoral if I had any muscles. I knew from looking in the mirror, you could see the impulse of my heart through my skinny chest even when I was calm, and Mark felt it now.

“D’you sneak out and go for a run or somethin, dude?”

“No just….” I shrugged. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

“Are you always like this?”

“Only when it feels like the world’s gonna end.”

“Tommyyy….” He leaned up. That pressure of his hand on my shoulder this time, that felt like it could move mountains but gently turned me over towards him on my back. I looked up at him, swallowed hard. I was so, so scared. I needed someone who knew what to do, just to tell me. Someone merciful, smart, and with circuits more like Data. The universe came through for me this time.

“Tom. Dude. We’re going back to the way everything was before this weekend. Yer gonna be my roommate, our other roommate is coming back, and we’re gonna give each other the space we have been all year. I got a project due Friday and it’s important. But next Saturday we’re gonna go for a walk and talk, okay? And I don’t want you sittin at your desk doin nothin until then, waitin for me. You got plenty of shit t’do too. Can ya do that?”

I nodded. Mark laid out a clear plan and goals, a way forward for just the next week. I don’t know what would have happened to me if my first experiences with a guy were with someone different. It still causes a twinge of hurt sometimes, to think back to how I regarded him the first months of that year, with fear, contempt, dismissiveness. Every one of us is infinitely more complex than we appear outwardly, and beautiful in ways that often, others never see.

And Christ, giving myself a break, no fucking wonder I was overloaded at the time, and imagined things like wanting to spend the rest of my life with him!

The week went by and I followed the plan, interacting with Mark and Rick as occasionally as ever, though when I was in the room with Mark my brain wouldn’t stop humming, my heart would pound a bit harder than usual, and I think I just gave up on breathing. My friends made a couple comments about how I seemed distracted or quieter. The truth is, this was taking up all my CPU power, and the heat sink and internal fan were working hard. Every night I lay in my bed, staring across at him, watching him breathe, listening to him snore, with the fifteen feet between us feeling like a million miles.

Okay, fine, I fucked the plan up. Early in the week I saw an old campus flyer tacked up for a Valentine’s event, that had big red hearts on it. I grabbed it and shoved it in my backpack before I knew what I was doing, and went back to our room. No one was there, so I pulled the flyer out, cut out the biggest red heart on the page, drew a smiley face on it with the tongue sticking out, and put it in Mark’s desk drawer that I knew he used frequently for pens and things. I figured, it’s playful, a heart, says a few things, nothing too serious, likely from me, deniable if accused, we left our door unlocked a lot, could have been left by anyone. Not too risky. The rest of the flyer went in the hallway trash can. In the dorm basement.

There was an email in my inbox from Mark the next day: “dude, please don’t.” Once again, 100% anticipated, and 100% devastating. I started to compose an email back, typing and typing, and when were we meeting on Saturday? And what are we gonna talk about? and… then erased it. More wasn’t going to help.

Saturday morning came and Mark was up early. He showered, dressed, grabbed books and his backpack, and left, presumably to the dining hall. I had no plans, so I turned back over and tried unsuccessfully to have a sex dream. Rick woke and got going – I usually was up and out before him. He went through the same motions, and I was alone.

Sex dream unsuccessful, couldn’t sleep. I had an idea. Dismounting and wandering over to Mark’s clothes bag, I found the shirt he had been sleeping in. It was the same one from the hallway race a week ago, soft, and slightly damp. I buried my face in it, trembling a little. Deep breaths that would normally calm me filled my lungs with the scent of Old Spice and Mark, and made my head spin and my face flush. Locking the door, I took off my t-shirt and put on his. Trembling a little more, I was starting to get hard.

I paused for only a second before finding his boxers in the clothes bag. Fuck it, I buried my face in them also, and his pungent smell was there. I hadn’t been sure how I felt about it before, but now it made my heart beat faster. I got back up in my bed and lay down, rubbing my thin chest through the soft, musky t-shirt.

Throbbing now, I grabbed my cock with one hand and put the boxers over my face with the other, pushing them into my mouth. I inhaled through my nose and mouth, stroking faster and faster. I was so hard I felt like I would run out of skin. Taking the boxers off my face I shoved them under my balls, imagining Mark’s forceful spear between my legs. I pressed them rhythmically into me, licked his scent off my lips and prepared to cum. Carefully pulling up his shirt and moving his boxers, I looked down at my red, angry knob and watched it pump out strands of white cum that pooled in my belly button. Fuck I loved being a dude.

Get up, clean up, put Mark’s things back, shower, go eat. I blushed when I saw my friends, who asked why I was late. After breakfast, I went to a computer lab to check my email, and there was a message from Mark. Subject: Dude (what else would he type?) Body: hey down by the lake there’s that island you can get to by swinging around the gate. some friends are going to meet us at 2:30.

