Date: 10 Mar 00 22:41:47 EST
From: Quprime <quprime@usa.net>
Subject: "QBMAC, Chapter One"

A Note to My Reader:   

My name is not Orlando.  Nor are all the events depicted in this and (I hope
future) stories completely true events of my life.  However, this can be
thought of a place where the fantasies in my mind meet the reality of my
life.
I am someone very much like Orlando attending Columbia, and some of the things
that happen in my stories are true. Obviously, those events which are true
have been thinly covered with different places an names to avoid undue
voyeurism towards the other people involved.  And no, I don't remember all the
dialogue perfectly, I'm doing my best to paraphrase what was actually said.
This may sound an awful lot like the X-rated Wonderyears for those of you who
have seen that show.  But the fact is, I want to talk about what I was
thinking, not just what was happening.  I do understand, however, that this is
an erotic story.  I'll try to select moments of my life and thoughts that
lends themselves to that theme.
Finally, I write for myself and also for you, my reader.  I'd like to hear
back from you, so if you have the chance, try to drop me an email about what
you thought.

My email address is "quprime@usa.net"

.
.
.

QBMAC - Queer Black Male at Columbia

by S.J.Y.
 
Chapter One

	I opened my eyes and felt rather than saw the plane touch down.  In the cabin
there was only the dim murk of the night outside seeping into the plane,
interrupted by the glimmering runway markers I could see through the windows. 
Even those did little; it was so late that I thought the entire city must be
asleep.  Stifling a yawn, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly 2
AM.  I should never have taken a flight getting here so late.
	But I had little choice in the matter, for registration was beginning
tomorrow and my lateness in getting tickets had made flying over the weekend
impossible.  I had only Monday, and even the flights then were hardly choice. 
I could have flown the red-eye, but did I really want to stumble to
registration half-dead from getting off the plane just three hours before.  I
had thought not, though now the idea of shuffling into my new dorm was filling
me with dread and I wish vaguely that the night did not loom so large before
me.
	I hadn't really thought about college in any other context than merely an
escape from my old life, and for that escape I would be eternally grateful. 
My high school had been exercise in futility, trying to keep up with my
classmates only to fall behind--in everything.  They would banter of their
grades in biology, and I would slink to the side brandishing my C- paper; they
would talk of ditching Mr. Whittaker's class to see a movie--of course, I
wasn't invited.  There had been two other black boys at my boarding school,
but I had never really gotten along with them.  They were both obsessed with
shocking the tidy world of St. Christopher's; whereas I just wanted to make it
through school with passing grades and some semblance of sanity.
	Salvation had come in the form of a standardized test.  I had never had much
experience with them; in the little world of my school, they were frowned upon
and teachers strongly encouraged to use more creative methods of testing,
methods in which I seemed inexplicably to do poorly.  But finally the time
came to take the much vaunted and equally hated SATs, and I had gone with
little hope but to wander through them and hope for a goob job on the far side
of college.  Why my parents insisted on paying so much to send me to St.
Christopher's I had never understood until finally I did in a blinding flash
of understanding.
	The SATs had yielded a 1590 on my first try, a score so strikingly good that
I went from a nonentity at the school to an enigmatic celebrity in minutes. 
Others had scored 1590 before, even 1600, but those people had been the vowed
geniuses, not the stragglers.  They had been expected to do well, they had
been geniuses--they had not been black.
	All this had changed little in high school for me.  I still got C minuses on
my papers, and still lurked by my locker while others talked about the party
that Friday.  But with my score came opportunities for the future, hope I had
never imagined before.  I had assumed that I would go to college, perhaps one
of the CalStates or perhaps even a UC if I could get my grades up in junior
year.  But now the thought of private college--a prestigious college--occurred
to me, and I wondered if I might be able to finally escape the lot life had
dealt me.  My parents lived in a cookie-cutter upper middle class suburb of
Los Angeles, and I found himself strangely ill at ease there.  Perhaps
somewhere different...I had thought, and the seed of ambition was planted.
