Tim and the Guys


Chapter 1

The following fictional narrative may involve sexually-explicit erotic events between men.  If you shouldn't be reading this, don't.

In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms.  In the real world, you should care enough about yourself and others to always practice safe sex.

This work is copyrighted by the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement, but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.  

I'm grateful to Tom W. for continuing to do the editing chores, and to my other Nifty Six colleagues for their encouragement and support.

Readers of part 1, "Dr. Tim and the Boys," will, I hope, be concerned about Cedric.  You won't learn more about his condition in this chapter, but I'd plead for your patience.  We'll get to him soon, I promise.  

If you are just beginning this story, I don't have the nerve to ask you to read all 50 chapters of "Dr. Tim and the Boys."  Just dive into "Tim and the Guys."  I think you'll become acclimated pretty quickly.

"Romance . . . has not one climax but many; the pleasure of this text comes and comes and comes again.  No sooner is one crisis in the fortunes of the hero averted than a new one presents itself; no sooner has one mystery been solved than another is raised; no sooner has one adventure been concluded than another begins. . . .  Romance is a multiple orgasm."    --David Lodge, "Small World."


I don't think I've ever mentioned that my name is T. Maxwell Hewitt.  The "T" is for Thomas.  Since Thomas is also my father's name, my folks called me Max to avoid confusion.  My family has lived in Akron for generations.  My great-great grandfather on my mother's side, Harry Braxton, was a chemist who was involved in the early days of the rubber industry in Akron.  

My dad's family was from Akron, too.  They were mostly lawyers, I think, though way back there was a great grandfather who was an Episcopal priest.  

My dad is a partner in a pretty big accounting firm, and my mother was a psychiatrist who specialized in adolescent psychiatry until she died of cancer when I was in high school.  

That's one of the reasons I went to Kenyon.  Dad took it hard when Mom died.  He and I leaned on each other a lot after that, so I wanted to go to college somewhere not too far away.  Gambier isn't all that far from Bath, where we were living and where Dad still lives.  Besides, Kenyon is a good school, one of the small Ohio colleges with a national reputation.  In addition to all that, it is affiliated with the Episcopal Church, and that counted for something in a family which is Episcopalian as far back on either side as I could search.  Old Harry had been born in tidewater Virginia, but he came to Akron as a young man.  My great-grandfather Maxwell Hewitt moved to this country from England in the late 19th century and settled in the beautiful little town of Hudson, where he was a teacher at the Western Reserve Academy.  So, my roots in the area go way back, and we were pretty thoroughly Episcopalian.

Gambier is a pretty little town in a section of Ohio characterized by rolling hills, and the campus is beautiful.  

Kenyon requires all of its students to live in college housing.  I was assigned to a double.  And that was my first problem.  I knew I was gay at puberty, but I had never come out.  In fact, I did the usual dating thing, ran cross country in the fall, wrestled in the 125 pound weight class, and was enough of a jock to avoid any problems at my high school.  I never dated the same girl for long, however, so there was never a problem about why I didn't "go all the way" with any of them.  There were a couple of times, I admit, when I almost let things run on too far, but I managed to extricate myself without any ill will on either side.

So, when I arrived at Kenyon that fall in the early 90's, I was worried about how I could live with a roomie and not let him know I was gay.  It didn't help that he was great-looking and utterly charming.  Eric Banks, a 6' 2", blue-eyed, blond from Charleston, West Virginia, was an Adonis. I got a hardon every time I looked at him.  Fortunately for me, perhaps, Bankie as everyone called him, was seldom in the room.  He was too busy.  He was on the newspaper staff, he played soccer and baseball, and he was a class officer.  Besides, he was one of the 30% of Kenyon students who go Greek, so he was involved with his fraternity from the outset.  

Because it's a small school, smaller than several Akron-area high schools, our incoming freshman class had only about 400 students.  Since classes, even freshman sections, were very small, I soon made a fair number of friends.  Even though I had been a pretty good student in high school, I found the expectations of our professors very high, so I busted my butt doing my assignments and trying to get decent grades.

I did go out for the cross country team that first fall, however.  And that's when I got to know Tim Mead.  We had met during freshman orientation.  I was immediately attracted to him.  He was about my size, 5' 7".  I guess I felt a kinship with him from the start because we were both "vertically challenged."  

Looking at pictures of us taken then, we both looked impossibly young.  Even at the time I thought he looked like a boy, hardly old enough to be in college.  As I said, we were the same height, but he was slender.  His shoulders were fairly broad, but they tapered to a very small waist, and he had a flat chest.  His hands, feet, and, as I discovered later, cock were smallish, too.

