Mark and Harry

Titolo della parte

1 Mark and Harry It was Sunday night that Mark's girlfriend dumped him, and he could barely find

the energy to go to the play's first rehearsal the next morning. She hadn't been especially nice about it. They hadn't seen much of each other in the last week. Mark blamed himself for that, and he had mistakenly assumed that was why she had been acting cold all through dinner. They'd been together long enough for him to feel comfortable flirting with her a little in a public place, but not so long that he figured out he should worry when she acted like she didn't notice. So they got back to Mark's apartment, and just as he was starting to plan a pleasantly romantic way for the two of them to begin an intimate night together, she sat him down and had the talk. Still wearing the sleeveless black dress, still with her blonde hair up, still the beautiful girl he'd spent months caring for and had dared to think he might have a future with, she let him have it. Not working out, not her type, the words crashed into him, meaningless in his stupor, until the phrase "someone else" triggered something hot and aching in his chest. As soon as he'd felt calm enough to act normal, he stood and interrupted her speech to suggest she leave. Which she gladly did, with a bare minimum of goodbyes unbecoming of a couple who'd been together since November. Mark didn't sleep much that night, of course. The tortured feelings of hurt and vulnerability, the endless second-guessing punctuated with fury, didn't stop his lightly-muscled body from reacting to the memory of the way she'd moved. Tossing and turning until three, he found himself embarrassed about his own arousal for the first time in many years. That damnable organ was impatient after over a week without release, especially since it was accustomed to his girlfriend's -- ex-girlfriend's -- regular sexual appetite. Mark for some years now had given up masturbation except once in a great while, and the weekly exercise they'd been sharing had fueled that fire. Memories of her beauty, her tenderness, and her high-pitched grunt as she came, rose often to the top of his thoughts, as Mark quietly cried tears of self-pity into his pillow that night. Several times as he rolled from one lonely side to the other, he'd had to adjust in his shorts the stiffness that he was certainly -- he wasn't pathetic, after all -- going to ignore. He'd just gotten dumped, and there was no way in hell he was going to jerk off over that bitch. And he didn't. So that was Mark's night before the kiss on Monday. Harry slept fine Sunday night, as he did most nights. A couple of weeks before, he and the girl he'd been seeing -- not really a girlfriend, though it'd gone on long enough and just started to get serious enough to make them wonder what that story was -- had broken it off amicably. Though they'd phrased it to each other as "taking a break," they both knew what it meant, and Harry hadn't thought they would ever do much more than nod past each other on campus. He'd gotten drunk with some friends that night and, after that, shrugged it off. Her showing up at his door three nights later, talkative, a little drunk, and way too familiar, was what he considered a bonus. Once her pants were off, he'd made it a point of pride to really go to town, licking her hard and fast, one hand pulling her panties aside as she moaned and writhed. They'd figured out they had no future, and they hadn't fucked enough times to really get familiar with each other's turn-ons. But that just-barely-novelty of another's still-strange body was a turn-on itself. He'd enjoyed himself, then, being her booty call two weeks ago, rubbing her slick flesh, gently fingering her, telling her to hold her knees back and smiling as she stretched herself open for him. Making her cum on his tongue, once in a small way with "ohh"s and stretches, and once fingered nice and hard with quivering "uhh"s. He'd decided he didn't feel like a condom that night, and he tried something they'd only done once before, and never to completion. Holding his fat, bare cock to her lips, he waited until she took him in her mouth. It felt good to slip himself between her lips, sliding back and forth, talking some gentle encouragement, until he could watch her pretty, flushed face as he made a sticky mess in her mouth. He smeared it on her lips and chin, both of them too hot to smile. The smiles (sheepish) and hugs came a moment later. They crashed on his bed, and in the morning, with regrets, and awkward dressing in the suite's shared bathroom, but no real hard feelings, she'd left, this time for good. That was almost two weeks ago. Harry slept well on that Sunday night two weeks later, but, like Mark, his body was attached to a penis that was starting to wonder where the next action was coming from. Two weeks, the time itself, the everyday time having passed his needs by, was a tease as powerful as a lap dance. Harry awoke Monday morning after a tantalizing dream, lying half on his stomach with a hard-on wedged under him and the strong urge to thrust his muscular hips into the sheets. Shaking off the unwelcome morning thoughts -- relieving his own lust was not something the stocky, manly ex-high school football player could ever see himself doing -- he was his own man and not some little loser -- Harry rolled out of bed and started the day. That was Harry's night before the kiss. ----- Monday evening, after classes, was the play's first rehearsal. The cast was expected to know a few lines from key scenes, but mostly it was a chance for them to get to know each other and the director. Ms. Mahoney was the director. She had chosen the play. The college, still struggling to build a reputation of seriousness, had an arts department that gave its professors plenty of creative freedom as long as they didn't do something outrageous or ridiculous. And Ms. Mahoney was going to have to tread carefully to make sure this play didn't cross that line. She liked the material well enough, and sure, it wouldn't even have raised any eyebrows in New York. But the college, while not in the "deep" South, was still in a part of the state plenty conservative enough to be shocked at a plot that revolved around gay lovers. She hoped she wouldn't start a riot when two men kissed on stage. Mark and Harry had learned on Thursday that they'd been cast in the roles of the gay lovers at the heart of the play. One was shy but with a rich and unexpected inner life, the other brash and a little flamboyant covering a great sadness. Together the two characters faced adversity, and with a bit of humor and a growing love for each other, came to care for themselves and discover a new... and so on. It was a fairly typical college play, a little too wacky in places, and a little too preachy in places, but solid and entertaining enough. Fairly typical, except that near the end of the first act, in what would be quite a surprise to anyone who hadn't read the program and had in fact been living in a bubble universe since February, the two male leads would finally fall breathlessly and dramatically in love, embrace, kiss, and spend most of the second act showing each other loving affection. "Hello, everyone," said Ms. Mahoney at 7:00 sharp, noting with satisfaction that all the cast were on time. "I like to jump right in and not waste time. We have seven weeks before curtain and that means we need to use every day. So let's do some introductions and then get started with some exercises." She told the group a little about herself, then turned to her cast. "OK, hi everyone, I'm Mark," said the welterweight actor with the dark eyes and dark, curly hair, and gave the name of his character, the first gay lead. "I'm a psych major, sophomore, and I haven't done much acting before, just a little in high school," said Mark. "When the swim season got out I thought of getting back into it, and I guess here I am. I'm looking forward to working with you all on this," and as everyone me-too'd, he added, "and by the way, I'm completely straight, in case you were wondering. Of course I don't have any problem with the play but, I figured I'd mention that!" No nervous laughter. Maybe a few smiles, but the cast was there to do a job and a gay relationship onstage was just that, a relationship, on stage, a relationship that was everyone's job to build and support and make believable. They were amateurs, but they were adult enough to recognize that their job was their job. "OK, I'm Harry," said the solidly-built athlete with the square jaw and short brown hair framing his aggressive-looking face -- the second gay lead. "I'm a senior, and I'm totally straight too," he added to Mark, "so I guess you and me are really going to have to do some acting!" The other two boys introduced themselves. One was a pale, wiry, quiet fellow with unfortunate hair but otherwise attractive enough. The second was a blond guy, on the short side, with features just quirky enough to ensure his permanent role as a supporting actor. A guy who the guys immediately liked and the girls could tell was going to be a bit of a wiseass. Then the two girls. Donna was a tall blonde senior theater major, with an angular face, long neck, and a loud voice she'd have to control for the stage. She might be a wiseass too, or maybe turn out to have a bit of a temper -- that remained to be seen. And Sherry was a smiling black junior, with cheerful features, a curvy body, and a sunny disposition, who everyone immediately liked. After more chat and some warmup exercises, Ms. Mahoney thought it was time to talk to the cast about the play. "You've all read the script, and you know what this play is about. It's going to be controversial. It shouldn't be, but it will be. If you don't know that now, you will the week we open. It's a good story, a loving story, but because it's a gay story, people aren't going to like it. "And that means we all have to work extra hard to be on our game. Later in the rehearsal process we're going to talk about PR, how to talk to reporters if they call you, and we're going to talk about sensitivity. Throughout rehearsal we'll work on eradicating stereotype from your performances. Whether the stereotype be gay men or anything else. I don't want your misguided idea of what 'some people' are like. I want your character. "But Harry, Mark, you play gay men, and you are straight. One of the challenges you're going to face goes beyond ordinary acting, and it goes beyond overcoming your stereotyped thinking about roles unfamiliar to you -- and don't protest with how enlightened you are, we all think in shortcuts, and don't tell me you know a hundred gay men and so you think this will be easy. "One of your challenges will be overcoming your own fears about your sexuality, and what being gay means. For the hour you'll be onstage, you will both need to be gay. Not act gay, not think gay, be gay. I expect you to fall into your roles completely. "You may think you cannot do this. You are wrong. You probably think you are not enough of an actor to transform yourselves in this way. You are wrong, and together we will show you that you're wrong, and you will be better actors for it. "If you are afraid of an alternate sexuality, you will need to overcome that. Any fears you show onstage need to be those of your characters. Your own fears, you are going to learn to leave at the door." The cast traded looks and nodded seriously. "Or maybe you're the world's greatest actor and you already know how great you are, in which case, you don't need a pep talk from me," she smiled, and got smiles back. "To really get to the heart of what this means," continued Ms. Mahoney, "we're going to dive right in. "We're going to start with the kiss." Mark's heart jumped a little at this. He hadn't thought they would arrive at this point so quickly. Swallowing his uncertainties, he stepped forward, with Harry, and walked nearer the middle of the stage. Suddenly the bare floor seemed very brightly lit and the dark, empty seats held ghosts. "Don't worry about it," said Harry. "I guess I've done more acting than you have, so trust me, it's not going to be a big deal. Once we get started it'll all be professional." Mark nodded as Harry continued, "I guess we're both a little scared, but I think we'll get over it quickly." Mark flipped open the script he held, looking for the scene. "Did you want us to start from 'I'm going to--'" was as far as he got. "We'll get to that later," said the director. "For now I just want you two to break the ice, for yourselves and the rest of the cast. First, the kiss." She wanted to see their comfort level, and their commitment. She didn't say any more. Mark and Harry set their scripts on the floor. They both knew the kiss was preceded by a dramatic silence, so they had no lines to give. They stepped closer, and then they were standing close, closer than two straight men will stand. Oddly calm, Mark still felt gripped by some kind of fear that he pushed aside as he took another step forward, his sneakers now almost touching Harry's. Harry, though an inch shorter, was more solidly-built, had a deeper voice, had more experience on the stage. He knew instictively that he was not the one to take charge at this moment. In the script, the two men came together as one, but here, he knew he was going to wait for Mark. Mark tuned out his classmates over his shoulder, tuned out the lights and the seats, looked down into Harry's eyes and tried to think "this is the man I love." What would it be like to be a gay man in love, about to kiss Harry -- or his character? Maybe if he thought about playing a woman in love. Either way, it was hard to get into the role. He shyly took Harry's hand and silently searched for something in his masculine face. As they took the final step together, toes stepping just between the other's feet, as they crossed the bubble of personal space men spend their whole lives cultivating as protection against other men, Mark raised his hands to rest on Harry's shoulders. The gentle embrace wasn't as awkward as it could have been -- it wasn't a frat hug -- but it didn't start out as passionate. Mark's lips parted and he leaned down as Harry tilted his head up to meet him. A shock for both of them that male lips were so soft. Harry thought briefly of how Mark's scent was clean and so... ordinary. Hands gently touching each other's shoulders and waist as they leaned into each other ever so slightly, their weight shifting as they drew into each other's gravity. Mark's eyes fluttered shut as the room around them went away and then, as he leaned forward just barely enough for his chest to gently press Harry's, passion had suddenly arrived. A sense of heat from the body he held -- that he held! The light smell of wafting cologne turned sensual for the first time. A crazy impulse to lift his hand from the shoulder, raise his thumb from its resting place on Harry's collarbone to caress the soft pulse under his jaw. He did not, he willed himself not to, but he felt the urge to slide his palm across Harry's cheek, touch his fingertips to his temple, run his fingers along his short, brown hair. That gesture, one Mark had thought was for women, for only women, was now hovering in his mind, and though his hand didn't move, Mark knew what the touch would feel like against the groomed face of the stocky athlete. Harry, eyes closed, heart thumping, stretched his neck up just a smidge, hands gently pressing down on Mark's hips for purchase, so he could slide his suddenly sensitive lips a little more firmly against the other boy's. Mark felt Harry's nose nudge his cheek and, just then, just for that frozen moment, it was not foreign, it was the touch of lovers' faces, the touch of his lover. And, for both of them, then, something else too. Not just the thought of what such a tender kiss could lead to, though for each of them the vision of their mouths opening and tongues sliding roughly together was easy to imagine. Something more primal even than that. Something shifting inside the chest, or perhaps it was something that had fallen away. Something felt but not by the senses, something -- it was passion, yes, it was lust, just a hint -- something that hovered just below the threshold of consciousness. Not a change, but perhaps an awakening. Lips parted only slightly, they pressed together, brushed chin against chin, noses to cheeks, for a moment that seemed endless, yet ended so quickly. They pulled apart and that somehow was more awkward than the embrace had been. Their eyes opened to see each other's faces, not jarring, not unexpected, just the face of a man, that was all. The man they had each kissed. A careful half-step back. A pause. Then Donna's voice piped up from across the stage: "That was so gay!" The laughter was much-needed relief, the irony was understood, and though Ms. Mahoney gave her planned short talk on using descriptions as put-downs, she had smiled too. "Well," she said, continuing the smile, "that was pretty awful." She meant the kiss. "This is going to need a lot of work." And that was a splash of cold water. They returned to the kiss several more times before rehearsal turned to other things, each time slightly more loving, slightly more romantic. They didn't quite have sexual energy yet, but when Harry slid his hand up the side Mark's waist to cup the swell of his ribs, or when Mark playfully yet lovingly tucked a finger under Harry's chin to tilt his head up as he leaned in, they had the beginnings of a proper kiss. A proper kiss that would grow with practice to be the heart of the play, a kiss that let the cast know they were practicing for a real show and not a plastic embarrassment. But the something else grew. A worry nagged at Mark, one very simple yet so hard to understand: was he liking this? Was any part of him enjoying it? Harry felt it too. Did he want this? Was there something in receiving the touch of a man's lips that part of him had been waiting for? And worse... they both wondered... did they imagine it, or, once or twice, had their bodies, had their sex, really begun to betray them? ----- It turned out that Mark