	A short while later the mess of applications to college was upon me, and I
dutifully poured over and sent out applications to Harvard, because I wanted to
go to Boston; Yale, because I wanted the school's prestige; Brown, because I
liked not receiving formal grades; and Columbia, because I could.  In due
course, I was wait-listed and rejected from Harvard, rejected by Yale,
deferred, wait-listed, and rejected from Brown...and accepted by Columbia. 
	And so here I was, four months later, wandering almost dazedly out of the
southeast terminal at JFK and thinking through a fog of fear at the prospect
of actually beginning class tomorrow.  My bags would be appearing at the
baggage handler soon, and so my feet woodenly moved in that direction. All of
this had seemed so impossibly distant before, and now, like some sort of bad
dream persisting upon waking, it had all translated into reality.  Could I
really have longed for this as lately as a few short weeks ago?  I close my
eyes for a moment, hoping to squeeze away the fear...
	The taxi trundled down 110th street, rapidly approaching Broadway.  I was
napping slightly, for the hour was growing ever later and the jolts and bumps
of the taxi seemed oddly to lull me to sleep.  Besides, it was only in that
strange half-awake half-asleep state that I could achieve any respite from the
gnawing fear inside.  Registration was tomorrow! I screamed inwardly now that
I was beginning to think more clearly.  You're at college!
	And so I was.  The cabby did not get out and help extract my luggage from his
trunk, and I did not give him his money until I had done so.  Someone had once
told me that canbbies once given their money might drive away with your
luggage.  The warning rung in my mind.  So I dickered with all my luggage and
watched it carefully as I doled out the proper thirty dollars plus tip for the
fare from JFK.  And then he was gone, and I was alone with my luggage on the
street.  
	I suddenly hoped that my dorm room was open.  I hadn't signed in or anything,
of course, but thir literature had said something about everything being
unlocked, open, whatever, on the first few days while everyone was getting
their shit together.  I glanced at the slip of paper with my information on it
and reaffirmed that I was in Carman 1014B.  And there was only to get there.
	The guard at the door eyed be suspiciously as I walked in, duffel bag,
backpack, suitcase, and assorted random containers in tow.  It was, after all,
three in the morning.  Even later, I thought, but my travel clock was buried
in my suitcase and I had no wristwatch.  I would get one soon.  He just waved
me on, but his eyes never left me.  Or was I just imagining that?  I didn't
know.  I had been imaging people staring at me strangely for so long that I
really didn't know any more when they really were.  I hated that feeling, of
wondering whether I was just imagining things.  I guess I just ignored it most
of the time.
	I must have waited for five minutes for an elevator to come, surrounded by my
luggage.  I felt to out of place.  A few other people gathered there while I
waited, all of them obviously drunk.  I had been drunk before; I knew what it
was like.  But I hadn't been one of those people who partied all the time in
high school.  I was never invited, after all.  But these people were very
drunk, making raucous jokes, unable to stay still, laughing at nothing at all.
 A couple girls were trying to hold it together, a third was fawning over a
tall Asian guy with very straight black hair parted down the middle.  He
swayed slightly while he talked to his friend, a blond-haired guy who struck
me immediately as a jock.   They both studiously ignored the girls, all three
of whom looked to be ready to jump into bed at the drop of a pin, and I had
little doubt that would be exactly what would happen once they returned to
their room.  The very thought made me horny, but of course, I tried to keep my
eyes to myself.  It wouldn't do to stare.  Especially given the subjects of my
stare.
	Finally the elevator came, and I laboriously dragged my bags in, hoping that
there would be enough room left for the others.  I didn't want them to
accidentally trample my belongings.  Fortunately, the size of the elevator
made up for its speed, and we all fit in, although it wasa tight fit.  I
pressed the button for 10, and the elevator whirred into action.  One of the
girls pressed at around the time the elevator passed 5, and I supposed she
hadn't been paying attention. 
	I was tremendously surprised when all three girls got off at the seventh
floor.  Even more surprising was that neither of the guys followed them.  I
guessed they must be drunk, but still it seemed like I ought to ask if they
meant to go to 7.  But the doors shut while I was still mulling the thought,
and the elevator whirred three floors up to ten. 
