DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of adult fictional entertainment dealing with same-gender relationships. If you are of legal age and are not offended by said subject matter, read on. The author maintains copyright of this material. This material cannot be posted or distributed without the author's permission.

Although dudes didn't use condoms back in the day, in today's world be good to yourself and others and practice safer sex.

TO QUARTER PARTIES AND BLUE LIGHTS

© 2001 by W. Foster

The sounds of James Brown's "Sex Machine" blast from my box on this bright Saturday afternoon. No complaints have been made about the decibel level coming from my room, since War, Janis Joplin, Ike and Tina Turner, Led Zeplin, the Bar-Kays, Sly and the Family Stone, the Temptations, Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Jackson 5 are also blaring from other dorm rooms--a sure sign that midterms are over here at Hunter College. It's cause for celebration, and we the Black students are having a party at the Black Student Union tonight along with whose from neighboring Spencer College some forty miles away. Our parents come to visit us from time to time, but I doubt seriously if they'd set foot in the dorm if they came today; if the sound systems didn't get them the present condition of our room would. Tossing Tracy's dirty laundry into a heap on his closet floor, I set about the task of cleaning said room.

After a year in the freshman dorm, I'm now sharing a room with my older brother. You'd think I'd see a lot of him, and until three weeks ago I did. Lately his time had been divided between his studies, the library, research on his senior paper and his current love interest over at Spencer, limiting our contact to meals in the cafeteria and late nights here. Tracy was still working out when I left the gym; undoubtedly he'll come falling in here any time now, thinking the entire room will be shipshape. Wrong, Tracy. I may be your younger brother, but I draw the line at your bed and your laundry.

With my bed made and my clothes neatly put away I attack my desk, reshelving my books and throwing away paper and other superfluous trash. An opened envelope lying on the floor catches my eye. I pick it up, noting the return address of Spencer College. My fingers are itchy with curiosity. This is a golden opportunity to find out just who has captured my brother's attention over there. His lips have been sealed on this subject for two weeks, but I've noticed a hot look on his face and a lowering of his voice when he makes certain calls. Now I can get the goods on him! Wait--what am I doing? That would be breaking the family code of honor. I guess I'll just have to wait 'til he tells me, sooner or later.

I get up and walk over to his desk to put the letter away when I hear a loud, "Douglass Warner Moore! DON'T YOU DARE!" Tracy is standing in the doorway, highly upset, his nostrils flaring. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I hate that name. I know Tracy got that habit from Mom, who only uses it when I'm in trouble with her. Otherwise, I'm just D.W. to everyone. I'm tempted to pounce on him for that cardinal sin; instead I flash him an evil smile and wave the letter at him. He lunges at me in an effort to get it back. I dodge him and run to the other side of the room. I hold the letter over my head and bait him. "Oooooooooooooo! I've got your letter, and I can't wait to tell it!" He might be two years older, but six extra inches of height plus an extra twenty pounds give me an advantage, and I play it for all it's worth. All his efforts to snatch the letter from me are coming up void, so he makes a final lunge at me and a wrestling match ensues. The room turns into a shambles again, and with all the music going on our fight goes unnoticed. Finally I pin Tracy to the floor and tickle him until he cries "Uncle" and agrees to introduce me at the party tonight. I return his letter after convincing him I didn't read it, and together we put our room in order.

My eyes light up when Tracy shows me the contents of our latest "care package" from home--new picks, a six-month supply of Afro-Sheen products, the latest albums by Isaac Hayes, Marvin Gaye, Funkadelic and the Stylistics, plus what we'd been waiting for, the four handmade dashikis from our favorite boutique on 71st and Jeffery Boulevard. I know our home in Chicago is only two hundred miles away, but sometimes it can seem like it's on the other side of the continent from here. Some students have since dropped out or transferred due to culture shock. Tracy is one of the survivors, which I plan to be. He's studied hard and made the grades, so I'm sure he'll realize his dream of operating his own business in the future. I've been holding my own, gradually pulling my grades up. Right now I'm confident I've aced my midterms, yet glad they're over so I can enjoy the weekend. As I put away my share of the goodies I hear a groan from Tracy. He's seen his pile of filthy clothes, and turns to give me a pitiful expression.

"Look, turkey," I respond, "I don't do laundry, at least not yours. Besides, I have to wash the ride for tonight." He merely chuckles and pulls one of my plaits. I swat at him in mock fashion and head out the door, leaving him to prepare for his duties in the laundry room.

Armed with the necessities for proper car washing, I walk to a nearby student parking lot. Our ride is parked at the end of the first row--a dark blue 1963 Buick Electra 225 (a.k.a. a "deuce-and-a-quarter"). We must have begged, groveled, cajoled and pleaded for weeks to get Dad to sell it to us after he purchased his brand new '71 model, we were that desperate. Tracy's '55 Chrysler had died on the way home from school last spring, and we had grown accustomed to the freedom and mobility a set of wheels offers. Personally I think Dad wanted to see us suffer for a while first, but in the end he agreed to sell.