and Harry didn't live far apart, Mark's dorm sitting at the edge of the campus and Harry's apartment just a block away. Sherry's dorm was on the way, so they walked her home, getting to know one another. But when she left, the light conversation left with her. They walked in silence to the point where they parted ways. "So, pretty crazy, huh?" was all Mark could think to say. Harry had his own thoughts, and kept them to himself too. "Definitely not what I expected. It's really... going to be challenging these next couple of months." "Thanks for not, you know, making this too weird or anything." "Yeah, no, we can handle this, it's not really that big of a deal I don't think." The boys parted ways. Mark to his dorm, Harry walking on to his apartment. Harry retired to his place for the rest of the night, to turn on the TV and not really watch it. And drink one imported beer, and putter around picking up books and checking email. Mark hiked up the stairs to his single dorm room for the rest of the night, to pace, and think, and pace some more. What was it that he'd experienced on that stage? Working through homework while puzzling over what had happened. Stripping to his boxers and sliding under the blanket to wonder at how his life had gotten so unusual so quickly. Mark had never been a very outgoing person. The girl who'd dumped him the night before was only the third girl -- the third person -- he'd ever kissed. Which made Harry, he realized with a start, the fourth. The first was a perky teenage crush who'd given him a chance for a couple of dates, then shook her head and his self-confidence. He'd thrown himself into his schoolwork. His parents were hard-working if a little distant, and by their example he discovered he was good at research. His family wasn't well-off. They valued work. A stint on the debate team brought him a handful of friends, and the first mature pride from his parents, which was surprisingly unsatisfying. None of the friends became particularly close. The high school swim team was glad to have him: thin build, long arms, and the perseverance of a student who didn't see slacking off as a viable option. He liked his fellow swimmers, they got along, but the other nine months of the year he didn't really see them. Mostly what he liked was the solitude of the water, the bubbling quiet that left him alone with his thoughts every day at practice. The coach could yell and blow the whistle, at a meet the crowd could cheer, but as soon as he pushed off, he flew solo. Scholarships, medium-sized, landed in his lap and he realized he was really going to be one of the few family members to attend college. Somehow this left him feeling more estranged, a black sheep of mild success. Then the waning days of his senior year brought him a crazy-sexed high-school dropout. He'd asked her out because of her curly dark hair and enigmatic smile. Her quiet voice in harmless, playful conversation over coffee turned, in bed, into loud, ferocious, marathon fuck-sessions. She was barely older than him, but Mark lost his virginity in a whirlwind. Even without any experience, he'd guessed it was unusual to have been screwing for exhausting hours (excepting the brief recharge time of an 18-year-old boy) and still have her bouncing her cunt forcefully onto his cock, shouting and snarling. He'd been entranced by her hair sweat-plastered against her shoulders, lit by the street-lamp outside, when she ground herself onto him and came, time and again, in a shaking yell. He'd grinned all day, the morning she informed him that while his cock was on the thin side, it felt really good inside her because it was her longest ever. And he'd gratefully left his innocence far behind the day when she, mid-afternoon, handed him her bag of toys, spread wide, and insisted he grow acquainted with her sex by vibeing her for 45 minutes until she allowed him to fuck. But when she began a doggy-style session by presenting him her rump and barking, he knew their relationship was over. He talked himself into going ahead with fucking her that time, and the time after that, and every chance he got for the remainder of the summer, but when he went off to college, that was it. She nearly kicked a dent into his car, but really, she'd understood. She wasn't happy, but she wasn't surprised.. His first year of college, he again threw himself into his studies. He was thoughtful, introspective, but liked talking to people and wasn't afraid of difficult emotions: he was good at psychology. His third girlfriend, the graceful and beautiful blonde who'd dumped him the night before, was a loss hard to bear. He'd liked the candlelit dinners and cultural events (in fact, her affinity for plays was the reason he had auditioned). He liked discussing philosophy with her friends at small wine-lubricated gatherings. And he'd been proud in an odd way to meet her family over the holidays, and be a real boyfriend. He'd even liked her measured bedroom pace. Their informal arrangement to partake in sex only on weekends introduced him to the anticipation of denial. Slow kissing as foreplay was a revelation for him, as was the stripping of clothes made into an event. She made him feel special, and by comparison, experienced. Most erotic of all was watching a beautiful girl cling to her inhibitions through the loving act of intimacy. Seeing her tuck her hair behind her ear while she gave him a methodical blowjob turned him on in a way he couldn't quite explain. He enjoyed fucking her face-to-face, so he could watch her try to control her expression as she humped him back in her elegant way, as though trying to pretend she was doing pilates, as though she were merely slow-dancing at a wedding. As though she wasn't as turned-on as he was. Seeing her face and body gradually betray her as she approached climax gave Mark immense satisfaction. It would begin when he slipped himself deep inside her and heard only quiet, stifled whispers. The grand reward was the moment she came and thrashed like an animal -- and her gratitude afterwards when he said nothing about her undignified loss of control. And now she'd dumped him and was seeing someone else. The sweetest kiss, become the cruelest absence. As he closed his eyes, he mentally pushed the images of the traitoress away. Their last intimacy only a week ago. Their last intimacy a long, long week ago. Drifting off, his arousal diverted. He felt the play's kiss against his mouth again. His muscles tensed, he felt his thoughts grow rough and sexual, felt Harry's strong body yield under his hands. He was only dimly aware of his confusion as he twisted the sheets, knees bent, biceps flexing as he turned from side to side in the dark and gripped the pillow's edge. As he drifted off into dreams, his mind left his stiffened penis behind, to vainly protest its lonely state. Visions of women's bodies and men's, of his friends watching him nude, of a crowd of strangers touching him, of... raw sexuality unconstrained by gender. And just like that, in his dream, he was on his knees, just in the act of gripping a stranger's cock and sliding it into his mouth. Mark woke up slowly, the feel of the flesh so real, then fading, to leave just the dark bedroom and a familiar need grown strange. It felt like forever before he fell back asleep. Harry had a similar problem. Sitting in front of the TV playing some movie, he found himself scrutinizing its men for attractiveness, as well as its women. But Harry, though also as straight as could be, was a little less frightened by this unusual new condition. He was a man confident in himself, sure of his place, untroubled by labels. He had even been to Europe. He explored the idea, the idea of looking at men, as he flipped channels. He thought it over as he got ready for bed. And, as he stared at his grim features in the mirror, he came to terms. He was still straight. Or at least he was pretty sure he was. But the guy-kiss had turned him on. There was no doubt about it. But he was probably just horny. He'd gone from a healthy sexual routine to zero a couple of weeks ago. He was just horny. That must be it. Yeah, Harry thought in bed, as he fell off to sleep, I guess the hard-on is just because I'm horny. ----- At Wednesday's rehearsal, the real trouble started. The other parts of the show were the focus to begin with, and both Mark and Harry relaxed a little as they worked on their roles and exercises. When the kiss came to the stage again, as they stepped close again, neither of them ever really understood what began to happen. As Mark's hand slid up the back of Harry's neck, as Harry sighed and pressed his chest into Mark's, there it was -- Mark felt the rising, Harry felt the swelling. The casual, long, loose clothes they had worn, thankfully, disguised the bulges. Listening to the director's feedback, trying to think of other things, casually repositioning themselves, working to make the play purely mechanical, they held each other again. And again. And Ms. Mahoney was becoming frustrated. "What is going on? You two need to be more intimate and you are getting less. Don't stand back like that, you are lovers, you embrace!" Mark had been standing back because he knew what would happen if he stepped forward; Harry'd been doing the same. Then it was inevitable. They had to risk the close embrace or rehearsal would never end. Their dicks had each grown firmer as they worked the scene. Both of them had positioned their hardons pointing straight up. Feet planted, thighs touching thighs, hands caressing their bodies slightly smelling of sweat, lips just-pushed against lips, and eyes were locked... when their cocks, through their pants, bumped. As they realized their arousal had become known to another man, each of them knew sudden sharp embarrassment. God -- he'll think I'm gay -- Shaft pressing shaft -- Then Mark's eyes widened as he realized Harry was aroused too, and erect, and holy crap had just pressed into his crotch what felt like a rock in his pants. Harry set his jaw as he felt the pressure of another man's rod touching him for the first time. Men who have sex only with women expect that their sexuality is for women. That arousal is experienced in the context of women. And that the charge they have felt at the sight, smell, and feel of a woman's arousal is a passion only triggered by women. Men who have had sex only with women become surprised, and confused, when their own sexual desire is matched against a man's, and they discover that the erotic energy, reflected, enhances their stimulated state in the same way a woman's would. For that brief second, before intellect arrives to quash emotion, such men experience what it is like for their lust and another man's lust to grip each other, to promise each other flexed muscles, moans and cries, strength matched with strength, and the excitement of gasping, guiltless, wordless pleasure. The two looked at each other for a split second, lips touching, and the kiss that followed, that had to follow, was mechanical, and timid, and the most awkward to date. They couldn't even look at each other when they separated. Which is probably why Ms. Mahoney suggested that they practice the kiss at home. They left rehearsal pretty sure no one had noticed the bulges. They were the only ones who knew. They were pretty sure about that. ----- Mark showed up at Harry's apartment the next night with the script in one hand and a pair of beers in the other. They didn't start rehearing the kiss right away. And they somehow found time to watch TV and talk about quite a few other things before it even came up. Then it did. "Look," said Mark, "OK, the thing is, is that I'm -- I'm not gay, but I am -- physically -- aroused by the role. That's all." "I think it's the kiss itself," said Harry. "We're used to kissing girls, and now any kiss is probably enough to set us off. I'm not excited or anything just being here with you now." "Me neither! Dude to me you're just a guy, you know -- I don't find you, I mean you look fine and everything, but you're not attractive to me, that's all. I mean --" As Mark tried to find the words to express his non-attraction to Harry, he found himself looking at him again with a closer eye. The incongruity struck him. The brow overshadowing his eyes, the jaw like a challenge, the wide cheeks and small ears. Harry should be tackling quarterbacks, not looking at any moment like he could break into a gentle smile. Not thoughtful and kind. And not talking the way he was talking now -- smart, confident -- "Either way, we're going to have to figure something out," Harry interrupted. "We can't go on stage stretching out our costumes. In costume it'll be totally obvious. It's not even right for the piece. We have to solve this." Mark grimaced and thought. Harry was right of course. This wouldn't do. But what was the answer? Harry sat in silence and looked Mark over. Long limbs, big hands, broad shoulders. But not a big man: he was lanky, his muscles stretched around his bones, moving as he moved. Did he walk a little like a dancer maybe? He might go places as an actor with that face, handsome with a bit of a rogueish youth, dark eyes that sometimes twinkled, hair falling everywhere in moppy curls. Soft-spoken and serious, Mark could have the drive to good at whatever he wanted, Harry thought, if he wanted it badly enough. "I have an idea," said Mark. "OK," said Harry. "We have to get it out of our system," said Mark. "Uh -- OK this is embarrassing -- you know -- jack off beforehand. That's all." Harry had furrowed his brow so he pressed on. "I mean this is just a physical thing, so really, we just need a physical solution..." "What we really need are girlfriends." "Well that might happen. But don't count on it. Especially with the tough schedule." "...I don't really do that," said Harry, meaning masturbation. "That's just not for me, you know?" He wasn't being coy -- the last time he had masturbated was months ago. A pause. "Well, I guess I don't know if it would work anyway," said Mark. "When you... masturbate, I mean, the relief only lasts so long, you know?" "You get horny again right away?" "Not right -- well, yeah, it didn't take too long." A pause. "When I did... that... before my last girlfriend... that's what I remember anyway. I mean, being with her, you know fucking her, it was satisfying, you know? I guess it, uh, relieved the pressure or something. "One time she was away for two weeks and I jerked off twice. Like in one day. It didn't even help for that whole day... maybe even just a few hours. Then it was right back to thinking about pussy again." Mark grimaced a little at the thought of her beautiful face, framed by her hair falling past her cheeks as she would... "So that's really not going to work then, is it," said Harry. "I mean, we can't jerk off before each show. And each rehearsal. For one thing I'd want to take a shower. For another, no privacy. And who even has the time for that, I mean come on." They thought, then Harry added, "and again, that's just not something I do." "Me neither, but..." Mark tried. Then silence again. Finally Harry finished the last swallow of his beer, stood, and said: "OK, let's just rehearse." Gentle kisses. Separation, then slow embraces, then separation again. Murmured words -- scripted words, the same words repeated, but loving words nonetheless -- into ears unwilling and, maybe just a little, confused. In Mark especially, the urge to recoil from something too-much wanted. The body learns its own knowledge, and it soon knows that a warm man in your arms is warm, that his soft skin is soft, and that his body, like yours, can yearn. They didn't even try to hide the evidence of their sexual ignition anymore. They both sported hard-ons and they both knew it. They'd stopped being shy. They came together, pressed stiff dicks into each other's bellies and groins, and parted, and said their lines with the passion they could muster, and came together again. And maybe one's dick rubbed against the other's, through their pants. Just a little. Who's to know? They didn't grind. They just happened to touch. Maybe they told themselves that experiencing this different physical lust would make them better actors. Maybe the words of love, repeated, brought familiarity to this new world. Maybe they grew, in those minutes, to think of themselves as inevitably sexual beings. Whatever it was, somehow, they became matter-of-fact about their bodies having led them into betrayal.. And maybe that's why, after a decent night of rehearsal, after nuances explored and pacing practiced, Harry's suggestion wasn't immediately rejected. Or maybe Mark was just horny. "So we should call it a night, but we have rehearsal again tomorrow," said Harry. "And neither of us wants to walk around stage with our dicks sticking out of our pants. And masturbation isn't an option." Mark nodded. The two boys stood facing each other. Harry didn't even pause. "So, I'll stroke you off," said Harry, deep voice, manly as could be, "and you stroke me. It's weird, but really not that weird, to me anyway. And I'm pretty sure since it's another guy -- since it's someone else I mean -- it'll relieve that pressure you were talking about. How about it?" Later, Mark didn't even exactly remember how he agreed to this. But it wasn't much longer before Harry was standing before him, standing close as if coming in for a kiss. Except he wasn't -- he was unbuttoning Mark's jeans and, as Mark stood with something not quite like fear holding him in place, sliding the pants down to his knees. Mark's boxers went too, and then his long cock stood finally in the air. Harry's right hand grasped Mark's penis before he could think better of the idea, and gently began a slow up-and-down motion. A nest of dark hair encircled the root where it left Mark's body. His cock, when stiff like this, was slender, or maybe just looked so because it was long. His cock-head, purple, looked just like a large, hard, ripe grape. A gentle upward curve, not so much you might even notice, had helped lift his erection to a quite remarkable angle, in fact, standing tall an inch from his navel. Harry reached down and, overhand, began