Date: Sun, 23 Aug 2020 01:25:49 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Tristan" chapter 2 (Gay College)

Tristan

by Henry H. Hilliard

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101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
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Chapter 2

Tristan felt like a real Texas jock when he awoke the next morning, naked
in his dorm room bed and with a hardon and the smell of the previous
night's sweat and semen in his nostrils.  It was some time early--he
couldn't reach his phone on the recharger--and it was still hot. With his
hands behind his head--jock style-- he looked across, but Colt's bed was
just an empty mess. At that instant the stud himself emerged from the
closet dressed in running shorts--the sort that were brief and had the
sides split--and a singlet top that was all arm holes.  Tristan was
disappointed at having missed out on his `rubbing one out' (or rather, his
rubbing another one out) and feasting on his naked form again.

"Get up, Tris, it's time for our run."

Tristan stretched lazily and began to say, "You know, I think I just
might..." The thought remained stillborn, for Colt snatched the sheet away,
leaving Tristan exposed and spluttering.

Colt was grinning. "You know, you could invest in one of those pumps--it
might be worth a try."  Tristan hit him with all the force of a ten
year-old girl.  "Nice pubes though.  I must get you to trim mine before
Saturday night."

Tristan arose from his bed of shame, still rock hard.  "I don't have any
running gear--except for trainers."

Colt went back into the closet and returned with a pair of mesh basketball
shorts and a jockstrap, which he threw at his roomy.  Tristan hopped about
until the strap was on correctly, his penis having deflated slightly and
the big shorts did not look so outlandish when surmounted by a large
tee-shirt of his own.  He put on a fancy pair of new trainers and Colt
delivered a few well-placed barbs, muttering, "All hat and no cattle,"
which caused Tristan to giggle.

It was a jog and not the run he had feared.  Colt was going easy on him and
for that he was thankful.  The easy pace allowed Tristan to see more of the
University.  It was large, with many non-descript modern buildings, but
with a core of older ones that must have dated from only the 1920s--one in
brown stone looking rather like the capitol of some smaller state and
another, in limestone, that might have graced a Soviet new town and which
formed a sort of terminal feature to formal landscaping.

On the peripheries were the dormitories--squat, ugly buildings in
cinderbrick like their own and surrounded by acres of asphalt car parks,
marked out relentlessly with painted lines and lamp standards. Some were
for cadets and the sight of men and women in uniform Tristan found oddly
unsettling. But the campus itself was quite pretty in places, with
well-grown trees and lawns that were mostly unoccupied at this hour.  It
was flat, so the run was easy but there was no overall picture of how the
institution related to the miserable town to which it was connected, nor to
the flat and mostly treeless prairie upon which the town had, seemingly,
been dropped in the middle of nowhere.

They came to the football stadium--perhaps the most impressive and
educationally significant structure in the whole place.  Colt stopped
suddenly and Tristan almost collided with him because he had been trailing,
trying to `get the good' of watching Colt's perfect arse in those little
shorts.  The chief features of the stadium were pointed out to Tristan, as
Colt was already familiar with it and with the three gymnasia and three
swimming pools that had been privately endowed--some for the exclusive used
of the football team.  Tristan agreed that he should use the gym and try to
remember how to swim.  Colt gave a little lecture and Tristan, sensing the
importance of this to his friend, listened patiently.

They started back, sprinting for the last stretch.  Tristan was hopelessly
outclassed, but Colt was good about it, placing a heavy but delightfully
sweaty arm around his neck as they breathlessly made their way to the lift.

Next came the ordeal of the shower.  Tristan determined to throw away the
dressing gown he had at last unearthed as the boys did indeed strut to and
from the showers in mere boxers, briefs, jockstraps and towels, just like
in the novels.  In their room he confessed his fears about getting an
erection and being ridiculed or worse by the denizens of Charles
C. Selecman House.

Colt was sympathetic, offering to shower next to him, which was hardly the
point.  Then he said, mysteriously, "Leave it to me," and they grabbed
their towels and kits and made the short journey to the swing doors.

There was already a small crowd.  Many greeted them by name or with
masculine nods of the head and the invariable ejaculations of `Bro' and
`Dude'.  They put their gear on the ledge above the basins and pressed on
to the showers.  One set of four was unoccupied and so they made for that,
but the water was barely adjusted when Parker and a stranger who was
introduced as `Harrison' joined them to make up the foursome.  Tristan
started to panic and Colt, to his credit noticed.  He introduced easy and
jock-appropriate conversational topics while he let Tristan occupy himself
with shampooing his own hair.  Through the soap, Tristan dared to peek at
Parker and at the redheaded Harrison, who had an intriguingly red bush.  He
rinsed and began on his armpits with gel and furtively looked at Colt and
observed how the water ran down those perfect `buns'.  He willed himself
not to get hard and encouraged all those extreme thoughts--perhaps each
peculiar to his own-- that can be conjured up to kill passion and keep a
cock flaccid.

