They were a coarse gang, and each shaft was thick but short, though each had enough stamina to penetrate the tight flesh of the undergraduates’ cheeks. His stubble, like filth, or pieces of trash, littered his chin, as well. Brad was transfixed with an intriguing grimace as he adored Timothy in that corner of the room reserved for the unattainable. The instructor broke the line of transmission, and the visible audio of Timothy’s own glare in return–imagine that! reciprocation!–fell silent. Looking away, Brad discerned he was to follow his paramour’s lead and look at Dr. Redburn and discuss the Fellini film which had just been screened that class. Supposedly, for Brad was too engaged with undressing Timothy in his impure mind to notice the sweet life flickering on the screen at the head of the recently-furnished classroom. The professor, Susan Redburn, perspiring Sapphic sentiment through her butch clothes and indefatigably short coiffure, fiddled with the volume knob on the projector as she posed profound queries, beseeching students such as Timothy and Brad to delineate the meanings of the blonde beauty’s ample bosom, and the fast-flowing fountain of Roman seed, among other questions, such as, “Why is there no depiction of rape in ‘La Dolce Vita’?”
At that point, Brad was not fazed, for Susan often spoke of forced coitus. She was a maniac, but oh, so was he. He wished furiously to enter Timothy, and did not dispel force so readily. He had had visions of being a rapist, but could never determine if it meant he were truly a deviant or not. “Since Anita Ekberg is playing an American actress visiting Rome, her romp in the Trevi Fountain at night oozes sex. She’s bathing in the come of the city, getting knocked up by the place she’s visiting, which is also why there’s no rape, I guess. Anita wants to fuck the city…so it’s consensual.” A filthy mouth that Thomas revealed he had. Filthy, indeed, come and fuck. “Come and fuck me,” thought Brad. Susan applauded Timothy’s brash but poignant answer to her ludicrous questions by smiling as widely as an emaciated Ethiopian, revealing harsh, yellow teeth. “Probably from smoking too much pole,” joked Timothy in his head, knowing full well Susan Redburn’s appearance denoted a lesbian, not some third-rate whore. Timothy respected lesbians. Being a bi-curious bassist in a local band–Hypatia–Timothy appreciated girl-on-girl action, as he termed it. However, his homoerotic proclivities had not received that much attention. Simply once, sweet fellatio from a bandmate in the neglected bedroom of some drab college party. Brad kept quizzing himself, “Is he gay? Maybe he’s bi?” as he had yet to advance his affections for the musician sitting opposite him.
Brad had one thing among many unknown in common with Timothy; he was, too, artistic. Brad was no musician, but he was a visual artist, a printmaker. He cited Durer as a hero, often spent time alone, and chastised himself continually for not having the courage to see Hypatia play a show. Brad was entirely a lover of men, and had had at least a dozen distinct experiences–a shameful and low figure, to us, dear reader, we libertines long schooled in the tutelage of vice–all with men. Brad had only taken the sacrament of the thick, veined host four times. Always though, he received the sacramental wine, that chalky elixir he delighted so often in tasting in kneeling under the stalls of public restrooms in the downtown core. He pondered the viscosity of Timothy’s semen, and would that night, before vigorously massaging his own spigot, imagine he was taking Timothy in his cavernous mouth. Brad had a large mouth, not unlike rock and roller Steven Tyler, and a pity–the printmaker, not the bass guitarist, had the rockstar mouth. Now all Brad needed was the rockstar decadence, which he could easily obtain were Timothy interested. Timothy, the local rockstar, with his rockstar-hard cock. Both boys were now erect through their denim confines, under their desks in class. Class was soon to end.
Timothy took his time packing up his knapsack. Brad did the same. Both spoke the same devious tongue of Encounter. Both knew that being the last ones out the door meant that they would be leaving together and rub elbows, literally, going through the door. At his current rate of arousal, such contact might even make Brad explode, and perhaps Timothy, too. Brad inhaled deeply as he rose from his seat; Timothy was nearing the door. Brad quickened his pace and caught the brunette, scruffy musician half-way through the portal. “Uh…sorry.” Brad apologized, passively–perhaps he is, indeed, a bottom!–while he overtook Timothy’s firm step. The dark dreamboat smiled, and, as the two were purged into the corridor, rubbed Brad’s thigh, with discernable tension and grip. Brad’s boxerbriefs were inundated with pre-ejaculate projecting forth in reply to the invitation.
