Courtesy of www.99Gay-Men.US

Ichabod's Fool
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.


It was kind of an unusual circumstance for me.  I had my dorm room to myself for a change.  I took advantage of the quiet time to work on a paper that was due in English class Tuesday morning.  I was proud that I was actually making headway almost five full days in advance.  

I lived in a triple, which meant that I lived with two other freshmen.  One of them, Anton, had gotten an early start on a weekend trip to his hometown.  He spent almost every weekend away from campus because his girlfriend was a high school senior.  I don't know whether he missed her or just the regular sex that they had apparently enjoyed throughout Anton's senior year.

My other roommate was on campus.  John, who we actually called Ichabod because he looked to us like Ichabod Crane from Washington Irving's "Legend of Sleepy Hollow, had joined an intramural flag football team.  They had a game every Thursday night.

After about a month here, I was pretty well adjusted to college life.  Actually there wasn't much about it that surprised me.  A lot of my high school friends from the wrestling team were a year older than I was, so they had told me what to expect.  Of course, a lot of what they told me about was how to handle the girls, information that I couldn't really use given my interest in guys, instead.

I decided that I would come out as soon as I hit campus.  I was tired of hiding that part of myself.  At home, only my parents and a few of my closest friends knew that I was gay.  It wasn't that I had been a chicken; it's just that I hadn't been sure myself until the summer before I started college.

The problem was that I really wasn't too sure how you come out in college.  I couldn't make an announcement on the campus radio station or in the school paper.  I guess I could have used the public address system at the first football game, but I missed that game.

Fairly soon after first meeting my roommates, Anton started talking about his girlfriend.  That caused Ichabod (you know, John) to complain that he had never even been on a date.  After that revelation, I figured that was as good a time as any for me.  I announced that I am gay, a confession that seemed to be greeted by universal boredom.

This college has the reputation of being the most liberal in the Midwest.  What that means is that ninety percent of the students and one hundred percent of the faculty and administrators have either never watched Fox news or watch it only to throw things at the television.  The other ten percent of the students will watch nothing else.  I suspect that they chose this school because they like to argue.

I learned that you don't just come out, and then you're done with it.  It's like you have to do it all over again every time you meet somebody new.  To help spread the "news" faster, I decided to join the Gay-Straight Alliance, known as the GSA.  The problem with that, though, is that nobody knows that you are in the GSA unless they happen to be members, too.  Furthermore, about half the members of the group are straight, so being in the GSA doesn't really signal to anyone that you happen to be gay.

Maybe it would be easier if I just applied pink body paint all over myself.  Actually, there are quite a few guys here that I would like to ask to smear the body paint all over me, but I haven't put the moves on anyone, yet.  Yeah, I'm horny.  Always.

Anyway, I was telling you about that Thursday night when I finally had some time to myself to do some writing on my English paper.  I think all of that other stuff that I told you about my introduction to college was because the topic of this paper was supposed to a sort of self-exploration, an expose`...or what my professor called a "self-pose`."  Seriously, that's the term he used right there on the syllabus.  

My paper was about me figuring out, finally, that I'm gay and my frustrations at having to come out so slowly when what I wanted was to be totally out there.  I wasn't planning on getting into my sex life at all.  That wouldn't have filled up very much paper, anyway.  My experiences total four.  Twice a high school friend, Greg, and I got it on, but that was after I had already graduated.  The other two times were with an older guy who will remain nameless, since he's married to a woman and has a son.

I was making pretty good progress and actually enjoying it until I was interrupted.

"Mark!" I heard someone yelling my name from down the hall.

"Mark, open your door," the sound was getting closer.

I didn't get up from my computer.  We never locked the door when someone was in the room.  Whoever it was could open it themselves if they wanted in.

A foot started kicking the door as the voice kept calling for my attention.

"Just come on in," I shouted, although I still didn't recognize the voice.  Maybe it was some hunk who wanted to smear that body paint on me!

"We can't," came the reply.

I got up and walked over to open the door.  When I did I saw two guys who I recognized as friends of Ichabod.  They were facing each other with their hands clasped making a kind of chair.  Between them was Ichabod with a grimace and a fair amount of dirt plastered across his face.

"What happened?" I asked as they came into the room, walking toward Ichabod's bed.

"He went up for a pass and the defender undercut him.  He landed hard on his back.  He's in a lot of pain," said the least offensive looking of the trio.

"Yeah, I'm in a lot of pain," said Ichabod who for some reason felt he had to repeat what his friend had said.

"Why didn't you take him to the student clinic?" I asked.

"He wouldn't go," said the group spokesman.