stroking it. His palm grazed the top, and his fingers wrapped around the soft underside. As he stroked out, his pinky rubbed gently over the unbearably sensitive skin just behind and under Mark's cock-head. His whole palm rubbed the stiff upper side of Mark's dick, as he loosely slid his hand up and down, grasping and releasing. Harry had never stroked a long cock before, and his big hand had plenty of room to slide up and down. Instinctively, he knew not to rub the skin raw. He worked Mark's cock-head with flicks, squeezes and gentle rubs. Mark was carried away in an instant, and working not to show it. Neither of his earlier sex partners had ever shown his penis this kind of care. Handjobs from his first lover were a fast, hard fist; from the second, a restrained, mechanical languor. Instinctively he knew not to give in to his first impulse: groan and shout with pleasure. Harry had at first stroked the shaft loosely, running his hand over it. But soon, he held it firmly, no longer sliding his fingers over the skin, but sliding the penis skin itself up and down, up and down. The down-strokes pulled the skin taut, pleasuring Mark's sensitive head with the mere pressure and tension, the brief agony of touch gone missing as Harry's hand pressed against his pelvis. Then the up-strokes, with the older boy's hand sliding the skin back up over the long, stiff shaft, replacing the torture of a cock straining at nothingness with the sweet joy of strong fingers caressing a bulging cock-head. Each time he slid his hand up, his fingers brushed the pink skin under the head, every man's most sensitive spot. Brushing at first gently, lightly, just a flick. Then a little more boldly. Fingers grasping and releasing as his hand worked. A nice, steady pace. Up and down. Fingers grasping the shaft. Pinky, tantalizing, brushing that soft, folded, pink skin. The situation was slipping away from Mark. Control gone, he stood with arms uselessly at sides, afraid to touch anything, as the suddenly-roaring pleasure of his sex overwhelmed him. It had been too long. Such unexpected stimulation. The hotness, the heat of the friction, the heat of his blood, was so much to take. He summoned all his strength. Now he was the one inhibited, struggling to conceal how badly he needed. Had he really worried about Harry being so masculine? It was lost for now. It would be back, but in this moment, as the firm hand stroked his cock a little faster, and then a little faster still, Mark knew only sex, and lust, and his need, becoming urgent, to cum. It had only been a few minutes, he knew. It seemed Harry had just started. Mark's belly tightened and he knew it would not be much longer. Harry had stepped in close to Mark, to grasp his penis from above. Head lowered to watch his work, his forehead nearly rested on Mark's chest. Mark had resisted the urge to reach up and gently place a hand on Harry's neck. Now Harry stepped back and lowered to one knee. Not to suck, but just to get a better grip. And just maybe, to see his handiwork better. Harry was curious what he would see. After all, this was going to be the first time he'd made another man cum. He took Mark's cock in his fist now, held from below, held where he could stroke it properly. Mark drew breath, preparing... Harry stroked fast, and then faster, feeling Mark's tensions rise, as if the swimmer were lifting on the balls of his feet. As his hand slid up and down, Harry looked at Mark's trim belly, his hips, his buttocks dimpled with excited strength. Mark, bottom clenching, thigh and calf muscles too, his belly a churning sea, shifted his feet, almost unbalanced, as he began to lose his head. Harry shifted a little to one side and pointed the penis away from him. No mess on him, he didn't want that, he wasn't gay. He thought briefly of his hardwood floor. The orgasm was coming -- No, it was here. Silence broken -- "Nnnh -- shit -- uhh!" Mark spiked his hips thrusting forward, thighs and fists clenching, as the wave of pleasure crashed into him. His arms and neck rigid, thick with strength that wasn't there before. And then his pulsing cock shot out a stream of cum, as thought left him and fire coursed through his young body. And then another, as Harry stroked, and then, as Mark rammed his hips into the air again, his pubis meeting only the base of Harry's fist, the end of his penis stretched red and swollen, a third squeezed out, fell on the floor. Then just rivulets dripping from the tip. A voiced but wordless exhalation, and panting relaxation, and Harry's hand dropped away, and the two boys were no longer one, but two. Mark, drained and tired, breathed hard as his stiff prick swung free, still dripping semen. The room felt warm. Somewhere in the building something mechanical hummed, sounding terribly loud now. It had happened and Mark was okay. It was done. He breathed. Had Mark been masturbating himself, he'd have gently squeezed his penis now, stretching the pleasure out as long as possible after orgasm. But with his cock instead simply hanging free, still sensitive, orgasm having roared out instead of being coaxed, he felt almost like an animal. Yes, a male animal, a lion or something, all fucked-out, his seed shot carelessly wherever he pleased, a still-stiff, still-sensitive and raw, but relaxed dick sticking carelessly out in the open -- an animal who had finished sex -- for now. Ignoring the wetness, he pulled his pants up over himself, and, a little shakily, eased himself down cross-legged on the floor. He was still unsure how he felt about what had just happened. But calm, and satisfied. Harry had stood, and he wasn't quite sure of his feelings either. But he knew what he needed. "Hey," he said, and as Mark looked up, he gestured. "Your turn." Fair's fair, Mark thought. Plus, he wanted to. With both hands he reached up to undo Harry's pants. Pulling them down to the ankles, Mark was faced with a short but thick cock. Harry's penis, erect, stood straight out. It wasn't like, say, a soda can. But... well, thick, that's all. And now that Mark looked at it, he realized that a penis that is merely above-average still can make quite an impression with its size. The head was, surprisingly, even a little wider than the shaft. To Mark it was the swollen head that seemed surprisingly outsized. And it dripped with pre-cum. Harry, without a single touch, thanks to only the acted-out kisses and the determined stroking of another man's dick, had oozed his own lube. Mark wasn't used to that. The only penis he'd had any experience with was his own, and it didn't wet itself up, not like that, not until he actually came. But, fair's fair, and, squatting down, he reached up and took the hot, slimy cock-head in his closed hand. "So big," he thought to himself, as he stroked downward, spreading Harry's pre-cum over his shaft. Circling it, his finger and thumb could meet, but only if he squeezed a little. And though the other man's penis was thick, it was not very long. Mark's large fist was just as long as the shaft. Pinky nestled in Harry's sparse, sandy-brown, curly pubes, his forefinger was tucked neatly behind the ridge at the top of the cock-head. Which left his thumb sliding back and forth, under the fat red plum, The pre-cum's slickness hadn't started to get sticky yet. After a minute, Harry's entire cock was wetted, and as slippery as if it'd been oiled. Harry, hands on hips, gave a soft grunt as the younger man took advantage of the frictionless lube to slide his fist all the way up and down. Mark wrapped his whole hand around the bulging head, twisted and squeezed, and got another grunt for his reward. He noted with mild surprise that the giant spongy tissue engorged back to its original size in seconds. His fist slid down and pressed against Harry's pubic bone, pulling the skin tight, then went back up with a powerful grip sliding over the nerve-filled softness at the end of that great trunk of a cock. Harry twitched with pleasure as Mark worked him. He hadn't known it would feel this good. Girls had stroked him off, sure, but they were timid and naive compared with this. He would have much preferred to fuck a girl, but for pure raw sensation, Mark's hand was... more. Mark wasn't a girl. He wasn't freaked out by the pre-cum, didn't give a damn about the angry, frightening look of the thing, and wasn't even remotely thinking about how hard it would be to fit the thick little bastard inside him. Mark saw a cock, and he already knew what it liked, and he did it. With gusto and no fear. And Harry had had no idea a hand job could be like this. One-handed, Mark was sending Harry to new heights. He rubbed around the head with his thumb and his encircling fingers, smearing the seemingly-endless stream of pre-cum around it, and down the shaft until the pubic hair was wetted. No need to worry about chafing the skin here. The slit at the tip of Harry's penis leaked a little more wetness with every stroke. Harry stepped his feet just a little farther apart as if to gain leverage. Mark mixed it up and gave the cock short, fast, hard strokes -- then just a slow ring of his thumb and finger squeezing its way past the slippery, hot head -- then hard strokes again. He twisted his fist a little as he slid up and down. Up and down, with a fast-then-slow motion that had Harry's hips moving jerkily in reflexive response. Mixing it up. No sawing, rhythmic fucking motion here, just the sophomore's hand pleasuring the senior's dick in whatever way he chose. Tugging, twisting, then pumping. And then just for a second, Mark's fingers teasing the swelling, hot cock-head. He smiled. Just his fingertips, five fingertips circling and teasing the moist, red fruit as Harry involuntarily pushed forward. And then the fist again, gripping and sliding up and down. Double-time loose pumping for a second, and then a hard grip and slowly slipping the tight ring of his thumb and finger, tightly squeezed, squeezed over the head's ridge. Squeezing and slipping. Jacking Harry off the way he knew he'd like. Mark wondered briefly what it would be like to take that slimy cock-head into his mouth. Just the head... he watched the flesh stretch and squeeze as he worked it. Fine, sure, but in his mouth? A little gross. Not something he was going to try. Not today. A two-fingertip touch, gliding slowly, feather-light, from tip to base, as the dick twitched and danced. Then a slow finger running along the underside, brushing the soft, tender skin. Again the fingertips circling and teasing the head. And then, again, the hard fist pumping up and down the now-even-harder rock of a dick in pure fast stimulation. Mark was vaguely pleased to hear a soft moan from Harry at that, and with his left hand, reached up and carefully hefted Harry's balls with his fingers. Harry shifted his hips forward as Mark gently caressed his ball sack while rubbing his cock. Harry grunted twice and began working his hips rhythmically now, his fat penis thrust into the air and into Mark's hand as if it were a pussy. Harry had started this experiment, in fact, by thinking of an old girlfriend. As Mark had first started caressing his dick, Harry had thought of breasts, nipples, trim waist and flaring hips, of the feel of a tight, wet pussy yielding to his cock, inch by inch. But those thoughts had left him as Mark stroked and stroked. He looked down to see Mark -- handsome, earnest Mark -- staring at his penis as he stroked the pleasure out of him -- and for then, for that moment, Harry thought only of Mark. Harry still wasn't gay. Neither of the boys was gay. Either of them would have much preferred, at that time or any other, a nice-looking young woman to be there instead, legs spread wide and a smile on her face. But that wasn't the case just then. It was Mark stroking his cock. It was Mark who was going to bring him to what was building into a powerful orgasm. It was Mark, a man who he'd only met a few days ago, a man not particularly feminine, an ordinary young man, typically masculine, whose strong hand was driving him crazy with pleasure. Long minutes went by with Harry finding new heights of horny lust. The teasing mixed with stroking was a combination he hadn't experienced before. With girls, a handjob was brief foreplay before a fuck. But this... this was the fuck. He'd never felt another hand taking such care to please him. Stroking, rubbing, sliding, teasing, and stroking some more. Mark's dry, cool left hand caressed Harry's balls and thighs as his slippery, hot right hand patiently worked magic on that bucking, jerking dick. Harry huffed and panted, hips still thrusting and twisting side-to-side as he reflexively worked the cunt that wasn't there. Mark cradled his balls even as, cum nearing, they lifted (how strange to feel that on another man). Stroking Harry's cock solid and fast, up and down, he held his balls as the orgasm began. He knew he was going to make the older boy cum. Enough teasing. He slid his hand up the shaft, just behind the cock-head, took a good grip, and pumped short strokes, fast, fast, fast. Then -- "Fuck! Uhh --" Harry shouted, as he ejaculated, shooting a fat wad of sperm into the air. Mark had released the choke-hold he'd made Harry cum with, holding the pulsating penis with an ordinary grip, and gently pumping up and down, as the orgasm ripped through him. "Uhh --" Harry grunted again, as the next stream of cum spurted out of him. His sturdy torso was rigid, from the tight muscles in his shoulders and neck to his clenched ass. His abs -- and Mark's gentle, slow strokes -- squeezed the cum out as if by sheer force of pressure. For a brief crazy second, Harry thought that he really should be fantasizing about some girl, at least right now. On the few occasions when he had jerked himself off before, it had been to pornography and he had, though he tried not to think about it much, very much enjoyed making himself cum while staring hard at a close-up, spread vagina on a computer screen. For one second he wondered if it was his duty to think straight thoughts, at this time of all times, while he was shooting his cum. He didn't, though, As his sight returned, he looked down at Mark's hair, as Mark looked at his cock, as his cock squirted out its last pleasures at the touch of the other man. After the last of his cum had left him, Harry sighed and, still standing, finally relaxed. Mark gently slid his loose fist up and down the used-up hardon in long, lazy strokes until the moment had fully passed. "I should be repulsed," thought Mark. But he simply sat, and looked, and took it in. Harry's body was what it was. The two of them had no need to romance each other, nor to lie about their attraction. They were not attracted to each other, Mark knew. And didn't have to worry about whether they ever would be. They were just two friends who had had a problem with being horny, and had helped each other out. And it had felt fucking incredible. They'd wiped up the mess on the floor, then, and chatted a little. They made oblique references to their impromptu sex session, and how they each hoped it would help them avoid problems at the next night's rehearsal. They washed out the beer bottles and, separately, went into the bathroom to wipe the wetness out of their boxers, and wash their hands, and take a brief look in the mirror. At the door, each of them felt almost like they should at least hug goodbye, but they weren't guys who did a lot of hugging, and a "see you later" was all they got. Each of them woke up the next morning, and, at some point during the day, thought to themselves, "I jacked off another guy's cock last night," and marvelled at how ordinary and normal they still felt. It turned out you didn't suddenly turn all queer after all, at least not overnight. (Neither of them gave much thought to the fact that they had been, in turn, jacked off by a guy. That was just the satisfaction of lust. It had been intensely hot, for each of them, but the gender of the dude kneeling below them, getting them off, seemed hardly worth mentioning. That seemed quite normal.) And they talked with friends, and laughed, and ate, and stared at the blackboard in class, and stared at a girl's boob-side in class, or a girl's ass going upstairs, and they studied their scripts, and each got through a pretty ordinary day. And rehearsal, that night, went great. They were confident and relaxed. And if their cocks twitched, when they kissed, it was only just a little, and only just at first. That was week one. *** The second week of "the gay play" rehearsal began with an evening that was unusual even for veteran actors. Mark and Harry had gone over the kissing scene the Thursday before, and the straight young men had found that relief from their frustrations could be found in each other's hands. The cast rehearsed again two days later, with surprisingly no drama and no awkwardness between them. The next rehearsal was on Monday night. Mark was the second to arrive, and found Donna in a petulant mood. The tall blonde was frowning at nothing in particular, and ignored him until the others arrived, which struck him both because usually she was so talkative, and because the cast had already grown rather close. It left him a little off-balance, a little unsure. Ms. Mahoney returned to the subject of the gay kiss at the heart of the show. "It's not that it's wrong," the director said of the lead actors' approach, "we just want to explore different methods, different moods, different emotions. We find art when we search for it." So first Mark practiced snogging a Harry who was acting passive and unresponsive. Then Harry practiced kissing Mary's neck, jaw, ear, before finding his mouth. The boys tried a fast, almost violent kiss a few times. And then an achingly slow one that caught everyone by surprise with its passion: restrained, and then unfolding, with caresses and breath, into the blossom of desire. Donna sat stone-faced. Sherry, watching, was speechless. She had no opinions one way or the other on gay men and their acts of love. She didn't know any gays. They were going to do their thing without her, and she hadn't thought to notice. But the strength of the man before her, harnessed