Then, to his profound shock, Colt turned around and Tristan saw he was
hard, so hard that it stuck out dangerously.  Nevertheless Colt continued
to talk as if this were perfectly normal--about the impending tryouts where
the coaches tried to break the newbies in order to weed out the weakest.
Parker was answering him and his big cock was half hard too, while the
redhead was sort of pulling on his in the fiction of washing it while he
added something about wrestling practice.  In fact, while a might chubbed,
Tristan's English cock was the only one not erect.  A glace at the other
groups also disclosed that quite a few were hard, although none as full
blown or as impressive as that his own stud of a roommate.

They dried off and Tristan shaved while Colt stood next to him at the
mirror and did maintenance on his teeth.  He was still aroused.  "Nothing
to it.  You just need bravado," he whispered.

"It helps if you're the quarterback and you have a python."

"True.  Think Parker was getting' off on me?"  He raised his eyebrows in
the mirror.

Tristan grinned, but he really had no idea.

Back in the room Colts said: "We have the doctor's at 11:00.  I'll be done
training by 10:45 and meet you here."

"You really don't have to come.  I promise I will go."

"You don't want me to come?"

"No, no.  It's good of you.  I'd like a friend there," he added, sensing
Colt needed him to say it.

"You ain't cum yet."

"It's all right."

"No, I got your ass up too early.  It's my fault and y'all will regret it
all day."

"Really..."

But Colt wouldn't take no for an answer.  He also wanted to supervise and
Tristan couldn't stop laughing.  "Do you want your phone?  Give me your
shorts.  Should I do a little dance?  Do you want Parker to come across?
Here's the lube. We'll keep it in this drawer," he said, indicating the
bedside table (which he referred to as a `nightstand') that stood halfway
between the beds.  "There's plen'y left.  It's good stuff, 'though I also
like to do it dry--you know, with all my skin."

"Stop looking at me," laughed Tristan as he lay on the bed.

"You might be adoin' it all wrong."

"There's no wrong way!  Turn around!" Colt turned around. Tristan tried to
masturbate.  "And no looking in the mirror."  Colt only laughed.

Then Colt bent over and touched his toes.  He reached back and lowered his
shorts.  He was not wearing underwear and he was now `mooning' the frapping
Tristan.  "I knew you wuz an ass man," he said in a slow drawl.  "It were
on your Dorm Assignment Form that your Paw done filled out."  There was no
response from the bed.  Then Colt began to spread his arse cheeks.  "Looky
here, Roomy."  Presumably Tristan was looking, but Colt couldn't know for
sure.  "Nice n'pink and untouched by any boy 'ceptin for my own finger on
o-ccasion and some girls what likes to tongue ole Colty's shitter..."

There was a noise and Colt turned around, hoisting up his shorts.  There
was Tristan on the bed, red faced and panting, his stomach and pubes
anointed with cum.  "You bastard!" he gasped.

Colt laughed and threw him their cum towel.  "Good load.  Come on,
breakfast."

Texts summoned, Parker, Alexinia and Leesha and they assembled at the same
table they had previously.  Tristan was powerless to prevent the orgy of
sugary pancakes, Danish pastries and bacon with `syrup'.  Parker had
`sausage' (no plural) and the dreadful biscuits-with-gravy, which Tristan
had sampled before. He cast his mind back to the previous evening and
evidently Colt did too as he mouthed: `cock gravy' and nodded his head in
the direction of Parker's breakfast.  Alexinia and Tristan had fruit and
coffee, Tristan initially being offered, for the thousandth time since his
translation to Texas, a slightly disgusting, cold, manufactured beverage in
a plastic bottle when he had merely asked for `tea'.

There was plenty of good-natured laughter and what Tristan imagined the
locals called `joshing'.  He wished, save for the food, that all breakfasts
were as pleasant as this one and there was a growing warm feeling that he
was now actually at university and part of a social group.

Colt rushed away to football practice and the others wandered back to
Charles C. Selecman, chatting, discovering more about each other and about
their new home.  In the room Tristan tried again to impose some order.
With glee he fell upon an unopened box which, when broached, proved to
contain an expensive Nespresso machine. He set it up on a corner of his
desk and admired it with some satisfaction.  Then he unplugged the lamp and
plugged in the machine.  He set about filling it and put in a pod.  In a
moment there was a short coffee in the little glass that had come with it.
The coffee was good and he drank it with a sigh, noting that the smell of
coffee had now displaced the prevailing smell of sweat and cum.  The coffee
maker was a godsend, although he now couldn't use his desk for study.

