Sci Satchel Guy
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.
Being a second semester college freshman made me feel like I knew my way around campus pretty well. In fact, you could drop me anywhere, blindfold me, spin me around three times, and I could still get you to my top three favorite bars in under ten minutes.
I was not quite as talented at finding classrooms, probably because I had considerably less experience doing that. In fact, I found it so difficult to find a classroom (at least at the time I was supposed to find it) that I would only have one more term at this particular institution. Of course, I didn't know that, but I suppose I sensed it deep within me.
I was a political science major. For short, on any college campus in the States, the area of political science is known a "poli. sci." It's pronounced like "poly sigh," not that it is important to anything except the title of this tale. You see, if you don't know how it's pronounced, you won't catch the clever rhyming. And, for those of you who learned your English under the influence of the motherland rather than North America, "guy" rhymes with "sky" instead of rhyming with "pee."
There was one class that I went to regularly. I was trying to impress the prof with my enthusiasm, I think. It's not that I was hot for him. He was the faculty advisor of my fraternity, so he took special notice of my presence or lack thereof. He was married with two daughters, whom I had met. In retrospect, I do wonder a bit about why he enjoyed hanging around a house full of college guys so much.
On the first day of classes, I noticed one student in particular who came in after I had taken my customary seat in the back row. He walked in with a satchel strapped to his neck. I had seen him around campus first semester, but this was my first class with him. I noticed him, not because he was drop-dead gorgeous, but because he was the only one studying at our university who had no arms. Beyond that, I could not have even told you what he looked like, except that he had long hair.
Fascinated, I watched him take a seat near the front of the room. The prof started the lecture, dry as always, and I busily took notes. I lost my awareness of the satchel guy except for occasional furtive glances when I was sure that there was no way he could see me watching him. I suspect others in the class were doing the same.
I had wondered about a lot of things with respect to him, ever since I had first spotted him near McMicken Hall in the autumn. Being in class with him provided an answer to one of my questions.
I hadn't been able to figure out how he could jot down notes in his classes. Now I'm not too sure why that would interest me. I always took plentiful notes on those occasions that I actually made it to a class, but I never looked at them again. Somehow I suspected, though, that other students might actually put their notes to use. I was sure the satchel guy was at a considerable disadvantage because of a lack of notes.
I had come to the obvious conclusion: The satchel contained a tape recorder. On this day, I learned that I was mistaken. Because as I looked in his direction during one of the especially boring parts of the day's lecture, he was indeed writing on his notebook.
"Ah," you think, "He has taught himself to write by holding a pen in his mouth."
Quite wrong you are beloved reader. He held the pen between the toes of his foot, his right foot to be more specific. I was utterly amazed, and I spent the rest of the class watching him writing feverishly.
But I still had so much more to learn about satchel guy, so I made it my semester long mission to learn all that I could about him. Eyes locked on his part of the front of the classroom, stage left of where I was supposed to be looking, I began my research in earnest.
That classroom building still had a bell system to signal the end of the class hour. It must have been left over from...well I don't really know how long before that the disgusting bells had been removed, if they had ever been installed in, all of the other buildings.
Today, I looked forward to the bell for a different reason from my usual anticipation of ending the brutality of the professor's lecture. Today, I had serious work to do. Today I would learn how my new research subject would be able to put everything back into his ever present satchel.
Alas, there are always setbacks in the eternal quest for knowledge. As the bell rang, the girl seated to my left, the girl with whom I had only a passing acquaintance, the girl who was not all that good looking and couldn't have been a very good student if she took a seat in my section, that girl decided that today was the day she was going to add me to her list of friends.
I felt as Newton must have felt when the apple fell from the tree and, instead of just staying on the ground as his theory predicted, it bounced up. Like Newton, I would have to postpone my study for another day.
Oh well, it must be time for a beer. I excused myself from the girl, walked to the nearby fraternity house, where I tried to convince another of the members that having a beer with me would be preferable to that accounting class that he had been planning to attend.
