|An Extra Year In The Dorm, Part 4
by Greg Scott
All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
------------------------------My experiences with Brad didn't change much in the days before the start of classes, except that he changed from being deferential to me to trying to impress me as some sort of worldly wise guy. He bragged about all the things that I disliked about some of the people who went to my own high school. He talked about the prowess of his friends and him when they would drive off late on a Friday night, smashing rural mailboxes with a baseball bat or turning over the portable outhouse at a highway construction site.
While I never displayed any false sense of admiration for the exploits of his past, he still continued telling me stories, usually after our lights were off and I was trying to get to sleep to be in top condition for the next day's soccer practice. Most irritating of all were the tales of his exploits with girls in his school, usually a couple years younger than he was. The details he included made me think that they might be true, unlike the lies that a lot of guys that age spin.
The thought of him manipulating some girl into letting him remove her bra or finger her privates, of course, did not impress me in the least. In fact, I found my disdain for my roommate increasing most at the times that girls were his topic of conversation. Strangely, I noticed he never claimed to have screwed any of his conquests.
In fact, I thought it was odd that he was telling me about his exploits with the opposite sex at all. I had been open about my sexual orientation as soon as I hit campus. In fact, I had told the coach that I was gay before I even decided to attend this school and accept my scholarship. My mostly positive experiences in high school had led me to decide that I would never be less than open about being gay. Love me or leave me; that's who I am.
Yet, it occurred to me that almost none of my friends ever mentioned or even alluded to my gay status any more. Although we had teased each other in the beginning, it quickly had become just a fact of life for everyone. I guessed that it was truly possible that nobody ever bothered to tell Brad that he was living with a queer. Still, Brad had hung out with some of the football players in the dorm, and with a few of them the fact that there was a gay boy in the same shower room in the residence hall seemed particularly unnerving.
Once classes began, life in my room took a noticeable turn for the better. This was primarily due to the fact that Brad was overwhelmed by his classes. I was surprised by his diligence as a student, given the immaturity that he had previously exhibited.
My role suddenly changed from the person to whom he bragged about his high school exploits to the guy who had managed to survive all the same college core courses a couple years before. I transitioned into the role that the coach had originally intended for me to assume. Rather than telling him to "grow up," I was telling him how to take notes in class (he took too many), how to write papers (let it flow conversationally) and how to memorize facts for the history midterm that would come sooner than he could imagine (repetition and more repetition, especially right before you go to sleep).
High school disappeared from his late night talks if not from his silent memories. He became focused upon the all-consuming present.
It was really once we got into the soccer games that I noticed the most profound changes in Brad. We had won the first game three to zero. My passes had led directly to two of the goals.
"You're the best midfielder I've ever seen," Brad said admiringly after the lights were off in our room that night.
I remember that Juan had used that same description of my play once a couple years ago. At that time, I was proud that a guy that I loved and admired, a guy of Juan's soccer abilities, had paid me such a compliment. When Brad said it, I was simply surprised. It was the first time that he had ever talked about me instead of himself.
In fact, the other team was not all that strong. My passes came at times when I was not being pressured at all. Still, for some reason that I couldn't identify, I was grateful for Brad's compliment, even if it wasn't really deserved. Don't get me wrong. I have a lot of confidence in my ability on the pitch. I am very good at my position, and I seem to have an instinctive knack for playing midfield. It's just that the particular game that began our season didn't really afford an opportunity to show off my real skills.
Never-the-less, I had an inexplicable reaction. I looked across the room to Brad's bed. It was still plenty warm outside, so our blinds and window were open, allowing light from the quad to shine through. Brad was in his bed, but unlike me, he wasn't covered by a sheet. I could see the outline of his body, in silhouette against the light green wall. He wore the silk boxers in which he always slept. (I knew they were silk because I had looked at the label one day while he was in class. "Hand wash," it instructed.) In the dim light, I might have been gazing at Juan. My cock grew hard.
I turned over, with my hand down my own underwear, and eventually went to sleep, overcoming the urge to walk down the hall to one of the stalls in the bathroom to take care of myself. I didn't even think about the experience the next morning when I awoke.
If I thought there had been a change in Brad with the beginning of classes and because of our first game, I noticed it even more profoundly after the second game. It was as if he had turned into a young looking man--mature and self-confident if still a bit boyish in many ways.
In the first half, we had taken a four to zip lead, almost unheard of in the sport. The other team scored a goal on a fluke in the early minutes of the second half. A wild pass from their midfield had bounced off one of our defenders and into the net. There was no doubt that the game was fully in our control.
This was not surprising, of course, since our team scheduled "patsies" for the first couple games of the season. We treat them a bit as warm ups more than real games. The teams are not in the conference, so the only difference that the outcome makes is in the national rankings. Assuming there's not some sort of fluke, our real test in contesting for a spot among the top national elite teams doesn't really come until we face our fiercest conference rivals.