Knowing how Dad takes care of cars, we've treated this one the way Mom would treat a diamond from Tiffany's. We did go overboard when we insisted that Chandra and Charisse, our eleven-year-old sisters, pass an inspection before we'd let them ride with us; Dad strongly suggested that we revise our policy.

I pull up to the side of the dorm and hook up the hose. The sun is shining with the warmth of Indian summer, still comfortable for shorts and T-shirts. A few of the sisters walk by and I wave hello, promising to stop by the student union later. Having hosed down the ride, I soap it up, anxious to finish so I can see the others about the party. According to the publicity it's going to be a quarter party, and the memories of my first quarter party come back with crystal clarity.

Tracy was home from Hunter for the summer, and I had just turned seventeen. Though the world was talking away about Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, I was looking forward to Friday night. School dances were one thing, but a quarter party---unchaperoned, no less---was something else altogether. Our folks had left for the weekend, and Chandra and Charisse were staying with Grandma--the perfect opportunity.

I felt a little nervous on the way over to Hyde Park. I'd practiced and practiced on my steps for fast dances--it was the slow ones I wasn't sure about. Tracy joked around about his first attempts at dancing, and he reassured me, "Hey, you'll be fine once you get into the swing of things. Besides, most of the crowd will be people we know, classmates, friends, folks like that."

The party was in full swing when we arrived--I could hear "Soulful Strut" coming from the third floor before we reached the entrance to the six-flat. Ronnie Jones was on the door that night to help keep the peace and insure that the guests paid. With a dude that stood 6'6" and weighed 260, everyone did. We gave him the handshake and our usual "Hey man, what's happenin'," stopping briefly to talk about the Bulls' last season as we paid our quarters. Ronnie held me in awe. He could be so cool and easygoing most of the time, but cross him and you could find yourself in Cook County Hospital. Like Tracy, Ronnie was smart, and they'd mess with each other and b.s. all the time about college.

The place was almost full with dancing bodies in the living and dining rooms. Having lost Tracy in the shuffle, I worked my way through the crowd to the dining room where I promptly bumped into Marilyn Turner, causing her to spill a drink on her red minidress. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Marilyn ("Miss Foxy") had just graduated from South Shore High School. You could have devoted an entire section of the yearbook to her.

Tall, dark and fine, Marilyn was a sister I'd see around school but had never talked to; she always seemed to be on the go to class, clubs or cheerleading practice, usually with an entourage. Nice going, D.W., I thought; you'll never live this one down. I made frantic efforts to apologize and tried to clean the stain with a napkin; I was rewarded with frostbite from the stare she gave me. I eased myself away from her and went to the kitchen.

After fortifying myself with snacks and a soda, I returned to the dance floor. With so many people there partners were easy to come by, and soon we were gettin' down to "the nitty gritty" with Gladys Knight and the Pips, groovin' with King Floyd, shoutin' "I'm Black and I'm proud" with James Brown and havin' "hot fun in the summertime" with Sly.

There was a pause between records, and I left the dance floor. En route to the kitchen I saw Alice Knight standing there with a coy smile on her face. I heard "Dr. Feelgood" coming over the speakers, and apprehension set in. I'd promised Alice a dance earlier; wouldn't you know she'd wait for a slow one. I don't know how I did it, but I managed to get through the song without stepping on her toes. I thanked her and turned to sit down when I felt myself being yanked back on the floor. Alice's idol, Smokey Robinson, was singing, "Baby Baby Don't Cry." I sure felt like crying, for I understood now why brothers nicknamed her "The Octopus." I thought my circulation was going to be cut off permanently, and friends were giving me sympathetic looks as they danced with their partners. I scanned the red-lit room until I spotted Tracy near a wall joking with a couple of the sisters there. I flashed him an SOS. The moment the song ended (and I was able to free myself from her tentacles) Tracy was there to whisk me away to the kitchen. After I had thanked him profusely, he made a show of presenting an imaginary medal "to D.W. Moore, for bravery above and beyond the call of duty." We fell out laughing and proceeded to feed our faces and hit the punch bowl again.

Between my appetite and avoiding Jackie I partied hearty, no longer feeling like just a high school student. Ronnie eventually came inside and danced with Marilyn for a while; he certainly was light on his feet. My dancing ability improved each time the DJ brought the pace down, and by three a.m. my current partner Veronica and I danced like experts. The flat was still fairly crowded, and during a break Tracy staggered over to me and dropped his car keys in my hand. It was obvious he was tipsy. He'd made several trips to the punch bowl in contrast to my two. I had a slight buzz, but who wouldn't when the punch had been generously spiked with Mad Dog 20/20?

