n Part 1/1
I never thought of myself as gay, not that I had anything against it. The Mathesons were a very large family, and it made sense that if ten percent of the population were gay, then ten percent of us might be as well.
Take my Uncle Pete, for instance. He was my Dad's older brother, and a Marine, and gay, and everyone in the family accepted him, so it wasn't as if the worry of being ostracized by those I loved was what kept me from wondering if I might also be gay. It just never crossed my mind. I'd been dating girls since I was fourteen, and aside from the kissing thing - god, I loved kissing, but Cindy had complained I'd hurt her lip, and ever after I made sure I was careful, which kind of took the pleasure out of it, but there you go - it was the best thing since ginger ale, as the nun who taught my confraternity class was fond of saying.
Although I didn't think she had dating in mind when she made that comparison. Nuns weren't supposed to know about dating. Were they?
I had been surprised and a little startled by my reaction to a male nurse in Southside Hospital when my cousin Harry had driven me there after accidently shooting me in the ass with a nail gun, but afterwards, I decided it was probably because the cute guy was so androgynous-looking. He'd have made just as cute a girl.
Of course, there was that thing with Michael, but that was only a couple of months that spring of our junior year in college, and it wasn't dating, and I was twenty, and it didn't last...
~~~
Michael Shaw and I first met in the sixth grade. We were new kids in a new school in a new city, both being from New York. "That's a pretty skanky hat you're wearing," he said, referring to my NY Yankees cap.
"Yeah, well the Mets suck canal water!" I sneered at him, knocking off the baseball cap he wore.
But then the Cambridge kids came in, with BoSox logos all over everything. It was us against them, and the start of our friendship.
From middle school we went on to the same high school, and then the same college. We were rushed by the same fraternity, and now shared a suite of rooms in our fraternity house. The suite consisted of a living area and two bedrooms with a connecting bathroom.
Jill, my stepmom, worried that I wouldn't be able to comfortably share living space with Michael, since he was an only child and his parents had given him the entire third floor of their house on George Street. Both Jill and Dad's chief concern was that Michael would be a beast to live with, but I'd known him for too long to let his moods get to me.
But space wasn't the biggest bone of contention between us - that turned out to be the laundry. If I didn't do it, it just didn't get done. I'd gotten tired of the place looking like a pigsty, even if I'd just straightened it up earlier that day, finding Michael's socks and underwear all over our living room.
That was the reason I'd stopped bringing girls over. His clothes were the best Abercrombie and Fitch had to offer, but he certainly didn't buy his underwear there. They were... different; wild colors, cut low in front, and sometimes without much material over the butt.
I'd also grown tired of arguing about it with Michael; it was just easier doing it myself.
But I drew the line at putting away his clothes or hanging them up - I was his friend, not his mother.
I climbed the stairs from the laundry in the basement, grousing under my breath. I had a project that needing finishing, research on a topic for math, a paper on biology, and this was the fourth load of towels I'd done this week. Michael went through towels the way Dog Three, our black Lab, went through cans of Mighty Dog, and of course, if I wanted a clean towel, I was the one who needed to wash them.
I went into the bathroom and began hanging them up.
The door to Michael's room was open, and I noticed the computer on his desk.
I'd known the Hewlett Packard was in the box his father had sent him, but I hadn't had the opportunity to examine it yet. Computers were a passion of mine, and one of the subjects I was majoring in.
Of course Dad had made sure I had a computer too, but it was the Dell workhorse I'd had for years.
I couldn't resist going closer to take a look, and I wasn't surprised to see the HP had all the latest bells and whistles. I'd added a few bells and whistles of my own to my computer, but it was nothing compared to Michael's, sleek and shining and fresh from the factory.
He had left it on, and it had gone to screensaver mode. Michael, being Michael, had a screensaver of a tanned, busty blonde, the fingers of one hand toying with a tit, while she sucked on the middle finger of her other hand. She sat back on her heels, thighs spread wide, and since she'd shaved her pubic hair, nothing was left to the imagination.
Where did he find screensavers like that? The most I could find was a deck plan of the Titanic, which was boring, not to mention a little creepy, and so I'd disabled it.
I thought I heard him coming up behind me, and I whirled around to say something innocuous, but I was alone. My action caused me to knock into the desk, jolting the computer out of screensaver mode, and the site it opened up to had my mouth going dry and my cock growing hard and heavy in the khakis I was wearing.
A guy in a leather mask with a zipper across the mouth was restrained on his hands and knees on a padded bench, his thighs spread wide, his slicked hole exposed. Once the viewer got an eyeful of his hole, the bench was moved around so he was sideways to the camera, and some kind of machine with a vibrator at the end of a piston was wheeled into place behind him.
I keep swallowing, trying to work up a mouthful of spit, and then I moaned as the machine was switched on and the dildo plunged repeatedly into his ass. His cries of pleasure were muffled by his mask, and he thrust back eagerly, meeting the dildo. His cock, huge and uncut, and his weighty balls were bound up in more black leather, a puddle of pre come on the floor between his knees.
I had enough presence of mind to toggle out of that site, make it into the bathroom, and lock the door behind me before I unzipped my khakis and shoved them and my boxer briefs down off my hips. Pre come was already beading at the tip of my cock and starting to dribble down my shaft.
It was a good thing the lid to the john was up. Not even a couple of strokes, and I shot my wad into it.
Bracing my weight against the toilet tank, it took me a good five minutes to stop shuddering and catch my breath.
Jesus, what had happened? I'd never climaxed that quickly or violently before.
The image of the man getting his ass fucked by that machine wouldn't leave my mind. In spite of the fact that I'd just come, my cock quivered in an attempt to get hard again.