He lay on his rumpled bed and went through his initial academic program
that his father had peremptorily selected while he was being so
intransigent and locked in his room.  There was Dr Macpherson's name
attached to the sophomore class in Nineteenth Century History.  Macpherson
was a particular hero.  He was a hot shot historian from Manchester who
offered an alternative interpretation of historical movements to the more
usual Marxist ones and he had been personable enough to write and present
several popular history series on television.  They had been shown on PBS
in the United States.  Now Macpherson had accepted a position at this
institution, which actually enjoyed something of a reputation and probably
paid well thanks to the golden goose that was the football team.  His
father had known that he admired Macpherson and this was evidently why he
had sent him here.

The standards were so appallingly low--at least in the Dallas high school
in which he passed five dreadful months--that his `standing', by dint of
his International Baccalaureate results from England, spared him many of
the `freshman' classes, which he saw were more like secondary school ones,
with naff titles such as, `Study Techniques', `Math for Work', `Photography
101', `World History' and `Ideal of Freedom'.

Apart from Macpherson's, Tristan had selected another history which covered
the American Progressive Era, which he noted was given by a woman who had
written a book that he had once leafed through in a shop.  Then there was a
sophomore English class that covered early twentieth century English
novels.  Next was Philosophy 101 and then Renaissance Art--another freshman
course.  He thought he must see a Dr Hildago, whom he noted was put down as
his course advisor, to see about replacing this last with Ancient Greek
which had taken his fancy in the handbook.  It seemed to be a first year
course and, as he had done just a little Greek in his ninth and tenth years
at his old school as an `elective' subject, he thought he might pick it up
and felt that he was better prepared for it now that he was nineteen.

He was just looking up where Dr Hildago's room was located on his newly
setup laptop when an exhausted Colton appeared at the door.  Tristan was a
little shocked and helped him to the bed, where he sat with his elbows on
his knees.  In a flash Tristan was back in the room with two bottles of
cold water from the machine.  "Coach damn worked us near t'death.  We all
puked our guts out, but I'm still in the team."  At this last, he looked up
and gave a weak smile.

"I smell cawfee," he declared and Tristan theatrically motioned his arms in
the manner of a hostess on a giveaway program.  "Shit man!  You just gotta
thank your ole man for all this stuff.  He done you proud."  Tristan
demurred but Colton was firm.  "No, man, you gotta phone him tonight and
talk.  If y'all leave it be then it'll be too late to heal the breech.
Grow up, Tris, you in college now."  Tristan felt small and had been
thinking along these lines himself before Colton had clarified matters.

"I suppose one of us has to be the adult," he concluded with an attempt to
claw back a little of the high ground.

Colton had recovered sufficiently from his gruelling session and, as he had
already changed and was evidently too exhausted for more masturbation, they
set off for the student doctors located in the Union Building on the floor
above the main cafeteria.

Dr Baddeley proved to be a hard-boiled middle aged woman of the sort that
America produced in quantity. She was bluff and with a mordant sense of
humour that Tristan fell for.  She was a little surprised when Colton came
into her office as well and she made some sarcastic remarks about holding
hands and mused that she was `fresh out' of jellybeans.

Tristan allowed Colton to begin and he related how he had found his
roommate the previous day.  Tristan then told his story, prompted only once
or twice by Dr Baddeley.  He'd been prescribed the tablets by Dr Korporal
and he'd been on them since December.  Dr Baddeley raised her eyebrows at
this then asked what he thought was the problem, at the same time asking
that his history be sent on to her.  Tristan explained about his parents'
messy divorce, his poor reaction to it, his moving from England and the new
arrangements that both his parents had found.

"And you now feel like there is no room for you?" she asked.

Tristan nodded and said, "Where is `home' now?  I only have my Gran."

"Have you had dark thoughts?"

"You mean like suicide or cutting or bad dreams?"

"Yes"

"Some--a few months ago when I locked myself in my room and wouldn't eat.
Not now and I really feel I wouldn't have done it anyway, just you
know...when I was had no one to talk to and stuff."  He glanced at Colton
who looked alarmed.  "Really."

"Perhaps you'd think about seeing a psychologist--there's some good ones
here and they're free for students."  Tristan nodded slightly.  "I really
think these `uppers' are causing you more harm," she said, looking at the
bottle that had been handed over by Colt. "And you should never have been
on such a high dose and for so long."

"And self-medicating," put in Colt, to Tristan's further shame.