That was distressing. He had said we’d go for a walk and… I stopped myself and smiled a little. What the hell was I thinking, that we were going to meet in our room, and walk out of the dorm hand-in-hand to the quad and talk about the sex we had last weekend? Maybe we’d ditch the friends, I don’t know, but it was better than hearing nothing.

It was 1:30 now, so I had some time to read for class next week. The weather was unseasonably warm in the upper 70s, and though I was wearing my usual jeans and t-shirt, I was cold in the computer lab and figured outside would be better. I wandered to a quad nearby and found a bench. Time check: 1:35. The campus lake was a fifteen-minute walk away, so I pulled out a book, opened it, and stared right through it. There was no focusing on anything right now except the swirling thoughts making my mind hum.

Mark’s head on my shoulder, his weight on top of me, breathing into me, his tongue, his arm around me; I basically ran through the entire two nights we spent over and over. My heart was quicker than usual. Time check: 1:38. Fuck.

I was going to burst out of my skin. I got up and walked, aimlessly zig-zagging the paths across the quad. Anyone who had been watching me close enough might have thought I was nuts. Walking to an adjacent quad, I did the same zig-zagging thing on the paths there. There were large shade trees that made intricate patterns on the ground with the sun streaming through. Birds chirped, people laughed, and my head vibrated. Time check: 1:46. Jesus!

Maybe I could just walk to the lake right then, but no, I didn’t want to seem pathetic. He would roll his eyes at me waiting for him there. Maybe I could show up late all casual and be like, yeah, I had some things to do…. but I didn’t think I could pull that off either. He would see right through it. Screwed either way, I just decided to be on time. Luckily there were more quads. And I could walk slower I guess.

As I approached the lake, walking along the slightly downward-sloping road that approached it, it winked back at me, glittering in the sun. It was surrounded by trees and there was a path that went along its edge. As stunning as the natural beauty was, few students actually spent much time walking the paths, or at the lake itself. The place Mark mentioned was this curious oval island, maybe a hundred feet long, about twenty feet offshore. People knew about it, but like the lake itself, it didn’t seem to be frequented. A narrow concrete path had been built through the shallow water to it, about two feet wide, and in the middle of the path had been placed a wrought iron gate, always locked, about five feet wide and as tall. It was almost comical, and no one could figure out why it had been installed – all you had to do was hold onto the bars and swing around it, and you were past. Time check before executing this maneuver: 2:26. There was no one in sight. Fuck, I didn’t want to be early. Nothing for it now. I swung around and continued on the path.

The island itself was full of trees and brush, with a worn path through the middle. Its shores transitioned gradually into boggy areas. As I walked along the path, my heart beat faster and faster, and my breathing hitched. This was it, where it would happen, The Talk. I was glad we hadn’t spent any of the precious time we had together having The Talk. What’s life if you can’t live it?

My heart stopped and I took a huge breath in. Mark stood there, looking out at the lake, at the edge of the shore just where it started to get muddy. He turned around.

“Oh, you’re here.”

“Yeah, you were first,” I countered.

“Well I wanted to make sure there was no one else here, and didn’t want anyone to see us both cross the bridge, so I came early, whatever, I duno.”

“Where’s uh, ‘some friends?'”

“Dude, I don’t know how safe this email thing is and didn’t want anyone who saw it to think anything weird.”

“Yeah. So, uh…” I looked at the ground.

“Yeah. Dude, I been thinking all week of what to say to you, where to even start. This is crazy and I can’t believe it’s even real. But we gotta deal with it.”

“You make it sound like a problem.”

“No, I don’t mean it that way…but… have you been able to be yourself? Can you think of anything else?”

“No. Just you.” I was breathing hard.

He walked closer, lowered his voice. “Yeah, well same with me. I sleep with my face to the wall because I can’t look at you, because it sucks not to have my arm around you. Maybe you’re braver than me because when I do look, I see you staring at me all night. I don’t know how you can.”

My eyes welled. A sob percolated out and I reached for him. He took my hand and put it at my side gently.

“Shhh. I know Tommy. I know. It’s hard. But…” his chin wrinkled a bit. “…I duno. I picture myself with a wife and kids, and all that. And I dig chicks! But what we did was awesome.”

I had to sit down. He followed suit, getting a bit closer, almost knee-to-knee. “You never told me exactly if you had feelings for guys before,” I said. “I told you a bunch of stuff about me but you never told me about you.”

He thought for a minute. “Yeah, I’ve had feelings here and there, mostly ignored them. Getting picked on in high school, and now being around the dorm guys – not really conducive to thinking about liking dudes. Though there’s plenty to look at!”