My effort to add to the collective knowledge of the universe was put on hold for an entire week. I had apparently decided that I had better things to do than go to Poli Sci class. "Better things" included sleeping past noon, continuing the card game that had already lasted over twenty-four hours without interruption with men shuffling (pardon the especially cheap pun) in and out of the seats around the table and becoming distracted by the beckoning call of my very favorite draft on those rare days when I thought I had been on my way to class.
Eventually the stars aligned, and I actually set off for class anxious to get to my real interest area represented by an olive drab satchel and an armless young man. What secrets did the two possess for my diligence to now uncover, having been put on hold by other pressing matters for the past week.
I managed to get there early enough to secure my seat in the still almost empty back row. From that vantage point, I should get a good view of my target.
He walked into the room. He scanned from corner to corner and from front to back. His eyes caught mine as I watched him intently. He moved through the crowded rows of desks, now filling with diligent students, and was getting closer. I had to look away so as not to seem to be staring, even though I had been.
You knew this was going to happen, I'm sure. He took the seat next to mine. I pretended to be looking over my notes from last class, or more precisely the last class that I had actually attended. He said nothing as he settled in.
Here's the dilemma I was facing: I know that there are two things that people with physical disabilities hate most. One is being stared at, and the other is being ignored. Perhaps, had I been a little more mature and a little less hung over, I might have been able to think of how to find a balance between those two extremes.
But I didn't find that balance. Instead, I sat looking at my notes until I thought that to any observer it would be obvious that I could have read that page four or five times by now. I did the next best thing; I turned to a different page in my notebook.
Fortunately, I was relieved from my agony by the professor beginning his lecture. I can't remember any other time that I was grateful for the beginning of one of this guy's lectures.
I know that you are thinking about how very fortunate I was to have the object of my study seated directly to my right. You're wrong. Had he been in the front of the room, I could have watched his every move unnoticed. However, being so close and to my side presented a problem.
Peripheral vision is a little tricky, as any man knows who has ever tried to catch a glimpse of another man standing at a row of urinals. You would think that I had mastered the technique, given how many times I had practiced the circumstance in various men's rooms around the world, but I was still a comparative novice.
Besides, at a urinal row, the object of my attention is to be found at one particular location of the body. In this case, I was interested in a broader view. My prior practice was doing me little good in this situation.
At least with the teacher talking I had a valid excuse to keep looking in the direction of my notebook. Pen in hand, I started writing more or less arbitrary words onto the lined paper. Meanwhile, of course, my attention was much closer to me than the professor.
Peripherally, I watched in amazement as satchel guy slipped his right foot out of his sandals to loosen the buckle that kept the satchel closed. Once that had been accomplished, which was done more quickly than I can write about it, he turned around the pack and pulled out a notebook with his toes gripping it.
I had seen this same guy walking outside late into the last term. It was cold and a little snow had powdered the ground. I remember being struck by his choice of footwear: sandals. How could he stand for his feet to be exposed to such frigid conditions? Why didn't he wear sensible shoes and socks like the rest of us? I now had my answer. His feet needed to be set free quickly to be able to perform necessary tasks.
He raised his leg with the agility of a professional contortionist at a circus sideshow, placed the notebook on his desk, and returned his foot to remove his pencil.
All the while, I kept writing words into the notebook on my own desk, although I did notice that nobody else in the room was taking notes at that time. Apparently the professor was off on some unrelated tangent, again. I stopped writing, redirected my eyes toward the teacher and pretended to be listening to his anecdote.
I decided that I needed to be careful not to be caught studying this guy's behavior. I knew that he wouldn't take it as the scholarly endeavor that I meant it to be. So I would only glance occasionally, while pretending to stretch or to shift in the hard, wooden seat.