Dr Baddeley then outlined a general withdrawal from the medication: one
tablet per day for a week, then a half and so on until Tristan was drug
free within a month.  She handed him a plastic pill cutter from her desk
drawer and wrote out a further prescription for the drug saying, "It's
dangerous to stop too suddenly.  It could send you back into depression.
You've got a good roommate here who'll keep and eye on you.  Report back to
me if he slips or misbehaves," she said to Colt.  "You're the new starting
quarterback, aren't you?"  This led to a few minutes' discussion of
football--Dr Baddeley was evidently a fan--and of the team's prospects.

"Is there anything else, honey," she said to Tristan in a most
unprofessional manner.

"Well...Tristan faltered.  "Well..." he blushed.  "Well, I'm gay, Doctor,
and I'd like a blood test."

"We don't say `gay'; `shirt-lifter' as the correct medical term.  Oh dang,
got that wrong again!"  She grinned and Tristan knew he was being teased,
albeit brutally.  "Very sensible, honey.  Have you been active?"  She
glanced at Colton.

"Oh no, Dr Baddeley," cried Tristan in alarm, "Colton's just my roommate
and he's straight...I wouldn't want anyone to..."

"Well, I guess the jocks are getting broadminded these days.  Bout time
too."  Tristan did not dare to look around to see Colton's reaction.

"Your sexual history then?"

Tristan gulped.  "Well, just some boys at school..."

"No girlfriends?"

"No, just...and a couple of hook-ups at parties in England but
never...never...just you know..."

"No anal intercourse?" stated Dr Baddeley, bluntly, as she made a note on
her pad.

"No, none of that.  Just..."

"Just blow jobs?"

Tristan shut his eyes tightly and nodded, burning with embarrassment.

"J'swaller?"

Tristan opened his eyes wide with horror and saw, after a long second, that
he was being teased by this monster.

He grew bold.  "Of course, every drop!"

Dr Baddeley roared with laughter.  "Hear that, Quarterback?  Boy swallers!"

They were all laughing now and Tristan felt better. "Little chance of HIV
then but its good to get tested all the same.  There are some nasty STDs
out there and we all have to be careful, even at my age."  She laughed
again.  "Nurse'll take yur blood on the way out.  What about you, Cowboy?
You a clean boy?"

"Whole team had to have bloods took last month."

"Practice safe sex with all them cheerleaders?  Wear a rubber?"

Colt nodded and looked at Tristan.

"Better give you a complete physical anyways.  Get your gear off."  Colt
looked alarmed.  "Oh dang, I've got another appointment and no time. Guess
I'll just have to miss out--this time.  But you get your bloods done too,
honey.  Can't jeopardize the team, can we?"

They were dismissed with a further appointment arranged for Tristan and
none, fortunately, for Colt.  The nurse directed them to another room and
twenty minutes later they were outside and rubbing their arms.

"That was an experience," observed Tristan.  "It's a wonder she isn't
struck off."

"She's sure great though.  I'll make sure she gets a ticket to our first
game."

Next on the list was shopping.  The truck was carefully backed out for the
first time and Tristan proceeded onto the Earl Lubbock Parkway, which,
Colton informed him, led to the downtown area of the older town which
adjoined the newer town where the University was located.  The truck was
angle parked and the boys swung out, Tristan feeling like a real cowboy.

Presently they came upon a row of old shops with two floors of dwellings
above them that spoke of the 1890s, when this was just a tiny western town
of a few hundred souls.  There were a few interesting looking stores, but
many were boarded up, which Tristan felt was a pity.  A couple were coffee
shops for college students and these also offered quirky trinkets and
vintage clothes and vinyl.  Colt pointed out his pizzeria, but it was
closed at this hour. There was a bookshop and Tristan immediately went in
and opened an account.  Unbeknown to Colt, he added his roommate's name,
with the intention of telling him at some safe time.  Colt dragged him out
only to discover a sort of health food store.  Tristan looked and made a
few mental notes.

The strip was seemingly exhausted and so they made their way out to the
mall on the outskirts of the town, an area with large, modern high-tech
corporations that obviously fed upon the University and tract housing of
the usual depressing kind that catered for employees and perhaps academic
staff.

Here they found what they were looking for: a small refrigerator, an
electric fan, a supply of sheets and towels and a teapot (for Tristan) and
assorted sundries to make dorm life bearable.  Colt wheeled the fridge to
the truck and hefted it onboard while the rest was consigned to Tristan.
They went back to a menswear outlet and Colt selected some less "Goth"
clothing for Tristan, principally a supply of khaki shorts, tee-shirts and
pairs of Vans and flip flops.