"Would you drive home? I'm......goin' somewhere for a while. I'll be home later."

"Sure, Tracy, but where are you going?"

All he gave me was a knowing look, which I immediately understood. After Tracy left, I sat and talked with Veronica and some of the others there about our plans to check out Rainbow Beach later that afternoon. This conversation didn't last long, for I soon saw Alice headed in my direction. I quickly said my good-byes and beat a hasty retreat out the door......

I've finished my job on the car; the interior is spotless, the exterior glistening. Tracy is waiting for me when I pull up front, and I thank him for bringing me a cap to put over my plaits. We drive into town to purchase some snacks for our room as well as our contribution to the party--club soda and two bottles of Ripple. On the way back I remind him that we need incense from the bookstore, and we reminisce about the aforementioned quarter party, including Tracy's arrival home the morning after. That draws laughs and slightly embarrassed smirks from both of us as we anticipate the evening's festivities.

Dinner (or what posed as dinner) is now over, and we're walking downstairs to the rec room. We hear the sounds of, "four-no," "five-low," "five-no," "six"--a Bid Whist game is in progress. We enter the rec room. Not one, but all the tables are taken, and it's "rise 'n fly." Eagerly we wait our turn to sit down. One thing I learned here at Hunter--sooner or later you'll learn how to play "Bid," "Spades" or both.

As a Bid player, I tend to bid only when I know I have a road map or at least a good hand, but occasionally I will lie, hoping the kitty or my partner will have some help. Tracy will lie in a minute and pray afterwards, yet it's amazing how often he'll make his bids with minimal amounts of trump cards in his hand. The tables are lively with psyche-outs at initial bidding, groans over bad kitties, shouts of malicious glee at setting a bid and immodest bowing and hand-slapping when a "Boston" had been run. A place becomes available and Tracy and I take our seats, staying there for six straight games before we have to rise. We sit down at another table and remain for another four games--it would have been five if we hadn't got caught in a lie on a "six-no" bid. Angela Matthews had such a smug look on her face as she and Clarice Brown set us soundly, but we the Moore brothers had made our mark at the tables this evening.

Between bids Angela expressed her appreciation for our contribution to the party. The response had been generous--when I think about how much food and drink 170 Black folks can put away we couldn't have settled for less. Kevin Giles (better known as "Kool G.") will be our DJ tonight. With his genius at spinning discs and our pooled resources of 45's and albums we'll be jammin' all night.

Back at our room we light some strawberry incense for atmosphere, and tend to our ritual of preparation. Following long, hot showers comes the meticulous brushing of teeth, gargling of mouthwash, the application of oil and lotion to our bodies (more to the ashy portions), the splashing on of cologne, the grooming of mustaches, putting on our evening attire, and last--but not least--unbraiding our hair, allowing sufficient time to pick out our Afros until they looked just right. During this ritual I kid Tracy about flirting with Clarice.

"You know you're not going to do anything about it. Besides, your main squeeze will be there tonight," I tease.

He give me an incredulous look. "You've got your nerve, D.W.," Tracy replies. "I saw who YOU were checkin' out this evening, and it wasn't Angela." He snickers as the blush on my face confirms his observation, and I concede with a "Touche'." We check our reflections in the full-length mirror for a final review.

There's no mistaking the family resemblance staring back at us. Our long faces, high cheekbones, straight but gently broad noses and sensuous brown eyes are all traits we share from the Warner side of the family. From the Moore side came our tightly muscled bodies and small (28") waistlines. Tracy is 5'10" to my 6'4", 170 pounds to my 190. His sepia brown complexion is closer to Dad's, yet he has Mom's fast-growing curly-wavy hair and has grown a full beard. I, on the other hand, got Mom's caramel complexion and Dad's nappy grade of hair, struggling with a few wisps I called a beard. Our Afros stand out in a 3-4" radius from our heads, gleaming with Afro-Sheen spray. Our dashikis are bold and freshly pressed, Tracy's a print of orange, yellow and black, mine the Pan-African red, black and green. Our black bell-bottomed slacks fit just short of being poured into them, and our boots are polished to a mirror finish. We're ready!

Tracy has dropped me off at the Black Student Union---it seems he has to get more refreshments and make a quick trip over to Spencer. Why more refreshments are needed escapes me for the moment, but the thought passes as I walk up to the house. Eddie Jackson and Yusef Njeri, our best linebackers, are at the door to take our quarters and stamp us. I congratulate them on the game they played against Westbury last week and go inside. It's barely eleven and the place is steadily filling up with fellow classmates and our guests from Spencer. I see Kool G. over at the turntables, surrounded by stacks of records. At the request of several sisters, he's put on Jean Knight's "Mr. Big Stuff." That's Kool G. for you; he never could turn down the request of a foxy lady. Who knows? One of them might get him to take off his shades. We exchanges "What's happenin's" and I continue to mix and mingle.