I did purposefully look at his notebook, during a period when he wasn't hastily writing. I was struck by two realities, neither of which reflected well on me. First, his page of notes was much fuller than my own. Second, his handwriting--well I suppose that I should just call it "penmanship"--was about the same as mine. My penmanship had always been criticized by my teachers, but this really brought the point home. He could write as legibly with his foot as I could with my supposedly good hand. That realization simultaneously amazed and discouraged me.
At the end of the class, I took as long as I could putting my few things together for my impending departure so that I could watch him a bit longer. I pretended to review and correct my notes. I checked the pockets of my coat, which was slung carelessly over the back of my chair. I did some more stretching as if I needed to loosen up before walking out as a runner might prior to a 10K run.
As I went through my transparent charade, he seemed to be taking his time, too. Of course, he could be expected to take a little longer.
After carefully placing his notebook and pencil back into his satchel, he did not relatch it as I had expected him to do and I wanted to see. No, instead, he leisurely pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Now this I had to see.
He brought his foot holding the pack up close to his face. Jerking it back and forth, the filter portions of two or three protruded from the pack. He leaned his head forward and moved his foot slightly nearer, carefully wrapping his lips around one.
I was a smoker in those days, when smoking was still allowed in some public buildings, but I remember thinking to myself that it must have taken sheer determination to teach himself to smoke when it meant he had to go through all of that.
I wondered how he would flick his lighter. I figured that certainly the other foot would come into play for that magic trick...or would he turn to me in hopes of a light?
Instead, I was able to watch something even more amazing than anything I had witnessed so far. From his satchel he pulled a book of matches.
I sat mesmerized.
He held the book of matches to the floor with his left foot while, with the right, he opened the flap, edged a toe under a single match, bent it, and with a single effort struck it against the appropriate surface. It lit. He brought the whole pack of matches to his face and placed the flame at the cigarette's tip.
There was no way he could top that, so I really did prepare to leave. I grabbed my notebook from the desk, my coat from the chair back and stood. Unfortunately, or perhaps not so unfortunate as it eventually turned out, the only route out for me was to pass directly in front of him.
His feet, now sliding into his sandals, and his satchel were in my path. I was blocked.
He looked up and noticed me, as if I had suddenly arrived on the scene.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said as he slid his satchel out of my way and leaned back in his seat to give me more room.
"No problem," I said. "Excuse me."
That was the extent of our first conversation. For some reason, though, I was very excited by it and felt as if the ice had been broken.
I had a lot of material from class to study. I must have taken me some time to analyze all the data I had collected, because I seemed to not have time for that class, or any other, for the next week.
The next time I returned, satchel guy was already settled into the room, notebook and pencil ready. He was in the same seat, next to what I had come to think of as "my" seat, even though I occupied it rarely.
I walked past him to take my proper place, saying, "Excuse me," as I passed.
"You don't come often, do you?"
I was quite surprised that he had spoken. I was more surprised that he had even noticed my absence.
I gave a little laugh and said, "I've been busy."
"Do you have time in your busy schedule to get a coke with me after class?"
Now a cola was not my usual beverage of choice in any celebration of having made it through the previous fifty minute ordeal. I accepted his invitation, anyway.
An hour later we walked to a table in the corner of a little sandwich shop about a block off campus. It was what might be called a burger pit, run by a man who seemed to want to have his own business as long as he didn't have to be bothered by actual customers. Luckily for him, he never had too many patrons to deal with due to his rather surly attitude, greasy floor and overpriced food. In other words, it was a typical college joint.
Today, we were the only customers in the place except for a old man reading a paper while sipping a cup of coffee. He was in the opposite corner from the one we chose. I guess we were seated in the back of the room together, again.
By this time I had learned that satchel guy had a name, something I probably would have expected if I had given that part of his identity any thought at all. I should probably tell you: Simon. It seemed rather formal. Further along in our brief friendship, once I had told him how fascinated by him I had been, I decided to start calling him Satch. I thought it was a suitable nickname. He seemed to like it, but it never caught on with anyone else, so he was "Satch" only to me.