They returned to the old part of town, Tristan saying that he wanted a
coffee.  Colt ordered one too, flirting with the waitress.  Tristan was
horrified when Colt's order embraced cinnamon, caramel and God knows what
else.  "That's not coffee!"  Colton merely flipped him off.

Tristan produced a slip of paper from his pocket.  "What's that?" inquired
his roommate as he sipped from his paper cup.

"Alexinia gave it to me.  It's the address of the best forger of documents
in this town."

"You mean we'll get our exit visas and be able to leave Casablanca?"

"Even better," replied Tristan, giving Colton a mental point for his movie
reference. "We can get top quality fake IDs."

"Fantastic! Sure worth the risk of two year in the Federal Prison
Camp--banged up with Big Bubba."

"We'll still have to be careful--responsible," he amended. "You have to
keep your scholarship and so on.  We don't use them with the police."

"We?  I can't afford a hundred bucks."

"One-fifty, actually--each.  I need you as my designated driver, of course.
This is purely selfish on my part."

This didn't make sense on even a cursory examination, but, as they say in
the States, Colt bought it.

They ventured into a seedy (or more correctly, seedier) part of the
town--Sunset it was called.  They were on foot, reasoning that their new
fridge and new truck would be safer back on the main street and that Colt's
muscles might provide protection enough in broad daylight.

The address was up a set of wooden stairs at the side of a closed factory
or workshop of some kind.  `Rattler' who they were told to ask for,
answered their knocking amid a cloud of dope.  He was friendly, however,
and invited them read his tattoos.  He did tattooing as a sideline, but was
strict about parental approval, which the boys thought odd.  Yes, he could
do them fake IDs and proclaimed that his forgeries were works of art.  He
could also provide drivers' licences, passports and green cards.  "Don't do
firearms."

"Why not firearms?" asked Colt.

"That's Mom's racket.  She'd skin me if'n I was takin' her customers."

They nodded and explained that they just wanted to buy beer.  Rattler
didn't press and soon he had taken their photos and promised the IDs by the
end of the week.

"I'll pay you half now, and half when we collect," said Tristan, trying to
sound like he did this sot of thing all the time.

"All right, English dude.  See you then, if'n I don't have to mind the
baby.  Anyways someone will be here for you."

The money was handed over and the boys left him, feeling quite excited.

They were just about to regain the truck, Colt being promised the driver's
seat this time, when Tristan spotted an antiques shop--or junk shop more
properly.  Colt sighed.  Tristan went alone while Colt lounged against the
truck, baseball cap pulled low, pretending it were his.

Some time later Tristan reappeared with an old cardboard box.  Clearly it
did not contain the advertised dog food and when the old newspaper was
pulled aside there sat a highly ornamental cut glass decanter decorated
with gold leaf. "There's a big silver tray and a set of glasses too.  A
snip at 300 bucks."

Colt thought otherwise.  "Why for fuck's sake d'yall want that piece
o'junk?"

Tristan did not answer until they had returned to the dorm and lugged their
purchases, first to the lift and then down the corridor.  The fridge was
placed in the closet where its humming would be muted.  Some things had to
moved out and Tristan determined to ask Doull, their RA, if they could be
stored somewhere.  The fan was switched on to some good effect and Colt
removed his wife beater.  "Great on ma' nips" he observed, standing right
in front.

Now came the decanter.  It was reverently set up on Tristan's desk,
occupying the last possible place for study, with the dainty little glasses
placed in a circle on the tarnished silver tray which was replete with all
sorts of silver ornamentation.

"We fill the decanter with alcohol and just leave it here in plain sight.
I bet you a hundred bucks that that dullard, Doull, doesn't even notice it;
he'll be looking for beer cans and spirit bottles, not this mad thing.  The
booze will still the same if you don't mind drinking out of grandma's
dainty goblets. Let's test it."

The decanter was filled with water to which a little Coke was added to
colour it.  Then Tristan went down to the floor below, returning with Doull
a few minutes later.  The RA greeted Colt warmly and the topic of football
was given the inevitable airing.  Tristan explained their problem with
storage.  "You see, we have all Colt's football gear and now this fridge
for his special football diet.  We did get rid of the 98-inch TV that my
dad bought.  It's in the common room.  Hunter is going to mount it on the
wall and set up the surround."

"Your dad bought that?  That's way cool of you to let us all use it, man."

"Well, it was too big for here."

Doull shuffled around, stroking his unkempt beard and lifting his Cargill
Feed cap to scratch his head.  He looked right at the `alcohol' but said
nothing.  Watching him think was painful.  "'s uppose these here bags and
valises could go inna storeroom. Yu'd jus havta ask me fur the key when
y'all wants them."  He broke into a smile at his own brilliance.