in gentle ministrations to another man, suddenly seemed the sexiest thing she'd ever seen. Her gaze darted from Harry to Mark and back. And she couldn't help picturing the both of them making love to her. So Ms. Mahoney's next assignment caught her off guard. "Thank you, boys. Very well done, very good. Let's keep this going. I want you to keep searching for your craft. "And I want the rest of the cart to help you. Each of you, line up, that's right. "I want you to share your ideas with Mark and Harry. And if you remember from our last lesson, we're going to practice nonverbal communication amongst ourselves. "Take a moment to think what you could or would bring to the role for this scene if you were one of our leads. Then show it to first Mark, then Harry. We find art when we search for it. Help them search. Let them sense your guidance, your insight. "Sherry, please start us off." Sherry stepped forward, a little wobbly. "You mean... ah... kiss them?" "That's right," said the director. "If you prefer," she added, with restrained emphasis to indicate disapproval, "you can participate by leaving your mouths apart a few inches. But I would hope the whole company would be willing to participate in any exercises already required of any particular cast members, and of course you will communicate with effectiveness by direct contact." Sherry gulped. She'd just been asked to kiss two young men she barely knew. Heart still beating fast from the arousing demonstration she'd watched, she stepped forward to Mark first. A smile, a stifled giggle, then lifting her hand to his neck. Her fingers, the color of chocolate, glided over his pale skin, edging into his wavy dark hair, as she lifted herself onto her toes and tilted her face to meet his. He bent down. The clean scent of a man intoxicated her. A hint of breath, and then his warm mouth was on hers. The soft pressure of his lips parted hers. She sighed softly as his hands cupped her cheeks, his body leaned into hers. Her hands slid into his hair and gripped his back, and her heart beat fast, with this moment of heat drowning out the rest of her day. The young woman kissed him back. She forgot herself for just a moment, leaned into him, and kissed him back hungrily. And then the moment was over. And then she kissed Harry, which was nice. And made everything seem rather mundane. And the rest of the cast lined up and, one by one, kissed the boys. No one argued, not Sherry, Zac, Jon or Donna. They had done all manner of improvisational exercises and ... was this just one more? Boys kissing boys was not supposed to be a problem, and so it wasn't. Mark and Harry -- and Zac and John -- experienced in turn the scents of the other college men, their presence, the manner in which they stepped forward to give and receive a kiss. The odd feeling of vulnerability and macho, together, swapping places. Then Donna was the last to kiss Mark, and her pursed lips and narrowed eyes told him what was coming before they stepped into each other's embrace. A closed-mouth pressing, held for a beat, and she moved on. It felt like a rejection, but Mark shook it off and went back to work. She'd seemed almost disapproving. Had he done something to offend her? The next exercise was completely verbal, something Ms. Mahoney called "synonym call-and-response," but the cast was in an autopilot daze from the kissing. Definitely one of the more bizarre rehearsals any of them had ever attended. ----- The two boys walking home together. At the door to Mark's dorm. A pause while someone walked into the building, then the discussion of the secret on their minds. "So, you get hard?" "A little. You?" "I'm really glad I adjusted. I don't think they saw." "...well, shit." "I think I'm engaged to Sherry now." "Ha ha. Nice. So... shit, do you wanna..." "I don't know. Let's see how Wednesday goes." ----- Wednesday night came and went. Mark grew a little stiff in his boxers but he didn't think it showed. Harry was doing fine until the last kiss, when a finger on the back of his neck, or something about the moist heat of a sigh caught him off-guard. He was glad to sit cross-legged with hands hiding his bulging shame. He tried to think about everything but the memory of Mark's... Mark's wet fist... On his... They still had no girlfriends, no release for the sexual tension building in each of them. Brought to a boil every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. For the next six weeks. What the hell were they going to do? What the hell else could they do? They walked a curiously-friendly Sherry home, then parted, again, at Mark's dorm. They didn't have to say it out loud. Sexual frustration was making rehearsals more and more challenging. They figured they were both going to sport raging hard-ons in front of everyone on Saturday. Hard-ons in class? Every boy's public-humiliation fear. Now with the twist of looking both desperate and ... well, gay. The cast would whisper it to friends. They'd never have another girlfriend who could see them as a real man. Unless. Unless they once again released the pressure before a rehearsal. Did they not want to spill each other? Their men's bodies, strummed to tension and completion by another man? Did they just not want the other to know? Were they just delaying the inevitable? ----- Friday night, both Mark and Harry had plans. Mark's dorm had a mixer in the basement. "Mixer" meant party, and it was the term of art for a beer keg that the college officially didn't know about, in exchange for a designated-pourer and no-one-drives policy. He put on a nice shirt, ran his hands through his hair in the mirror, checked his breath, and went downstairs. The music was just a little too loud, but not oppressive. Mark stood with a half-full plastic cup in his hand, sipping periodically. He wondered how there could be so many people in his dorm who he'd never even met. He'd meant to meet a friend there. Not exactly a wingman situation, but a friend makes it easier to mingle. His friend never showed. The music went retro-dancey and Mark briefly wondered whether he should walk up to, hmmm... the hot smiley blonde girl who poured him his beer, or... the focused, stripey-haired DJ who looked a few years older. That DJ was all long limbs and smooth lines. Sharp eyes. And he thought he'd seen her somewhere before. Was that enough of a conversation hook? She was older, out of college. That'd make her more experienced, right? He could deal with that. The beer girl was wearing a belly shirt and shorts. Most girls whose tummy was a little pudgy like that, he supposed, might not try to pull off a bare belly. But he thought it was cute. Her eyes sparkled and she grinned at everyone. Wow, she filled out that shirt really well. She reminded him of his first girlfriend. On second thought, he realized, both of them are busy actually doing things. They're the least approachable girls in the entire room. Get serious, Mark thought to himself. Who else is here? ----- Harry had gotten a bar invite from an old friend. "Xan," as he now called himself, had been Christopher through high school. Instead of college, he'd discovered he was good at driving cars very fast. He was making what he claimed was a living both towing his own dragster to competitions, and piloting a couple of friends' sprint cars around in circles when schedules allowed. "I can't go alone, man!" he'd said on the phone. "Two girls, and I told them double date. I told them how cool you were, they're dyin' to meet you. Two hot blonde girls, they are fuckin' models, models at the track. This isn't that good-personality shit, these girls are fuckin' hot and I am doin' you a huge favor to call you so don't fuck this one up, OK?" Harry stood outside the bar for ten minutes, idly wondering if he should take up smoking. Wondering if he even still liked Christopher. Xan came around the corner with an arm around each girl, sporting a swept-blond haircut, straight white teeth, and the attitute of entitlement Harry had tolerated for years. A bro handshake and a loud introduction, and the four of them went inside. Sitting on the couches, Harry sized up the girls. Both tall and blonde. Tanned, and toned. Betty-Ann had a sweet dimpled complexion, with big eyes and a loud laugh. Hair in two short braided pigtails. Her T-shirt had something written in Japanese, concealing her big young breasts, but showing off their lovely shape -- and a pair of nubs, her nipples, that Harry feared might be quite distracting. Marilyn (or was it Mary-Lynn?) had the body of a stripper, thin and hot, and -- now that he had a chance to really look at her -- she was really unbelievably gorgeous. Flawless face, wow. Pretty hair. She wore an off-the-shoulder black dress, and the contrast with the naked skin of her shoulder made her seem exposed. Her exotic beauty was only accentuated by the darkness of her eyebrows, proving she wasn't a natural blonde. That gave Harry a moment's thought about the patch of dark, or maybe bare skin, that only her lovers would explore. Was she out of his league? He should probably, he realized, be talking with the three of them and not lost in thought like a moron. Chris -- Xan -- had been talking up Harry's football plays to the girls, who were turning to nod at him, even if they didn't have a lot to say. It's true that he'd pulled off a few great plays in the clutch. Good memories. "That sounds exciting!" said Marilyn. She had a refined, low voice, with just enough of a Southern accent to sound sexy and natural. "Yeah," said Harry, thinking: I've had a life since then. It's been four years, let's not talk about me when I was a kid. The busy ponytailed brunette brought them their beers and Xan started a tab. Betty-Ann, kiddy-corner from him on the other couch, turned to him. "Do you play football still?" "No, I dropped that when I got to college. Too much work, I wanted to focus, you know? It's not like I was going to play football for the rest of my life." "What year are you?" "I'm a senior." Lurking was the question of whether Betty-Ann was in college. She was the right age. But she didn't look like a girl who'd attend college. Was that sexist or something? Would it be rude to ask? Shit, this question kept coming up and he still didn't know the answer. He didn't ask. "You better have fun while you can! You gotta start workin' soon!" she dimpled. Harry liked her. It had been a while since he'd been out and met someone he felt he could connect with. "What do you do? Do you have fun?" he asked. Did that sound bad, he wondered. Was she going to think he was asking if she did drugs or fucked on the first date or something? Her smile faded but only a fraction. "This and that, you know. Right now I'm filling in at this coffee place, but that's just for now. I got other stuff I like to do." "Like what?" "I'm good with my hands, you know? Been thinkin' I might want to be a carpenter or something like that. All winter I worked with these other guys to restore an old pipe organ, it was real fun. I like doin' stuff like that." Harry was impressed. He hadn't pictured this round-faced cheery girl with dust in her hair and grease on her hands. Maybe there was more to her than he'd thought. Anyway they had something to talk about now. He smiled back. Let's see where the conversation goes, he thought. ----- "Hey you!" shouted the girl he'd just bumped into. "Hey... you," said Mark, not having any idea who she was. The mixer didn't offer much to do, except drink, sit, watch TV, or try to dance on an unimpressive attempt at a dance floor. Talking was challenging over the thumping, yelling music. With no particular destinations to move to, and no one with him, Mark had no real excuse to do anything at all. So he'd been walking aimlessly around, through crowds of his fellow students, hoping to run into someone. He had, but he didn't remember her. "It's Em," she yelled, "we had Chemistry together last semester!" His Chemistry 1 class had had 180 students in it. Em wasn't ringing a bell. But she was someone to talk to, an attractive someone at that. She was a largish girl, not plump but rounded, and an engaging demeanor. She leaned forward to Mark, talked into his ear, stepping just far enough into Mark's personal space to heighten his awareness. "You had a girlfriend, right? Is she here?" Oh! He leaned in. "No, we broke up. I'm a single guy now!" Her hand on his shoulder. "Hey, awesome, I have someone you should meet. You wanna meet someone? She's super cute, and I bet she'd like you. Hey stay here for a sec, OK?" With a squeeze of his arm and a flashed smile, she was gone into the crowd. That was fast! Having thought for a moment that Em was herself interested, Mark felt vaguely rejected. She had seemed fun. But hopefully... She reappeared, trailing behind her a pint-sized Indian girl. "Hey Mark! This is Geena. Say hi, you guys!" Geena was beautiful. Straight, dark hair framed a big smile and big eyes. She wore a peach and brown dress that swirled around her ankles. It looked very natural with her latte complexion. He was being set up with her? What luck. "Hi, Mark, sorry about all this, Em gets crazy ideas sometimes." With the hand that wasn't holding a beer, she gave her friend a shove. Her sexy eyes flashed from mock-serious to amused. "Hey, Geena, no it's totally cool, great to meet you." Em grinned and excused herself. "Crazy ideas? What was that about?" asked Mark. Geena was a foot shorter; he bent down to talk to her. He hoped he wasn't yelling in her ear too loud. "Oh, it's -- it's kind of a dumb thing that's all. Hey are you from this dorm? Why haven't we run into each other before?" "No idea... I think I'd remember if we had!" Geena's eyes sparkled. She mirrored his smile and laughed. She wasn't shy. "You want some more beer?" ----- Betty-Ann was talking, and Harry was concentrating hard on looking in her eyes. That wasn't hard -- she was a pretty girl. Real pretty. But a couple of beers had gone down, along with a shot of something or other, and that made a good excuse for him to take in the tightness of her T-shirt and the simple curve of her seated hips. Which he did, but only using his super-power of peripheral vision. Her breasts were a perfect shape: big, round... smooth... the T-shirt a sculpture around them. The stretched cotton showed so much of the contour of the underside of each breast, and he could almost feel that bulging fabric yielding to his thumb, or his tongue. "So that was it, that's when I told them, you are so not going to ruin it for me. And I got up and left!" "Yeah, that's..." struggled Harry. The story had been a long one, circumnavigating her roommate and roommate's friend, and he'd had trouble remembering who was who. Understanding the complex dynamics of their relationship as the dramatic event unfolded was well beyond him. "And of course I took Ella with me. Can you imagine the nerve, the two of them thinking they were going to be taking care of her now! I tell you, I just am sick of people sometimes." Ella was her cat, he knew that much. "I'm with you on that," he said, sincerely. "I had this cat ever since I was a little kid. He just died two years ago. That was rough, you know?" Betty-Ann's eyes widened a fraction. She leaned in and put her hand on his tenderly. "I am so sorry. I didn't... well, I didn't figure you were a cat person. You seem a little... well not like a cat person, you know?" "It's okay. It was a while ago. He was a really great cat, though. I mean, I loved that little guy." Harry really had loved his cat. Also, he got the hand squeeze he'd hoped for. "Marilyn!" said Betty-Ann, turning to her friend on the far side of the couch. "Harry is a cat person! Would you ever have thought it?" Marilyn was pulled from a conversation with Xan that was, judging by the distance between them, a little intense. As Harry looked over, he couldn't help notice her hand resting on Xan's knee. She'd turned towards him, and one lovely leg extended out in front of him, short-heeled pump resting between his shoes, shins touching. A more possessive posture would be hard to imagine. How did Xan do it? Marilyn was one of the most gorgeous girls he had ever seen, and here she was practically throwing herself at him. "That's sweet, hon," she said mellifluously to Betty-Ann, who let go of Harry's hand. Her next words were drowned out by Xan's saying loudly something about Harry being a pussy, or getting some pussy. It didn't really matter which. The goodwill of the cat moment was lost. Harry tried to catch Betty-Ann's eye again, but she and Marilyn were both trying to talk to Xan about how insensitive he was. Xan smirked and, just as Marilyn was telling him he was "so" something, he signaled to the waitress, calling her "doll" as he ordered another beer for himself and a wine cooler for his "pussy friend." The girls giggled. Harry smiled graciously at the impassive barmaid and declined it, wondering again whether the whole idea of hanging out with Xan was just a bad one. Betty-Ann turned back to him. "Anyway," she said, dismissing the rude race-car driver, "I think it's great that you love animals." "Um..." "Did your cat jump onto everyone's lap? Because Ella is always jumping onto laps. Doesn't it just drive you crazy when they walk back and forth, and stick their tail in your nose? I swear Ella does that on purpose!" Harry figured he had the skills to eventually bring the conversation back from the hell of cat comparisons. It was just a matter of time. Betty-Ann obviously liked him. That was obvious. Pretty soon they'd be talking about ... well, anything other than cats. ----- Geena was dancing, of sorts, holding her beer up as she sashayed and stepped rhythmically, dress swaying side-to-side. The rapper was rhyming "kitty" with "titty" as she worked her way through the thinning crowd back toward Mark. Mark was pretty well smitten with her. She'd been doing the drinking for both of them. His head was clear, but swimming with excitement. Geena wasn't just a knockout, she was a riot, funny and fun to be with. And she liked him. He didn't know if he was getting lucky tonight. He hoped so. But if not, he was glad just to have gotten to know this