	I pulled my belongings out quickly, not wanting to delay the elevator any
more thsan was necessary, and I wsa agin shocked to see the two guys stepping
out after me.  In retrospect, there was no reason to be surprised that they
lived on floor ten; there were only thirteen floors, after all, and they had
to live somewhere.  It was just one of those coincidences that catches you
utterly by surprise.   I looked at the doors as I pulled my luggage down the
hall, at the time watching to see which room they would go into.  They turned
into 1010, about two-thirds of the way down the hall.  It looked like 1015 was
all the way down at the end from the slow advance of the numbers, and my
suspicion was borne out when I reached the very end of the hall and found 1014
and 1015 on opposite sides of the corridor.  I propped open the ponderous door
to my room and immediately found that the doors to both 1014A and B were shut.
 Perhaps my roommate had come in earlier and shut it, or perhaps the
university had simply not bothered to open the doors yet.  I couldn't believe
the second, because they had said everything would be open, but mistakes
happened.  With a dull dread rising inside me, I knocked heavily on my door,
hoping my roommate was inside; even sleeping.  There was no answer, and I
knocked again.  I waited in vain.  No one was there.  Of course not.  Who
would be so dull as to stay in on his first night in college?  (Me, I answered
mentally.)  But such recriminations did not help me.   Panic was surging in
me, and I fought to keep myself under control.  I was already balancing a
narrow tightrope of control, and this was not helping it.  I tried 1014A as
well, and found similarly that its inhabitants had departed, no doubt getting
drunker as I stood there.  The bathroom was open, but all I could really do
there was leave my luggage there.  I did, hoping that no none would be by to
steal it.  I doubted anyone was trolling the floor, anyway.
	I wandered back out into the hall after I had put all my luggage in the
bathroom, and found there was a small lounge at the end of the hall just
outside my room.  It had a few couches and a TV, and a smal coffee-table thing
in the center.  I thought I could just wait for my roommate to return, rather
than cowering in the bathroom and hoping he wouldn't be too late.  He must
have the key, I thought, and merely locked it earlier.  Had there been a time
to pick up keys earlier that day?  I didn't know, but I feared so.  
	I flicked on the TV and found very little on, so I tuned it to ESPN.  There
was a college football game being reshown, and I settled back to watch it.  I
didn't really care about the game, but it was something to distract me from
the awful wait that stretched out before me.  It must have been 3:30 or
something, and the floor was dead.  I sat there for twenty minutes, in a sort
of glazed state staring both down the hallway and at the TV, and I saw no one
at all.  I thought that probably some of the people on my hall hadn't even
come yet, and those that had were out.  3:30!  It was so late, and still
everyone was out.  It was a brave new world, I found myself thinking, one that
I could enjoy.
	It was probably another ten minutes later that a door down the hall swung
open and the Asian guy from earlier came out.  He seemed a little more
together now, less liable to collapse suddenly against a wall.  He fixated
steadily on the lounge, and walked resolutely if unsteadily towards me.  I
found myself oddly ashamed, because I hadn't met anyone yet, and here I was: 
first impression, pitiful guy watching television by himself on his first
night here.  What else was I supposed to do?  I didn't know anyone else here,
of course.  Or not of course.  Probably there were a lot of people that knew
people coming to the same school.  But there were only three other people from
my school here, and I never really knew any of them.  They certainly never
evinced any desire to know me.
	He finally reached me and plopped down heavily in a chair a few feet away,
eyes tracking first the game and then me.  He looked like he was about to say
something, then his mouth audibly clicked shut, upper teeth clicking against
the lower.  There was a long awkward silence in which we both busied ourselves
observing the game, and then he finally said,
	"Hi there."  His voice was slurred just slightly, and if I hadn't seen him
moving before, I might not have noticed he was so drunk.  He was certainly
trying to keep it together.
	"Hey," I said, not knowing what else to say.
	"I'm Tommy," he said shortly, ignoring the game for the time being.  He had
probably seen it several times.  
	"I'm Orlando," I replied brightly, and almost extended my hand to shake
before I remembered that he was drunk enough that he probably wouldn't want to
expend the effort. 
I sat quietly.  He didn't say anything for a while, and his eyes slowly
wandered back to the game.  I found myself studying him carefully, in the
circumspect way I had honed over the years.  You couldn't exactly overtly
stare at other guys, of course.  You had to wait for the right time--like then
they were drunk and fixated on a television. 