"Shit, thanks for that, Doull.  We never thought of that.  Could we put our
winter coats and stuff in there too?"

"Sure, man."

He took a key from a bunch and handed it to Tristan.  Tristan moved the
things down to the storeroom at the end of the corridor in three trips
while Doull enjoyed the reward of talking to Colt who lay back on his bed.

When the RA at last took his leave, Colt bounced off the bed.  "You are one
bad ass dude, British Roomy. Day-amn, you go in for forged IDs and now you
stooge our RA to let us have booze to ease the pain, man!  That was the
shit.  He didn't say a thang!  That fancy bottle coulda been full o'Jack
and he was blind to it."

"It was nothing.  I'm thinking of majoring in crime."



Colt was on his bed in another set of plaid boxers going over a thick book
of `plays' that apparently had to be committed to memory. He was murmuring
to himself.  Tristan was on his bed re-reading Jude the Obscure, which
appeared to be first on his Lit list and wearing Colton's plaid boxers from
the previous day.  It made him feel sexy.  "Hey!" said Colton suddenly from
his side of the room, "I haven't even asked what y'all majoring in.  Sorry,
man."

"Me neither.  No major declared.  History and English mostly, but I'm
thinking of taking Greek."  He made his schedule into a plane and flew it
across the room.

Colton studied it for a moment.  "Shit, man!  Y'all must a genius; these
are second year subjects.  What y'all doing hangin' round with a farmboy
bonehead like me."

"Shut up with that or I might just have to `rassle' your arse," replied
Tristan.  "It's just that I have just done some of these in my I.B. and
they let me skip a few, but others are freshman."

"Was it some fancy school?"

Tristan named it and confessed that it `was rather' and explained a little
about the International Baccalaureate.  He went on to talk about
Macpherson.

"Another reason to thank your dad."

Tristan ignored this and asked about Colton's program.  He didn't have the
printout at hand, but he recited a list of first year subjects.

"Hey," responded Tristan, "Calculus and Linear Algebra sound really
difficult and I couldn't even pass year ten Chemistry. You can't be a
slouch if you got in here."

"Maybe. Math is easy and Chem is jus' memorizin' a bunch o' stuff.  I like
Human Biology best--you know, muscles and shit..."

"And first aid," added Tristan, recalling the previous day.

"Yeah, Sue Barton, Student Nurse, that's me," he said bitterly, "but I
really love Ev'lutionary Biology--Darwin and all that shit makes you think,
but "I'm goin' ter stuggle n'Ainglish."

"No you won't, I'll tutor you...if you coach me in fitness.  Deal?"

"Yeah, sweet, Roomy!"

"Jack off before supper?"

"Now you getting' with the program.  But..."

"What?"

"Caw your Dad.  Ring him, man, or I won't let y'all watch m'shit."

Tristan grumbled and reached for his phone.  Colton left the room and
sauntered down the hall to Parker's where he knocked and was admitted by
Hollis, Parker's roommate and the wide receiver on the football team.  The
boxer-clad dudes were preparing for a little dorm room party that very
evening and were assembling the essential red `Solo cups' and packets of
snacks.  Hollis showed him his stash of `good' weed that he had obtained
from a secret source.  The chicks were bringing some hot dance music on
their phones and someone was bringing the beer and Colt revealed that he
would be able to buy next time, as his new and older self was soon to be
given the imprimatur of the printed word, although that was not exactly how
he expressed it.

He returned to the room and found that Tristan was crying.  He put his arm
around him and have him a bro hug.  "All right, man?"

Tristan sniffed and nodded.  "Yeah.  A bit of a start I suppose.  I thanked
him for all the stuff he'd done.  Thanked him from you too.  It was the
right thing.  Thanks, Roomy."

"Party at Parker's tonight.  Hey, can he borrow your speaker?  The girls
are bringing a dance mix.  Colty might just do some of his im-pressive
moves for the ladies."  He let out a whoop and swivelled his hips.  "Oh!
Got myself right rilled up.  J.O. time!"

He bounded onto the bed like a Newfoundland puppy and flipped his boxers
down and hooked them with his toe in Tristan's direction once again.
"Lube, bro," he requested as he had his cock firmly in his grasp.  Tristan
reached sideways to the drawer and did a bro-type throw to Colt who caught
it with his spare hand.  With a practiced dexterity, the cap was flipped
and a squirt was administered to the quarterback's big prick.  "Is there no
balm in Gilead?" he said more to himself than to Tristan.  "Darn tootin'
there is," and he slathered it on with a sigh.  Tristan silently chalked up
another point for this Biblical quote. "Any requests from th'audience?"

