Gay Erotic Stories

I surely wasn’t going to “pine away” for him (how absolutely corny) or relegate myself to joining a monastery and live a life of solitude. (Although knowing what I do today, it might have proved to be more fun than one would imagine). That reminds me—just how similar the words sound: monastery…masturbatory.

Well, more fish in the sea—or at the university as it turned out. Anyway, Blake’s absence did have a positive effect on my grades and I was able to salvage the semester with all A’s and two B’s (salvaged from initial C and D).

I did manage to snag an occasional one-nighter and even a couple repeats, but somehow my soul just wasn’t fully involved. My dick was—for sure—but the intensity—for lack of a better word—just wasn’t there for me. God was I that jaded, or expecting nothing but wild and pretty kinky sex? The other guys just were content to sort of lay back, do it, and get on with it. More like the old slam, bam, thank you man…now get the fuck away from me. Don’t call me; I’ll call you…bullshit.

By Christmas break, I really wasn’t in the holiday spirit. My family picked up on this, but I was able to pass it off as being tired for studying too much and they pretty much bought into it. Yeah, I was applying myself study wise, but I also had a keen interest in Comparative Anatomy—but that wasn’t exactly on my list of courses. The University as always was a veritable cafeteria of male testosterone…but I just wasn’t hooking up. It was like I was a sailor lost at sea…all that water around me…and not a drop to drink. Hmmmm, sailors—there’s a concept! But hardly an issue being smack dab in the middle of the damn country.

The New Year brought new interests…as I think back, I’ve gotta chuckle. Although far be it from me to be an expert or Olympic quality at all phases of sexual activity, I did land a “newbie”. This guy had all the feelings—but was clearly a novice from square one. He was cute—not handsome (well maybe) but “cute” describes him best. He wasn’t built or overly muscular, but not skinny either. This made what hung between his legs all the more noticeable. Just call me old “eagle-eye!”

“Virgil.” I haven’t heard of or though of that name in more years than I’d like to admit. I kept running into him while registering for spring semester classes—three out of six classes and one lab. He was friendly, polite, nice smile, and I’ll say it again—cute! (Maybe that’s why his parents stuck him with that “name”. Either that or his parents were deeply religious and decided it was some sort of virgin birth.) And swear on my mother’s grave (fingers crossed)—it gets even better—he haled from The Commonwealth of Virginia—some little berg on the borderline of Rappahannock and Spotsylvania counties. I learned that the biggest city around was called Fredericksburg—but I still had to look it up on the map. (For those of you interested that’s about 50 miles south of the metro Washington DC area on I-95) Had no idea where it was…but it sure sounded back-woodsy and made me think of “hammocks” hanging between tree trunks. Getting back on track, this guy turned out to be a complete novice in the sack. Willing—but a novice. Well, I set about to change that.

After spending most of the morning being frustrated trying to line up a decent class schedule without fucking up EVERY day (GOD I hate lines), we had worked up an appetite. Since my car was conveniently parked at the opposite end of the university grounds, I suggested McDonald’s—just a couple blocks away. Virgil agreed immediately—he’d not had “bre—fast” and was hungry. “Jesus, this kid sounds like Jethro—Jed’s nephew on the Beverly Hillbillies!” I thought as I tried my level best not to bust out laughing. It wasn’t that bad—it just kind of caught me funny. I’d never heard anyone that couldn’t order “breakfast” …unless he had one hell of a hangover.

Predictably there was a hefty line and the place was crowded with other students with the same idea. It took a while to order, then insult to injury, we had to wait a good long while after we paid for the stuff. Virgil might have had trouble ordering “bre—fast” but he sure didn’t have issues tackling 5 cheeseburgers and 2 large fries. Plus an apple pie for dessert. Yeah, this kid could stow it away…but his body sure didn’t show it. Anyway, I was sort of finding him “interesting…bordering on attractive” at this point and was hoping his “appetite” extended beyond finger food.

I’d seen the inside of Virgil’s wallet when he’d paid for the burgers. He’d taken what bills he had, and scrounged loose change out of his pockets to cover the addition of the pie. While coming up for air as he ate, he told me he’d “shot is wad” (my ears perked up—hope springs eternal) paying for the dorm and his room and board and would call home (collect I bet) for more money once he’d figured out what books he needed and how much they cost. The short of it—this kid was broke! I knew the both cafeterias for the men’s dorms were still closed, so feeling sorry for him—and wishing to go my good deed for the day (sounds good doesn’t it?) I suggested he come home with me for dinner. I assured him my mother wouldn’t mind (I knew she’d like him and wouldn’t mind—besides once I sprang Virgil on her—what could she say? Worst scenario, we’d go out to dinner.) To be fair—my parents’ house was always open to our friends…guess it was the up side to their being too nosy on occasion. Besides, I couldn’t wait to check out my mother’s reaction to Virgil’s accent—this was gonna be sweet—she’d either love it or hate it—but she’d have to tolerate it.