He was definitely tall; from before I had eyeballed him at maybe six feet,
maybe a little more, which was pretty tall for an Asian kid.  I was only 5'11
or so, and I could have wished for another few inches there also.  I was
pretty good at ball, but I would have been better if I'd been taller.  It was
the vagaries of genetics, but I still felt angry at my parents sometimes.  No
matter.  He had plenty to thank his parents for.
He had one of those shaggy bang haircuts that I always thought looked really
good on Asians, with the two sides of his cut falling down in  a cascade on
either side of his head, pretty long and straight down either side. I know
it's hard to explain, but yo'd know it if you saw it.  He had the
characteristically delicate oriental face, and was dressed fashionably
enough--based on my limited experience of course.  Khakis, button-up over a
tan t-shirt, some kind of brown boot-like shoes.  It looked pretty good.  I
was impressed, anyway, but I guess it didn't take much.  I was really horny in
those days, even more so than now.  I had never gotten any before, and I
didn't exactly have any hot prospects.  What could I do?
"So who were those girls in the elevator?" I asked suddenly, wondering why
they'd run off with him.  I could hope, couldn't I?
"Just some friends of Blaine's," he said, not looking at me.  I assumed Blaine
was the blond guy who I thought was a jock.  But then, he wasn't getting with
any of them either, which would make sense is they were his friends.  Probably
from school.  A guy like that probably had a lot of girl friends.
"You know Blaine from school?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
 I felt so awkward just sitting there.
"No, I just met him at recruitment."  He finally turned to look at me.
"Recruitment?  For what?" I wouldn't have pegged this guy as a jock, even if
he was in good shape.  It was hard to tell.
"Track," he said.  As if anticipating my question, he continued, "Pole vault."
 I didn't know anything about the pole vault, so I couldn't ask him anything
clever about his sport of choice.  I didn't know really what to say at that
point.
"Cool," I said, and immediately slapped myself mentally.  There was a pause,
and I frantically tried to think of something to ask.  But he did first.
"Are you gonna go out for anything?"  I wish I could.  Could I? I suddenly
thought, and wondered what I should say.
"I've always played ball...though I don't think I'm so good I could get on the
team here.  Maybe intermural," I said.  That was basically what I was
thinking.  It would be fun to do intermural, if they had that here.  It was a
big university, they must.  
"Cool," he said, and I felt better.  What else was he going to say?  'That
sucks'?  I needed to stop my little cynical observations, but they seemed to
come all by themselves.  
"You have to do any lifting for pole vault?" I asked suddenly, a thought
forming itself in my head.
"Not really...a lot of guys do, just for the fuck of it, but we don't have to." 
Damn.  But maybe he was one of the guys that did.  It didn't sound like it,
but who knew?
"Well I'm probably gonna need to get back into the practice--I got a little
lazy at the end of summer."  Which was true, but I hadn't been THAT crazy
about it even before the end of summer.  But I thought I could probably lift
without embarassing myself.  Maybe...but I would always get better.
"Well I'm planning to go tomorrow afternoon after registration ends," he
replied.  "Check out how busy the gym is now that everyone's here.  If you
wanna come, you're welcome."  He sounded pretty lucid now, and didn't really
seem to be slurring his words.
"Cool," I said again.  "I guess I'll find you on the hall somewhere?"
"Yeah," he grunted.   There was a long pause again, but at least I had
something now...a bond, something.  I felt better about myself.   We both
watched the game, and soon it was over (it had been in the second half when I
walked in).  We flicked around and found wrestling on USA--the network that
never fails to please.  It was also an old rerun of a Raw is War match, with
the Rock as the hero beset by the minions of evil.  It was so staged that I
never really gotten into it, though I liked watching all the built guys in
spandex tossing each other.  It was to be truthful a turn on.  
We watched for a while, and I think I was getting really horny.  The Rock had
just tossed another hapless rival, and the announcer was asking how the
referee had missed someone climbing into the rink with a folding chair.  I
sighed inwardly and looked over to Tommy.  He was still watching the TV
fixedly, but I thought I saw a marked outline in his pants.  I was almost
scared, because if he caught me staring now--well, shit would fly.  But his
pants were pretty tight, and it was pretty clear he was hard.  There could me
any number of reasons, of course...hell, we all just get hard sometimes for no
real reason at all.  But the fact that he was staring at a bunch of guys and
hard gave me a little hope.  Just a little. 