freshman girl, this bundle of happy energy who had bounced from friend to friend but kept coming back to stick with him most of the night. "This is the best!" she shouted as she stepped her way to him. "I fuckin' love these parties, right?" "It's great, yeah, to have a beer, and relax with some friends..." "Fuck yeah!" She bumped him with her shoulder, a friendly gesture she'd done before. "I am so... hey, it's too loud here... you wanna go talk somewhere?" "Sure!" She scanned the dorm basement and strode to the stairwell, waving him to follow. It was still loud, but as the door closed, shockingly quiet. It felt intimate. "I never got to just let go before, you know? Just... enjoy life and like have a good time." She'd set her beer down on the stair next to them, the first time he'd seen her with both hands empty all night. She looked him in the eye, serious. "My parents are always so... strict, they're like always, grades are so important, academics, the most important thing, right? I mean I love my mom and dad, yeah?, but they just can't let it go sometimes. They would just freak, they would so freak if they could see me now." Mark had suspected she might be rebelling a little. Some first-years do. The eyebrow ring was probably new. (It drew attention to her huge, mischievous brown eyes. Good call.) He wondered if her name were really Geena, or if she'd picked a nickname. She probably had gotten a tattoo, somewhere under that dress that fit so snugly around her torso and pooled under her legs. She was saying something about her mother. He was admiring the way fabric wraps around a girl's body. Mark was just starting to wonder where the tattoo was, when she grabbed his upper arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm so glad I can finally just relax here with you." Yes! "I like being around you, Geena." She turned to look at him. "They wouldn't like you, not at all. They would freak, if they saw me with a white guy like this. Like, they wouldn't say anything, but later I would get to hear all about how there are so many Indian guys over here and what is wrong with me and all that stuff." Mark laid his hand on hers. "There's nothing wrong with you. You know that, right?" He wondered what she had meant by "with" the white guy. Were they "with" each other already? "My dad is so strict. He'd find something wrong with you, something stupid, you know? And make like that was his problem with you. But my mom wouldn't even try to hide it, she's told me before, I need to --" She dropped her forehead to Mark's shoulder. "They know like what my path should be, like my life path, but -- I just don't know --" She stopped for a moment and stared at the ground. She made a noise. It might have been a sob. Mark hesitated and put his hand under her chin, lifting it. Bleary eyes lifted open. The thought of kissing her vanished. She was more drunk than he had supposed. He realized with a shock that since she was so small, the same few cups of beer that gave him a buzz might really be too much for her. And hadn't she drank more than a few? "Why don't we come back to my place and talk, so we don't have to sit here on the stairs," he said. "Yeah..." she said, and with his help, stood and walked upstairs. She brought her beer. ----- "Everyone wants to hear about the crashes!" laughed Xan, loudly. "Why is it all about the crashes? Oh, right! Cause crashes are cool!" Marilyn gave her demure smile; Betty-Ann giggled. Harry sat beside Betty-Ann now, touching: an electric line from hip to knee. Unfortunately, all he could see was the back of her head. He leaned forward to at least see Xan while he was talking. "Sorry to disappoint you ladies, I know you want me to get blown up in a big ball of fire. But I've never been in a really bad crash. Why? Cause I'm a damn good driver, that's why!" Huh: I have no idea if that's true, thought Harry. "Sure, you tap walls, ya tap other cars, but that happens all the time. I only smacked into a wall real hard once. Didn't bend the frame but it sure knocked the wind out of me!" "Did it hurt?" asked Marilyn, concerned. "Naw, I was just mad. Look, them cars are so danged safe. Look, OK, first of all, helmet. Right? Neck brace. And flame-retardant suit. Then I buckle myself into my five-point seatbelt. And my seat's..." "What's a five-point seatbelt?" asked Betty-Ann. Harry was getting more and more annoyed. Somewhere during one of Xan's stories, the lovely girl sitting between them had turned to face the other way. Need to turn her back around, he thought. How can I turn her around, he wondered. Can't just pick her up and rotate her, he said to himself idiotically. Have to turn her around with words. Think, dumbass! "OK, look, so there's five points to it, right? That's why they call... OK, look. There's two straps over your shoulders. Not diagonal like an ordinary car, but straight up." Xan demonstrated by putting his open hands flat on Betty-Ann's shoulders, fingers pointing up past her ears. "Ooh!" she said. What the fuck, dude, thought Harry. I thought you brought me here to double-date. Now you're hitting on my girl. That is fucked up. In a dim recess of his mind was the notion that he'd been hitting on his girl all evening. "And there's two more straps that go on your waist. Like a lap belt, but low, like on your hips." Xan turned to Marilyn on his other side. He leaned in and grasped a hip in each hand. "And cinched real tight!" He gave her a push into her seat back, like a belt pulling taut. Her eyes went wide, but she lifted her arms out of the way. She smiled at his impudence, then laughed at herself for liking it. Harry, alone next to the girl of his fantasies, picked up his beer and took a big drink. "And the fifth strap, you know where that goes!" Xan sat back and looked at the two girls. They looked at him blankly. "Right here!" he yelled, and grabbed his crotch. "Oh!" said Marilyn, and reddened, and sipped her drink to cover it. Betty-Ann laughed. Harry had never been a jock, though most of his friends had been. He'd tolerated this kind of company well enough over the years, but never liked the crudeness. Or the predictability. Xan had charisma, yes, but any idiot could see what he was doing. Did the girls not see it? Or did they actually like it? This was a bad scene, he thought. This is not the place for me, these are not the people. It's not going well because these are the kind of losers I tried to leave behind years ago. I'm not a jock, but Xan's turned into an asshole, and these girls are just dumb to be falling for... Touch jolted him as Betty-Ann turned and put her hand on his arm. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. She was saying something. Looking at her, for just a moment he saw what a lovely young woman she was. Inviting eyes, and the pretty silhouette of a girl just entering womanhood. "Did you ever hear such stories?" she was asking him. Dammit. Holding her down, was what he was suddenly thinking. Pinning her wrists over her head and holding her down, naked, as he topped her. He'd watch her tits bounce with every banging slap, and hear her moaning his name, and feel her... He snapped back to her hand resting lightly on his arm. Did he really just want to fuck this girl, who was pretty, but could have been anyone? He'd been telling himself all night that that was all he wanted. Was that true? Whether or not he was looking for more, this was not his scene. This juvenile flirting was not for him, and his style was not for her, he knew. But truth be told, Betty-Ann liked him. She was talking to Xan because he was the one talking, but she would have liked to get to know the moody, imposing man on her other side. She knew he was her age, but he seemed older, which she liked. And while his looks gave him a hint of danger, he was soft-spoken and intelligent, a potently paradoxical combination for a girl who lived her life on impulse. She might have liked having her wrists pinned, if it had come to that. But Harry had already decided the night was a bust, and he seemed determined to sabotage it himself. He'd pricked up his ears an hour earlier when he thought he'd heard a pun, mistakenly, and now it felt like it'd been a long slide back to the native dumbassery of this hick town -- his town. A booth on the far wall erupted in whoops. He couldn't wait to graduate and get the hell out of there. He'd had a little too much to drink. She gave his forearm an affectionate squeeze, and mused on what it would be like to be carried in his arms. But Harry just smiled half-heartedly, and said something noncommittal, and the moment passed. He seemed not really interested. He seemed... elsewhere. Marilyn said she wanted to powder her nose, and Betty-Ann went with her. Xan scooted closer to Harry and spoke in a low tone. "How about that? Oh geez. Told you these girls were fuckin' hot." "Yeah..." "I'm ready to get busy, how about you? Wanna blow outta here? I'm takin' Marilyn, you know that right?" "You think Betty-Ann even likes me? I'm beginning to think this isn't working out. She seemed pretty wrapped up in your car stories." "My stories? Uh..." Xan seemed at a loss. "Hey, you do your thing, I'll do mine. You don't think she's hot for you, well I fuckin' know that Marilyn's hot for me and I am ready to tap that. You solve your own problems, OK? OK." Harry sat there and just looked at him. Their friendship had aged decades that night. Old times seemed miles away. He could ask Betty-Ann to come back to his place. Simple enough: just ask her. Xan got up as the girls came back. "My turn!" he announced in the loud voice that seemed twice as phony after their tense talk, and headed for the men's room. He swatted Marilyn on her ass as their paths crossed, and got a playful "heyyy" back, and everyone knew what that meant. Sitting back on the couch, the girls were strangely subdued. What he wanted to ask Betty-Ann was pretty personal, and she was sitting too close to Marilyn. He couldn't catch her eye. They were talking to each other. She was barely looking at him. It all started to feel a little hazy. He laid a hand on her shoulder. And said "hey." She looked at him, and he tried to ask if he could ask her something. A flash of anger at the whole situation. He tamped it down. "So... what do you think?" was the question he got out. "About what?" she asked, innocently. Was she playing dumb? Had she been leading him on this whole time? What had the two of them discussed in the ladies' room? He knitted his knobby brows and lifted his hand off her shoulder. He didn't have an answer, and Marilyn was already saying something else to her when she turned her head away. "OK, my turn now," he said, standing, trying to be jovial, when Xan came back and dropped himself right between the two girls. "You betcha!" said his former friend, as the beautiful blonde in the tight black dress whispered something in his ear. He was gone long enough to pee and wash his hands. He came back to the three of them walking out the door. Xan hung back long enough to inform Harry that all three of them were headed back to his place, and he's real sorry but sometimes that's the way it goes buddy. Harry must have taken a step toward his date as she disappeared through the door, because Xan stepped into his path, giddy and aggressive.. "You're not gonna fuck this up for me, right? Two girls at once, shit. You get me? Both at once. They've never done this before, you get me? Fuckin' models. You're not gonna ruin this, right?" He stared at the door after they'd gone. Ditched. Well, that was the perfect capstone to a perfect evening. And his date was about to fuck his windbag friend. And/or her friend. That was just a great picture there. The waitress elbowed him, tray in hand. "Hey. Your friend got his part of the tab. You owe me..." She trailed off as she fished in her apron for the bill. Harry shook his head and paid her. Hard to play this one off. "Looks like I'm a girl short tonight," he joked. "Now you tell me, what kind of girl would do that to a guy like me?" "I don't know," she said, counted the cash quickly, and walked off. Harry walked out the door. ----- Geena, warm and giggly, hung on Mark's arm as he unlocked his dorm room door. Mark had a TV, but suggested they watch a movie on his laptop. She picked the DVD. A comedy. Propped up against pillows, he half-reclined. She plopped into his lap and fit snugly into one arm. She sipped beer and they chit-chatted as the movie played. He couldn't believe how well the evening was going. He focused on the conversation, and the movie, to distract himself as much as possible from the soft, feminine little creature. It wasn't easy. She kept nestling into him. And she'd worn a subtle, yet very distracting scent. It mixed with the faint aroma of her musky sweat. It was enchantment plus erotic. She smelled incredible. He'd never known girls had so many bits that were so fleshy and padded. Every which way she moved left a different part of her resting on a different part of him: her calf, the back of her shoulder, the junction at the side of her hip and thigh, the inside of her arm. He rested his arms around her, careful not to lay a hand on any body part that would spoil her mood. It was fine. Her waist, warm under the dress and moving with her breathing, was a wonderful thing to just hold. She didn't seem to have any problem touching his body part, though. A couple of times she'd squirmed her butt or back squarely onto the erection that he'd given up trying to will away. She had to have noticed. She ended up reclining with her butt cheek planted on it. She hadn't slapped him, so he figured that must be OK. In fact she might have been feeling some of the same attraction he was, because her chatter slowed and soon it was just the two of them watching the movie. Mark really wanted to kiss her, but the way she laid, they'd have to be contortionists. He started working out in his head how he was going to make his move -- touch her cheek? lift her with both hands while he extricated himself? -- and somewhere along the way, working up his nerve turned into just watching the movie with her. After not much of the movie had played, Geena sighed, sat up, gave a tiny burp, and announced she was going to pee. Mark's dorm room had an attached half-bath. He took the opportunity to walk around, letting the blood flow back into his limbs, and letting his hard-on relax a little. She came out, looking subdued, rubbing a shoulder. "Your shoulder hurt?" "Yeah, they both have a knot or something. They're sore." "Then it's your lucky night. I took a massage class last semester. I'll have it feeling better in no time!" "Oh, that sounds good. I really need to relax." She put a hand on the couch and eased herself into a seated position. "I have some massage oil. Give me just a minute." In his bedroom, Mark stared at his small collection of oils, trying to decide whether a floral scent would suit her, or a zesty lemon, or good old fashioned vanilla. Would it be too creepy to bring them all out and let her choose? Eventually he grabbed the squeeze-bottle of unscented and walked back into his TV room. She was asleep on the couch. Or passed-out, maybe. She'd never really stopped sipping beer. Even as it dawned on him that he wasn't going to get lucky tonight, Mark took a moment to admire her. Eyes close, an arm folded under her head gave her an innocent, child-like aura. Sure, it was beer-induced, but she did look angelic. Well, apart from that boob. Evidently her arm was folded under her in a funny position. ...nice cleavage, he thought. Especially on a small girl. He took a moment to admire the delicate drape of light and shadow across her chest. Someday, he thought. Hopefully someday soon. He crouched next to her and shook a shoulder gently. "Hey," he said. On the second "hey," she roused. No longer bubbly, she could barely talk. She was suddenly very tired. She managed to sit upright with his help, then just said "oh man" and rested her head in her hands. "Can I get you anything?" he offered. "A glass of water?" "Ohh, man..." she said. "Ohhh..." "I don't suppose you still want that massage." Head down, she sighed. Mark got her a glass of water, and sat down next to her. He told her a little about his life. He told her what he thought about parents who would put so many expectations on their daughter. He told her how pretty she was. She didn't really seem to be listening, and didn't take the water. "Oh, man" was all she said, a couple more times. She tried to stand, and Mark caught her arm. She fell back half-onto him, a sprawl of unguided limbs that was not sexy, just pathetic. She apologized and stood back up with his help. "I'll take you home," he said, and got her room number out of her. He walked her there with firm grips on her arms. At the door she swallowed hard and, as her roommates opened it, she turned to Mark. "Thank you," she said, "I had a lovely evening." That seemed to be a drunken dignity, not ironic. She fumbled for his hand and shook it awkwardly. Her roommates, suspicious of the man who had evidently gotten her drunk, pulled her inside and with a glare at him shut the door. Back downstairs, the party had evaporated. It was a mostly-empty room. A knot of boys was clumped in a corner, talking over each other loudly. In the far corner, a pair of lovebirds tenderly made out. "Well, time to hang it up," Mark was saying to himself, just as Harry walked in. "Thought you were on a date," he said, and Harry's face set like stone. "Didn't go well, huh?" "No, it really didn't go too fucking well." The boys summed up their evenings for each other, and when the pause arrived, they both knew it was time for Harry to either go home, or get himself invited up to Mark's room. Their gazes met. *** "Well... looks like it's gonna be a long night," said Mark. His dorm party was winding down, and everyone was getting ready to go. A pair of R.A.'s with a mop were triaging the spilled beer, and the only girl in sight was holding firmly to the arm that was taking her home. It wasn't going to be a long Friday night because Mark was planning on staying up and studying. It was looking like a long, sleepless