We shot the afternoon pricing books—both new and used. We hit the University Book Store, and also scoured the ads on more bulletin boards than I’d care to fool with. But considering Virgil’s economic plight, I trudged along. Actually, we did make one hell of a buy…we got two Organic Chemistry books (thick bastards) that were in primo condition for less than the price of one new edition. I went ahead and bought them both. Virgil wasn’t going to have it—but couldn’t pass up the extreme bargain, so agreed on the condition that he’d pay me out of his first money from home. By now I was really feeling good about myself—almost successfully covering up my “biological” motive. We trekked back to my car (Virgil didn’t have one) and headed for home. I was glad to have him along and was looking forward to it. For me dinner turned out to be more like “dinner and a show” with Virgil being the entertainment.

When we pulled up the driveway around 5 PM (I’d give mom a bit of a head start at least) there were two other cars in the drive. I recognized one of them. They turned out to belong to two of mother’s Ladies Literary Guild group. Sweet—we were in like flint. I had her cold—no way she wouldn’t be at her best.

The look on her face, and the other two ladies I’d managed to swing a quick glance at, was absolutely priceless. Their faces went blank and their jaws dropped when Virgil handled his end of the introductions. “Pleased ta meetcha ma’am. And when he recounted the part about Rappahannock…well the room just got quiet and the ladies did a lot of nodding and looking at each other. I nearly blew an eardrum quashing a laugh.

In true form mother extended our guest an invitation to dinner—right after the Literary Guilded Lillies (that was my slang for them) departed. I kind of got the impression they both were fishing for a dinner invite—so Virgil turned out to be the perfect way out. The remaining eardrum nearly proved a casualty when mother anxiously advised the dinner she’d planned.

“We’re having your favorite…” she started in, “Roast beef, roasted potatoes, minted mushy peas, spiced chestnuts and Yorkshire pudding. I even made my special Trifle for desert—extra brandy!” If you just could have seen the look in Virgil’s face. My mother might just as well have been Vietnamese rather than English. Virgil perked up when he heard “roast beef” and “roasted potatoes” but his expression went questionable when he heard “mushy peas”. He swallowed when he heard about the chestnuts, and I just knew he was completely off base about the Yorkshire pudding. He probably thought we were having TWO desserts. As for the Trifle? Definitely not in his vocabulary—I was sure of it—but cracked a smile when he heard the word—brandy. Guess he figured if it had brandy in it—it couldn’t be all that bad. One thing was for certain—this kid was going to chow down on a free meal—but he’d have to earn it all the way.

Now don’t get the wrong impression. My mother usually didn’t cook like this—in fact as cooking went—she basically hated it. She was a decent cook and her specialties were famous in the family—but we learned to give her a wide berth when she got the “creative bug” as she termed it. Anyway, guess she was still in her holiday mood.

Dinner was great—she’d outdone herself. Virgil had no difficulty putting a startling amount of the offerings away. I was anticipating his reaction to the mushy peas…but he was relieved to see them as more less “smashed peas” as he called them. Likewise, when he saw the Yorkshire pudding as being just flat looking biscuits, he took to them straight away. Somehow he had room for dessert…and if his Virginia drawl wasn’t clearly understood before dinner, the heavily brandied trifle made it more than a trifle worse—mom couldn’t decide whether he was slurring his words or always talked that way—her facial expressions indicated she was full of questions, but didn’t know where to even begin. She was genuinely pleased with Virgil continued to rave at length about dinner though, and conveniently just passed it all off.

My sister (always the suspicious one) decided right off that she didn’t like him. She found all sorts of cutting little barbs and later—outright insults. Her bravado came to a quick end when my mother sent her away from the table. (Now that I think about it—it’s probably why she never kept many friends…and to this day never married. God—who’d be crazy or masochistic enough?)

We retired to the den/sun room and talked until my father wisely decided that he and my mother should “leave the boys alone” and not monopolize any further on conversation. Mom took the hint and they left the room. Virgil and I talked, basically about school. He looked at my watch (he wasn’t wearing one), and timidly said he thought he’d better be “fixin’” to go back. I really didn’t relish the drive back to the university so was in the midst of suggesting the plausibility of his staying the night (spider to fly), when I noticed mother had entered to see if her “hungry boy” wanted anything else. She’d apparently heard the preceding conversation, as she seconded my idea of Virgil staying the night. The kid now had no choice…besides I possessed the keys. I was already planning the grand tour of my bedroom…conveniently sequestered on the third floor of the old house.

Things were looking up…and I hoped that was indeed the direction everything would be going—north.