Not really looking, he reached down and adjusted himself.  He must have been
uncomfortable.  Hell, I'd adjusted myself a couple times already.  That's
pretty normal for me, though...I have an overactive libido and an underactive
sex life.  I could still see the outline of his erection after he adjusted
himself, though.  Those pants wer enot made to hide erections in.
The TV went to commerical, and foolishly, I left my eyes on his crotch for a
moment.  He glanced back at me and saw me looking.  He didn't say anything,
though.  I tried to submerge my momentary terror, thinking he must have seen
me.  But then when he said nothing but merely turned back to the TV, I rmember
thinking he must not have realized where I was looking.  I was OK.  But I
needed to stop checking the guy out.  It was my first night here, for God's
sake! 
Wrestling returned after one of USA's monumental runs of commericals, and we
both watched it, I perhaps rather more studiously than before.  But I couldn't
help from glancing down whenever he adjusted himself.  He was doing it pretty
frequently now, and obviously.  A flicker of hope was firmly burning in my
mind, wondering if he might be...  But of course, I couldn't say anything.  The
irony was that even if he was, he could hardly say anything to me.  Because
what if I wasn't?  He must also worry also.  And maybe he didn't even like me?
 I had no idea.  It was like a sort of terrible impasse, where I knew what I
wanted but couldn't say it.
I couldn't stand it any more.  It had been another ten minutes and I needed to
jack off if nothing else.  "The Rock is pretty amazing, huh?" I said.
"Oh yeah," he said directedly, looking over to me immediately.
"He's like my favorite," I said, trying to think of some way to formulate a
'code phrase.'
"Mine too," he said.  "But I'm not the biggest wrestling fan.  I just like
watching him fight."  I gasped inwardly.  Could he mean that?  Or was it just
an innocuous thing.  I was going crazy.
"I just like watching him," I finally said, thinking that he must either be
trying to send me a signal or else this was the biggest coincidence I had ever
walked into.
"Really?" he asked, and I thought I saw his eye sparkle.  That was probably
just my imagination.  "I'm gonna go take a leak," be announced suddenly. 
"Mind if I use your bathroom?"
"Course not," I said.  "I'm in 1014."  He stood up with considerably less
wobble, if any at all, and walked right into 1014.  For a second, I waited,
and then quickly tried to think of some plausible thing I needed to tell him. 
My luggage of course.  he would wonder about the luggage!  I ought to go in
there and tell him not to mind it.  I stood up right away and pushed open the
door to 1014.  The door to the bathroom was open, but I couldn't hear the
sound of urination.  I stepped in and knocked on the door at the same time.
He was standing in front of the toilet, penis held in hand, but he wasn't
pissing.  Of course, he didn't seem to be jacking off, either.  He was just
standing there.  I gulped, visibly, I think.
"Don't mind the luggage," I managed to say.  "My room's locked and I don't
know where my roommate is. "
"I don't mind it at all," he said, turning towards me.  "It's your bathroom,
after all."  His penis dangled free as his hands dropped to his sides, and I
saw that it was hard already as I had thought.  He wasn't very big--maybe five
and a half inches or six hard--but it looked great to me.  I was horribly
scared at the moment, I think more scared than I had ever been.
"Yeah," I said, and I shut the door behind me.  There wasn't a lock, I noticed
now, but I didn't think anyone would just walk into the bathroom.  Besides,
everyone was gone.  There was just me, Tommy, and Blaine somewhere off down
the floor.  Whatever.  I didn't care about anything but what was there in that
bathroom at that moment.  There was a silence that seemed forever to me, and
then finally he took a single step towards me.