I check the spread in the kitchen. We've certainly outdone ourselves--fried chicken, potato salad, mustard and turnip greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread, macaroni and cheese, assorted nuts and chips, mints, sweet potato pie and sodas, plus spiked and unspiked punch. I help myself to a plate and scope the immediate surroundings. One of the brothers from Spencer is trying to rap to Clarice, who'd giving him her undivided attention plus a little body English. Michael Riley has just played an unflattering joke on Sharlene Mitchell, and is making tracks to the bathroom to wipe off the drink she threw in his face. Akeisha Rogers and Judy Thompson are engaged in a deep discussion about "Days of Our Lives," running down Julie for being a slut and sleeping with her mother's latest husband. I've finished eating and go to the dancing area when I hear Martha and the Vandellas singing "Jimmy Mack." The sistas are singing with the record, spotlighting a smiling but embarrassed brotha in the living room. I know they're singing to James Lewis. Ever since we discovered his middle name is Maximilian he was given the name "Jimmy Max." We all take it in good-natured fun, and even the sistas from Spencer join in when word gets around.

It's after one, and by now nearly all the Black student populations of Hunter and Spencer are here, either outside on the lawn, upstairs, in the kitchen or on the dance floor. If Tracy's here I haven't seen him in the crowd--then again, I've been occupied on the dance with Angela. Starting with the Spinners' "It's a Shame," Kool G. has dedicated this segment of the party to "the Bop." Fair-complexioned, full-bodied and positively stunning in her blue African dress and matching head wrap, Angela is a flawless partner, and we bop effortlessly on the floor. Among the sisters I've danced with here Angela is my favorite because she can go from cool to crazy on the floor at any given time.

The lights have gone down to blue, and Kool G. has slowed the pace with the Temptations and "Just My Imagination." The floor is packed, and every corner is taken. Angela and I are dancing in our limited space when I see Jimmy Max and Akeisha dancing next to us. We exchange greetings, and gradually I adjust my position so I can check him out more closely. Angela is into the Temptations, while my eyes are off into Jimmy Max. Tracy was right on the money about me this evening--I had gotten quite interested in him. He transferred here this year as a sophomore; I've seen him in training for cross-country and track, and we're in the same Black studies classes. We're both avid Bid players, and from time to time we'd get into some good rap sessions about school and the direction our BSU is headed, since he's the vice-president.

As the dance continues with the Delfonics, my sixth sense signals me with the subtlety of a bull horn. There's no time like the present to go for it, so I give him my sultriest look. I catch his eye. He checks me out for a moment, then looks away. Well, what have we here? "Mr. Cool" has a trace of shyness about more than his nickname? I continue to stare. He's staring back now with a very familiar message in his eyes, like we're dancing together mentally if not physically. Taking advantage of the crowding on the floor I bump into him accidentally on purpose, just long enough to feel him shiver with the electricity flowing between us. I try to hide my amusement when Akeisha looks at him and wonders what happened to make him jump, and continue to enjoy the song. Upon its end, Angela and I adjourn to an unoccupied corner for a conference. She gives me a knowing look when I tell her what's going on, playfully demanding a full report at dinner tomorrow.

All right, Kool G.--the dance floor hasn't been empty since this party started. I saw him up on the floor dancing with Sandra Morris to "Baby I'm for Real." Since that dance, Sandra's been over at the turntables for a while. After this slow series I detected steam rising from the floor due to the heat, yet a new set of couples replace those leaving for air or refreshments. I find Jimmy Max sitting midway up the stairs, and we take time out to talk on a deeper level while brushing our legs together. His nutmeg brown face is glowing with a thin layer of sweat (as is mine), and our dashikis are damp from all the dancing we've done this evening. In the course of our rap he asks me how I knew about him, to which I answer, "Consider it a developing sixth sense." We're interrupted by Tracy's voice behind me, and we go to the upstairs hallway. Tracy is standing there, and--from the vibes I'm picking up--standing next to him is the mystery person I've been so curious about.

