Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2024 21:24:26 -0500
From: Jack Chandler <jackchandler1904@gmail.com>
Subject: Higher Education, Chapter 7

The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
By:  Jack Chandler

Copyright 2024.  All characters depicted in this story are fictional and
are not meant to represent any actual person.

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Chapter 7: Clowning Around
Saturday, August 19, 1995

Faced with Matt's indecision, William intervened. "Matthew, dahling, my
willie's going to shrivel in this air conditioning! Let's move this along,
shall we?"

"Of course," Matt said.

"Would it be safe to assume that you wish to top?" William asked.

Matt nodded shyly.

"Thought so," William smiled. "Let's find you the perfect bottom, then."
Ever the performer, he slipped into salesman mode. He stepped behind Todd
and put his hands on Todd's slender shoulders. "Todd's our youngest model,
just a tad over nineteen. Very low mileage. Loves to bottom, don't you,
Todd?"

Todd nodded. He had a thick, almost curly mass of black hair. That and his
piercing blue eyes gave him that boyish Elijah Woods look.

"Or," William continued, "should you want to fuck `GI Joe', we have
Josh. He's twenty-one, versatile, and has been around the block enough
times to give you a thrilling first ride."

Josh turned slightly, showing Matt both his front and back sides. He was
the most classically handsome of the lot, a chestnut-haired All-American
boy-next-door.

Matt listened to William's pitch, eyeing Todd and Josh as they were
presented, but also distracted by Jake and those blue high tops. Todd,
while beautiful and sweet, looked too innocent. Matt wasn't interested in
deflowering the village virgin. Josh, all muscles and hide, was a birddog
of sorts, a loyal, friendly retriever. He would finish the job that a
hunter began.

Jake was the real hunter in the room. Trim but not muscled, he had a feline
sensuality, a tomcat's strutty stance. He had that aloof, almost bored look
cats feign while only their twitching tails betray their real intent.

And Jake's tail was twitching.

William stepped towards Luke, but before he could begin his spiel, Luke
spoke up. "Give it up, William. We all know Jake's going to win. It's those
damn shoes!"

Jake grinned. "They are my lucky shoes."

William filled Matt in on the backstory. "Luke and Todd are our two newest
members. Both chose Jake and his shoes. If you pick him, he will be the
only person in club history to win three times in a row."

Matt played it coy. "I haven't chosen anyone yet. Besides, where are the
other two guys? There are only six of you here. I thought there were eight
members."

William waved a hand dismissively. "You'll meet them soon enough. One is on
security detail. The other is monitoring a situation on campus."

"What situation?" Evan asked.

William spoke in a calming tone. "Let's not spoil Matt's initiation. For
now, all you need to know is that Adam Maxwell is no longer a student at
OC. After Matt chooses his bottom, the rest of us will decamp and regroup
at the clubhouse, where I'll answer as many questions as I can."

Adam Maxwell. Matt did not recognize the name, but the others did, and they
were upset at the news. Matt quickly learned that this Adam kid was one of
the two other gay freshmen the group had identified. Josh had been his
sponsor. Something bad had obviously happened to Adam. Matt guessed it had
been this news that had been troubling William when they met in the lobby
earlier.

There was one less gay on campus, one less member of their tribe. Matt
couldn't help wondering which of them would be the last of the Mafioso
Mohicans.

William spoke quietly. "You're all familiar with what is written in the
book of Ecclesiastes, that `there is a season for every activity under the
heavens, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to
dance.' This is not the time to mourn Adam's departure. Not yet. That time
will come later, I promise you."

"This," William said, mischievously, "is the `time to sow'". He paused a
moment to allow his wry joke to take root. "To do that, Matt needs to
select his bottom!"

Everyone cheered.

And, of course, Matt chose Jake.

The rest of the guys dressed quickly, wished Matt and Jake a good fuck, and
left, intent on regrouping at the clubhouse, wherever that was. William was
the last to leave. He told Jake to be sure Matt was back on campus by
curfew. He also said they would all meet Monday evening at the clubhouse
for a watch party of sorts, to, hopefully, celebrate Matt's having won his
election.

Matt had momentarily forgotten about the election. He had made and hung a
couple of posterboard signs. His teammates were eagerly campaigning for
him, as was Seth his shower singing buddy.