"I've never had a black guy before, man," he said, and I exulted and hurt at
the same time.  I knew now that he wanted this--not that I had much doubt
after I walked into the room, but this was proof positive.  But at the same
time, I hated the fact that somehow I was in here because I was black.  Maybe
I wasn't--maybe I'd be in here no matter what, but there was the seed of
doubt.  Maybe I should be complimented because he likes black guys, I thought
sardonically.  I have sardonic thoughts a lot.  I can feel their cynicism.  I
wanted to tell him I'd never had an Asian guy before, just to respond in kind,
but that would be pretty fucking misleading--I'd never had anyone before.  So
I just said that.  I was too far in to be too embarrassed.  I was high on
anticipation and adrenaline and endorphins and I wanted to go.
"I've never done this shit before," I said.  "But I want to."  He just stood
there with his hard dick hanging down at a slight angle out of his khakis'
fly, and then he finally said something.
"Wow," was what he said, and I thought it was about perfect.  I think I would
have thought anything was perfect at that moment.  I couldn't take my eyes of
his cock, couldn't forget that I was about to do something I had dreamed years
about.  I walked slowly up to him, and put my hand to his hair...that hair that
I like so much in Asian guys.  Even now that's still a huge turn-on for me.  I
just felt it falling through my fingers and right there and then I think I
could have cummed if I had wanted to.  But of course I didn't.
He was right in front of me, and I was staring at about the middle of his
nose.  I don't think I was really at the stage where I could kiss anyone yet;
I don't know whether he was then either.  He pulled in closer to me and let
one hand touch my chest while the other slipped down the back of my pants. I
could feel him touching my ass through my boxers, and the thought turned me on
madly. 
I was wearing a polo shirt, and I scrabbled at the buttons, trying to pull it
off.  I must have looked pretty ridiculous, but if he noticed, he didn't say
anything.  He was cool that way...he didn't say anything about any of the little
inadequacies I must have had.  For a moment, I could see nothing but the green
of my shirt passing over my head, and then I saw his face hovering in front of
me again.  He was unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, and I quickly shucked
by undershirt as well, leaving me topless.  I wanted to show off, maybe,
probably my best suit were my abs.  I really only had a two pack, a four pack
to be generous, but it looked good, and there was no time like now to get
something back for all the time I'd spent on it.  
I felt his hand squeeze my ass, and I knew he liked it.  That's what I told
myself anyway.  Maybe he was just so horny he'd fuck a toad, but I'm one of
those people that is really good at telling himself what he wants to here when
he wants to.  Then again, I also worry way too much.  But I wasn't worrying at
all then.  I was too caught up in the natural rush to think about it. 
He had only his t-shirt on now, and I tried to pull it over his head.  That's
a lot harder that you would think, and there was an awkward moment, as he
wriggled to help me get it off him.  It got stuck on his head, and he had to
pull it off with one hand.  But finally he tossed it back (it landed on one of
my suitcases) and we both had our hands free again.  I liked what I saw.  He
didn't have a terrifically-defined stomach, but his pecs were flat and firm,
and his arms were corded.  He must have terrific triceps, I remember thinking
as the first thing, really ridiculous to notice that one thing, but crazily
that's what echoed in my mind for a while.  Tommy, the man with Great Triceps.
 
I put my hand on his pec and squeezed it gently, as much for me as for him.  I
wanted to feel a man like that, just feel that I was really doing this.  He
was so hard there that I almost cummed there, and I realized suddenly that I
couldn't go on like this much longer.  It was taking a vast amount of
willpower not to just blow standing there, and our petting wasn't making it
any easier.  I looked at him with the best goy face I could summon, and then
dropped to my knees.  It occurred to me briefly--so briefly I think I'm more
conjuring it up in the retelling--that there was something wrong about me
going down on him rather than the other way around.  But that was all, and
then I was on my knees, his hands squeezing my shoulders, massaging them
gently in a stong grip.  I stared directly at his cock in front of me for a
second, and then I opened by mouth and tried to take it in.
It brushed against my teeth and hit the side of my mouth wrong, but I moved a
little and I felt it in my throat, making me feel the gag reflex that a
million porn stories assured me I would feel.  It wasn't as bad as I thought
it would be, though.  I always thought I might blow chunks right there because
of it, but it was more like an insistent tickle.  I could get by that.  I
pursed my lips around it and tried to move in and out on it.  My tongue was
sort of sloppily working at it, and I really have no idea what I was trying to
do.  I guess I just felt I ought to do something with my tongue.  I just sort
of gobbled it up, slobbering over it and sucking on it like I might suck on a
really big soda straw.  