"I don't want to go to the clinic," Ichabod repeated.

The two carriers put him onto his bed in a sitting position with his feet touching the floor.  The communicator of the group arched his back, stretching it after the effort of carrying his gangly friend what must have been the equivalent of about five blocks.  The other guy sat on the floor to begin his process of removing his injured friend's shoes.

"I think he should go to the clinic," I said.

"He refuses," said the friend.

"I don't want to go to the clinic," said Ichabod sounding almost drunk, except that I knew he never touched alcohol.

"I still think he should go," I insisted.

"I can't make him go," said the friend who apparently was capable of talking.

"I don't want to go to the clinic," said my roommate.

This was getting circular.  I gave up and returned to my computer like the compassionate person I am. 

"We'll help you lie down.  Do you want a blanket?" I heard behind me.

"Take my dirty pants off first," my injured roomie said.

"Okay.  Can you lift your hips off the bed?"

"I don't think so," Ichabod groaned.

"Hey Mark, can you give us a hand?"

"Crap," I thought.  I rose from my chair and crossed the room.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, noting that the two carrying guys were on opposite sides of the bed sliding their hands under my roomie's injured back.

"When we lift, you pull off his pants," the other one apparently was capable of human speech despite my first impression.  "Make it fast, though.  This is awkward."

Now, as you can guess, I have pulled off some other male's pants in the past, and I looked forward to doing so many more times in the future.  Unfortunately John really did look like Ichabod Crane.  He had a long nose that turned sharply downward in the middle.  His adams apple was the size of a ... well, an apple.  His hair always looked greasy, even after it dried after a shower and shampoo.  This was not exactly a fantasy experience for me.

Alas, I needed to do this much for a friend in need.  As I reached for his zipper to prepare him for the procedure, it occurred to me that Ichabod and I weren't really friends, though.  We had never really hung out, aside from walking to breakfast together a couple times during orientation week.  We didn't talk too much after that first day when we had helped each other move into the dorm.  We got along fine, but we just didn't seem to have much in common.

I let his two friends who were now playing the role of hospital orderlies know that I was ready for my part.  They both grunted as they lifted the middle portion of his lanky frame.  I pulled down his pants almost as far as his knees.  I then moved to the foot of the bed, grabbed the bottom of his pants legs and tugged them off the rest of the way.

Fortunately, his hairy legs were not as painful to look at as his face.  In fact, they were what I might have called kind of hot, if they hadn't been attached to the rest of him.

It probably sounds odd, but I had never seen John even partly undressed before.  Anton and I frequently lounged in boxers and t-shirts, but John was always fully dressed.  I usually came back from the library each night after he had already gone to bed, and on weekends I came in much later from whatever I had been doing.  He was an early riser, so he was showered and dressed each morning before I would be awakened by my annoying alarm.

Now, all of that is not meant to imply that I had wanted to see him undressed.  I wasn't even the slightest bit curious, but as I undressed him it did occur to me how odd it was that this was my first glimpse of his uncovered legs.

"Do you need anything before we leave?" the more talkative of his friends asked.

Whoa, they're leaving?  What am I supposed to do if he get worse or something?  Okay, once again that was not the most compassionate response, but as soon as I thought about it I realized how selfish I was being--at least in my thoughts.

After Ichabod's friends left, I asked how he was feeling.  He told me he was still in pain but that it felt good to be in his bed at least.  I told him to let me know if he needed anything, and I returned to my certain-to-be-brilliant paper.

After about twenty minutes, Ichabod asked me to bring him some water.  I walked the short distance to our mini-fridge to grab a bottle.  As I arrived at his bed, he asked me to help him raise his head so he could drink.

I carefully slid my hand under his head.  Strangely, despite it appearance, his hair didn't really feel greasy at all.  My roommate took a couple sips and thanked me.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"It still hurts," he replied as if it were a struggle to answer me.

"Let me know if you need anything else," I offered as I wished that Anton were around.  He was closer to John than I, plus I figured he had to be better at this caretaker role than I was.  But, no such luck.  Anton was probably fucking his girlfriend right now, I thought somewhat bitterly.

As I was turning to head back to my writing, Ichabod asked, "Do you think you could massage my lower back a little?  That might help."

That particular activity appealed to me about as much as having a root canal, although I really have no idea what a root canal is, but I gather it's a pretty unpleasant experience.

Unfortunately I couldn't think of an excuse, so I simply said, "Sure.  Can you turn over?"

"I think so," Ichabod said.

I watched him grimace as he struggled to roll over, but I didn't know how to help without hurting him even more.  When he finally settled face down, I sat gingerly on the side of his bed.