Tracy certainly is consistent in his tastes, having Darrell Collins as a boyfriend. Darrell Collins, Spencer College's star center on the basketball team. It's almost like reliving the morning after that party two years ago, when Tracy brought Ronnie Jones home with him. Even with bloodshot eyes, the Cheshire-cat grin on Tracy's face and the way Ronnie was holding him indicated they'd had an exceptionally good time---I had no doubt that Ronnie had dicked my big brother to distraction. Standing 6'7", weighing 250 pounds, his Afro adding two more inches to his height and a complexion I can only call butterscotch, Darrell is nearly an image of Ronnie. Granted, there are some differences, like a mustache, a broader nose, fuller lips and gray eyes, but I still have yet to meet a dude Tracy's been seeing I didn't have to look up at. This relationship should prove to be quite interesting, since Tracy plays forward for Hunter's team. We exchange introductions, Tracy and myself trading amused looks over Jimmy Max's amazement--obviously the last thing he expected was to come across a pair of gay blood brothas. Darrell's nonchalance about the whole thing could only mean that Tracy already told him about me.

From there everything continues in the partying spirit of the weekend. Darrell pulls Tracy to him, mentioning some of the dudes from Spencer that are here tonight. As I follow Darrell's lead with Jimmy Max, Tracy adds the Hunter brothas that are in the life to the roster and suggests that we have a party of our own. Unanimous agreement is reached, and we disperse to pass the word along. The gradual but discreet departure of sixteen fine brothas went relatively unnoticed thanks to the punch, though Yusef had a little trouble leaving. He had come inside to eat and dance when we gave him the word. However, everyone in his path to the door wanted to relive the football game with him.

Jimmy and I are holding hands in the back seat as we drive back to the dorm, giving Darrell our full attention as he tells us more about himself. He grew up in Maywood, the youngest of six children and the second to attend college. His ability on the court plus his grades earned him a full scholarship at Spencer. He took his studies seriously; now in his senior year he's pulling down a 3.6 grade point average. His coach and his father consider him prime material for the NBA, and have been pushing him in that direction, yet he wants to further his education to become a veterinarian. In this dream of his Tracy has been supportive, aware of his great love of animals. I ask "the biggie": "How did you meet my brotha, Darrell? Better yet, how did you two hook up?"

Darrell goes on to tell us that he and Tracy had met at Meacham Lake, our local recreation area. "We were acquainted with each other from basketball, but a little gray kitten got us introduced. Someone abandoned it at the lake, and I got it to come out of its hiding place in the bushes. Tracy had just come from swimming and he saw me, and he came over to find out what I was doing."

"I didn't have any feeling one way or the other about cats at that time," Tracy adds, "but it was the way Darrell was playing with that kitten. It made me stop to look at a side of him that hadn't crossed my mind. So we talked, we felt each other out, shared what we wanted to do with our careers, that stuff, while we were playing with the kitten."

"We kept in touch over the summer," says Darrell, "I kept the kitten. His name is Kareem, and he's growing by leaps and bounds at my crib."

"And as for how we hooked up, D.W.," Tracy says in a sassy tone, "that happened three weeks ago on the way to Hunter one night--in the back seat of this deuce-and-a-quarter."

"I thought this seat was a little too warm when I was washing the ride," I jest as I reach forward and good-naturedly cuff Tracy. No wonder I haven't seen him. Darrell apparently has something more powerful than Love Potion No. 9.

Our guests have arrived at our room, and the party continues. Tracy and I alternate as DJ's, and thanks to our earlier trips to the store our supply of refreshments is solid--Tracy must have been thinking ahead. Having sixteen dudes in our room isn't much different from the conditions over at the BSU, but that doesn't matter to us--we're too busy rappin', "makin' it funky" with James Brown, and "rockin' steady" with Aretha Franklin. I recognize Calvin Thomas from Spencer over by the windows--Yusef is definitely making up for lost time with him. I'm waiting to see when he's going to pick Calvin up and carry him off to his room; given his present state it won't be long. Mitchell White and Charles McAdams are always at the library studying through the week for pre-law. You'd never know it from the way they're dancing right now. At one point we all backed off just to see them work out on the floor. There are assorted couples and singles here this morning. Most of us are from the Chicago area, along with a few from St. Louis and Detroit, and it was agreed to get addresses and numbers later to stay in touch.

Tracy has pulled out some of our oldies-but-goodies, and put in the blue lights. Everyone shouts their approval as the Dells sing "Stay in My Corner." Darrell has already taken Tracy in his arms and commandeered a corner. Jimmy Max comes up to me and I embrace him as we take a place on the floor. At 5'9", Jimmy's eyes are level with my chin. His arms are around my neck, his head on my shoulder. My arms are around his waist, one hand casually touching his butt. Those of us who can are singing along (like me), pulling our partners closer. The temperature in here is rising by the minute. Jimmy and I are grinding heatedly; I grab his buns and bring him in still closer as he wraps his arms tighter around my neck. We dip. His medium-length Afro tickles my nose when he bends his head back, and I take the opportunity to give him a full, wet, passion-laden kiss. I feel our dicks pulsing together in our slacks, our heat and desire unrestrained, free for initial exploration and discovery.