Tim had beautiful auburn hair, which he was wearing pretty long then, and green eyes.  I thought he was the cutest thing I had ever seen and wanted him, lusted for him immediately.  

He didn't just look good.  He seemed like a nice guy, too, but he was in a different dorm, and we didn't have any classes together that first semester, so I didn't expect to see much of him after classes began.  

On the first day of cross country practice, however, I saw him in the locker room.  He was standing there in his jock, putting his clothes in his locker.  I took a locker a few over from his and sat down to take off my shoes.  Tim smiled and stuck out his hand.

"Hi, we met at orientation.  I'm Tim Mead, and you're Max Hewitt, right?"  His smile bowled me over!  "I didn't know you were a runner," he continued.

I may have held his hand a second too long, but I dropped it and said, "Yeah. How about that.  You, too, huh?"  I could have kicked myself for not being able to come up with something better than that, but the guy just got to me.  Tim wasn't most people's idea of a sexy man, I suppose, but he surely turned me on.  I was afraid to undress and get into my scanty running outfit for fear I'd throw wood.  I had that problem many times, it turned out, in my four years of running with Tim.

I had always been good at math, and I knew when I got to college I wanted to major in physics.  I took an introductory philosophy course first semester freshman year which really shook me up.  Professor Williams wanted us to challenge everything we had ever taken for granted.  Having been brought up in the Church, I had been accepting the whole thing on faith.  The questions Williams got us to ask made me reevaluate everything, and for a while I was pretty uncomfortable.  But I had several talks with the rector of my home parish, who helped me understand the differences between logic, reason, and faith.  I took another philosophy course in the spring semester and wound up minoring in philosophy.  I've never really lost the tendency Professor Williams hammered into us to challenge everything.  That trait led to many wonderful discussions with the guy who was becoming my new best friend.

After that first practice we both had things we had to do, but Tim suggested we get together later at a popular campus hangout.  We sat there over cokes (we were too young to buy beer) and told each other our life stories.  I had never been around anyone with whom I connected so quickly.  I was able to talk with Tim about my Mom's death, for example.  When tears came to my eyes at one point, Tim put his hand on my forearm and just squeezed it a little, looking at me with such understanding that I knew he was utterly sincere.  He must have been as comfortable sharing with me as I was with him, because he told me about how he had taken up cross country at the suggestion of a coach because he was being picked on by guys in middle school who were calling him a fag and things like that.  

Tim and I fell into the habit of doing our studying as we could in the afternoons and always immediately after supper.  Then most nights we'd get together somewhere. Tim had been lucky enough to snag a single room, so we could always use it.  Banks, my roommate freshman year was, as I've said, seldom around until midnight or later, so we sometimes used my room.  And sometimes we just went to that campus hangout where we'd gone the first evening.  After freshman year we both had singles, so there was never a problem about where to get together for our ongoing discussions of the world, its pleasures, and its problems.

Wherever we were, we talked.  I mean, that's what we did.  We talked and talked.  About everything.  We didn't always think alike, and we often challenged each other on things.  Early on, of course, it had to do with religion.  Tim claimed to be an atheist.  After lots of back and forth, he admitted that perhaps he was agnostic.  He never understood faith.  I mean he could define it, but he just couldn't accept the "leap of faith."  There we finally agreed to disagree.  I could get him to admit a spiritual element in music, art, and literature, but could never quite get him to see that it had to come from somewhere not explained by "reason."

In many other ways, though, we were kindred spirits.  We both were liberal in politics, distrustful of all big institutions.  We liked a lot of the same popular music.  I was familiar with most standard choral music, having sung in the choir in my home church (when I wasn't being a crucifer or torch bearer).  Tim was much more knowledgeable about classical symphonic and instrumental music.  He badgered me to go with him to E. J. Thomas Hall in Akron to hear the Akron Symphony.  Once we drove to Pittsburg to hear the Pittsburgh Symphony play in Heinz Hall.  And a couple of times we drove to Columbus to hear the Columbus Symphony.  I came to love it as much as he did, and he spent four years helping me get to know through cd's the classical concert repertoire.

We both dated girls, he more than I.  It seemed to me he played the field rather than going steady with anyone.  Certainly he was never lacking for a date if there was anything going on.  We seldom got to go to football games because we were usually running those Saturday afternoons.  But it was common to take a girl to a basketball game, or a soccer match.  There were movies, of course, plus the musical and theatrical productions generated on our campus.  Or, one could just go to one of the popular places in town and hang out.  