"Just do your thing, man," replied Tristan from his bed.

There was a general silence save for the sound of slapping skin and
occasional grunts.

Colton broke it.  "Dude, I'm getting' way too close too quick. Gotta stop.
What you said today, to Dr B; you ain't never had no sex with a chick?"

"I'm gay, doofus."

"Yeah.  Just given a few guys blowies?"

"Yes, you heard.  Never taken it up the arse, if you must know.  What about
you--girls I mean.

"Well, man, how long you got? Lost my V card when I wuz four-teen.  Then
there wuz too many t'count.  They loved Colty's charm and his big night
wrangler."

"You just made that up."

"Who sez I couldn't?"

"Made 'em squeal some, especially as I likes it sometimes up the
Brazzos--you'd know what that means. An older widder woman taught me a mess
of stuff when I was just sixteen.  I won't tell you her name 'cause she
knows my mom and we're still on visitin' terms.  That is until I got my
girl."

"You have a girlfriend?" asked Tristan, slightly shocked.

"Surely do."

"I suppose her name is Becky-Sue and she's the girl next door type."

"Only if yer lives next door to a panel beater.  Here."  He grabbed his
phone off the bedside table and came across to Tristan's bed.  Tristan was
propped up on his elbows and took the phone.  "Pardon my cock-honey, Tris."
Tristan looked down and a steady stream was pouring from the foreskin of
the meaty penis and pooling on his midriff.  "Musta been all the talk about
Mia."

Tristan looked at the photo.  There was a hot and sultry Latina who looked
about twenty-five.  He swiped the screen and there were several more of
Mia; in cut off denims with a halter top--she had big boobs; in tight white
slacks and high heels; pushing her shoulder-length hair aside to expose her
large, gold earrings; with Colton and obviously at a school formal--Colton
squeezed into a dreadful white dinner suit with a fluorescent green bow
tie, but nevertheless looking hot.  Colt quickly took the phone back saying
that the other pictures were too intimate and that he was protecting her
reputation.

"Wow, you're a hot couple.  Is she at university?"

"Hell no.  Hopefully she's at home misty eyed for yours truly and riding a
big Colty-sized dildo.  Truth is she's probably gone back to that husband
of hers.  Chicks can't be trusted no farther than y'can throw 'em--that's
just a figga o' speech, Tris. My folks bought me up right and I never puts
the beats on the ladies.  She could scratch, mind, and I had some scars on
m'back that I had to hide from Momma.

"Wow, you've had an adventurous life compared to me."

"Maybe.  Maybe your time will come.  Maybe my time has passed," he intoned
with unconvincing wisdom.

They resumed their self abuse, Tristan cumming first and Colt cumming with
his middle finger inserted into his rectum, explaining, as they mopped up
with the towel, that this flourish was especially for Tristan who had been
such a good boy all day.



The party was pretty much what Tristan had expected.  The tiny room was
packed with people--most whom Tristan now considered to be friends and
acquaintances and music boomed from the Bluetooth speaker.  Tristan was now
dressed just like the other boys, in shorts and flip flops on his too-pale
feet.  He had laughed when he saw himself in the big mirror on the inside
of the closet door.  He wondered what his smart, clubbing friends in London
would say if they could see him now.  Still, it was nice to fit in, to
belong.

He was still a novelty and new people were especially eager to hear him
speak, only then to remark on the singularity of his accent and the
baffling extent of his vocabulary.  It was becoming a little tiresome when,
in just such a group, someone stupidly said, "Go on, say somethin'!"
Tristan replied, "I'm Tristan Isley and I'm gay."  There was little
reaction and just at that moment a cheer went up for the beer had arrived
and Tristan and his sexuality were suddenly old news.

Colt came up to him with Alexinia and handed him a Solo cup of beer.  "Well
done, Roomy.  You're a free man now. Proud of yur ass."  Alexinia kissed
him again and stated that it was her mission to `turn' him.  Tristan
relaxed and laughed.

There was some dancing in the confined space and, true to form, Colt put on
a show, which elicited whistles and catcalls.  There was beer pong, but
Tristan didn't know the rules and, on his third beer, couldn't understand
them when explained by Hollis who was on his sixth or seventh.

The football players refused the joints that were passed around, Colt
explaining that the team was continually tested for drugs in the season,
but alcohol was okay.  The beer and weed were possible because Doull was
known to be out for the night; he had a girlfriend in the town that worked
at Wal-mart.

Jimmy was a terribly cool boy from Hong Kong and Tristan found his English
English oddly reassuring.  They joked about how naff the American jocks
were and how they must lack the specific gene for `hip'.  "Your sport?"
asked Tristan as he handed Jimmy a cup of beer.