About ten minutes into the second half, our coach pulled out our other star midfielder and a striker. He put in a promising, yet not quite ripe junior as the striker. Then, surprising everyone, he put Brad in as the midfielder playing alongside me. I had never seen the coach put in a freshman that early in any game, no matter the size of our lead or the level of our confidence. The earliest I had gotten into a game during my freshman year we had only five minutes left with a four goal lead.
Our instructions at this point of the game were simply to "play the clock." That means that our objective was simply to keep the other team from scoring. Such a mission puts most of the work on the midfielders. Brad and I spent almost all of the last half hour or so of the game simply passing the ball back and forth between us.
This is the kind of soccer that drives uninformed, casual fans crazy. They see no excitement in that kind of game, but those of us who truly understand what soccer is all about can appreciate the skill that it requires.
As seasoned midfielders, Brad and I could appreciate our own skill. Brad had been the most recruited player in his high school graduation year. I had been in the same situation two years before.
I'm not at all sure why, but each of us knew exactly what the other planned to do before he did it. When one of us passed, the other was always in perfect position. It was as if we were throwing baseballs in the backyard with nobody else present to interfere.
It was an "away" game. The fans of the opposing team booed us with each kick, but that just served as inspiration to us. Rarely did we need to kick to one of our defenders or up to a striker, who would quickly return the ball to one or the other of us. It was magical.
We probably could have scored at least two more goals, as their keeper came further and further out to try to disrupt our rhythm. Our instructions, though, were to not take a shot unless passing up a shot might be embarassing to the other team. Our coach was a master of sportsmanship, and he had trained us well. We never got ourselves into a situation in which it was obvious that we should shoot.
Only our most masterful players realized just how disciplined Brad had been. They congratulated him profusely in the locker room, but only when they were in a one-on-one situation with him, never around any other players. I didn't say anything to him, because I knew I would be able to compliment him in the hotel room after our late team dinner at a steakhouse. I hadn't known that I had signed up to be his travel roommate, but the coach assumed that was part of my volunteer mentoring assignment. For tonight, at least, I didn't mind the extra duty.
When we got back to the hotel room, it was nearly nine. We both had some reading to do for classes, so we undressed for bed and placed our pillows against our respective headboards so that we could read--me political science and Brad American history.
Being an addict of politics, I had no problem focusing on my book, but occasionally I would glance at Brad. Each time, he seemed distracted.
"Having problems?" I asked on one such occasion.
"No just taking a break," he replied, although I had caught him apparently staring at my face.
"Do you want to talk?" I asked, figuring that he wasn't really paying that much attention to the chapter he was supposed to read.
"What did you think of the game?"
"I thought we did pretty well, although they shouldn't have scored that goal," I replied, analytically.
"Yeah," he said, sounding almost disappointed in my response.
Taking the cue I said, "You were great. Your passes are amazingly precise. You've got good fundamentals."
"Thanks," he said, trying to sound casual, but he was obviously excited by my recognition. "It was really fun playing with you. You are amazing."
"Yeah, well, I've been at it a little longer than you, but you really fell into the flow."
"Did you notice how we seemed to almost read each other's mind?" he asked excitedly.
"Yeah, you're a natural. You just need a little more experience," I said, remembering that the coach had told me not to let his head get too big.
"I mean, it was like we were two parts of the same person," he insisted, giving himself a little more credit than I would have, although I couldn't really disagree with his observation.
"Yeah, we played well together," I tried to underplay his analysis, although it seemed entirely accurate to me.
"Maybe we're a lot alike," he said. "Maybe we're more alike than you think."
"Probably in some ways," I agreed, remembering our chemistry on the soccer pitch.
"Maybe in a lot of ways," he said almost mystically.
"Maybe," I agreed.
I reached toward my lamp and turned it off. Brad did the same to his light.
I guess it's my age that makes any personal conversation turn into something sexual. Nineteen years old is supposed to be the peak of a guy's sexual appetite, but I seem hornier at almost twenty-one than I did at nineteen. Of course, I was plenty sexual at nineteen, too. After all, that was my freshman year, and I managed to keep pretty busy.
I figured that I read far too much into Brad's statements. I knew that he wasn't thinking of anything but soccer or maybe college in general. Yet my cock interpreted it entirely differently. I wished that we could be as similar as he had proclaimed. Once again, I was in bed just a few feet away from Brad with a hard-on that he had innocently instigated.
I was beginning to feel the same sexual arousal that I felt when I first met him. It was a feeling that had disappeared during his childish period of trying to impress me, but he was different now. He was more mature, almost suddenly so.
I knew that a big part of my interest was his physical similarity to Juan, the love of my life. A little on the short side, dark, handsome beyond description. As far as how far down the similarities went, I couldn't say. Unlike our high school locker room, the showers at this university were individual stalls. Strangely for college dorm life, I had never seen him naked. A few times I caught myself imagining what those hidden parts might look like, but I quickly forced myself to remember Juan instead.
My cock demanded attention. The light blocking feature of the hotel room curtains made the room perfectly dark. I couldn't even detect an outline of my roommate who was three feet away at most. I figured that if I couldn't see him, he couldn't see me.