Tim is not the sort to boast of his conquests, but I did know that he occasionally had sex with one of his partners for the evening.  It seemed very clear to me that he was straight.  When we graduated, he obviously hadn't found the woman of his dreams.  I think he knew Amy, to whom he was later engaged, from high school, and they reconnected at some point after he left Kenyon.

My own dating was less frequent and done mostly as a cover-up.  But there were three Kenyon women in four years who were good casual friends, people whose company I enjoyed who didn't mind being asked to go to a dance or wherever and seemed happy with a little mutual groping afterward.  I don't know whether he wondered, but Tim never made any comment about my relations with the opposite sex.  He's such a gentleman.  I know that's an old-fashioned term, but Tim is, to quote from the Book of Common Prayer, "mindful of the needs of others."  He's very sensitive to the way those around him feel, and I think he'd never have asked me about my dating practices, content to accept what I volunteered.

Running, of course, was what brought Tim and me together initially, and it was one of the things that helped us maintain our bond throughout our undergrad days.  He was the better runner.  The two of us were the best on the college team, but, though I did occasionally beat him, I came in second to him so often some of the guys began to tease me by calling me "Deuce."  Never Tim, though.  He was always supportive, encouraging.  He challenged me, sure, but he always wanted me to do better and was genuinely glad when I performed my best.

Many strong male-to-male friendships in college aren't gay.  Perhaps most of them aren't.  Young men tend to make strong platonic attachments in those years.  That's what our friends thought Tim and I had done.  That's apparently what Tim though we'd done.  There was never any question that we'd sit together in the bus on the way to a meet or that we'd room together on the occasions when we were away overnight.  Most of the guys, in fact, had paired off in the same way.  No one thought anything of it.  And I assumed that that's the way Tim felt about it all.  We were good friends. Just guys.  

In the fall of freshman year I asked him to spend the Thanksgiving break with me.  Since mom died, Dad and I always went to my Hewitt grandparents' for dinner that day, and my aunt and uncle and their two kids were usually there, too.  When I checked with Grandma, she said, "The more the merrier, Max, dear.  You know there's always enough food for one more."  Tim seemed pleased to be invited.  My family made him feel welcome, and he obviously enjoyed the relaxed warmth he found with us. We knew better than to try to shop the day after Thanksgiving, so we both just slept in, had a very late breakfast, and watched a football game with my dad that afternoon.  That night I think we went to a movie at the Summit Mall.  Saturday we decided to hit a big mall on the east side of Cleveland, so we braved the crowds and did some Christmas shopping.  Tim went to church with dad and me on Sunday, and we returned to campus after dinner.  Tim and my dad hit it off well, and until we graduated Dad always enjoyed having Timmy around.

I was invited to Belpre from time to time.  His parents, always a bit distant, were the only family he had there.  Occasionally at holidays his aunt and uncle would visit. They, too, were on the cold side, it seemed to me.  I don't know how such a sweet guy could have come from such a family.  The only bright spot, besides Tim, was his cousin Suze, who was a real live wire.  She had incredible energy and a marvelous sense of humor, keeping Tim and me stirred up and laughing the whole time we were with her.  Tim told me once that he and Suze had always been close.  She was a couple of years older, and he always thought of her as his big sister.  When she started to college, her parents moved North Carolina.  At any rate, going home with Tim gave me a chance to be with him, which I always wanted, but there wasn't much going on in Belpre in those days.  Besides, I was never able to warm up to his parents, who, it seemed to me, never warmed up to anyone.

If Tim hadn't been such a good runner, if he hadn't dated so regularly, I think some people on campus would have thought he was gay, especially since he was short, thin, and wore that magnificent auburn hair a little longer than most guys, at least longer than most jocks.  (He always kept it out of his eyes with a sweatband when he ran.)  Needless to say, I looked for signs.  Signals.  Anything.  But I never saw anything unequivocal.  I acknowledged early on that I didn't just love Tim, but that I had fallen in love with him.  True, I wanted his body.  Like most gay college-age men, I had to worry about getting erections when I was around good-looking guys.  And that was especially true when I was with Tim.