night for the sophomore because he had spent the whole evening courting a pretty little freshman who had, ultimately, succumbed to a surfeit of alcohol and was now sleeping it off in her own bed. His friend Harry had just stopped by on his way home. The burly senior was grim-faced, nursing a grudge and a wounded ego. Harry had spent the evening in a bar with an old friend and two hot girls... both of whom had gone home with his friend. Both. Leaving Harry to walk home alone. His beer buzz was falling flat and he was teetering between resigned and downright grumpy. "You got one more up in your room?" asked Harry. "Sure, there's a couple beers in my fridge. Want one?" "Yeah, I could use it." Harry was still sore about not scoring, and was trying not to blame the world in general. And Mark, still almost able to feel the slight girlish curve of Geena's waist under her dress, wasn't much happier. They knew the invitation would probably be about more than just beer. There wasn't much chit-chat as they climbed the stairs to Mark's floor. They didn't meet each other's eyes as he unlocked his door. A pair of bottles was brought out, and the two of them sat at opposite ends of Mark's couch, sipping and quiet. "So two blondes huh," said Mark. "Models." "Nice." "The one I liked," said Harry, "had these punky little pigtails. Tall girl, almost as tall as me. Real pretty." "Nice." "Not super thin. Well, I mean like thin, but you know. Big tits, big hips. Solid and curvy, you know? She had this like innocent oval face, like a farmer's daughter or something. Right? Tits like a fuckin' pair of grapefruits, this little stretched T-shirt... well, maybe small grapefruits. Or big oranges," he reflected. "What was the other one like?" "Kinda tall too, but thin. Hot. Way out of your league." They shared a grin. "Black dress, like the bar was a fuckin' cocktail party or something. And..." Harry held out his hands, maybe in an attempt to demonstrate or just recall the shape of her body. His hands dropped. "Shit." "Sounds hot." "How about you with that Indian girl? What was she like?" Mark thought for a moment. Geena had been really sweet all night and he didn't want to ... well, besmirch her, he guessed. But he was horny as hell, and she had been so hot. Sweet or not, he had really, really wanted to fuck her. "Geena's like a little bundle of sugar, you know? Small and kinda hyper and ..." He paused. How could he describe what it was like to watch her lips as she talked, to catch her eye and see her smile as their gaze met? How warm she was on his lap, and how soft her waist felt under his hand? How she went from adorable wearing a smile, to smoldering without it? "Pretty?" "Oh yeah, real pretty." "Good body?" "Yeah... she has this tight little body... it was all under this long dress... but I was really looking forward to taking it off her, know what I mean?" Harry nodded. Mark was being honest and he wasn't sure why. Proving to Harry that he really did have the hots for this girl? For a girl? Maybe proving to himself? He wasn't lying. Neither of them was. Mark didn't want to be on his sofa with a male friend nursing a beer. Mark had wanted to fuck Geena. And if she was as pleasant sober and not a complete flake, he had thought, she might be girlfriend material. And Harry had wanted to fuck Betty-Ann. From behind. Then on top. Or the other order was fine too. The girlfriend thing wasn't so much on his radar anymore. They swigged a little beer. "Oh hell I have just the thing for you," said Mark suddenly. Then stopped, sheepish. Then plowed ahead. "There's this girl with pigtails, sounds just like yours. In my porn collection." He was already opening windows on his laptop, looking for the half-remembered movie. "And I think she was even in a lesbian scene with an Indian chick. Wouldn't that be a hoot." Harry didn't respond. Didn't say anything or sit up. He thought about that for a second. Lifted his beer halfway to his mouth, then set the half-full bottle aside and waited. He wasn't sure he was going to like this... but thought he probably might. And he didn't feel like objecting. Mark opened a movie onto the laptop screen, set it on the coffee table, and squinted and clicked to skip to the part where everyone has their clothes off. The white girl didn't look anything like Betty-Ann. She did have blonde pigtails, but long, and with fucking bows in them, which looked ridiculous, Harry thought to himself. Too thin, and too much makeup. And boobs that were almost certainly not real. The Asian girl was Japanese or something. Not remotely Indian. To be fair to Mark's memory, it had been quite a while since he had watched any of this particular movie... and he had never watched it all the way through. Mark sat forward, resting elbows on knees, at the edge of his couch, watching as the ostensible lesbians on his laptop shared an open-mouth kiss and played with each other's boobs. The girls were turned to the camera, displaying for it, legs spread for it, both full-frontal as they made out for the boys. Harry was already half-reclining on the arm of the sofa. His manhood had been led on all night. And now he was suddenly looking at a landscape of nude girl. Rolling hills of thigh and belly and arm graced mountains of tit, and both boys surveyed the twin valleys laid bare at the junction of each girl's legs. It was a map of girls, a guide to sex: here the body is, look. Go from here to here. You see? Your destination is where you always knew it was: here, we'll lay it out for you, here, look. The ex-football player's short, fat cock swelled in his jeans. Sitting back, he could feel it grow, observe it without looking. No penis goes from soft to hard instantly. He felt the first blood pump into it, not stiffening it, not yet, just a gentle swelling. As he watched the glowing screen, it swelled more, and began to harden. Just half-hard now. Now the stiffening was building, the spongy length turning into a shaft, the still-pliant tissues shifting and stretching in his pants. And then his cock was stiff and erect, the head squeezed and pushed further into the stretched clothing. Pushing into the final stage of erection. The tension was still building. The hardness was turning into an insistent pressure. Shaft hard as wood now, and bulbous head bulging and proud. I'm rock-hard in my pants, Harry thought, inanely. He knew he and Mark were about to get each other off again. He was glad to have the distraction of the porno. He felt he could easily have gotten hard just by thinking about sex. But the porn was a good excuse, made the stiffening inevitable. At the bar he'd had to suppress an unwanted hard-on once already that night. It was wanted, now, uncertain but definitely wanted. Harry didn't move, just sat back and watched, and listened. The Asian girl was fondling and sucking the white girl's fake tits as she oohed and aahed. Her rubbery nipples reminded him of Betty-Ann's little pebbles under her tight T-shirt. As the camera tracked down, to show both girls playing with the blonde's shaved cunt, the lust washed over Harry like a flood. More than desire -- urges, needs. The image of holding Betty-Ann down as he fucked her came to him again. She had liked him, he knew it. He could be, should be, fucking her right now. He stared at the pink flesh being spread and diddled by the two different hands, and could no longer see the movie. Just the image of his cock plunging into that girl's fuck-hole. He'd grab one thigh in each hand, and -- Goddammit. He looked at Mark. Mark was just sitting on the other end of the sofa. Staring at the video, not moving. The blonde's pussy was already getting worked over: the other girl was sucking and licking her clit, and sliding a couple of fingers in and out of her. The sound of a young woman in ecstasy filled the room -- fake, probably, but who knew? "Nice lookin' porno you got there," said Harry. "Yeah. I got a collection. I used to have a girlfriend who was a bit of a freak." "She liked watching girls eat pussy?" "Mm-hm. She liked watching girls eat pussy." A pause. "She liked... watching me... watch girls eat pussy. Too," he added. Harry knew Mark was as hard as he was. OK, he thought, we both know how this goes. Let's make it happen. The thick, strong ex-jock stood, and, without any effort to hide the lump in his jeans, faced the lean, tall swimmer. "Stand up," he said. Mark looked up at him and took a breath. "C'mon," said Harry. Mark looked back at the laptop, and got slowly to his feet. "I'm gonna do you first. Then you're gonna do me, right?" said Harry. Mark nodded, still not looking at him. Harry bent and lifted up Mark's button-down shirt. He had a smooth, lean stomach, with just a thin trail of hair that led down. His bellybutton caught Harry's gaze for some reason. Naked, it looked infantile. An immaturity, a baby's mark on such a large, flat torso. His was an athlete's stomach, built for flexing and twisting. He took hold of the button on Mark's jeans. He could see the sophomore's long rod, extending down, under a pantleg, lifting at the denim, levering it into a ridge. The only sound was the moaning and squishing of the girls on the laptop. The lights were on. The room seemed very bright. Harry's heart raced. He slipped the button free and unzipped. He looked at the front of Mark's pants, splayed open. Vulnerable. He thought he could smell the sweat, or was it his imagination? Some impulse made him place a hand on Mark's penis through his jeans, and massage it gently. Mark twitched. He felt warm. Later, Harry would recall this as one of their more intimate moments, a rubbing through the pants of a still-clothed man. The anticipation building. The closest they'd yet been to foreplay. Harry was on one knee. He gently lowered Mark's jeans partway down his thighs. His stiff prick still entangled in cloth. He took hold of his boxers, slid them down, just a few inches. Mark's stomach, seeming so muscular now, bore a thin trail of hair to -- as the waistband lowered -- the thick, dark nest of his sex. He grasped Mark's dick through the boxers, and with both hands, slowly massaged it through the cotton. Mark's hands lay limp at his sides. Mark didn't move. Harry's own cock bulged, trapped, uncomfortably, in his own crotch. He ignored it and slipped the waistband down and under Mark's balls. The long, slim dick finally bobbed free. Harry's hands were already on it, both hands, caressing it from all angles, touching the young man's penis from top to bottom. It nodded and weaved under Harry's ministrations, propelled by his stroking and petting. He was in no hurry. They both knew what was to come. They weren't backing out. He could take his time. Mark controlled his breathing, breathed through his nose, stood stock-still. He'd been expecting a hard jacking-off, and from the state of his Geena-prolonged arousal, he hadn't thought he'd last even one minute. He hadn't thought Harry would -- Harry was taking his time. He was actually enjoying giving Mark this kind of pleasure. He knew his friend was going crazy on the inside, even if he was just standing there. He cupped Mark's balls with one hand, gently holding them while his other hand slid slowly, loosely up and down that long cock. Cupped his balls, and squeezed the hairy sack oh-so-gently. There was so much to do with the sensitive skin of a young man's scrotum. He tickled Mark's sack with the light touch of two fingers, until it pulled itself up into a tight round package. Then a careful stroking, pulling the edges of the skin, stretching his balls bit by bit until they descended again. Then he slipped his fingers under the waistband, curled them around the back of Mark's ball sack, and took a nice firm grip of it. He pulled it gently down and held it firm. He lifted his other hand to his lips and dropped saliva into his palm. He spread the wetness over that svelte, long, cock, and stroked it up and down. It wasn't like dominating a big-hipped blonde girl by impaling her until she cried out. But it was domination, of a kind. He enjoyed that. He didn't quite consciously see the reason he enjoyed that. Harry's big hand was a nice big fist, a manly hand, wet with spit as he slid it up and down his friend's cock. Mark's boner got hard as it could be, as Harry stroked it and stroked it. Mark's mouth had fallen open, and he licked his lips as he controlled his breathing. Still watching the laptop, as if studying naked girls could ensure he wasn't gay, Still... unmoved. Unmoving. Harry kind of liked that, actually. Mark could resist all he wanted. He was going to give in eventually. Going at it easy, and letting him resist the whole long way, was just the kind of pleasurable punishment he deserved for resisting. Harry must have rubbed a bit hard, or the spit started to stick, because after a bit, Mark gave an "ah--" and, taking Harry's hand in his, lifted it away. "Hold on a sec," said Mark. "You're chafing me. Can you get that massage oil there?" He pointed to where he'd left it. Harry smiled, picked it up, and got a few towels from the bathroom too. Laying them on the couch, he knelt down and squirted a generous glob of oil into his hands. The first touch, Harry's two hands together sliding frictionlessly from tip to base of his angry hard-on, was such ecstasy that Mark froze, not even knowing what he was feeling. Mark had never had his cock oiled before. For the condoms' sake, his girlfriends had only ever wet it with water-based lube and their own fluids. Oil feels different, as he was discovering. Oil turns a man's penis into pure slippery joy. An oiled cock has no limits to pleasure. In the right hands, an oiled cock can dance in that pleasure, for hours. Harry slid one hand back under Mark's balls, oiling his sack, and sliding his fingers back, further, between his standing legs. He rubbed Mark's hairy, oily taint as his other hand took a nice firm grip on his hairless, slick shaft. And pumped. Mark must still be controlling his breathing. As the sound of the stroked cock joined the squishy mm's and oh's of the movie's licked pussy, Mark still stood there. Hands at his sides. Staring only at the screen. Harry's own cock throbbed in his jeans as he gave Mark's exposed naked cock an oily jacking. Mark's breath caught. Then a sighed "ohhh" escaped his lips, as his hips twitched slightly forward. Harry smiled, and kept up the stroking exactly as before. With his other hand rubbing back and forth along Mark's perineum, he could feel the penis shaft where it extended out from inside his body. It was hard there too. He could feel the fat ridge on its underside, the tube his cum would squeeze through. With one hand on the exposed shaft and the other rubbing the shaft buried behind his balls, it felt like Mark's dick was a foot long. Mark tensed and shuddered. His eyes squeezed shut. His hands fluttered, then clenched into fists. Still he stood there. What's he waiting for? Harry wondered. Does he think there's something wrong with him for liking this? Why won't he give in to it? His big fist slid up and down the hard, oily cock. Up and down the slippery shaft, while the swollen little head at its tip got hidden and revealed, over and over.. Harry was enjoying it. Actually enjoying pleasuring a man's penis. It was really a lot like eating pussy, he realized. He wasn't getting much out of it either way, but it was fun to make someone else cum. It was fun. And Harry's cock -- for whatever reason -- stayed stiff and hard in his pants, so who was he to say he wasn't enjoying it? He focused on the flesh of the stiff penis in his hand. As he watched himself sliding his hand up and down it, he could almost feel the sensations himself. He slowed his pumping rhythm, took a measured pace. Long minutes of a measured pace. Just fast enough to not be slow. Not giving Mark the hard swift jack-off he really wanted. Lifting him to it. Bringing him to the point where he wanted more. Holding him there, wanting more. Finally, Mark moaned. His ass clenched, hips jerked forward, head fell back, eyes closed. He slid a hand under his shirt to caress his own tensed stomach. The picture of a man giving in to ecstasy: his hips thrusting forward, bucking as he surrenders to the rhythm; one hand rubbing his torso from groin to chest; the other grabbing his own hair; shoulders hunch and head lolls, mouth open. Mark moaned, giving a tense "ohhh," and started to pant as he succumbed to Harry. So horny, so incredibly hot for sex, and yet the oil stretched out the pleasure, erasing friction and leaving him with the slipping, pulling, sliding, raw stimulation. It built and built. Some part of his mind wondered how had not cum by now. His cock was pure pleasure, full to bursting, ready to explode, yet there he stood, gasping and groaning, twisting his body. The tight muscles of his ass squeezed as he thrust the core of his pleasure forward. He'd resisted so long, and now he was lost to it, helpless, surrendering to the strong hands of a horny college boy. Harry watched Mark's face as his eyes snapped open. "Ah -- I --" was all he got out at first, and then, eyes wide, "oh God." Harry stroked five more times, a little harder now, a little faster. Long, faster strokes, all the way up and down Mark's long, slender cock. He felt his balls rise up tight, and then: "shit --" "Shit --" "Oh, fuck -- fuck!" said Mark. "Yeah," said Harry softly. "I'mgonnacum," Mark said, fast, then again: "I'mgonnacum." "Yeah," was all Harry said. Brought to the edge, and carried over... "Shit -- shit --" "Oh --" "Oh shit --" "Not on the computer --" he got out as the flood of orgasm rose up in him. Harry pointed him away from the now-ignored laptop, and squeezed harder, and jacked fast -- fast -- up and down on the head of Mark's cock -- Fast, hard, right on his cock-head -- "Fuck!" The orgasm broke across him a full second before his balls shot his cum. Head back, Mark thrust his hips into the big slick fist. Harry felt the pulse of hot cum rushing up through that spongy little tube. Silence, held breath, as the first spurt of liquid shot out of Mark's cock. Then -- "Ngaaahh! Aahh! Uhhh!" -- a gasping wordless groan as Harry's fist pumped the