But Tommy wasn't complaining, which I tremendously appreciated.  If he'd said
anything bad then, I think I might have just died.  But he didn't, he just
gripped my shoulders ever more tightly and swayed slightly.  I couldn't see
his head any more, just the khaki expanse of his pants, and his cock sticking
out of them into my mouth.  In the dimness of his fly, I thought I could see
pubes curling delicately against his nicely tanned skin, but it was hard to
say.  I wasn't exactly taking notes.  I think it might have been painful how
hard he was gripping me, but I didn't care.  I was so intent on his dick that
everything faded into a sort of haze--everything besides my own raging
erection, which strained to let go.
His swaying grew more intense; I knew from personal experince that he must be
nearing time.  I didn't even consider pulling off, I just kept slurping away. 
I could see his legs tightening, locking into the painfully stiff straightness
that comes with ejaculation.  His hands pinched my shoulders so tightly I
thought I could feel my muscles being smashed between his fingers, and finally
the pain intruded.  But it was only for the briefest moment, for his cock
suddenly spit out the warm semen in a final sort of jerk that startled me. 
I'd never really felt it from this perspective, of course.  At first I
resisted swallowing, but there was enough of it that eventually I had little
choice.  I suppose I could have spit it out, but that's just nasty.  I think
so, anyway.  I just gulped it down, and it went smoothly...it just left that
strange taste in my mouth, really indescribable unless you've tasted it.  
I close my eyes for a moment, and he spurted into my mouth again.  I prepared
to swallow it, and at that moment I could hold it no longer and my own
erection spewed all over the side of my shorts.  I felt strangely embarrassed,
as if I had peed in my pants in first grade.  But of course this was no piss,
and I shot what I think was the biggest load of my life thus far right into my
shorts.  It felt like my dick was swimming in a warm pool of syrup.  That's
what the consistency of cum always reminded me of.  Syrup.  My mouth dropped
off of his cock slackly, and jism rolled out of the corner of my mouth and
from his cock, still slippery wet from the saliva and cum.  It was still hard,
trickling little spurts, beads of cum appearing at the end of dripping off
sometimes.  It was maybe another five seconds before he was done, and a little
while longer before I was.  Or maybe shorter...time was little fluid there. 
Forgive the pun.  
I just let myself fall on my back, which was painful because it bent my legs
under me.  The wetness was all over in my crotch, and I was pretty sure it had
soaked through and could be seen.  Shit, I thought.  I didn't think I had a
lot left in my balls then, thought of course I always had something left in
there to shoot.   But I couldn't very well drop my shorts now that they were
nasty with cum.  I didn't feel so much embarrassed as disappointed.  Just
looking at his bare chest made me hot again.  He had very little chest hair,
but he still had more than me.  I was smooth as a baby's ass then, and I still
am for the most part.  The fact that this Asian guy had more than me is
testament to that.  Then again, I definitely have more below the belt than me
does.  Not that I want to get into a pissing contest, nor am I a monster or
anything, but Tommy's strength was in his looks, not in his parts.  Not that
I'm complaining. 
God, I still get hard (I am right now) thinking about Tommy.  Something about
Asian boys that really turns me on.  I guess that's just as bad as his
reaction to me.  But I don't blame him, and I hope no one out there will blame
me.  We're only human, and I think it's a pretty minor judgment.  A positive
one, anyway.  I can live with that.
I didn't do much more with Tommy that night.  He felt up my chest a little
more, and shot a smaller load onto my pants later, but I didn't ever take my
cock out.  I figured there'd be another time (there was), and I just wanted to
change now.  I was feeling so tired, so much more tired than that mild
lethargy I got even after the best jackoffs.  I wanted to stare at his body as
long as I could, but I was so tired...  It was probably the time as well, but he
left after the second time.  The shower worked fine (thank God), and I think
everything was perfectly respectable by the time my roommate finally got back
at 5.  He flushed the toilet paper he used to clean himself off down the
toilet.  And then it was time to go to sleep.  And that night was really my
first night of life, my first night at college.

--S.J.Y., March 2000