Mike and Danny Go to College
by Rock Lane Cooper

Chapter 4, Part 2

Danny

The rest of that night is a kind of happy blur. My long-term memory rendered unreliable by the heat, the cold, and the alcohol, more or less in that order. I may be making some of this up.

If you had hopes going for a four-way there in that hot, sweaty little shed, I am sorry to have to disappoint you. For each of us, it was too good just being one of two hearts together. There's no such thing as four hearts. I don't think so anyway. Unless you're looking in a poker hand.

Ted, after a long winter of flying solo, and who knows how long before that, had someone he could call his own in that night of full moon and glittering snow. Bobby, bouncing off the rim, had been nicely caught on the rebound. Practically plucked from the air. Never saw somebody recover so fast from unrequited love.

And you know Mike and me. Maybe better than we know ourselves.

At one point, Ted gets up and I can see his naked silhouette as he bends down to get something from the floor. It's a tin bucket, which he takes outside and brings back full of snow. While the door is open, there's a gust of cold air on my feet that quickly fades back to heat as soon as it's closed.

He sets the bucket on the hot stove, sizzling and popping, and for a moment in the dim glow I can see the front of him, the dark hair on his chest and arms and belly, bushing up between his legs, and his dick angling out long and stiff. He's a handsome man.

In a while, the bucket begins to sigh as the snow quickly melts and begins turning to steam. The air against my skin is now starting to burn, and I feel myself sliding yet further into oblivion.

Then all of a sudden—I must have nodded off for a minute—Ted is rousing us. It's time to go outdoors to cool down. I can feel Mike stirring himself beside me.

"Short arms inspection," Ted barks. "Everybody outside, men."

"Sir, yes, sir," Mike says. He rocks forward and onto his feet.

I try again to object. "No rolling in the snow for me. No thanks."

"Come on, bud," he's laughing. "It's as good as a roll in the hay. Almost."

Unlike me, Bobby doesn't need any persuading. Wherever Ted goes, that's where he goes, apparently.

"What's short arms inspection?" he's asking.

Well, we find out, those of us who don't already know. Ted leads the way out the door into what feels oddly like a summer night for all of about ten seconds, our bodies steaming in the moonlight. Ted stands us at attention and says, "Skin 'em back and milk 'em down."

I watch him bend in front of Mike, who grabs his dick and then pulls out on it.

"What the hell?" I say. I'm standing next to him and feeling the first sensation of cold.

"VD check," Mike says, real sober. And I get it that this is some military thing. Something you never write home about.

Now it's my turn. I yank on my dick.

"I don't like the looks of that, soldier," Ted says. "What do you think, corporal?" he says to Mike.

Mike bends down, a swath of moonlight falling over his bare back. He gives me another yank and says, "Uh-huh."

"No good here either," Ted says, squatting in front of Bobby. "Only one cure for that, corporal, agreed?"

And like they planned it, or are just of the same diabolical mind, they scoop up snow with both hands and shove it between our legs. Bobby lets out a yowl, and my balls, already reacting to the cold, are jumping up tight against me.

Mike is now laughing and tackling me down to the ground, his shoulder pushing into my gut, and we fall together into the snow. My body is forgetting what it felt like to be hot. But Mike, still warm, is muscling against me, bare legs and arms wrapping around me. He's sitting on me for a moment and then rolling me on top of him. Slipping and sliding, the snow under us is like a slap against the skin, stinging.

Our chests come together, slippery with sweat and melted snow, and he's laughing, throwing a wet leg across my hips and then kissing me hard, his moustache prickling my nose. I'm feeling the end of his dick gliding across my stomach. Then he's laughing again and grunting as he jumps to his feet, letting me start to get up before he's knocking me on my ass again.

This time I've got a handful of snow and I'm pushing it into his face as he lands on me. "Sonofabitch," he's spouting, spitting it out over my shoulder, and now I'm laughing, helpless as he's shoving me down harder, his hands ice-cold on my ribs.

"You're losing your glasses, bud," he says, grabbing them off my face. And then he's scooping up snow and getting me back, and it's going into my open mouth and up my nose, covering my eyes and falling in my ears.

I've had way too much of this, and I'm out of breath, begging for mercy, "Stop, stop." I twist onto my stomach, and Mike stretches flat out on top of me. My balls, pressed into the snow, are now trying to crawl inside me.

I push up, kicking out with one foot, and he lets me flip him over on his back. I come down a little hard on his chest and knock some of the wind out of him. He rolls again onto his hands and knees, and as he's catching his breath, I pitch a handful of snow against his butt, rubbing it into his crack as hard as I can.