I still remember one day in the fall of our sophomore year when we had beaten Mount Union and Cranmer in a three-way meet in Gambier.  Tim and I were both sitting on a bench in front of our lockers taking off our shoes.  Some of the other guys had already stripped and gone into the showers. The shower room was steamy, and fog drifted out to where Tim and I were sitting.  Buck Mulligan, a tallish redhead with green eyes, a long uncut cock, and a fabulous butt, was kind of horsing around with Kenny Kwan, about the same size but thinner with beautiful skin, sexy black eyes, a neat but smallish dick, and, again an ass to die for.  They were laughing and calling each other "faggot" and "queer" and taunting each other.  We all knew they were straight (or thought we did), but that sort of high-spirited joking and wrestling was common, especially after a good win.  Their wet skin glowing through the mist, they seemed for a minute to be doing an erotic dance.  Other guys from our team were standing there, soaping, rinsing, watching, laughing, commenting on what was happening.  It struck me as being incredibly beautiful and overwhelmingly sexy.

The inevitable happened.  My cock was getting hard, so I pulled off my shirt and laid it across my lap.  Tim was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, watching the action in the shower.  Apparently engrossed in what he was seeing, he had a faint smile on his face.  Then he looked at me and said, "Think those two will ever grow up?"  

I shook my head and said, "Probably not," or something like that.  Then I went back to removing my socks.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tim stand up and drop his shorts, then his jock.  He was about half hard.  I'd seen him naked often enough before, and my heart always beat faster when I saw his beautiful, smooth, pink cock dangling from that bush of dark red hair over his good-sized balls.  This time, however, the cock of my dreams was definitely beginning to rise.  Not quite parallel to the floor, but getting there.  I was already sweaty, as was Tim, but I could feel myself break out with new sweat.

Tim grabbed a towel and went toward the showers.  I noticed that he was holding the towel in front of his cock.  As he walked, I was able to direct my vision to his tight ass as it wiggled away from me into the mist, muscles writhing under the smooth, white skin.  My cock was by now fully erect, sticking up out of my jock and above the waistband of my running shorts.  I had to pretend to check my feet for blisters (a hazard for runners, especially if the lining of your shoes is beginning to wear out.)  

When I got to the showers, most of the others had left.  Tim's erection had subsided, as had mine.  Tim grinned and asked, "What kept you, Max?"

"Oh, just a tender spot on my foot.  Think I need to get some new shoes."

"Yeah, can't afford to get a blister.  Don't put it off."

As I showered I had to avoid looking at Tim for fear of getting another boner.  But then that was the story of my autumns at Kenyon.  

I should stress here that it wasn't just that I lusted for Tim, though, God knows, I did.  I also have to say that I was never happier than when we were together.  I wanted to be with him, needed to be in his presence, to listen to him talk, to argue with him, to feel the vibes of friendship.  He just made me happier than I had ever been, and I reveled in that, craved that.  

It was torture in another way as well.   I wanted to come out to him. I longed for him to know and accept the real me.  I knew he liked me. Otherwise, why would he have spent so much time with me?  I knew from our discussions that he had no problem with varying sexualities, but, except for that one time in the locker room, he never once said or did anything I could see as a clear or even promising indicator that he was gay.  

What could I do?  I valued his friendship more than anything.  I wanted to be open with him.  I felt I was being deceitful by not telling him I was gay.  But I was simply too afraid of losing his friendship. I had long debates with myself about that.  I told myself that Tim was an opening-minded, accepting, understanding guy, that he'd not reject me if I came out to him.  But, and I'll regret this to the day I die, I never had the courage to do it.

As graduation approached, I had many talks with myself.  Tim had been accepted at Stanford, and he was elated, as well he should have been.  I applied to and was accepted at Ohio State as a candidate for a master's in physics.  I faced the fact that there was no point in continuing to hanker after Tim, that we both had to get on with our lives.

At the conclusion of the commencement ceremonies, we found my dad and his parents, who had been sitting together.  We all went to dinner somewhere together.  Afterward, Tim and I hugged.  I did notice that he had tears in his eyes as we wished each other well and promised to stay in touch.

Over that summer we exchanged emails every couple of weeks.  When he went to California and I was in Columbus, we were both busy, and the frequency dropped off.  Then I went through the crisis over my vocation and quit writing to Tim.  I never intended to cut it off, I just didn't write because at that time I had something else, something overwhelming, to deal with, my call to the priesthood.  When I wound up at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific in Berkeley, I was aware that Timmy wasn't far away.  But I was studying to be a priest, and I forced myself to put aside my desire for him, tried to suppress all my gay thoughts.  Not because I ever for a minute thought being gay was wrong, but because that was a kind of self-indulgence I didn't think was proper for a beginning seminarian.  

And then I met Andrew.  But you know that story.  Let me conclude this confession by saying that it is quite possible to love two different people with all your being.  I've done it.

"Tim and the Guys" will continue soon.