Matt's mind locked onto that word "clubhouse." He hadn't seen the place,
but, judging by this hotel room, it wouldn't be a dilapidated shack like
the one Alfalfa, Spanky, and the gang used in The Little Rascals. Any group
that could afford to rent fancy hotel suites and had a fancy clubhouse was
too rich for Matt's blood.

The door had barely closed before Jake sprang a boner. "Shoes on or off?"
he grinned.

"On," Matt said. He had worried about the propriety of fucking so soon
after hearing the news about Adam. He had worried the news might affect his
libido. He had even worried whether he could be aroused by someone other
than William.

Those worries proved baseless.

Jake was 5'9", maybe 5'10". He had shaggy brown and blonde streaked hair
and a wicked alley cat smile. He was tan and lean, smooth from the waist
up, with softly furred legs and ass.

They stood awkwardly, their dicks straining to make introductions but
unable to close the distance on their own. Matt did not want to proceed
under false pretenses.

"I think I'm in over my head," Matt said. "I thought this was just a group
of poor college kids like me. I can't afford to pony up my share of a room
like this, much less help maintain a clubhouse." He felt gut-punched. He
had to wave goodbye both to his tribe and this hot guy he had almost been
able to fuck.

Jake laughed. "If money were an issue, the only one of us who would be in
this group would be William! His dad is loaded, and pours a ton of money
into OC. You want to know the real reason William gets away with being such
a queen on campus? Daddy's money buys a lot of blind eyes. Don't get me
wrong. If William ever got caught even holding a guy's hand, he'd get
expelled lickety-split, rich daddy or not."

"So, William's dad pays the Gay Mafia's bills?" Matt asked.

Jake shook his head. "No. Sorry. I was just explaining that William's the
only rich kid in our group. As far as this room and the clubhouse go, those
costs are covered by our Alumni Association."

"Alumni Association?" Matt did not even try to conceal his skepticism. "For
the Gay Mafia at OC?" This seemed like a bad Saturday Night Live skit.

Jake shrugged. "Okay, so it isn't a real association. It is just four
guys. Two were OC Gay Mafia. One of the others went to OC for a couple of
years, then transferred to OU. The fourth was expelled from OC for sucking
cock. But, yeah, they pay for the occasional hotel room so we can hold
interviews without compromising the clubhouse. And they pay for the
clubhouse. It isn't like they send us on Caribbean cruises."

Matt considered the facts--and the numbers. Oklahoma Christian had been in
existence for forty-five years, during which tens of thousands of kids had
attended. Statistically two percent of those had been gay and had
first-hand, intimate experience with the Christian love and grace OC
extended to fags. It was not outside the realm of possibility that four
such gay kids--now adults--would donate a few hundred bucks a month to make
other kids' lives more bearable.

Matt felt relief washing over him. The fuck was back on!

Oddly, though, Matt wasn't sure how to proceed. Gone was Cocky Matt, who
had confidently carried William to the back of the Jeep and made him lick
his pits. In his place was Cocky Matt's shy doppelganger, Wallflower Matt,
a guy who almost wished he had a towel to wrap around his naked torso. He
stood timidly, hoping Jake would make the first move.

Jake smiled reassuringly. "You must be thirsty after that long interview,"
he said.  He went to the mini fridge, retrieved a bottle of wine, and
hunted for glasses. Matt ogled him the whole time, mesmerized by the play
of light against the hairs on his ass cheeks.

Jake returned and handed Matt a glass. "To new friendships," Jake said.

"To new friendships." Matt sipped the yellowish wine. It was cold and crisp
on his tongue. The only other alcohol he had ever tasted had been a Bud
Light someone smuggled to a soccer team party. (Churches of Christ frowned
on alcohol of any kind, but then they frowned on most things.)

Matt's mind scribbled furiously, trying to write a script for this moment,
but it was gibberish. How many times over the last five years had he
imagined a scenario like this, played it out in his mind's eye step by
step, stroke by stroke until he spilled his ink into his hand?

Mercifully, Jake came to the rescue--again. "Let's just chat for a
bit. Enjoy our wine." Jake reclaimed the wingchair he had occupied during
the interview. He draped one leg over the chair's padded arm, his blue clad
foot hanging lazily. "Tell me about the first time you remember being
attracted to a guy," he said.