I jump now on top of him as he spread-eagles under me, but our bodies are so wet I slide right off, finally numb with cold.

There's a scurrying of bare feet running past us. Ted and Bobby are racing back to the shed. And I hear them both hit the door at the same time, one of them chasing the other, then the door squawks open and they're slipping inside.

"Enough," Mike says. He's getting up, kicking more snow around, and then grabs my hand to help me onto my feet. This time not pushing me over again. Which is good, because I was ready to take a swing at him if he did. He lovingly sets my glasses back on my face, which are wet and cold and sprung out of shape, and we hurry over to the shed door.

When we open it and go in, we bump into Ted and Bobby, who are standing naked in the darkness, pressed about as tight together as two linemen in a phone booth. Bobby is getting kissed as if his life depended on it.

"Aw, ain't that sweet," Mike says in my ear, and since he's pretty much incapable of anything insincere, you know he means every word of it.

Once we've all warmed up again, Ted and Bobby go into the house, leaving the place to the two of us, and we sit there sprawled on the bench, sweating together. The yearning I have felt all day returns, and for once, alone with Mike, I'm able to reach over to him, touch him anywhere, for as long as I like, without wondering who sees or cares. And knowing it's OK to let my feelings show, as my dick gets longer and stiffer.

I reach over to touch his cock as we talk, and he wraps his fingers around mine, stroking the end of it with his thumb.

I tell him about Bobby's roommate, Wesley the quarterback, and he chuckles when I get to the end, saying, "Guess you took care of that little fucker." He puts his other hand in his lap, around mine, holding me holding him. "So what did he do, come after you in his jock strap or put on his pants first?"

"He put on some sweatpants," I say. "Looked like he had 'em on backwards."

"Little fucker," Mike chuckles again.

Then he tells me about his afternoon with Ted. How Ted, drawing him, gradually got him out of his clothes until he was down to his socks. "I could tell what he was up to, but let him think I didn't," he says.

"Cagey," I say. And I tell him that I'd taken a look already inside Ted's sketchpad.

"He was doing most of the talking. Guess he had a lot on his chest."

I think about Ted's chest and his thicket of dark, curly hair.

"I kissed him on the balls," Mike says, like there is no need to prepare me for this detail. He pauses as if he's waiting for me to say something. "Not both of them. Just the one."

I don't know what he's talking about.

"He ever tell you the story?" he says, as if that might trigger some memory I've forgotten.

I explain that I only know the Ted who went to the bars with me and those guys we ran into on campus. "You know, that bunch of knuckleheads." He's still softly rubbing the end of my dick, and I can feel his thumb starting to pick up a slick of precum.

I tell him I know next to nothing about Ted. "If the two of you talked much today, you probably know more about him than I do."

So he says that could be true. Then he says, "We didn't go any farther with that, if you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

And he doesn't say anything else for a while.

"He gave me a blowjob once," I finally say, for no reason, and then feel right away that I should have kept that to myself. "It was my first time," I add. And then wish I hadn't said that either.

He squeezes my dick a little and then brings his hand up to my damp cheek, pulling my face around so I'm looking straight into his eyes. And he leans forward to plant one of his long, warm, wet kisses on my mouth. His moustache, I notice, tastes a little like spaghetti sauce.

When he pulls back from me, I put my hand behind his head, feeling the short hair on his neck, and I tell him how much I've wanted to fuck him all day. And I'm feeling it now more than ever.

"The only problem, it's too goddam hot in here," I say. My glasses feel hot enough to melt, and I take them off. Then I press his face to mine, and kiss him back, just as long and warm and wet. He finds my dick again in the dark, and I'm practically coming right there in his hand.

Mike gets up, finds the flue on the stovepipe and turns it back to let the fire burn lower. Then he goes to the house, leaving the shed door open. When he comes back, he has a quilt and a couple of sleeping bags. Ted has left them for us by the stove in the kitchen.

By now the air around my ankles is feeling more like early fall than blazing summer, and we spread out everything on the floor. Mike pulls the door shut, and while I'm getting comfortable he drops down beside me.

"I think history is being made in there tonight," Mike says, with his little laugh. There was all manner of noise coming from a back bedroom. "Must have been a long dry spell for both of them."

I start to sit up.

"No, bud, we're not gonna go eavesdrop," he says, pulling me down to the blanket.

"I wasn't going to," I say. "I want to get around so I can put my dick where it can do us both some good."

He laughs and rolls onto his back, swinging up his heels. "Go to town, bud," he says. "You've had me going since you showed me that naked painting of you this morning."