My mind swam the butterfly, repeatedly plunging my face into wetness. “I want to be with you.”

“I know dude, but…” he shrugged, “you gotta be realistic. Look, it would be hard to sneak around, and it would be risky, and if it got out, do you think everyone would be nice about it? Do you want to get “faggots” written on our message board?”

“No, but…”

“And…look. My parents had problems with their marriage, and they went through a lot of counseling. They probably told us a lot more about it than they should have. But they talked to me and my sister a ton about dating and relationships, and how they take work to do them right. Do you think sneaking around and hiding a relationship from everyone is a ‘healthy dating environment?’ – that was one of their big phrases, a healthy dating environment with two-way communication with openness and-”

“Communication and openness, you mean like we’re doing now?” I challenged.

“Yeah but man… do you think it’ll be good when it’s squeezed to death by lying to everyone around us?”

We took a break, just sitting in silence for a few seconds. I stared at the ground. A fair-skinned crooked finger appeared under my chin, gentle pressure not to be resisted, moving my head up to look at him.

“Tommy, before last weekend, did you like me? I mean, were you even attracted to me? Did you want to spend more time with me than with your friends?”

“I thought you had beautiful feet once.” I blushed.

“And what do you think now?”

“That you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen in my life, and I love you.”

“Tommy….” I wanted him to come hold me, but he didn’t. “You thought I was a big dumb jock asshole. You were probably scared of me, just like I used to be of dudes like that when I was in high school. And I didn’t give you many reasons to think otherwise. Buddy, I’m still that same guy you knew a week ago, who has a different sense of humor than you, and who likes way different shit. We messed around and that was effin awesome, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t mean we’re like, compatible on other levels now. You wouldn’t have wanted to come sit on this island with me if last weekend never happened.”

He was right, and my mind was slowly wrapping around the astonishing wisdom coming from my big dumb jock roommate. But he was wrong about one thing.

“We didn’t just “mess around” dude. There was chemistry there, and I know you felt it. How do you know we couldn’t grow to love each other?”

He waited for a while before responding. “I don’t know, Tommy. But I… I’m pretty sure it’s not the right time to find out. I don’t want to date even casually right now, not even girls. It’s a lot of work, and school’s hard, and I like just… hanging out and taking it easy. With the dudes.”

“I’m a dude.” I laughed, which caused a snot ball to come out of my nose. Mark pretended to be disgusted, and laughed too.

“Look, Tom, yer fuckin nineteen. You’re also cute as shit.” My eyes widened. This was the first time he verbally communicated being attracted to me. “And you’re eventually going to have a hundred hookups and boyfriends and all that shit. When it’s the right time and place. And in that hundred there’s gonna be guys I could never be, way better than me, and one of those is probably gonna be The One for you. But you gotta meet them to know. And you haven’t even met them yet. Being truly in love takes time.”

“More advice from the parents?” I asked.

“Yuup. But doesn’t it make sense?”

“Sure,” I rolled my eyes, “so I just wait till I’m 80 and then I’m all, yeah you Mr. Number 76, you were the right one. If you’re not dead yet, let’s be together!”

We laughed at my hyperbole. Then Mark said the words I would never forget for the rest of my life.

“The truth is in the middle, Tom. It’s always in the middle.”

We stopped talking and listened to the wind in the trees, and the birds. The tiny lake waves made rustling noises against the muddy shore.

“So…” I was ready to bargain, “will you just kiss me once a week? Can we mess around the next time Rick’s gone?”

He chuckled. “I think all that is gonna fuck with your head, more than make you feel better. I don’t think I can promise you anything, because I actually do believe in promises, and I don’t make them if I don’t think I can keep them.”

It was more than fair. And it was more honest than some of those yet-to-come guys would be with me.

“And it’s gonna fuck with my head too,” he continued. “It’s just so much, and I wanna go back to how we treated each other before last weekend, to give me space to figure myself out a little more. So I’m asking this for me, and not because I don’t have feelings for you. But please don’t write me love notes, and don’t send me flowers, and don’t-”

“Don’t call meee DAUGHter!” I slurred loudly, smiling.

He leapt forward, laughing, and tackled me to the ground, wuffling my hair, with his hand cradling the back of my head. He looked up, looked around and listened for a second, and then leaned down and kissed me like that last night we were together. Shockingly forceful at first, almost biting my lip, then softer, slowly releasing, moving away until our lips were no longer touching, but we could still breathe each others’ breath. I opened my eyes and his were smiling at me, ice-blue, exactly like the sunny sky.

“Statistically I’m not “in love” with you, then,” I said softly, touching his chest, “but I love you, Mark.”