Matt sank into his previous hot seat. He did have the presence of mind to
turn it so that he had a full-on view of Jake's loveliness. "Is this more
of the interview?" Matt asked, worried. Earlier, as Clown, Jake's questions
had focused on Matt's sexuality. (Why the Dallas Cheerleaders poster? What
had Matt done with girls?) Now this.

Jake laughed. "The interview's over. I'm just making conversation. I'd like
to know you better. That's all."

While Jake spoke, his draped leg swung hypnotically. Matt's gaze went from
the swinging blue shoe to the brown, hairy, nest that framed Jake's cock
and trailed into his ass. These hairs were darker than those on the rest of
his body. Matt ached to explore the valley between those cheeks.

Matt sipped more wine. "I was six or seven years old. My dad took me to
watch a high school basketball game. Wellston, Oklahoma. The `Tigers.'" It
was the first such game Matt remembered. Wooden bleachers sticky from
decades of spilled soda. Whistles and shouting and buzzers echoing off the
walls. Players scrambling from one end of the court to the other, seemingly
at random.

Jake leaned back in his chair as if settling in for a good conversation. It
was not lost on Matt, though, that Jake's ass edged forward, spreading his
legs a tad more, allowing light into the hidden crevasse Matt longed to
explore.

"We were seated right behind the home bench. Towards the end of the game,
one of the players got substituted out. He'd been running hard. There was
less than a minute on the clock. Their team was winning. This player
absently stripped off his jersey and started mopping the sweat from his
face and neck."

"Go on," Jake said. In his semi-reclined position, his pink ball sack was
beautifully framed by his dark pube and taint hair, a friar's bald pate
rising above his fringe. Jake's scrotum was exactly the kind of plump coin
purse a prowling cat would have, with just enough room for its two kidney
shaped testicles and no more.

Matt's throat went dry with desire. He sipped more wine. "The only
shirtless guys I'd seen until then were either kids my age or older guys
like my dad. You know, paunches, spindly arms, saggy chests."  "Scary
stuff," Jake agreed.

Matt continued. "I was too young to know about sex. I just remember
thinking that kid was beautiful. It confused me because I'd never heard
anyone describe a guy as beautiful. Girls were the ones who were supposed
to be beautiful or pretty. I'd never thought of a girl the way I did that
guy. I just wanted to hug him, to connect with that beauty in the only way
my little mind could imagine."

"Aww, that's a wonderful story," Jake said. "Thank you."

Matt asked Jake the same question, about the first time he knew he was gay.

Jake met Matt's gaze and held it. "I'll be glad to answer that if you
really want to know. But eventually you're going to have to make the first
move here."

Matt gulped.

"You have to venture out of the shallow end of the pool, baby," Jake
said. "Eventually we all do. Not everyone gets a friendly swim coach like
me."

Matt took one more sip of wine, then set the glass on the floor. He gave up
on the idea of scripting this scene, remembering William's advice when they
had hooked up in the cargo area of Matt's Jeep. "Throw the script away,"
William had said. "This is Improv."

Matt crossed to Jake, crouched beside the chair. He leaned in and kissed
this beautiful boy. He planned to do more than hug him.

Matt explored Jake's chest with one hand, teasing his nipples. Quickly,
though, Matt's hand migrated south, inexorably drawn there by a force
greater than gravity. Their tongues were locked in an ancient dance,
exchanging saliva as prelude to other exchanges.

Jake slid down in the chair, eased his leg higher on the armrest, offering
accessibility.

Matt's fingers read their way to the hole as if the soft hairs beneath them
encoded the map in a sort of braille. He paused at the sphincter. Instinct
had led him this far but left him stranded with uncertainty. All he knew
was that he wanted to plunge into the deep end of that pool, to make
intimate connection with Jake. He hesitated, on the edge of the cliff.

Swim coach to the rescue! Jake broke off the kiss. "It takes lube,
baby. Assholes aren't self-lubricating like vaginas. Store-bought lube is
the gold standard, especially for fucking. There's some in the dresser in
the bedroom. Pre-cum is second best. Saliva will do for fingering and maybe
fucking--for guys smaller than you."