Making as little noise as possible, I slowly moved the sheet off my body. I slid my underwear off, to use for its absorbency later. My plan was determined.
I placed my underwear next to my stomach, so that it would be within easy reach once I was finished. I figured that I would worry about how to cover my naked self in the morning when it was time to get out of bed. Maybe I could put on a pair of dirty underwear while Brad was in the bathroom. In any case, I didn't care about that right now. I had relief on my mind.
I had had no sexual action since I had moved back into the dorm, nearly four weeks previously. Of course I had taken care of myself often either in my own bed while Brad was in class or in a stall in the bathroom down the hall before or after he had fallen asleep. However, I had never masturbated while he was in the same room. As far as I knew, neither had he.
This was completely different from my experiences with my other roommates. While we had never jacked off in plain view of the other, we did so rather openly once the lights were off. Sometimes we would completely ignore it; other times we would tease each other about it the next day. I thought how odd it was that Brad and I hadn't followed the same pattern. Maybe it was because I was supposed to be his role model, but the coach never told Brad about that part of our situation. With Brad, there was just something different, I guessed.
Tonight was going to be a change, though. It's not that I actually wanted it to be unique. It was only that I was suddenly so horny that I just didn't care. I was determined to get release, and it didn't matter to me who was in the next bed, whether he would be aware of what I was doing, or what he thought of me as a result.
With sheet off, my body was completely exposed to the room's air. The air conditioner in the room clicked back on, which I figured would cover any sounds my movements would make. I felt a chill as the breeze from the electronic unit him me.
I cradled my balls with my left hand, trying to conjure my favorite image of Juan. Amazingly, despite my excursions into the gay world on campus during my first two years, I still first thought of Juan whenever I began my masturbatory sessions. Although he might later be replaced by my latest date or a guy in one of my classes, he always started these fantasy sessions.
My right hand moved to my already hard cock. I felt the familiar contours, and immediately realized how very different it was from the penis that was in my mind, the one that was attached to Juan. I tried to imagine that I was stroking Juan's dick, but the physical reality was just too different.
Without consciously switching my fantasy, what I pictured now was an image of Brad's body, in the same position that I saw him as we both turned off our lights. I knew that he must still be awake, and that conjured in me a feeling of hidden pleasures, all the more intense because they were invisible to my roommate just a few feet removed from my self-indulgence.
He had looked beautiful. I don't use that term metaphorically. Brad was truly beautiful. I now remembered thinking about his beauty as he told me about his female conquests a couple weeks ago. I recalled thinking that of course he could persuade any girl to do anything that he wanted just for the chance of basking for even a short while in the glow that he produced.
Strangely, I now thought of him as he had appeared in the game just a few hours before. Strong, slightly hairy legs protruding from his shorts, brownish skin showing both below his shorts and his jersey sleeves. Perfect face above the neckline of the t-shirt. Pitch black hair that betrayed his Anglo heritage, but the piercing blue eyes that seemed appropriate to his name if not to his skin and hair.
As I stroked, I became somehow conscious that my eyes had been locked on those blue marbles of sight during the entire part of the game that we had played together. Perhaps that is how I had anticipated his every move. Perhaps that is why we seemed like two parts of the same person, as he had expressed it.
As I became distracted by that line of thought, it was almost as if I made love to myself as I mentally made love to a Brad that I didn't really know. But this imaginary Brad was responsive, and tender, and intense, much as Juan had been. This Brad was not at all like the immature, pretentious boy that I had come to know a few weeks before. He was the young man that had emerged from a cocoon that I had not even noticed--emerged just in recent days.
As I pulled at my scrotum and tightened my grip on my dick, they were Brad's hands--not mine and certainly not Juan's--that were working my special parts. As I licked my hand as silently as possible to provide a little lubrication and returned it to my penis, it was Brad's mouth that descended onto my cock, as large as it had ever been. Of course, it was not literally so.
I was conscious of the object of my fantasy in the next bed. Although I could not see him, I willed him to be watching my every move. I wanted him to have better night vision than I. I wanted to be caught jacking off as I fantasized about my captor.
I felt my climax rising, and I heard the air conditioner click off with a clunk. I suddenly did not care at all if my companion heard me. In fact, I wanted him to hear everything. I stroked powerfully. I squirmed in my bed. I felt as if anyone in the hotel could hear the cum landing on my chest and then my abdomen. I hoped that everyone could hear it all.
Then it all finished, and I sheepishly wiped up the remains of my joy with my underwear. It smeared the residue as much as absorbed it. When I finished cleaning myself as well as I could, I dropped the sticky bit of clothing next to the side of the bed opposite Brad's bed.
I pulled the sheet up to cover my naked body and rearranged the pillow to nestle my head and neck.
"How was it?" I heard the whisper from the bed next to mine.
"Fantastic," I answered truthfully and unashamed.
"Good," said Brad.
I heard his bed moving rhythmically as I drifted off to sleep, too sated and tired from the long day to concern myself with what was happening in the bed next to mine, even though its occupant had been the center of my imaginary world just moments before.
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