“Show me that by giving me the space I need,” he said gently.

I nodded, and tried to get up. A hand on my shoulder, that pressure again, keeping me where I was. “I love you too, Tom.”

– – – – – – –

It was Junior year, closing in on finals. I was gearing up for my last year, picking courses for next semester, trying not to think about thinking about applications to graduate school, and what I was going to do with my life.

I’d found a few others who were gay, and one friend introduced me to even more of us in the community at school. There weren’t big clubs and sanctioned events back then, but we made it work, and I started to figure out who and where I was in the gay cosmos. I found friends to talk to about the feelings I had. I had some casual fun here and there with guys I had met, even a couple in my dorm – but really never anything that made me feel like the times I had been with Mark. Would anything though? I had my doubts.

Most undergrads lived in the dorms for all four years, but there were those who moved off-campus for a variety of reasons. It always seemed like a bad idea to me. I found out Mark and a few others I knew were going to rent a house for senior year, and I was sad to think that I wouldn’t see some of them as often. It was also a reminder to me that all of this would come to an end eventually, and this imperfect community of guys I had truly grown to love would move on into the wider world.

Mark and I didn’t ever hang out; after our Freshman year, we didn’t live on the same floor and didn’t have classes in common, and that made things easier. Days were impossible, weeks got better. Over the ensuing months, my breath caught less and my heart stopped jumping when I saw him. But I always knew where his room was, and that he had become a non-partying workaholic with two majors. He hadn’t dated anyone, to anyone’s knowledge. And he stayed ripped and gorgeous, the fucker.

– – – – – – –

One Saturday night I was studying in the library on my usual floor, bored, and wandering the stacks. I was starting to realize I was going to have to miss this place eventually, even the library where I had worked so hard, and sometimes dreaded going. As I looked down the rows of titles, a familiar book stood out and made me smile. I took it off the shelf and held it, and it brought back intense memories of many nights dreaming, wondering, hoping. I suddenly smiled bigger, went back to my carrel, packed up my studies, and rode the elevator down to the check-out desk. The night was clear and star-lit, with warm breezes that accompanied me back to the dorm, like encouraging hands on my shoulders that I imagined saying, “Go on, you can do it.” I pulled my backpack tighter across my shoulder and quickened my pace.

Back at my room, I thumbed through the directory, found the four-digit extension I was looking for, and dialed. It picked up on the first ring.

“Yo.”

“Hey. It’s Tom.”

“Hind-lick! What’s up?”

“Uh, nothin. I just found something that I think belongs to you, was gonna bring it by. You busy?”

“Just another paper due frickin Monday.”

“Ok. See ya in a sec.” Click.

I went up a floor, down a section to the single room in a corner where he lived. Even though all of us typically just barged into each others’ rooms, I knocked.

“Yeah.”

Deep breath. I opened the door, walked in, and locked it behind me with the turn-bolt as it closed, in a smooth motion, so it wasn’t obvious. He didn’t look up, kept typing on his computer. I stood there, staring at him, reaching into my bag for the book. He stopped typing, looked up, eyes meeting mine. A slight smile broke the corners of my lips. His too.

I tossed the book onto the desk at him. “Attic Vases: A Study of Greek Imagery.” He looked at it and laughed, shaking his head like he always did when I amused him. “Fuckin Hind-lick.”

I looked down, then back up at him, scratching the back of my head. “I’ve had enough space, how ’bout you?”

He sat and stared at nothing for a minute. Then he opened his desk drawer and reached into the back, pulling out a piece of paper. It looked like a heart folded in half. He handed it to me, and I opened it. It was red on the inside, with a smiley face sticking out its tongue. I bit my lip, looked up at him, my vision becoming a little blurry and wet. Ice-blue eyes were smiling at me.

Mark looked back at his screen, moused the cursor up to click “Save.” Then he turned off the computer, and the desk light – the same old sounds of my roommate going to bed. A strong hand took mine in the dark.

Oh yeahhh, can you see them?

Out on the porch

Yeah but they don’t wave…

Dear Readers –

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story.

Before I started writing, I found some stories on Literotica that made me feel such deep emotion, and real attraction to the characters, even identifying with situations they were in… and I truly admired the writers who could conjure those feelings (I’ve already contacted most of you personally!) What I really hoped for was to write my own stories to give that experience back to those who had inspired it in me, and to other non-writers, who might read mine. If just one person who reads my stories feels genuine emotion and is also inspired to write, then I will consider that a success.

Another reason to write – I never imagined that I would feel actual attraction or love for a character I was writing, or tremble in anticipation of what will happen next – but I did. And that was and still is surreal. Write and create your own characters and worlds. They will be glad you created them.