Today would turn out to be the start of a growing friendship that would last until the end of my time at that particular college, which is to say about two and a half months more. After that, we lost touch with each other. Completely.
I've told many people the story of Simon. They all seem impressed, but they probably think that I exaggerate his abilities, determination and spirit. I don't. But amazing people may be more inspirational if they are thought of more as myth than as truth. If you want to believe Simon is a fictional creation of mine, go ahead. Even as a fictional character he could inspire. But he is real; just as I have described.
By the midway point in our sharing some time at that greasy diner, I realized that nothing about him was going to surprise me. Watching him write with his foot and light his cigarette at the end of class had prepared me fully for all of Simon's physical prowess. Thus, I'm not going to bother telling you how he carried his drink or how he consumed it, for that matter. (Hint: He didn't use a straw.)
That became part of our regular routine on those days that I actually attended the political science course. Satch and I would go for a drink together, always non-alcoholic. You might think, especially since I realized that he was a very handsome, almost pretty man, that my attendance would have improved. But the attraction of beer the previous night had more appeal for me then. Beer maintained that strong appeal for me for several more years, in fact, until some people close to me encouraged me to make an effort to do something about what even I had come to recognize as my alcoholism. Perhaps, if that intervention had occured at this time, instead, maybe I would know whether Simon/Satch ever achieved his biggest dream of having a loving wife and three beautiful children, with two perfectly natural arms, each.
We talked about many things during out after class sessions. Mostly we talked about the major problems of the world that we could solve if only people would listen to us. In other words, in that way, we were typical college students, certain of everything that we thought we knew and perfectly willing to impose that on others, if only we could be granted the absolute power needed to effect the changes that we had in mind.
But saving the world was not our only mission. We each were curious about the other. Sometimes our after class colas would last for two hours or more, much to the dismay of the proprietor, although he certainly had no need of the table we occupied.
"How do you go to the bathroom?" I blurted out one day, abruptly changing the subject from international monetary policy or sex or whatever we had been discussing.
"Just like any other guy," he replied, although I suspect that he knew what I was asking. "I'm only missing arms, nothing else."
"No, I mean, how do you get it out or get your pants down and aim and stuff?"
"Well, I guess it takes me a little longer than most guys, but once my pants are out of the way everything comes out pretty normally."
"I guess you always use a stall. In public I mean."
"Yeah. You know, that's one of those silly things that I regret. I can't use a urinal like other guys. It always looks so...I don't know...masculine, I guess. I tried one time, but I ended up peeing all over my pants. Try to explain that when you walk out of a restroom."
"Actually, I've done that a few times myself, at a bar. I don't have any excuse though."
"I don't know why I get so hung up on it, though. It's like every time I walk into a public bathroom some place, I get this strong urge to walk up to the urinals, but I know how it would turn out. I've even dreamed about it a few times. Weird, huh?"
"I don't know I guess. Do you ever dream about playing golf or baseball or anything like that?"
"No. I have a lot of dreams about pounding into various girls I know, especially on the nights when I've been too tired to give my pillow a good humping, but I've always known that I couldn't play so sports. I guess I just never bothered to even wish for it."
"Well, yeah, I guess it is weird," I agreed. "I think there are other things I'd worry about missing out on before I focused too much about peeing in a urinal."
He laughed and then looked pensive.
"Hey man, listen, I don't want to weird you out of anything, but would you?"
I though I knew what he meant, but I wasn't sure I knew what he meant. I didn't know how I should respond. I finally decided on feigning complete ignorance, which wasn't all that far from the truth.
"Will I what?" I asked.
"You know what I mean," he said, "help me out with the urinal thing. Would you mind? I mean, I figured since you're gay and all it wouldn't gross you out too much."
"No," I laughed, "I'm sure it wouldn't gross me out at all. Are you sure, though."
"Yeah," he replied with emphatic confidence. "I mean even if I'm lucky enough to find a girl willing to marry an armless gimp, I couldn't exactly have my wife take me into a public men's room, could I? Besides, I trust you," he added.