I suck the inside of his thighs, first one side, then the other, working down with my mouth, finally finding his balls in the darkness between his legs, warm, loose and soft. I lick down under them, wet whorls of his hair on my tongue. He rocks back, curling his knees to his chest, like he always does, and I'm finding the patch of skin in his crotch, salty with his sweat, flattening my tongue against it and listening to him sigh.

"Just hold that," he says. "I'm not all thawed out down there yet."

This makes me start to laugh, and I'm snorting with my nose buried in his balls. And with my arms cradling his hips, I can feel him chuckling to himself.

I work down lower into his crack—and shall we say deeper—and he sighs again, "Aw, bud." He loves this. I press my face between his cheeks and hum, "Hmmmmmmm," stroking his thighs and pushing them farther onto his chest, doubling him together into a ball, his butt coming up higher. And then I go even deeper. I can feel him relaxing around my tongue.

I suppose my own butt is sticking pretty well up in the air itself. Anybody who walked in on us would have to find all these sweaty, bare-assed maneuvers somewhat on the comical side. That's, of course, about the farthest thing from my mind at the moment, but it occurs to me as I tell this.

What may be comical—for you, not for me—is what happens next. I'm still not very good at this (had you fooled), and getting into Mike for more than about two short seconds is about my record. The whole thing just blows my fuses. I can't hold back.

He knows this, and it cracks him up, since he's a champion for going the distance. With his dick inside me, time ceases and the world turns in slow motion. I know I'm in for a long, long ride. And, yeah, it's a little tender on a hard tractor seat the next day.

I'm—I don't know what—kind of a Speedy Gonzalez. Just getting all slicked up to go in gets me more than half way there, and then that take-it-easy glide as I slide it in little by little until I'm all the way - well that gets me to 90 percent. I have almost no idea how to just hang there without losing my grip. I've tried holding still for a while, not moving a hair, thinking of brick walls and mountain vistas, but Mike can't seem to keep from giving me little squeezes just out of pure spontaneous spasms of pleasure, and there I go—kazoom! Off like a firecracker.

Mike, bless him, is always game. Like tonight. It doesn't seem to matter what I do.

"Face it, I'm lousy in bed," I'll say in self-defense.

He just says, "Don't worry about it, bud, you do fine."

Tonight I don't even make it to lousy. While I'm angling in, scooting myself closer over him, my dick like a ramrod and wanting to point straight to the ceiling, he reaches to help guide me to what I'm trying to aim for, and his hands taking me and pressing me to him send me right into orbit.

"Aw, shit," I'm saying, and I'm pumping out hot cream all over his fingers, his balls, his stomach. "Fuck!"

Next thing, his feet come down with a thump on either side of me, and he's hooking his hands into my armpits and pulling me on top of him, a mix of sweat and cum spreading between us like warm vanilla pudding. He hugs me to him, nuzzling me with little kisses and cooing turtledove stuff at me.

"Hey, hey, hey," he's saying, trying to calm me down. "It's OK."

My dick, lying now all slurpy against his, is still having contractions and sending out little bits of goop.

"Damn, you smell good," he says, inhaling deep.

Then he rolls me under him and slides down between my legs.

"I suppose you're going to show me how it's done now," I say.

He doesn't need to show me anything, he says, and tells me to shut up about it. Just lie back, relax, and enjoy myself for a while.

"That I can do," I say.

I feel him scooping up the cum from my belly and squeezing the last of it from my dick, then stroking it into my crack. When his dick touches me, I know he's been stroking himself, too. It's wet and gooey like he's dipped it in melted Dairy Queen.

The movement of him lightly brushing up against the back of my thighs and my butt sends shivers through me. I'm arching up to get more of him. And then there's that sensation of his warm cock, right on the money, finding its way into me without a single false move.

This is where memory blurs, because I only know how to do one thing at this point-surrender. Which is something I can do pretty much perfectly. Mind blanking out and sinking like a scuba diver into a tropical sea of warm weightlessness.

Mike is easy with me. Maybe that's his secret. He's never hurt me or made me feel anything but cherished by each slow, deep thrust. And I don't mean that in a syrupy, Hallmark card way—cripe, can you imagine a Hallmark card with that sentiment in verse? He's still the guy who watches TV in his underwear, thinks power tools make great Christmas gifts, and believes Audie Murphy is a great actor. He can crack me up without trying.

Simple as it is to just slide into your own state of oblivion while you're getting laid, he doesn't leave me behind. I know he's there watching me, taking me along with him, as if to say, isn't this just the damnedest fun two people—two men—can have?