"Hey, Willie Boy!" Pounding on the bathroom door brought me out of my daze. "You fall in or something?"
"I'll be right out." I cleaned myself off with some toilet tissue and pulled my jeans up, then flushed and washed my hands. "Yeah, Michael? You wanted something?" I asked as I opened the door.
He was quiet for a moment, and I was afraid I had come stains on the front of my khakis. A quick, discreet glance assured me that I didn't, although my cock was pushing against my fly, and I forced myself to meet his eyes, keeping my expression neutral.
"The Tri Gams are having a keg party. Feel like going?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Cool."
"Uh... hold on a sec. I just want to change." I went into my room and pulled out a clean pair of shorts and my 501 jeans. I usually got lucky when I wore those jeans, even if that only meant a handjob.
I turned around, surprised to see Michael leaning against the doorframe. For a second, the look on his face was hungry, but then the look was gone.
That had to be my imagination. Or maybe it was what I'd seen on his computer that had me thinking he wanted to strip off my 501s and lick me, or suck me, or fuck me. Michael had always chased after girls, and I'd never seen him make a move on a guy, not ever. And while that wasn't to say he hadn't when I wasn't around, why should he care one way or the other what I was wearing?
I shrugged it off. "Come on. Let's go."
I didn't tend to drink a lot. Sure I liked a beer now and then - what underage guy didn't? And from time to time my Grandpa Greg had let me have a sip of the wine he made, usually mixed with lemonade.
But my Dad had taught me by example, moderation in everything.
The thing was, I couldn't get what I'd seen on that website out of my mind. Each time that image popped up in my mind, I had another beer, and that night I drank way more than I'd intended, than I'd realized.
I wound up being blitzed. I mean, there I was, dancing with the big red monkey that was the Tri Gam's mascot and singing 'The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi' to it.
Geez, talk about idiocy.
Michael was there for me, though. "C'mon, Willie Boy. I think y've had a bit too mush. Le's get you home."
I didn't remember how we got back to our rooms, and I didn't remember how I wound up in bed with Michael, but I did remember waking up to find him sucking my cock. I cried out and arched and come, pouring myself into his hand. And when I caught my breath, I returned the favor.
He fell back to sleep almost immediately. It would have been nice to cuddle, but Michael had never been the kind of guy who encouraged physical closeness, calling it faggy, and so when he'd rolled away from me, it hadn't mattered. We were friends.
I pulled the blanket over my shoulders, rolled over myself, and was asleep in seconds.
"Hey, Wills," he groaned the next morning. "I was pretty fucking drunk last night."
"So was I." I couldn't get my eyes opened.
"And if my girlfriend had been here instead of you, I would have boinked her brains out."
"'Boinked', Michael?" I finally did manage to peel back an eyelid, having to use a thumb and forefinger. His face was about two inches from mine. "We're college men. We don't 'boink.' We fuck!"
He tried to blink confusion out of his eyes. At least I took it for confusion. I still couldn't see straight, and my head felt as if it was going to fall off my shoulders and roll around on the floor.
Frankly, I would have been grateful if it had. I'd never had such a bad hangover. Well, I'd never been so shitfaced before. And what was that taste in my mouth? I staggered up, sleepwalked to the bathroom, and fumbled for the mouthwash. After swigging it directly from the bottle - jesus, that was better - I made my way back to my bed.
"Oh, okay," Michael was mumbling. "I would have fucked her brains out, then."
"Sounds good to me. Next time we'll both fuck her brains out. Right now, I'm going back to sleep." I waited to see what he would do, if he would clout me for daring to hint at sharing his girl, or if he'd climb back into bed with me, blanket my body with his own, and maybe kiss me.
I'd seen how he kissed the girls he was dating - Michael was anything but shy - and I was curious to know if kissing him would be different than kissing any of my girlfriends.
But he shrugged and muttered something about needing to take a leak, and stumbled out of my room. After a while, I heard him come out of the bathroom, but he didn't return to my bed.
I sighed, pulled the covers back over my head, and went back to sleep.
And although from time to time, Michael would bring it up, laughing about how fucking drunk we'd been that night, I thought that was it.
But occasionally, when we'd had too much to drink - was Michael deliberately trying to get me drunk? - or when he'd taken one toke too many of marijuana, he'd suck or jerk me off, and I was more than happy to do the same for him in return. He was my friend, after all, and that's what friends did. It was never anything more than that, although I was curious and would have been willing.
I tried to kiss Michael once, at the end of our junior year. He didn't do anything so cold as to back away, but it was cold enough - he'd turned his head; I was the one who stepped back.
He gave me a lopsided grin and walked out of the room, calling over his shoulder, "See you in September, Willie Boy."
When I looked out the window, I could see him in the little grassy park across from the frat house, kissing Crystal McNamara, his on again/off again girlfriend. Well, it looked like they were on again, and I had no intention of being the fifth wheel.
I spent the summer on Long Island, working for my uncle's construction business. Michael spent the summer doing only god knew what. He didn't answer my phone calls, and he didn't turn up for my birthday at the end of August. I refused to beat myself up over what had happened during those few months this past spring.
I didn't see him until the start of the fall semester, and I made sure he understood I didn't expect anything more from him than friendship. If we couldn't be lovers, then dammit, we'd be friends.
~~~
The spring before graduation, headhunters from Huntingdon Corporation set up a meeting with me, and I was offered a position in their Boston office. It surprised me that somehow Michael managed to charm his way in as well. Not that he could charm them - he was very good at that - but that he'd be interested in working for the same company as I did.
We had been growing further and further apart, and that saddened me, but he would always be my fri