"Trust me to what?" I teased with a wink.
"I just mean not to think it's, I don't know. I guess you just won't think it's that strange to be touching me there."
"Yeah," I said, trying to fight just a little arousal that I was beginning to feel. "I'm willing to do that sometime."
"I could stand to take a leak right now," he said, and I thought I could sense a little excitement in his voice.
It wasn't a sexual excitement; it was the kind of excitement you hear in a kid's voice who is next in line at the scariest ride in the amusement park. A sort of mixture of anticipation with trepidation, joy with fear.
"Here? Now?" I really hadn't expected him to ever take me up on the my agreement to his request; I figured it would be enough for him to just think of it as it being the in realm of possibility. But I was game. In fact, I have to admit to you that I was a little more than willing to grant his wish. My arousal, as I previously described it, was growing by the second. Growing quite literally.
"Great," he said rising and heading for the narrow door just a few steps from us. "Let's do this!"
I followed behind, wondering, but not really caring what the inhospitable owner of this establishment would think about his only two customers disappearing together into the men's room.
The room, itself, was small but not cramped. It consisted of a dirty sink and an even filthier urinal on one wall and a privacy stall on the other. I was familiar with the layout, as I had used it before, thinking at the time how the placement of the sink was ideal for catching a glimpse of anyone attending to duties at the urinal. I also noted that my observation was rather pointless, since the diner was seldom patronized by more that a couple people at a time. The likelihood of me washing my hands when another rare customer needed to use the facility was statistically slim.
"Do you want me to do the honors?" I asked Satch, who was already standing an appropriate distance from his target.
"Go get it," he playfully replied.
His pants had no zipper but were secured to his pleasingly slim frame simply with an elastic waitband. I gripped the top of the trousers and fulled them down to discover that he wore no underwear. That made sense, I guess, simplifying his necessary routines.
I felt as if I had unwrapped a welcome present for my birthday, about five months early. I was staring at a beautifully shaped, uncut cock.
I must have admired it a little too long, because he said, "I'm ready, I think."
I moved forward to get a little closer to what I wished was in fact my present rather that simply an appendage of a friend in need. I reached out with my right hand and grasped it gently top and bottom. I retracted the foreskin and adjust my aim, or his aim, or our aim.
I had little practice with uncut penises. Of the five or six cocks that I had gotten to know rather well during my middle and high school years, only one of those was uncircumcised. And while I spend a great deal of time holding the only other uncut penis my fingers had ever touched, arranging it for proper urination was not among the list of activities with which I had prior experience.
The clear, yellow liquid splashed forcefully against the porcelain. I glanced up at Satch's face. He was smiling broadly. I'm not sure that I have ever been able to understand the glee that this simple act gave him.
I thought I felt a little jerk of his member right before the flow of pee became divided into two smaller streams. I tried to adjust my aim to accommodate the two competing directions the urine were not taking.
Then, I was absolutely certain that I felt another jerk against my fingers as his cock began to rapidly grow and thicken. Soon after, the two streams became just a single trickle.
With my left hand, I nudged his butt slightly to suggest he move a little closer to the fixture to prevent dribbles on either the already stained floor or his trousers. Satch took the cue.
Now there were just a couple lonely drops clinging to the end of the still growing dick. I lightly shook it up and down, then side to side, as those pearls refused to release their grip on what I had by now declared to be this truly gorgeous cock.
I swear I had no lust when I decided that the only way to get them off would be to move his foreskin back and forth a few times. While I had no lust when I first made the decision, that quickly changed as my brain processed the movement.
My own rigid member became even more so, and then became even stiffer when Satch emitted a lustful sigh. It was not a moan, just air passing any tension from his nicely shaped body.
By now, the pearly drops had released their hold, but I continued to slide my hand back and forth. I let go with my two finger grip so that I could grab it with my entire hand to continue the movement in a more productive way. Satch endorsed my decision with another sigh, this time a little louder.