"Thanks, coach," Matt grinned. He reached over and milked Jake's cockhead
until his fingers were slick with pre-cum. Soon enough Matt's middle finger
was deep inside Jake, tapping his prostate, eliciting low, guttural moans.

It was time to fuck.

Matt scooped Jake out of the chair, carried him to the bedroom, and set him
on the bed.

Jake watched as Matt retrieved the lube and slathered it on his dick.

"Roll over," Matt ordered. There was urgency in his voice. "I'm going to
fuck you face down."

If Jake was surprised by Matt's new authority, he didn't show it. He rolled
over and spread his legs. His blue-shod feet dangled off the edge of the
bed. He arched his ass in readiness. "Remember to go slow," was all he
said.

Matt straddled Jake's hips. He separated the ass cheeks reverently, gazing
down at the hole--the first one he had ever beheld--as if it were the Holy
Grail and he a Knight Templar. This had been his fantasy for five long
years--fucking a guy facedown. He knew, on a certain level, that this was
rooted in his own experience, his thirteen-year-old self pinned down,
penetrated, sobbing with pain. It didn't take a psychologist to understand
that some portion of this fantasy involved Matt's rescuing his younger
self. He would be the penetrator. He would be on top.

But this time things would unspool differently.

There would not be blood. There would be no sudden rage at Jake, calling
him a filthy faggot, ordering him to clean up his mess and go home.

Matt would be gentle and caring. He would not take more than he gave. He
would ensure that Jake was sated. Or, to borrow William's imagery, he would
earn a five-star review.

Matt teased the hole's edges apart, stared into the tiny slot that looked
barely able to accommodate a finger. Matt had often pondered whether these
wonders were round and puckered like a cat's, cratered like calderas, or
yawned open like Venus fly traps.

This one was a perfect little buttonhole. It was outlined by a tiny, pale,
pencil line ridge. Matt's throat went dry--again. There was no wine to wet
it this time. He swallowed. "Your hole is beautiful. You are beautiful."

Matt positioned his cockhead against the event horizon of Jake's Pink
Hole. He applied pressure, trying to squeeze in.

"You're too high," Jake advised.

Matt corrected the angle, pushed again.

"Still too high."

On Matt's third at bat, the buttonhole surrendered its secrets, much as the
cave of treasures had opened for Ali Baba when he'd uttered the magic
phrase "Open Sesame." Matt watched his cockhead squeeze inside, was
fascinated as Jake's ass sealed over it.

Matt gauged the depth of penetration by the atmospheric pressure moving
down his shaft. Eventually he reached the limit. His ball sack grazed
Jake's ass.

Instinctively, Matt waited, giving Jake's body time to adjust.

Matt lowered his upper body until his chest was against Jake's back. Matt
found Jake's hands, clasped them with his own, fingers interlocked. He
eased Jake's arms to an outstretched crucifixion position. Matt's mouth was
near Jake's left ear. "Ready, beautiful?" Matt asked softly.

"Yes."

Matt's legs were inside Jake's own. Matt spread his legs, stretching Jake
further, gaining, in the process, more real estate to penetrate.

Matt bred Jake, rolling his own hips until his pubis bone ground against
Jake's sacrum, feeling the gorge building, adjusting his stroke to elicit
the same Pentecostal mewlings from Jake as Matt had sputtered while impaled
by William.

Matt pumped through his orgasm, his final thrusts delivered like the sharp
taps of Morse Code.

Matt rolled the two of them onto their sides. With his left arm around
Jake's chest, Matt held him close, his cock still buried in Jake's ass.

Matt hawked up a wad of spit into his right palm. Then he reached around
and grasped Jake's cock.  Jake moaned.

Matt whispered in Jake's ear. His voice was low, commanding. "There's no
time to get more lube. No time to milk you for more pre-cum. You've got
this little wad of spit. That's it. Now cum for me. Cream my hand. And when
you do, I'm going to lick my fingers and swallow every drop. We'll each
have the other's cum inside us."

It took only a few strokes before Jake's entire body stiffened. Rigor
mortis of the orgasmic kind. No wonder, Matt thought, the French called
this the "little death."

Matt cupped his hand to capture the jets of warm cream.