"Shocking cliché, I'm afraid, mate," he replied, looking over his
sunglasses.  "Badminton.  Not exactly built like a refrigerator, am I?"
They laughed and continued to chat until Leesha sidled up and started to
dance with Tristan, if rubbing her body against his in the confined space
between the desks could be so described.

"I'm so glad you're gay, Tris."  Tristan murmured something non-committal
in reply.  "No, I mean now we can totally go shopping and shit and hang out
without any pressure."

"You mean me pressuring you, or you pressuring me?"

"Oh I'd be pressuring you, big time.  You're real cute and all like
mysterious and shit."

"No I'm not," said Tristan, blushing, but Leesha would have none of it and
outlined features physical and certain behavioural traits that bolstered
her conclusion.  She spoke softly into his ear.  "Rachel saw you two at Dr
Baddeley's this morning."

Tristan was slightly annoyed, but said, "Colton made me go.  I had been
unwell on some medication."

"Oh the drug thing," said Rachel, dismissively and immediately pressed on.
"She didn't let you see her.  She has a little problem that you might like
to tell your roommate about."  Tristan looked at her.  "It's just a little
rash...down there," she continued in a whisper.  "I'm sure all the tablets
and the cream...and the spray, will have it fixed in no time; surely less
than three months."  She then grinned.  "We gals are such bitches, aren't
we?"

"And competitive," replied Tristan in some admiration.

Tristan had been dancing with Alexinia and then with a general group of
males and females when he heard a voice coming from a corner of the
room. Boone, a footballer was angrily hissing comments about `faggots' and
`queers'.  Tristan's heart sank.  The others were tyring to reason with
him--he was drunk--but he broke free and approached Tristan who quailed,
for Boon was a big unit.  "Don't hold with no faggots," he said to
Tristan's face.

"Don't hold what?" said Tristan, pretending not to understand.  "I'm not
from around here."

"Don't believe in it 'swat I mean.  Don't believe in no homo-sicko stuff
and don't believe in Yankees neither."

"I'm not a Yankee."

"Glad to hear that, but then you n'illegal alien or some shit and your
bringing your faggotry and sharia law here and underminin' the American Way
of Life."  He was spitting as he got the words out.

"What's the American way of life?"

"Why all this, dumbass," he said, sweeping his arm around to embrace all in
the dorm room.  "And there's no gay stuff allowed.  I don't hold with it, I
say, and I re-fuse to allow some damn foreigner--or Yankee--to fuck me up
the ass."

"Not even a little bit?" asked Tristan, feeling more provocative now that
Colt had slid up beside him.

"Not one motherfuckin' inch. I tell yer."

"Well, you've convinced me.  Your arse is safe."

"Damn right it's safe.  And I'm the one that's savin' it, cocksucker."

"You save it for your girl, Boone," said Colton in a gentle voice as he
guided the orator to the door and pushed him through it and locked it with
a click. He turned to the room and laughter erupted and even Tristan found
that he was chuckling and that his knees had stopped shaking.

The party fizzled out and the boys left, mindful of football practice in
not so many hours.

They were lazily jacking off in their respective beds with the light out.
Only the Texas moonlight caught the ridges and shadows of Colton's `ripped'
body as he lay on his back.  "You done a brave thing, back there, Tris."

Tristan didn't know what to say. "Rachel has vaginitis, I think.  Leesha
said to warn you. Better wear a condom."

"Or I could just take her up her ass pussy," replied Colton in the dark.
There was a pause, punctuated by grunting. "Rachel said that Leesha has a
boyfriend-- Rayvon--you've met him.  Said that they go way back way in
Dallas.  Warned me about his mean temper."  He laughed.  "But I'd surely
like to munch on her pussy--damn that gets me hot.  My tongue-lovin' is my
other specialty," he added.  "Can get it so far up they..."

"You're shittin' me again.  I can't tell when your serious or not," Tristan
interrupted.

"Yeah, but it sure gets you riled up, Roomy.  I love that.  'smostly true,
just coloured up some for y'all benefit.  Cum for me, Roomy, come for your
cowboy."

Tristan did come--hard.  He was panting.  "I thought you didn't like being
called, `cowboy'?"

"That's a privilege I allows only you, Roomy.  And that's in private.  I
was jus' awaitn' for you."  With a grunt and a profanity his spilled in the
dark.  Presently Tristan felt the towel hit his face.  It was sopping.  By
the time he was cleaned up, he could hear snoring from across the way.  He
drew his sheet up and closed his eyes in sleep.

***

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and
will endeavour to reply.  Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put
Tristan in the subject line.