I slipped my free hand throught the elastic and began to massage his muscular buttocks in rythm to my strokes. We were both breathing heavier.
I focused my attention on this man. I realized that I had never fully realized how very handsome he was. Even as our friendship had grown, I had thought more about what was missing from this interesting guy than what his body had to offer, which was clearly a great deal.
His breathing became more intense and urgent. I knew what was coming, and I could feel the changes in both my hands. My right hand could feel the impending climax by sensing the semen moving its way toward its destiny. His butt tensed, and I briefly thought about the pleasures that it could deliver but never would.
His first three shots were forceful and clung to the vertical wall of porcelain. They showed no signs of trickling down. Satch emitted a quiet but still forceful guttural utterance, a sound unlike any I had heard from any of my previous partners.
As his ejaculation slowed, I felt his release within me. Somehow I was tingly, although without his parallel feeling of release, for I was still dry and now painfully erect.
Once again, the final droplets of liquid clung stubbornly to his protruding head, no longer shrouded by the collar of foreskin. I squeezed, I milked, I shook it. All to no avail.
I knew what I wanted to do, what I wanted to do--for me, not for Satch. I bent my head toward my target. I made eye contact with him as he watched my movement.
"May I," I asked, amazed at my courtesy.
"Please," he replied.
I licked the prize from the tip and then engulfed his entire penis for a gentle and too brief period of oral adoration before releasing it from my mouth.
"Thank you," I said.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Honestly, I didn't plan that. I had no idea that I would get hard. It's just that it felt incredible to feel fingers on me. I don't remember ever feeling that, although I guess I did as a little child. Well not in that way, of course, but cleaning me and stuff."
"Don't ever say you're sorry about that. As you can see," I said, pointing to the outline of my erection, "I enjoyed it."
I pulled his pants back up. He grinned.
"Do you want to wash your hands?" he asked.
"Maybe," I said, "But first I have to take care of something before I appear again in public."
"Yeah," he agreed staring at my clothed cock with a huge grin, which made him look even cuter. "That would be a good idea."
I expect him to pass through the door and return to our table. He didn't seem to be guilt ridden from the experience like a couple of my other bathroom objects of desire, so I didn't expect him to bolt from the diner.
Instead, he said, "Do you mind if I watch?"
Considerably surprised and stimulated by his request, I said, "Please do if that's what you really want."
"It is. I've never seen a guy cum."
I took my place at the urinal, unzipped and negotiated the passage of my cock through my briefs.
"Wow," he said. "You did get excited, didn't you."
"Yeah," I agreed with his rather obvious conclusion. "You are a very hot guy. Too bad you're straight."
"I'll tell you what," he said in what I now recognized as his flirtatiously teasing voice, "If I haven't tricked some woman into marrying me by the time I'm forty, I'd be very happy to be chosen by you."
"Deal," I said and concentrated on the job at hand. I knew this would not be a drawn out process. Just a moment before I had thought that I just might cum in my pants for the first time in my life.
I'm sure it was no more than a minute later, my discharge was aligned with his on the porcelain. I remember deciding not to flush, so that the next guy could imagine that what appeared to be just one huge load had been produced by some super star.
"Thanks," Satch said. "That was interesting."
It was not the most loquatious review that I had ever received, but I guess it was an acceptable assessment from a straight guy.
Our friendship grew over the next couple months. Of course, we never repeated the events of that memorable afternoon. Peeing at a urinal had been crossed off Satch's mental list of regrets. And I was grateful for that singular experience. It supplied the material for a number of jack off fantasies over the years.
I have no idea if Satch ever found his dream woman or if I still have a chance of him tracking me down when we reach forty. In the meantime, I am trying to keep my skills polished with the help of willing men whom I happen to encounter.
Whatever the future holds, and I realistically know that it will not include him, I am grateful that I got to experience a few months of friendship with that Poli Sci Satchel Guy.-----------------------------
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