“My name’s Brad,” the sheepish fellow proffered. “I’m glad I know your name now,” ventured the idol, his brown chest coat peeking through the collar of his surplus olive drab–a true punk rocker was he. “Are you going to Film Warehouse? Redburn was saying they have a whole Fellini section there,” postulated an otherwise oblivious Brad, who expended most of his class time to studying Timothy’s jawline, and only now presented a facet, an inkling, of what had been taught. Film Warehouse was the largest independent video rental outlet in the city; it catered to the college crowd to which these two scandals belonged, and featured primarily art house cinema. “You go to Film Warehouse? I mean, you look more into comic books than movies…but you do take this class,” Timothy chuckled, trying to penetrate Brad in a way far inferior to that which they both truthfully desired,
“I’ve been there a few times. I’ve never read a comic, but I make prints. Film Warehouse has some docs on Albrecht Durer. Do you know him?”
“Didn’t he work with David Lynch or something?”
Brad grabbed T1imothy’s arm, stopping him in his ill-informed path. “No, no, no, no! He’s a Renaissance German engraver. He made prints the way I do. You’re cute.”
Timothy went pale, almost as white as come. “Cute? Dude, I gotta go. I’m not interested. Sorry. I mean, be more discreet.” Brad almost wept as he witnessed the insecurity mixed with affirmative confirmation that swept like a shocking wind across his gay face. Too gay in this moment. Too gay for comfort. “I’m sorry, Timothy. I’m gay, I just didn’t bring that up, or mean to. I just wanted you to sh–” Brad tried to save the situation swiftly, though before he could, Timothy had pulled him by one whole side into an ignored stairwell landing. Brad’s tongue ceased quivering as it was introduced to Timothy’s mid-worry.
Timothy pulled back, to survey the face of his only second male partner. He presented a crooked, bent smile, and a brief, harsh wink, wrinkling his crows’ feet. While Brad waited in anticipation of another insertion of the wet organ into the cavern containing his own, Timothy–that nubile neophyte–penetrated the boy with but a whisper.
“I want you to jerk off onto my nuts then lick it up, your own stuff, and spit it into my mouth. Can you do that after my show Wednesday?”
“Only if I get to suck you first.” Brad, ignorant of the young lady ascending the adjacent stair, replied, displaying surprisingly less expertise and prowess than his novice comingler. Timothy, alerted by the girl walking by, winked again, then left, visiting the corridor while Brad hesitantly went down the stairs, not knowing the simple act was indicative of his descent, again, further down the spiral. He skipped going to the video store and opted to head to his dormitory room to figuratively draft his own pornographic film. He screened the days’ events continually in his corrupt head, imagining Timothy’s erection he could feel pressing against him when they kissed.
He planned to introduce Timothy’s prick to his mouth several times over before changing position to ejaculate all over the bassist’s testicles. He wondered at the potential musk of the musicians’ balls, hoping he would be sweaty. He had racing thoughts; he envisioned it all being filmed, Timothy being tied up, and the scent of come blending with the anticipated musk to form an amalgam so raunch only two men could ever enjoy such. Brad, on his university-issued cot, slid his wide hand into his pants, unbuttoning the brass-laden fly. “Uh!” He exclaimed, reaching near-instant climax merely at visualizing the dreamboat’s cock near his lips. Brad shot further than usual, the warm seed landing on his left shoulder. He fingered the thick mess, and licked his digits, wishing the rocker would lick his dick.
And, dear reader, Brad continued his preparations for Wednesday–a mere perverse Trinity of days away from the present–he logged onto his social networking service online, endeavouring to search Timothy’s profile and public photos as he had so much before, but what! He had one friend request waiting–from the Devil, so delicious a demon, himself. He opened the accompanying message and found, simply, “Amazing.” He wanted to express the same. He wanted to taste the same, again. As though praying for that perverse Trinity of time to vanish, Brad got up out of his chair and knelt on the dormitory floor, not begging, but seeking the sacraments. The cock that is the body and the come that is full of genetics like the blood. Wednesday would appear sooner if he imagined it was always in the now. And one, reader, should never say no.