He was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt that actually covered the waist band of his boxers, so I had to sort of guess where to rub.  I applied gentle pressure as I tried to make slight circular movements with the heels of my hands.

"Tell me if I rub too hard," I said.

"Okay," he replied.

I continued my movements gradually working my way outward more towards his sides and then making the return journey.  Ichabod didn't groan, so I figured I must be performing my task adequately.

"Hey Mark, my shirt's rubbing against my skin.  Could you help me take it off?"

Under normal circumstances taking off a guy's shirt is not particularly challenging, but, when the guy in question is laying face down and there's no extra room for him to even raise his arms above his head, this process became a complex engineering problem.  I am definitely not engineering material, but eventually I managed to accomplish the job.

I was ready to return to the massage.  I looked down at my roommates back.  It was as if I didn't recognize him.  His unfortunate looking face was hidden from my view.  Since he was prone, he wasn't in his typical slouching posture.  Standing, stooped over, fully dressed and with his facial features, he appeared as an unusually unattractive, skinny geek.  In his current position and with his legs and back exposed, I realized that he is not skinny at all.  In fact, even taking into account his frame that extends a full five inches above my six feet, he was well proportioned and surprisingly muscular.  

I guiltily remembered the times that I got mad at some of my straight friends when they would see a passing woman and say, "Put a bag over her head, and I'd fuck her!"  That's how I was now feeling about Ichabod.  He no longer looked like an Ichabod.  He looked like John.  Too bad about that face, I thought as I returned to the massage, actually touching my roommate's skin for the first time since we had shaken hands on move-in day.

It was actually easier to massage John without his shirt.  I could feel his muscles better, which allowed me to better guess how much pressure to apply.  While I rubbed his back, I glanced down at those hairy legs that I had previously admired.  I wasn't getting aroused, but it was not as unpleasant of an experience as I had anticipated.  

It made me realize that I needed to get into the gay dating scene.  I needed to touch another man in a sensual way and hopefully get some relief in order to give my right hand a break from its daily masturbatory duties.  I thought about several gay guys I had met on campus and tried to decide which of those might make a good target.

As I was about to rank order my candidates, John interrupted my reverie.

"My thighs are kind of sore, too.  Could you massage those for a while, please?"

I looked at his appealing legs and thought that this might be a very good favor to do for my roommate.  Without answering him, I immediately turned my manual attention to those legs.

His legs seemed uncommonly muscular as I pressed into them.  I kneaded each with the meat of my hands.  As I did so, the thick, black hairs bristled against my finger tips.  For a moment, I started thinking of that "put a bag over his head" line again.  I tried to quickly put that out of my mind.

After about ten minutes of that, John said, "Thanks, maybe my back again, now?"

"Okay, John, but I have to tell you my hands are starting to get tired, I'm not sure how much more of this I can do."

"Just a little more," John pleaded.

I applied pressure to the familiar spots of his back as I even began to feel the exhaustion reach my arms.

"Maybe a little lower," John instructed.

I slid my hands down so that my fingers were actually slipping slightly under his boxers.  I felt a bit uncomfortable.

"Even lower," John said.

I complied.  Now my hands were rubbing the top portion of his buttocks.  I was a bit fearful about where he might direct me next.

"I think that's about it for me," I announced.  "My hands are starting to ache."

"Thanks, man, that felt great," John announced.

"Are you able to turn over?" I asked.

"I think I'll just lay here this way for a while."

"You can't stay like that all night," I insisted.  Mostly, I just didn't want to have to interrupt my writing again to help him turn over later.

I grabbed his furthest shoulder with one hand and his waist with the other and started to pull him.

"I'll be okay," he said.

"No, you won't," I insisted and continued pulling.

He relented and cooperated with my efforts to get him onto his back in the bed.  As he reached about the half way point of his turn, I realized why he had wanted to stay face down.  His boxers were tented.  In fact you could say that his boxers were extremely tented, like "circus tent" tented.

"I'm sorry," John said.  "Nobody ever touched me before.  I mean nobody ever touched any part of my skin before.  Well, not like that, anyway."

"Hey, it's okay man.  It happens to all of us," I tried to ease his embarrassment.

"It didn't happen to you," he pointed out, looking at my own boxers.

I was trying to think of a response that would put him at ease without offending him by pointing out that there was no way that he could turn me on when, suddenly, his cock broke through the fly on the boxers.

Neither of us spoke.  I couldn't have looked at his face for a reaction even if I had wanted to...and I definitely didn't want to look at that face.  What protruded through the boxer's slit was like something that I had never seen before.