We come up for air as the Dells draw out "Stay" for all it's worth. Calvin is holding onto Yusef for dear life---unless I miss my guess, one of his hands is in Yusef's crotch. Tracy is up against the wall. Darrell is wrapped all over him, seriously grinding up and down, soul-kissing him like there's no tomorrow. Rashad el-Kadir's are roaming underneath Donald Allen's dashiki while they're dancing, almost the way he plays the concert grand in the music hall. As for Jimmy Max and myself, our honey kisses have made this night undeniably sweet thus far. The dancing continues with Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell's "Your Precious Love," Gene Chandler's "Rainbow," Dionne Warwicke's "Don't Make Me Over," Smokey Robinson's "Ooh Baby Baby" and Aretha Franklin's "Ain't No Way." There's a pause to resume---or try to, anyway---normal breathing. Glasses have fogged up. Telltale crotch bulges are everywhere. A couple of Spencer brothas are now down on my bed. To lower the temperature at least a degree, I go over to the box with Jimmy Max in tow and put on Al Green's "Love and Happiness." Some of us bop while others take time out for refreshments or a trip to the bathroom. Tracy also comes over to the box, Darrell hot on his heels. They look like I feel---incredibly horny. Although it's only approaching four, the time has come for the party to end so we can all TCB.

Our guests have vacated the premises. The clothes we put on so painstakingly this evening are now in a jumbled disarrayon the floor. Darrell is lying on Tracy's bed, with Tracy sitting on his chest feeding him his dick. Jimmy Max has just given me a mind-blowing tongue bath, and I'm using my talented tongue to return a measure of that pleasure. By the way he's thrashing around on my bed, one would think he's ready to take off to another planet. His body is quivering and shaking, tensing and relaxing; when I brush my tongue lightly over the rigidity of his nine-inch nutmeg tool it throbs dangerously, and he grabs me by the hair to pull me away. Giving him time to cool down we relax here on my bed, stroking and kissing each other gently. Jimmy seems to be fascinated by my chest hair--he keeps pulling at it and twisting it between his fingers. I trace a path over his body with my hands. He's neither skinny nor stocky, and I wonder what side of his family gave him such a big, luscious butt---they have my undying gratitude. Muffled moans of ecstasy are coming from the other bed--Darrell and Tracy have shifted positions and are sucking each other voraciously. My dick is jumping with the hot friction between myself and Jimmy Max, and his slow massaging of it inflames me to the point of dripping. My finger carefully traces his broad nose, beard and full lips. My other hand then pushed his head down to my waiting shaft.

He takes my pole easily, leisurely. I drift off into a haze of scintillating sensations as Jimmy's mouth and tongue give me a prime example of their handiwork. My body responds like waves of the ocean, and "Right on, Jimmy, do it" is falling from my tongue. He draws from my verbal cues and sucks harder, tickling my balls with his beard on the downstrokes, squeezing my nipples when he comes up. He seems to be able to do this indefinitely, keeping me on the edge but not sending me over it. Illuminated by the blue lights I can see his head bobbing up and down, his hot body moving to where I can play with his nuts and finger his asshole. His response to this gives me another clue to the fire beneath the surface calm he gives off, for he increases his efforts. He's driving me right up the wall, and I have to pull him off before I explode.

I take this break to search for my tube of lubricant. Where did I put it? I could have sworn it was in the corner near my pillow. I know I put it there....no, just a moment. Now I remember--I moved it to my desk when I was cleaning this afternoon. I go to the desk, my dick waving back and forth like a ship's boom. Leave it to Tracy to have his supply readily available, for as I look in the drawer for my tube I hear him say, "While you're over there.......oooohh....why don't you.....ahhhhhh......play that tape?"

"Which tape?"

"The one on my....ohhhhhhh yeahhhhh.....desk."

I find the tube and hurriedly drop in the tape. I recognize it as our "mood tape"--strictly Isaac Hayes. "Fuck me's" and "don't stops" are coming from my brother's bed. He's taking Darrell's flagpole into his pleasure tunnel with ease and abandon. Darrell's "Take all of it, baby, I know you want it" confirms my prior thoughts about him, for he apparently possesses Love Potion No. 13.

I crawl onto my own bed to an anxious, impatient Jimmy Max--all that activity across from us is really getting next to him. He wastes no time in greasing up my turgid fuckpole, while I in turn coat his ready and willing ass. I turn him over on his stomach. He sticks his butt in the air, eager for my entry. There's a little tightness and resistance as I insert the head, but the steam and heat from his hole beckon me, call me, implore me to continue my erotic exploration. Despite my urgent desire to fuck him silly, I take my sweet time about getting all of my burning prong inside of him--quickies were NEVER my style. A satisfied "Ohhhhhh, D.W." from Jimmy Max followed by his buns massaging my now submerged love tool proves the benefits of my action.