And that's the way it is tonight, there in the darkness and the dying firelight from the stove, and all I can sense of Mike is what I can feel of his hips pressing against me, and his cock inside me, rocking into me, his balls falling with a soft rhythm against my butt. And the sound of his breath coming in deeper sighs as he slowly gets to the edge, lingers there, and then finally slips over it, only then sinking into himself for a while until he comes around again, in my arms.

By dawn's early light the stove is dead cold and the shed has taken on a sharp chill. We are wrapped up naked in the sleeping bags, the floor hard under us, the air cool on my face as I peek out and see the back of Mike's head. I lean over him to find his eyes still closed, eyelids flickering, at play somewhere in dreamland. I reach across him to the bench and locate my glasses, wondering what time it is.

Then I lie on my back, arms tucked again in the sleeping bag, looking up in the dim light to the roof, letting that day-of-rest feeling come over me. Lord, I love Sundays.

Scooting my hand down the front of me to my usual morning hardon, I'm finding a crusty scum in my belly hair. And the memory of the previous night's lovemaking washes over me in a tide that makes my balls tingle.

Mike stirs and after a moment rolls over to look at me. "You awake, bud?" he says. One of his arms snakes out from inside his bag and he slips his hand into mine, patting my chest.

"Mostly," I say.

"What are you doing?" he says. "Playing with yourself?"

"Thinkin' about it."

But mostly, I tell him, I need to take a piss. And the two of us begin considering the options: (a) stand outside barefoot in the snow while we relieve ourselves or (b) make a dash through the freezing morning air to the house and use the indoor plumbing.

We settle on the dash to the house and, on the count of three, jump out of the bags, throw open the shed door, and run like hell. Mike is sprinting ahead of me, his winter-pale skin even paler in the bright morning sunlight. He takes the steps of the back porch in one jump, and for a second, before I come up after him, I'm looking at his bare butt and the patch of hair over it.

Mike knows the way to the bathroom, and I follow him on in, pushing up beside him to point my dick into the toilet bowl. Together we make the sound of a steady downpour in a stock tank, and drops of cold water dance up onto my legs.

As usual, it's a contest to see who lasts the longest, and as usual Mike wins. If bladders come XXL, he has one. I leave him standing there, still making water music, and walk to the kitchen, where our clothes hang by the stove.

The room is toasty, the windows mostly fogged over. Ted is at the stove, cooking up a storm again. This time it's pancakes. The air is already thick with the smell of bacon and coffee brewing. And while I climb into my underwear and reach for my levi's, he's calling out "Come and get it!" a couple times.

Bobby emerges from a back room, wearing Ted's turtleneck. It comes down past his dick, but he's cupping both hands between his legs anyway, either for warmth or from modesty. While he stands in the doorway looking into the kitchen, Mike comes up from behind, patting him on the butt as he steps past him, buck naked and still sleepy-eyed.

Finally, the three of us are gathered around the stove, getting into our clothes, and Ted is pouring more batter into a big frying pan.

"How'd everybody sleep?" he asks.

"Did anybody sleep?" Mike says, with a straight face. And I take a peek at Bobby, who is now turning beet red.

The rest of the morning continues in that vein. Until me and Mike, stuffed with pancakes, say our goodbyes, get our coats and boots and make our way out to the truck.

Ted stands in the open doorway as Mike starts the engine, and I'm scraping off crystals of frost from the windshield with a plastic ice-scraper. There's not much being said. Maybe everyone, like me, feels the start of a little sadness that all this happiness of less than twenty-four hours is already coming to an end.

And as we drive off, Mike honking the horn in little beeps, Ted is waving back at us with one arm, his other arm around Bobby, who is huddled beside him, grinning. And I'm feeling the familiar cold blast of the truck's heater blowing again between my legs.

A couple weeks later, Ted comes by in his station wagon and drops off a big flat package for Mike. When we open it that evening, it turns out to be the painting of me that got banned from the art show.

"Why did he give us this?" I'm wondering.

"I bought it from him," Mike says.

"Why'd you do that?" I want to know, kind of amazed.

"I just wanted it," he says. "I've never bought anything like this before." He takes it into the TV room and holds it against the wall trying to find the right place for it.

I tell him I'm not sure what I think of all this.

"Maybe the bedroom," he says, and he gets his toolbox from the side porch.

While I'm washing up the supper dishes, I can hear him hammering away back there. Then he has me come look, and as he stands beside me, I'm getting around to deciding that I can probably live with it.

He's quiet for a while, and finally he says, "When you're gone some day, I'll have it to remember you."

I look at him, thinking if I'd brought the dishtowel, I'd wrap it around his neck. "How often do I have to tell you this," I say. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm. Not. Going. Anywhere."

The end