rest of his cum out of him. Harry watched the second pulse, a stream that spat onto the floor, and the third a blip that spilled out over his hand. He eased his stroking. The fourth and fifth involuntary contractions from deep within the younger man's body squeezed only a few more drops of white fluid, trickling from his hot reddened cock-head onto Harry's knuckles. Mark panted an "uh -- uh --" as Harry wound down. He slowly squeezed and stroked Mark's shaft as a long train of contractions spasmed through his manhood, and he gently pulled and caressed his tensed balls until they relaxed. Behind him, oblivious, the girls were still at it. A week ago, the first time either of them had been with a man, they had brought it to an end as soon as they were done. This time, Harry just waited, giving gentler and slowing strokes as Mark, deflated, returned to Earth. The cum-spasms weakened and ended. Soon the senior was just caressing the sophomore's half-hard cock, barely touching the now-sensitive head, eking the dregs from the experience. He stroked the limp, hot, cum-and-oily penis of his straight friend. Finally, Mark took a deep breath, and stepped to the side to pick up a towel. His worked penis, slicked, rubbed-red, finally satisfied, hung between his legs as he crouched to mop his cum off his floor. "Pretty good, huh," said Harry, who was hornier than he'd ever been in his life and suddenly aware of the girls moaning behind him. "Yeah," said Mark, and looked him in the eye. This was okay. This was pretty damn okay. The two of them shared a smile for a moment, until it turned sheepish and they glanced away. "Okay, my turn," said Harry. He stood, swiftly yanked down his own jeans, and kicked them off. Harry had a large penis. Not long. In fact, a little on the short side. But thick. "Massive," is what Mark actually thought, as he looked at it again. Harry laid a towel on Mark's couch, then laid down, on his back, lifting off his shirt. His cock was smeared with pre-cum. His pubes were matted with it. He hadn't cum in a week, he'd gone drinking with a cock-tease, he'd just jacked off his friend, and -- he turned his head to the side -- he was assaulted by the image of a slutty blonde pumping a purple vibrator in and out of some girl's fuck-hole, making her moan in agonized pleasure. Yeah, he was ready to cum all right. The solid-built athlete lay hard and nude on his friend's couch and waited to be masturbated. "Use the lube," he said. Mark picked it up. He squirted a dollop into his hand, and rubbed his palms together to warm it up. Sitting on the edge of the couch next to Harry, he took the thick cock between his two hands, and massaged the oil into it. "Fuck!" said Harry, loud. The pleasure was so intense. So immediate. He'd been waiting for this. Fantasizing, dreaming, wishing for Betty-Ann -- or the redhead in his astronomy class, or maybe this little Japanese chick on the screen -- to spread her legs and swallow his dick in her slippery warmth. He knew Mark wasn't quite the same thing. But it was all right. He liked Mark. Mark was helping him out. And Mark's hands, swirling all over him to spread the oil, felt really damn good. "Oh fuck, yeah," said Harry. The camera had pulled back. The Asian girl was bent at the waist. The screen showed both her bare pussy, obscene parentheses embracing her slim chaste-for-now slit, and her friend's, spread-wide for the pistoning wet dildo. His eyes fluttered shut and his pelvis strained upward. His friend had taken him between his hands, and was rubbing his flesh like he was squeezing and packing a snowball. His fat, oily erection stood up straight, taking the devilish massage like a man. "Uhhh..." he moaned. Thought had left him as pure sensation took over. Eyes closed, he moaned again, helpless. He twisted side-to-side, as if he were trying to get away from the touch. His powerful legs flexed and his feet sought purchase. That was his body, seeking more, struggling to push his cock up into the incredible sensation. Mark eased up. He rested his left hand on Harry's balls as his right hand began a slow, methodical jacking-off. "Ohhhh... ohhhhh, yeah," said Harry, able to breathe again, coming back down to earth. Harry took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Mark sat beside him, wearing a nice button-down shirt and staring at Harry's naked, hairy crotch as he stroked his straight friend's dick. "Yeah... play with my balls," he said, and Mark obligingly dipped his left hand down between his legs, and started rolling around his hairy scrotum and his balls. "Fuck, that feels fuckin' good. God damn." He bent his right knee, opening his thighs to make it easier for Mark to work. He rested his hands on his chest. The pleasure was still a hot flame, but he felt he had regained a bit of control now. Foot flat on the couch, he flexed his hips up and down. He wasn't meeting Mark's fist in the rhythm of a good fuck. His pumping hips were just an expression of the spontaneous joy coursing through him. Harry knew it couldn't last forever. He wished it could. His brows knitted at the sad thought that, probably all too soon, he would cum and this beautiful stroking would end. He turned his head to watch the laptop again. Now the blonde was on her back, legs spread wide for the camera. The other girl was hugging her leg, one hand rubbing her clit from above, the other with its middle finger sliding up into her asshole. The blonde moaned loudly. One svelte Asian finger slid up into her butt over and over. Harry was entranced. The furious massage of her clit left her pussy open, and the pink flesh was, right then, the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen. "Oh, fuck. Yeah. You're makin' my cock feel real good." A hint of a smile from Mark. "Oh yeah. ...hey. Dude." "Yeah?" "Grab some more of that oil and spread it all over my balls and ass crack." Mark thought for a second, and did as he was told. Harry lifted his leg higher, and spread his thighs a little wider. The oil spilled onto his balls and went everywhere. Mark rubbed it all over his cock, and a little below his balls, then hesitated. "Cmon man. Just rub it around my asshole. It'll feel real good." Harry wasn't sure how he knew that. Intuition. Mark slicked it all up -- the pale crack of Harry's ass, the red wrinkly scrotum, and, finally, the little brown indentation of his asshole. He rubbed the oil all around with one hand, while still giving his cock a slow, easy stroke with the other. Harry stared at the unending invasion of the blonde's hairless asshole, while Mark rubbed the outside of his hairy one. In and out went that slim, girlish finger, tugging at the flesh, giving a hot tease to her begging, empty pussy. His cock was so hard. His body an instrument. He licked his lips and let out a tremulous "ohhhhh," as the stroking hands racked him with pleasure. No games here, no shyness, no flirting or dating. Only the raw, hot workout two guys needed, to get their release. "Fuuucck... fuck that's good. Oh fuck yeah." "You like that?" asked Mark, smiling. "Shit. Yeah. Keep stroking that cock. God I'm so horny. Can't believe how fuckin' horny I am." A pause. "Mark?" "Yeah?" "You do something for me?" "Yeah..." "Take your finger and work it into my asshole. Nice and slow. Just a little." Mark wasn't sure he wanted to do this. And really, neither was Harry. He'd never had anything up his butt, never even wanted it touched before. This wasn't a gay thing. He just knew, somehow, it was going to feel good. Mark had played with a girlfriend's asshole before, but never a guy's. He hesitated again, while Harry bent his leg even further, exposing himself even more. Then Mark took his lubricated middle finger, ran it slowly around the rim of Harry's anus, and gingerly touched the little hole itself. Harry held his breath. He'd never felt this exposed, this vulnerable. His asshole puckered. His sensitive skin felt thin, delicate, open. The sliding touch of the fingertip made him excited, aroused him. A tickling in his hot, dark spot. But it wasn't like the charging-forward excitement of his horny cock, when he was getting ready to penetrate a girl. This was anticipation. He felt scared, yes, afraid. Spun out of control. Forced to wait. Mark started a gentle side-to-side rotation as he worked his finger in, up to the first knuckle. Harry gasped at the fullness. He tensed, and tried to relax. Instead his ass squeezed, Already this was making his slippery, hot cock feel even hornier. "Yeah -- keep going, man." "OK." "Oh fuck dude. That feels so good. Yeah. Ah -- oooh, yeah. Push that finger up my ass. Slide it in." By appearances, Harry was a strong and sturdy 22-year-old man, built to work on a construction site. He might have been a bouncer in a bar. But now, his broad thighs were spread and quivering, as his tall friend with the mop of curly hair carefully worked a finger straight into his most sensitive place. He felt pinned to the couch, stuck in place by that violating digit, shaming him. And exciting him with the shame. He watched the porno girls playing the same way, and felt suddenly almost like a girl. No -- he was watching the girls, that was all. Right. It was all right. Mark had wormed his long finger all the way into Harry, and remembered, now, to keep stroking his dick as he started to pull it out. That was almost more than Harry could stand. "Oh! Fuck!" The sucking feeling of the withdrawing finger, the sliding tug, was like nothing he'd ever felt before. Mark couldn't manage a quick in-and-out like the practiced pornstars, but after a little while, he was working a slow and careful motion, slipping his finger almost all the way out before pressing it all the way back in. Harry hugged his knee to his chest. He breathed hard, and silently. His body tensed, afraid to move to fear of ruining the unbelievably hot, perfect action he was getting. Even the slow pumping on his cock was bringing him closer and closer, he knew. He almost wanted to ask Mark to let go of his penis, to just keep fucking his ass, over and over, all night. But, oh fuck, that slow hand on his penis felt so good. He was so naked. So completely in this boy's control... He heard himself make a keening noise. The orgasm began to rise from deep within him. Shaking, he bit his lip and stared again at the laptop. The Japanese girl had bent forward and was licking the blonde's pussy while she finger-fucked her ass. That grossly-extended tongue, slopping across those spread cunt lips -- He wanted to fuck that cunt -- He was getting an ass-fucking just like that -- He was getting ass-fucked -- Here it came. No stopping this. The frustrated college senior was panting, his body straining, pushed past its limits. Cock so hard -- "Fuck. Fuck! Fuck! Oh fuck! Fuck yeah! "Jack that cock! Oh fuck, I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna -- "Keep fucking my ass! Keep -- Oh God don't stop! Oh God -- "Ah! Ah! Ahh! Ah fuck! Ahhhhh! Fuck! FUCK!" He'd squirted small rivers of cum all over his chest. The finger in his ass went from hotly grotesque, to a painful pressure. He pushed Mark's hand away with his foot. "Ahhhh! Oh God. God..." Mark's other hand kept its grip on his spent manhood, and he slowed his pace as Harry plunged into post-orgasmic bliss. "Ooooooh... holy shit... fuck... oh, yeah, man. Oh God. That was great." The two boys shared a long, serious look, as Harry finally relaxed, limbs falling to lay flat on his back. He laid there, exhausted, and caught his breath as the sophomore gently stroked his slowly-shrinking member. A sigh. "That was awesome, man." "It looked pretty hot," Mark said, still slowly stroking. "Fuckin' unbelievable. I've fucked girls that were... and I... I have never cum like that. That was fuckin' intense." "Well, you did me pretty good when it was my turn." "I am fuckin' drained." A pause. Mark gave a few final strokes to Harry's soft, yet still-swollen penis, then stood, and picked up a towel. They'd done what they came for. The actors had successfully released each others' fluids. Shot off the pressure, so they could rehearse their gay-kiss scene the next day without fear of an unwanted, embarrassing public hard-on. Ironically, the next day, Ms. Mahoney had the whole cast doing improv exercises. The two boys never so much as touched. *** The week prior, Ms. Mahoney, the play's director, had brought in a gay actor, Sean, to talk to the cast about the unique issues of sexuality raised by the script. With the two lead actors both being straight, they would have been remiss not to try to get some perspective from someone who could relate to what they were portraying. Sean was a senior at the college, and had a role in another production, but he had made time. He was a good-looking gay man: neat hair with just a little product, a tasteful vest, sharp-looking shoes, bright eyes and an engaging manner that drew attention. Both Mark and Harry listened, and tried to improve their acting skills by learning from him. Somewhere in their minds, though, they both wondered: Am I gay like him? What would it take to make me gay like him? What would it be like, having sex with him? Sean knew they were straight. But he approached Harry after the rehearsal, catching up with him as he walked home, talking with him on the sidewalk. And when he said: "If you ever need any special instruction, give me a call"... Harry said: "Uhh... what kind of... instruction?" And he said: "Use your imagination," and walked off. Harry watched him go, and when he was gone, realized he had a standing invitation to a no-strings-attached gay experience. ----- He wasn't planning on using it. When the next week rolled around, after Wednesday's rehearsal, he thought he might have found the alternative he was looking for. A friend of Ms. Mahoney's, a mother in her mid-30s, was hanging around the theater with her son, 7, a quiet tow-headed kid who wandered around looking at displays on the walls. Harry didn't know why he was struck by her. It might have been her ordinary charm. She seemed a sensible, stable, older and more down-to-earth woman. He might have wanted something like that after his disastrous bar experience. Also, under her modest blouse she was very womanly, and something about her seemed more than just friendly, perhaps willing to consider... something. When rehearsal ended, Harry went up to her on impulse, and chatted her up. Her name was Rachel. She was getting a divorce. She was technically still married, but had removed the ring. She was living on her own. She was busy with her son and her job. She hadn't had much time for herself lately. She spoke of lawyers and teachers, a world far outside Harry's. He spoke of classes and internships, a world she'd left behind. She was flattered by the attention from the masculine college kid a decade younger. She was going out with Ms. Mahoney and some of the girls on Friday night. She already had a sitter. When Harry asked her to break the date, and go out with him instead, something inside her twinged. It was the first hint of passion and desirability she'd felt since her husband cheated and ran. The first invitation to a date. His impossible youth, and the ridiculousness of any relationship, made it feel safe. But his smiling persistence, and the obviously sexual vibe she got from him, gave her a tingling thrill. She told him maybe. Then called him late that same night to accept. Two days later, Rachel left her son with the sitter and went out with a college boy. Both of them were on a budget. They got to know each other over upscale fast-food. Then he drove her out of town, to a hilly, wooded nature preserve. They walked until it got dark. As the sun went down, he talked about the quirks of the show's rehearsals, and being a straight man playing a gay character. "I envy you," she said, after a pause. "You're so free. You can pursue anything you want to, do anything, try anything. Your life is so full of opportunities." "Yours is too," he replied. "All you have to do is reach out and take them." She shook her head, about to say something about a child and responsibilities, when he took her hand in his, and she was filled with anticipation. She'd been in college once, and had thought she could never go back. But just for one night...? They sat in a wide clearing at the top of a hill and watched the moon and stars for a while. He pointed out constellations; she complimented him. Then they were sitting closer. As if for warmth. Closer still. He took her chin in his hand, and she melted as their mouths met. Fast would have let her feel safe, in control. She'd almost wanted to share a lustful, greedy groping with him. She'd almost hoped he would be an impatient, needy lover. He wasn't. He took his time kissing her slowly, caressing her hands and arms, putting his hands on her neck, side, belly -- oh-so-inappropriate but not -- yet -- sexual. Her breasts were large, and had the normal shape of gravity and an infant. When he unbuttoned her blouse, and looked at them with open lust, something old and familiar returned to her. When he slipped a hand inside one cup and gently pinched and tweaked her hard nipple, she flushed. The rush of sexuality was returning for the first time in a long time. Their yearning bodies; the power of his youth; the forbidden rush of passion out-of-doors: she felt like a woman, now, not a mother, and she wanted that. But it felt wrong. And she was a mother. She did the mature thing. Her blouse was mostly unbuttoned, and his hand had taken a hot, naughty trip up her skirt. He'd rubbed her panties once before sliding one finger just barely under them. He'd felt the incredible heat of her. As always for him, it was an animalistic excitement, touching a woman's hairy pussy, feeling it ready. He knew from her intense kisses and the stifling sauna hidden in her panties that she was going to be putty in his hands. He was ready, so ready. But it was then that she pulled back, looked away, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. His hand was gently squeezing her inner thigh as she explained that it was just too soon. He couldn't bear to move that hand away. He felt so close. But she was