Although only four of us are in the room, the torrid, steamy, sizzling atmosphere yet permeates it, with Isaac Hayes adding another form of spice to our lovemaking. Jimmy's buns are warm and damp to the touch. The things his anal muscles are doing to my twelve inches of love muscle could incite me to riot. I dig it, and I fuck him in the fashion of a gourmet, enjoying each stroke, each twist and turn, every penetration of his depths.

"I've wanted you ever since school started, Jimmy Max. You've been strolling through my mind like no one has," I whisper huskily in his ear.

"Stroll? You're doin' a marathon run in my head," he says, his voice heavy with emotion. "If you keep fuckin' me like that you're going to....oooohh....spoil me rotten....take me....ohhhhh....take my ass.....ahhhhhh....you just made it yours, baby." On that note I turn him sideways in spoon-fashion, holding one of his legs up for easier access to his volcanic channel while I nibble and suck his earlobe.

On the other bed, Darrell is tossing and turning with sheer delight. His legs are in the air, his chest heaving from Tracy's powerfully pumping iron. His dick is twitching and throbbing from the tantalizing internal massage Tracy's giving his prostate, and his baritone/bass voice soon utters, "Oooooh, baby, I love it. Dick me. Dick me. You feel so good." It must be "20% time" for my brother--that 20% of the time that he likes to be the top man. Judging from the way they're into each other, this isn't the first time Darrell's spread his cheeks---he probably does it just enough to complement Tracy's occasional escapades in fucking. Tracy's passionate taunts and endearments cause Darrell to work his ass even more, impaling himself fully on Tracy's ten-inch sepia-brown staff while my brother bends over to kiss him.

The constant sights and sounds of our passion act as a sounding board, spurring and stimulating us all to greater pleasure. As I give Jimmy Max the dick he craves, my ears pick up Isaac Hayes singing "Something." The song is right on time, 'cause there's no way I'd EVEN leave him now--he's got me and he knows it. Straddling my hips, my caramel-colored instrument of pleasure pumping into him with each downward thrust he makes, Jimmy's face is a picture of desire fulfilled. I jack off his nutmeg pole and accelerate my fucking speed, wanting more of him and getting it. Hearing a scramble on Tracy's bed, I glance over and see him on his back with Darrell screwing him royally. After all the partying we've done tonight, this is the proverbial icing on the cake. All completions of midterms and finals should be celebrated like this. The heat we're generating is turning this place into a steam room, but who cares? You're super bad, Jimmy Max. Don't stop, just work on it, work on my monument, 'cause your ass is mine now....

We've tried to hold it off as long as possible, but we just can't do it any longer. The feelings are too good, and (in "Star Trek" terminology) my phaser is locked on his target. For an indefinite moment we literally lock position, every muscle tensed to the limit, poised and ready to spring. In the next split-second the tension is released in shouts, grunts and yells, my juice drenching his hole with the force of a fire hose, his juice covering my chest and splattering my face---for all I know it's dribbling down the wall behind me. Scream and shrieks from the other bed indicate that Tracy and Darrell have also taken that plunge into the joyous depths of orgasm, that rollercoaster of ecstasy.

Jimmy Max collapses into my arms, the cum and sweat from our bodies seemingly gluing us together. Tracy is curled up snugly against Darrell, using his love tunnel to milk every last drop of cum from Darrell's potent phallus. Silent, special moments of shared intimacy pass between us, suspended in time as the music plays. The tape comes to an end, and from some residual reservoir of strength I nudge Jimmy Max. After retrieving some towels we succeed in rousing Tracy and Darrell, and the four of us tread on wobbly, strength-sapped legs to the showers.....

Sunday afternoon finds us at a remote area of Meacham Lake, playing Bid Whist and layin' back after five trips to the food line for brunch. Yusef and Calvin came along with us, and are currently off in the wooded area doing goodness knows what. The parties are the main topic of discussion as we play, plus this morning's unusual surprise.

Most of Hunter's Black students, plus a few of Spencer's, were eating brunch at the east end of the cafeteria, our usual gathering place. The tables were buzzing with who was wearing what last night, the quality and quantity of the food we ate, who went in and out of the smoke-filled room upstairs, new friends, new twosomes, the dance music and those who couldn't make it to brunch due to hangovers. Everything stopped for a minute when Kool G. came over to the tables. Could it be? He isn't wearing his shades! A rumble of speculation as to the sista responsible for this phenomenon spread from one table to the other between bites. From the earlier conversation at the table, he had made one too many trips to the spiked punch bowl last night and had a big fight with Sandra, so that let her out. Clarice has always liked Kool G., but he's never given her any signals. It must have been one of the sistas from Spencer, we guessed. We were on his case a good ten minutes--he just looked so different and so much younger without his shades on.