I knew why I had thought of a circus tent just a moment before.  It was big.  It was bigger than big.  You've got to understand that I didn't think that I had a fascination with big dicks.  I'm about average.  The guys I've been with have been about average.  This thing wasn't even close to average.  No virgin in the world, no virgin of either sex could handle it.  I'm not even sure the most experienced whore could.  Anyway, the size was what I noticed first.

Size wasn't the only attribute that made it remarkable for me, though.  It had not been circumcized.  I was cut.  Anybody that I had ever seen with a hard-on was cut.  Seeing an uncut cock erect was mesmerizing for me.  

I wondered what it would look like soft.  A couple guys on my wrestling team during my four years of high school weren't circumcized.  Their cocks were a point of open discussion and interest by the rest of the team, including the guys who would claim that they found all cocks disgusting.  I always thought that they looked kind of funny, like headless dicks, foreskin shriveled bringing the overall shape to a point at the end.

John's cock, since it was stiff and expanded, just looked like it was wearing a turtleneck sweater.  Part of the head protruded beyond the skin but most was hidden.  I wondered what the crown would look like.

I just kept staring.  I knew that John must be watching me watch his tool, obviously fascinated, curious and, shockingly, slightly aroused.  I didn't care.

"May I touch it?" I asked.

He didn't say anything, and I didn't look up to his face to see if he was giving me a non-verbal response.  Since I didn't hear any "hell no," I reached out.  I wrapped my hand around it and just focused upon the texture for a moment.  It was soft yet very firm, just like any cock I had ever grasped, but it filled my hand so much more.

I slowly moved my hand up, so that the head was fully covered by the skin.  I examined that effect for a short time before starting my downward journey.  The skin moved easily.  It was almost as if the skin were flowing over the firmer part.

Eventually the crown was visible.  It was redder than that of the other cocks I knew.  Otherwise, it wasn't all that different.  I started making my way upward.  John groaned.  I looked him in the eyes.  He appeared to be in ecstasy.

"Nobody except me has ever touched me there," he reminded me.

"So you really are a virgin, then?"  I asked it more to make conversation and break any tension than to really find out what I already knew to be true.

"Yeah, probably the only virgin on campus," he said feeling sorry for himself.

"Huh," I chuckled.  "I'm sure you're not the only virgin.  You're just the only one who admits it.  I was a virgin until this past summer," I admitted.


"Yeah," I assured him.

"That's hard to believe.  I mean anyone as good looking as you..."  His voice trailed off as he didn't complete the thought aloud.

I discovered that I was stroking him much more rhythmically, now, rather than merely examining him.  He seemed to get even bigger as precum started to flow out of his tip.  I was fascinated by the amount.

The appearance of precum is like the final tipping point for me.  I leaned forward to take his fountain into my mouth.  Of course, I heard another moan from my roommate, but I didn't pay much attention to it.  I was not doing this as a favor to him, although perhaps he thought so.

I slipped my tongue into the space between his cock head and the tip of the foreskin.  It was a unique sensation, almost as if my tongue was being lovingly and gently pinched--maybe clutched is a better word.  I carefully lowered my mouth as far down the shaft as it could go.

My own cock had made its own way through the slit in my boxers.  I was aware of the air hitting it, but otherwise I paid it no attention.  I was sure that I had never been in any sort of sexual encounter in which my own dick was irrelevant in my consciousness.  I was entirely focused upon John's magnificent piece.

I sucked, I swirled, I rose, I fell, I used every technique my limited repertoire had at its disposal as I tasted John's masterpiece.  I think he gave me plenty of encouragement and feedback as I worshiped this unmatched member, but I didn't care.  All of my attention was directed to the pleasure within my mouth.

Eventually I got to the inevitable point at which I wanted even more.  I knew that my mouth and throat could not handle the entire object of my lust, and I had tried desperately to make it do so.  I wanted all of it.  If my mouth were not up to the task, well, then...

I broke my oral contact and became faintly aware of John's vocalized disappointment as I did.  I rose, slid my own boxers past my socks and kicked them aside, climbed onto the bed and immediately straddled John.

I didn't think I would be able to take him this way, but I had to try.  Only this way did I have any chance of controlling the entire cock, of making it mine for a while.

His slick precum mixed with my own saliva was better than anything that comes out of a bottle or tube.  Besides I think that deep down I wanted this to hurt to make the experience more memorable.

I did not need to hold his cock in place to line it up properly.  John was so stiff that it was not going anywhere.  I lowered myself until I felt contact.  I had to shift just slightly to my left.  Locked in on target, I continued my descent very slowly.