saying how much she had to work through, the emotional trauma of her breakup, and her need to watch out for her real needs, as he gave that thigh a last pat. She explained the responsibility of child-rearing and legal appearances, barely able to look at him, as he slid his hand down her leg and out from under her skirt. He said it was all right, but his mind seemed frozen, and he barely knew what he was saying. They didn't hold hands on the way back to the car. Rachel and Harry didn't kiss good night. And when he got home, late, he was closer to masturbating than he'd been in years. He could have cried. He paced. He'd already made up his mind. But he couldn't make himself dial his damned phone. He stopped. Sighed. Pulled out his phone and looked at it. He dialed Sean. "Hi there. It's Harry, we met a couple weeks ago," he said into it. He listened to the voice on the other end. "Right, I'm Harry from the gay play. Yeah. Actually that's what I wanted to talk to you about." "Exactly." He sort-of chuckled. "No, seriously, I do need some help with... perspective on my character. I was wondering if you're free tonight." "Well I don't think it'll take all night, no." "Right... I was thinking, ah, some pretty intensive help. Can you come over for an hour?" "That's..." Harry sighed. "That's sort of what I was thinking." Silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. Then assent, goodbyes, and Harry's heart pounded until the knock came, and he was inviting Sean into his apartment. Sean wore a tight T-shirt and jeans. Harry didn't bother with giving him the tour. They looked at each other for a moment. Sean seemed calm, but was wound like a spring. "So," he said, "if I get you right, you need help understanding something about the sexual passion of a gay man." "Right," said Harry. "For your show." "For the play, yeah." "And you're wanting me... to show you that kind of passion... that gay men have, when they have sex." "Right." Sean stepped forward and put a hand on Harry's arm. "And you want to be part of the demonstration, don't you." "Yes." Sean walked away and thought for a moment. "Let's get some things clear here, first. I am 100 percent disease and drug free. Are you?" "Yes." "You don't want to do anything hardcore, right?" "Right." "You probably want this to stay just between us, hmm?" "That's right. Yeah." He put a hand on Harry's shoulder as he walked back around to face him. "And Harry, from the look in your eyes, I'm guessing you don't really care about much besides getting your own rocks off. You're not really going to take any interest in me, now, are you." Well, that was a fair question. "I guess not," he said. And if that was a deal-breaker, that was too bad. He really wasn't attracted to this young man. He seemed attractive enough. He wore a pleasant scent, masculine with a hint of floral. He had a crisp, well-arranged look about him. Easy on the eyes. Nonthreatening. But Harry didn't know him well enough to feel comfortable around him, and more importantly, apart from his hands and his mouth, he just didn't have the right parts. "Hmmmmm," said Sean, tracing Harry's collarbone with a finger. "So you want me to do all the work, and you get all the reward." Harry kept his breathing steady. "That's about what I mean, yeah." Sean didn't react. He ran his finger just under the collar of Harry's T-shirt, then lazily caressed the base of his wide neck with his finger and thumb. Harry opened his mouth so he could breathe more easily. His heart pounded. He looked right at this young gay man who was touching him. Sean stepped lazily to one side, as if he had all the time in the world, and ran his fingers up and down Harry's chest, over his T-shirt, dipping from neck to breastbone, to navel, back up. Sean stepped behind him. He took a shoulder in one hand and ran the other up the side of that strong neck, to slide his fingers through Harry's short brown hair. Harry's eyes closed as the touch rose and fell, caressing his ear, then the nape of his neck, around and around. It wasn't a tickle. But neither was the arousal the same as with a woman, nor even with Mark. This was the touch of a stranger, a foreign tingle, and it simultaneously aroused and repelled him. He felt shame, and the urge to bolt out from under the circling fingers. And at the same time, intense excitement. Titillation: the touch was electric, more alive than any woman had given him, because it burned with a secret wrong. Still behind him, Sean had slipped a hand under his shirt and was gently kneading his waist. The other traced his jawline. He inhaled as the gay man ran a finger under his chin. Eyes closed, in the silence of his apartment, he heard the creak of the floorboard as Sean shifted his weight forward. Their bodies weren't touching, not yet. But he could feel the heat. "You like that?" came the murmur, soft, with lips almost touching his ear. The hand teased his belly and he flinched. He couldn't answer. Sean's breath on his neck, again and again. Both hands caressed his skin, high and low. They knew just the most wonderfully sensitive spots, and stroked them with a deft gentleness that promised more, much more to come. Now Sean leaned ever so little into him. The soft lips barely brushed the edge of his ear, and he heard a faint moist sound as he opened his mouth. "Just one thing..." the cute gay man whispered into his ear. "Do just one thing for me..." "What is it?" asked Harry, whispering back. "From here on out... no turning back..." The fingers ran up and down the side of his neck, and he felt the hot breath on his ear. He gave a quick nod. "Good..." whispered Sean, and dipped his mouth to kiss Harry's neck. He'd never thought it would be like this. Where was the raw animal passion, the pounding naked muscle? His breath took on a ragged edge as Sean's thumb found his navel and circled it. Such casual possessiveness, in that arm half-wrapped around him and gently invading his bellybutton. Everything was so slow... so hot and slow... It wasn't right... He felt a trail of gentle kisses down the back of his neck, then the hands withdrawing and switching places as the slow, wet pecks led back up. Lips touched his hairline as fingers stroked his earlobe. The hand under his shirt gave his hairy chest a lover's caress. An eternity of Sean's breath on his neck, his lips barely brushing his ears. Endless gentle stroking of the bare skin on his waist, side, chest, as he stood there, helpless, caught. Hint of warm breath... Slow, teasing touch... Fingers probing and coaxing... When Sean leaned back and pulled his hands away, Harry actually gave a slight gasp. But he was still there, fingers trailing up and down his bare arms as he whispered again into the solidly-built athlete's ear. "First I'm gonna play with your cock, and get it nice and hard..." Harry panted, once. "...and then I'm gonna take it in my mouth, and I'm gonna suck you, nice and slow." Sean's wet lips closed around his earlobe. Harry made a soft sound, as Sean's tongue slid treacherously up the edge of his ear while the hand on the other side caressed his cheek. The moist, lascivious tongue swirled its way back down, carelessly flicking the ear's pliant, shockingly sensitive flesh. Harry panted some more, swept away with hideous sexuality, betrayed by his body and his own desires. The gay man's hands dropped under the straight man's shirt, embracing him, rubbing his belly and chest as he licked and kissed the tender skin of his neck. It wasn't right. Harry felt a growing disgust with himself, with Sean, with their secret encounter. The erotic touch of another man: it was repulsive and wrong. He felt an urge to shove the young man away, to wash away the itch of these teasing caresses. A fast suck-job would have just been sex, just hot horny sex. But this was seduction. He hated it. He was trapped in it. It felt incredible and awful. His cock was throbbing, angry, lonely. He needed relief. He needed sexual touch. Release. He needed... more. No turning back. Not now. Sean had promised what he needed. For that, he could endure his body's betrayal. Endure it just a little longer. Harry lifted his arms to let Sean's fingers trace up his sides, leaning back, surrendering to the hated teasing. Sean grabbed the hem and lifted the shirt off him, and then he was bare to the waist, exposed for the pleasuring. Fingers found a nipple, and tweaked and pulled at it, hard, a bizarre and stimulating pain. Grasping hands cupped his jaw, his cheeks, and they turned his head side-to-side as a barrage of kisses landed on his defenseless neck and shoulders. He was lost in it all, spun up red-hot until he couldn't see his way back. Not once had a hand dipped below his belt, and gone was any thought of turning around and taking control. He'd given himself over to his gay lover and he was helpless until the act was through. He wasn't being taught anything that would be very useful onstage, but his teacher had uncovered the hidden half of his own lust and showed it to him, and it was more than he could handle, and it was all he could do to take it in, and hang on for the ride. Sean extended his arms and stretched them alongside Harry's, taking him hand in hand from behind, interlacing fingers as he nuzzled his nose into a shoulder. He'd leaned forward to do it, and Harry felt Sean's erection pressing into his butt. Brought back to reality just a bit, he opened his eyes. Sean was talking. "Ready to have your cock stroked by a man for the first time?" "Mm," said Harry, and didn't elaborate. "Are you ready to have your cock sucked by a man for the first time?" "Mm-hm." Sean let go of one hand and, as he slowly and pointedly sashayed around to face Harry, he stroked the other hand with a feather-light fingertip. Harry wasn't sure if this was something gay men did, but in that moment, the touch sizzled across his palm, lingering in its absence. Attraction and repulsion, erotic and wrong. He cupped his empty hand as if he could hold the memory. Facing him, Sean looked into his eyes as he ran all ten fingertips down Harry's body. "Are you hard for me yet? Did the nice gay boy make you all hard?" He slowly started running his palm down the front of Harry's jeans, and encountered the thick lump there with a shock. "Oh! I guess I did!" "Ooh," said Sean, as he unbuttoned Harry's jeans, and, looking him right in the eye, tugged his zipper down. The sound seemed loud. Harry's pants fell open. Sean leaned in, and kissed Harry's shoulder, then his collarbone. Harry lifted his head involuntarily as the moist lips found, at last, the soft notch at the base of his neck. The hungry, wet lips nipped and kissed his exposed throat. Slippery, they pinched him all over: his Adam's apple, the heat of his pulse, up and down. When he felt the tip of Sean's tongue lick up under his chin, he couldn't help himself: his hands came up of their own accord and grasped Sean's head, as he kissed him, hard, on the mouth. Not practice for a show. Not for anyone else. A hard, fierce kiss, from lover to lover. He gave a faint "uhhgn" as their mouth separated, because it was just then that Sean's hands had finally found his cock in his boxers. A moment to free it out the fly of its cloth prison. Freed. Then their foreheads pressed together -- they were almost the same height -- as thin, gay fingers stroked a fat, straight cock. "You're so big," breathed Sean. "I know," muttered Harry. "And so hard and wet already. You must really want it bad." Harry's eyes closed and he breathed twice, sharply, through his nose, then his mouth fell half-open again. Sean had just gently stroked the tip of his penis. As usual, his penis and boxers were soaked in pre-cum, the sticky, slippery fluid of this man grown confused and desperate in his desire. Their bodies swayed together. Sean balanced himself against Harry, forehead to forehead. He laid one hand on his chest almost like a reclined, sleeping lover, while he explored the swollen manhood with the other. Sean kept looking into Harry's eyes. Harry would look into Sean's, and have to look away, eyes rolling and closing, head rocking slightly side-to-side, as the pleasure was doled out to him touch by agonizing touch. "Don't come yet," said Sean, his voice low and serious. "I want to play with you some more first, before I slip my lips around your giant cock and give it a nice hard sucking." "Mmmm," said Harry. The words were echoing around his mind, the concept of a gay man sucking his cock. He couldn't quite grasp it, like something said in yesterday's dream. What did it mean? Just one hand's slender fingers groped and rubbed at his cock. The two of them stood, balanced together. Harry was holding onto Sean's shoulders. The well-built -- even brutish -- college senior was giving out small pants that weren't quite gasps, and small noises that weren't quite moans. He was twisting his body back-and-forth, ever so slightly, in a way that wasn't quite writhing. It might have looked a bit like a wrestling match. The slight, delicate, well-groomed man had taken his stocky opponent in a very clever lock, and with barely any pressure, had him wriggling, pinned upright, unable to escape. "You like me stroking your cock?" asked Sean, looking right in his eyes while he did just that. Harry gave a noise that might have been an "oh," but might also have been an "ooh," and knitted his brows as he realized that he did, he did, yes, he did like Sean stroking his cock, he could stroke his cock all night long if he wanted, and -- oh God -- why had he gone so long without letting this man stroke his cock? "Fuck. Ah. Oh fuck. Yeah," said Harry, blinking his eyes. "You like it when I stroke you like this?" "Uhhhhh. Yeah. Yeah." "How about like this?" Panting. "How about when I stroke your cock like this?" "Oooooh, ohhh -- Ah. Ah, yeah. Yeah." "You're a horny boy, aren't you, a big horny boy." "Yeahhh..." "You don't need this for the play at all, do you." Harry's eyes went wide -- yes. What? Yes. Oh -- "You just wanted," continued Sean, breath so close Harry could feel it, "you just wanted a nice gay man to come over and suck your big horny cock." A pause while Sean made the short, repetitive motions that Harry wanted, right then, more than anything. "Yeah," he said, and his cheeks went hot with unexpected shame. "Yeah. Yeah." "Well," said Sean, "I'll help you out. Just this once. Because I like you. And because I am just dying to have that big thick tool of yours. But remember --" he said, letting go of the penis and circling it with one finger -- "remember for next time, if you want me over again, there's no more freebies. "Next time, you're gonna get down and dirty with me. You got it?" "OK, yeah," muttered Harry, ashamed and embarrassed, for more than one reason. The loose fist returned, stimulating him, and suddenly it seemed nasty, a foreign object. He was being played like a piano, shamed by a man, and he'd invited it. Wanted it. He needed it. "You ready?" asked Sean, and Harry realized he was about to -- Sean reached up with his other hand, took Harry by the back of the neck, and pulled him to him for a forceful, manly kiss. Both boys groaned a little as their lips mashed, hard, wanting more. Their tongues slipped together, pushing and struggling. They gripped each other tight as their mouths worked for purchase. Then Sean broke the grip, stepped back, knelt, and took hold of Harry's belt in one hand. Until he took hold of his cock in the other, and, opening wide, slipped the fat head into his mouth, the only sound was panting and the creak of the floorboards. Then, as Sean's hot tongue rubbed the spongy flesh of his cock-head, and his lips squeezed shut around his hard shaft, Harry broke the silence. "Oh, God --" Sean tasted the salty, sticky fluid smeared everywhere, and could smell it as he bobbed his head up and down. "Ohgod --" Hands shaking, Harry reached down and touched his lover's head. Sean tried to look up at him, and groaned assent as Harry rested his hands on top of his head. Panting, Harry jammed his cock forward, finding a grunting strength inside him now that he couldn't hold back. Dimly he recognized that Sean had reached around and grabbed his butt, pulling him deeper into his mouth. Something let loose. He gave up trying to be unmoved and unaffected. His fingers gripped Sean's head and he thrust forward, forcing himself into the unbelievable pleasure of that warm, welcoming mouth. A faint scraping of teeth on the first thrust. Then, as he pulled back and almost-involuntarily slammed himself forward again, just pure, clean, soft pleasure. "Ahhhhh --" he cried, as he let go of his fears. He was fucking a gay man's mouth and he loved it. Seduced, yes, and now taking what he needed. Again and again he pushed forward, sometimes in fast jerks, sometimes long, hard pushes, struggling to work his achingly hard tool into that angelic, suckling mouth. He could feel Sean working his tongue under it. The super-sensitive underside of his cock-tip cried out with pleasure at every swipe of that rough muscle. He could feel the suction of those lips as they slid up and down the wide shaft of his cock. And he thought he could feel the roof of Sean's mouth, as he filled it to bursting with fat, hot flesh. But mostly he was lost to the pleasure, crying -- "Ahhh --" "Oh fuck -- fuck yeah -- fuck --" "Oh God yeah --" "Uh-- uh-- uh-- uh-- ohhhhh God--" His legs were trembling, his shoulders were moving like he was lifting weights, and his eyes pinched like he was about to cry. Sean could feel Harry's cock swell even harder. He was so ready, so ready to cum. The tension and pressure in his groin grew and grew. "Ohhhhhh..." he moaned, almost girlishly. Sean kept sucking and sucking. The big man's tender, ticklish balls: stroked and stroked. The hot, nasty mouth and those skillful, boyish hands held him prisoner: so wrong, so bad, but he couldn't stop himself. It was only a minute, but seemed forever, that he was paralyzed by the pleasure. His hands trembled, and his voice grew high and tremulous: "Ah-h-h-h-h-h... oooooooh... ooh-ooh-ooh--" It built until it seemed too big to hold inside his body, and then it seemed to tip and spill.