"Any ideas about who she is?" I throw out, ever the curious and nosy one.

"Why do you think she's from Spencer?" Darrell counters. "All the time Tracy and I were at the BSU, sistas were coming around the turntables all the time fawning over him while they made requests, but the only one he made time with last night was Sandra."

"All well and good," says Jimmy Max, "but if you'll remember, we left to start our own party, and it was sometime after that when they fought."

"So now we're back to our guests, since none of the sistas at brunch would admit to it. They were as blown away as we were," I conclude.

"Maybe, but not necessarily," Tracy says nonchalantly. "Did any of you notice anything else different about Kool G. this morning?"

There is silence as we think. "Well, he acted like he was comin' off a hangover," Jimmy Max says.

"We already know he'd been drinking," says Tracy. "Is there anything else?"

"It's a little hard to describe, but he had this odd look in his eyes," Darrell adds.

"Right, and he didn't cop his usual lean when he walked," I chime in. "It was something like....something like.....yeahhhhh..."

"Dig where I'm comin' from?" Tracy asks.

"Right on! He acted just like you do when someone has turned your ass out!" I exclaim.

Darrell looks over at Tracy. "You mean......"

"Exactly. Someone gave our super DJ an 'education' last night, or should I say, 'introduction.'"

"Interesting theory," says Darrell with a smirk. "Now for the $100,000 question--WHO could have given him such an 'education' that he'd take off his shades?"

"I think I know," Jimmy Max pipes in. "I didn't think anything of it at the time, but before Kool G. sat down at the table I saw this look pass between him and Roger Watson for a second. Come to think of it, Kool G. took his time about sitting down, but I doubt if anyone else noticed that because of his shades--or lack of them. Roger must have been up in there for a LONG time. By the way, D.W. and I have just set you. You're out the back door."

"So we'll get you the next game," Tracy responds, obviously intrigued by Jimmy's deduction. "Roger Watson, eh? He was at our party last night, lookin' like Shaft and movin' like James Brown on the floor."

"And he didn't seem that surprised to see Kool G. the way he was this morning. He messed with him just like everyone else, but he had a smug sort of grin on his face," I add. "How do you suppose they hooked up?"

"Simple," Jimmy Max continues. "From what we learned, the party at the BSU ended around three-thirty, just a little before our set did. Assuming someone drove him to the dorm and parked his ride, he could have arrived here around the time folks were leavin' your room. Remember, you're all in the same dorm---you and Tracy are on the fourth floor, Kool G. on the second and Roger the first. As hot as your room was--for many reasons--several of the brothas had to go outside for air." He pauses while we chuckle. "Anyway, picture Roger coming outside--wet, wired, somewhat bombed and sufferin' from a case of the horny toads. He runs into Kool G., who's feelin' no pain, frustrated and in a blue funk. No one's around, they start rappin', one thing leads to another and..."

"Roger is ridin' Kool G. like the Lone Ranger rides Silver," Darrell says in conclusion. "Man, I have to hand it to you for that one. And you said you're a political science major. Why don't you just go ahead and open a detective agency when you graduate?"

"If he does, I'll be his partner," I answer, giving Jimmy Max a kiss. Tracy shuffles a new deck of cards for our next game. I cut the deck and he deals when we hear the sounds of the Chi-Lites in the air. Four dudes are coming toward us, one carrying a tape player. "Look who we found," Yusef calls as they come closer. This is a trip--it's a wonder their ears weren't sizzling. As Roger and Kool G. have a seat on the other blanket we welcome them, trying to hide our grins while we wonder how long Kool G. can hold out before he begs Roger for some more dick.

No doubt about it, this has been a weekend-and-a-half. Jimmy Max and I have each other "goin' in circles"; it'll be days---and nights---before these smiles come off. I've finally met my brother's boyfriend, and all I can say is, "Great taste, Tracy." He, Darrell and Kareem should make quite a household. They just need to make sure their crib has high ceilings and a king-sized bed, plus a scratching post for Kareem. As for our super DJ from Detroit, Kool G. will continue to have more than his share of attention from the ladies. However, my sixth sense tells me this won't be the last time he and Roger "dance to the music" by a long shot. And the parties--to say they were memorable is putting it very mildly. We've got to do this again--perhaps next time Spencer's BSU can host it. Before we begin another game I propose a toast. With pop cans held high, the eight of us make a toast "to quarter parties and blue lights." Now, let's get down to some "rise 'n fly!"

Comments can be sent to wdfoster@hotmail.com Make sure you include "To Quarter Parties and Blue Lights" in the "Subject" area of your e-mail so I can readily identify it. If you plan on contacting me to flame, it will be ignored and deleted. If you like this story and would like to read more of my work, let me know.

Have a good one!