You are probably clenching your ass right now as you imagine my sphincter stretching to its limits.  You are probably imagining the pain that I endured in the attempt.  Your mental images are exactly right.  I thought that surely my tissues were being torn apart in irreparable ways.  The odd thing is that I didn't care.  I didn't even notice the pain, although I later remembered it.  I was so centered upon my mission, so dedicated to the task at hand that I continued gradually impaling myself without a moment's hesitation.

Down and down I went on what almost seemed to be a never ending journey.  I have no understanding of how my insides accommodated the massive intrusion.  I am sure that it helped that John allowed me to do all the moving.  If he had followed what I am certain must have been his instinct to push upwards, I would have failed.  I probably would have screamed loudly enough to be heard in every room on the entire campus.

I eventually arrived at my destination with a few protruding pubic hairs brushing my butt as I felt the cotton of his boxers.  I took several moments to rest and adjust.  

As I started my gyrations, moving upwards and then plunging back down again, I glanced very briefly at John's face.  The brief look was all I could tolerate without becoming distracted by it disgusting distortions, but it let me know that he wasn't going to last long.

That was actually good news to me, and something I certainly would have expected from someone with no experience.  While I thoroughly enjoyed what I felt, I realized that my stamina on such a momentous weapon would be limited.

I felt John expand even more inside my ass, and I was fully aware that he was shooting a copious load into me.  Suddenly my own cock demanded my attention as it began firing its own volleys onto John's face, chest and belly.  I had been unaware that I was even close.

John expressed his pleasure more loudly than I had ever heard him express anything.  I joined him in a duet as I screamed my own happiness at my relief.

I must have been in a semi-conscious state, because my next realization was that I was laying in my own cum on John's body, stretching fully to kiss him passionately.  Clearly, I didn't feel love for him.  Maybe I had a little of that leftover lust.  I still can't figure out what made me do the previously unthinkable act of kissing that poor, homely man.  Perhaps I just wanted to make his deflowering more memorable, but that doesn't really sound like me.

Our tongues battled for a while until my ass started to protest.  I broke the kiss, removed myself and got out of bed.

"That was amazing," John said.

"Yeah," I whispered showing my mastery of the art of understatement.

That was all that we spoke of it.  I cleaned the cum off my injured friend, slipped into my boxers and heard him drift off to sleep.

I should have returned to my paper, but I was actually exhausted.  I went to bed and slept soundly.

The weekend was uneventful and perfectly normal in all ways.  I flirted shamelessly with a couple of my gay friends, went dancing with several of my best female buddies and got hit on mercilessly by a deeply closeted frat guy (for the second weekend in a row).  That means that I did my thing and Ichabod did his, whatever that was.  Unfortunately, it also means that I didn't return to working on my paper until Sunday night.

The ideas weren't flowing out of my fingers dancing on the keyboard as quickly as they had Thursday night, but I was making steady progress.  Ichabod sat at his desk reading his calculus text or something, when our missing roommate came through the door.

"Guess who," joked Anton as he entered.  "It's me, your freshly fucked roommate!"

I turned toward him trying to think of something clever.  I had to be careful with my retort to his bragging, since I was somewhat freshly fucked myself.

"What's that shit eating grin on your face, geek?" Anton asked Ichabod.

I turned to look at my super-hung roomie whose crooked horse teeth were unattractively exposed in a broad smile as if he had just won the lottery.

"You didn't," Anton said.  I couldn't tell if it were a statement or a question.

Ichabod continued grinning, but he said nothing.

"So it actually worked?" he asked Ichabod then turned to look at me.

"Like a charm," said Ichabod without breaking his oversized triumphant smile.

"I told you he couldn't resist after he got a look at that thing," said Anton.  "Congratulations on pulling that off!  You're no longer a virgin.  That is so cool; sorry I missed it."

I finally figured out what they were talking about.

"Are you telling me that you set me up?" I shouted at my gangly, gloating roommate.

"With the help of a couple of my intramural football buddies," he replied.  "And a little encouragement from good old Anton, here."

"Fuck all of you," I shouted.

"Anytime," said Ichabod.

"No thanks," said Anton.  "I'm still recovering from the weekend with my girlfriend."

So Professor Robinson, that's when I changed to a different topic for my self study.  I realize that this might be a lot different from papers that you usually receive, but it certainly meets the requirements of a "self-pose`."

Pass along any names of students who you think might be a good match for Ichabod, or "John" if you prefer.  My mission is to find somebody for him before we graduate.  I just can't stand the thought of that cock going to waste.  Send me all names, because I'm not sure yet whether he wants a male or a female.

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