Читать книгу Every Frat Boy Wants It - Todd Gregory - Страница 9

What happened between us that first afternoon didn’t happen again, no matter how much I wanted it to.

I was afraid to bring it up, and Blair never did.

It was like it never happened in the first place; a figment of my imagination created by a pot-impaired brain. But in my heart I knew it had happened. I could still taste his lips, feel his arms around me, the feel of our crotches working against each other. He replaced Kevin in my fantasies until I couldn’t even remember what Kevin looked like. One night, I tried to summon up Kevin’s image, and wound up having to get my yearbook to get an idea. As I looked down at Kevin’s senior picture, I shook my head. Why were you so obsessed with him? He’s nowhere near as cute as Blair—and Blair’s a lot more fun to hang out with.

We started spending a lot of time together. Every morning, he’d pick me up for class and we’d smoke a joint on the way to the campus. That made Macro Economics a lot more interesting, even though I spent most of my time daydreaming about Blair. Whenever I could, I would watch him and try to commit details to memory, so I could call them up later in my bed. I loved the way his shoulders tapered down to his waist. I loved how his torso was almost completely hairless—except for the wiry black hairs that led from his navel down to his waistband. I loved how he only wore Versace underwear, and only black. And my parents loved him—the allure of being the son of their favorite movie star was too much for them. As long as I was with Blair, I could stay out as late as I wanted, and Mom never mentioned me getting a job again. It wasn’t like I needed money anyway—Blair always had money, and Blair always wanted to pay my way. It didn’t matter if it was a movie, or popcorn for the movie, or the Carl’s Jr. drive-through, or pizza—Blair always paid. I kept the same twenty in my wallet day after day, just in case I should ever need it.

But I never did. Blair would get mad if I even reached for my wallet, so eventually I stopped trying. “What’s the point of having a rich father,” he’d say, “if you can’t treat people to something every once in a while?”

And spending a lot of time with him meant spending a lot of time at the Beta Kappa house. Blair didn’t really like to go to movies, and we weren’t old enough to go to bars anyway. “Besides, the only people we’d meet there are locals,” he would say, forgetting that I was one, “and spend a lot of money on watered-down drinks. We can drink here a lot cheaper—and better.” And, as he wisely pointed out, we couldn’t exactly get stoned and drink beer at my house with my mother around. And so, I somehow moved from prospective pledge to guaranteed pledge—even though they couldn’t officially offer me a bid until the fall semester started. It just seemed kind of natural that I’d join Beta Kappa. It was a lot of fun hanging around the house—even though I didn’t get to see Rory Armagh coming out of the showers naked again. Every so often, for a change of pace, when I lay in my bed at night pulling on my dick, I tried to remember every detail of Rory’s naked body. But even as I got closer and closer to shooting my load, Blair would push Rory out of my mind. And I loved watching Blair whenever we were together, and unlike with Kevin, I didn’t care if he noticed. I wanted him to notice. I wanted him to know that whenever he decided it was okay, I was ready to be kissed again. I was ready to make love to him, hold him, suck his dick—even let him fuck me, if he wanted to. My entire world revolved around him, and while I did like the other brothers who were staying at Beta Kappa over the summer—mostly smoking pot and drinking every day—I just wanted to be with Blair.

I got aroused whenever he stretched, memorizing what his flat stomach looked like so I could remember later, or when he bent over to pick something up, as his shorts rode down and his shirt went up, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of his tan line and the crack of his beautiful ass.

I wanted him more than I’d ever dreamed of wanting Kevin.

The other brothers I met were pretty cool. I spent some time hanging out with Jerry Pollard, and found out that the reason he spent so much time looking out the upstairs window at the parking lots was it helped him to focus his creative energies. He wanted to be a writer—as did I—and he was very helpful by giving me the rundown on what classes to take and what classes to avoid in the English department. He was writing a fantasy novel, but no matter how many questions I asked he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. “What are you writing?” he asked me finally to get the subject off his own book. I took a hit out of his bong. It wasn’t as smooth as Blair’s dragon, but I thought it was cool that it was shaped like Gandalf from Lord of the Rings. Jerry’s whole room was done in Tolkien. “Oh, I’m not ready to write anything yet,” I replied, passing him the bong back and taking a swig out of my Bud Light. I was developing quite a taste for beer during my time spent at the Beta Kappa house. “I still have a lot to learn, I think.”

He frowned at me. “That’s just dumb, Jeff, and you’re not a dumb guy. Young maybe, immature certainly, but not dumb.” He took a hit.

“What do you mean?” I asked. Fortunately, I was pleasantly stoned, otherwise I would have probably gotten pissed at being called young and immature.

“Writers write,” he said, waving Gandalf in front of my nose. “Even if it’s crap. You should spend at least an hour or two each day writing—even if it’s just a journal or a diary, or whatever. Even if it’s just venting about something stupid that happened to you that day. It can be great therapy, you know. Writing is like anything else, Jeffy—the more you do it, the better you get at it. Practice, practice, practice.”

Later, in Blair’s room and on my fifth beer, I mentioned what Jerry had said, and Blair frowned at me. “You never told me you wanted to be a writer.”

“You never asked.” I reached for the dragon and the lighter.

“You should tell your best friend these things, you know. You want to write fiction or screenplays?” He handed me the bag of weed. “I think that’s empty.”

“Fiction. I want to write books.” I loaded the bowl and took a hit. “I want to be a bestselling author whose books are turned into movies, whose books inspire people to be better people, and be rich and famous and well-respected, asked to speak at colleges…” I grinned, “That kind of thing.” I shrugged. “I know, it seems silly, but that’s what I dream of.”

“Why do you think it’s silly?” Blair demanded, standing up and walking over to the refrigerator. “You should have dreams—otherwise how are you going to know what you want?”

I dream about you all the time, I wanted to say, but instead I said, “My parents—” I hesitated. “My parents tell me I should get a degree in something useful, so I’ll have something to fall back on if I don’t make it as a writer.” I probably wouldn’t have admitted that if I hadn’t been stoned. It hurt when my parents told me to major in business rather than creative writing. Don’t you believe in me? I’d wanted to scream at them, but they were just being practical, and it was from love.

Or so I told myself every day.

“Parents. Blech.” Blair knelt down in front of the refrigerator. “Well, then Jerry’s right, you should be writing every day.” Blair opened the refrigerator and got us both another beer. “You shouldn’t be wasting all your time—not of course that time spent with me is time wasted.”

“Lighten up, dude.” I giggled. “What do you want to be when you grow up? You’ve never told me either.”

“I want to be an actor.” He glanced at his father’s posters. “Not like him, but like her.” He walked over to his mother’s images and stared up at them. “She’s an actress, a true talent, not like Dad, who’s just kind of good looking in a generic kind of way. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he has charisma or whatever you want to call it—the kind of thing stars have—but Mom, she’s got real talent.” He looked back at me. “She can play anything, you know? She is amazing. She’s not the prettiest actress out there, she’s not the most charismatic, but there’s just something about her…when she’s on camera, you can’t look away from her.”

“I’ve never seen one of her movies,” I admitted.

“Well, one of these days we’ll have to have a Nicole Blair film festival.” He replied with a grin. “Would you like that? We could watch To the Lighthouse—that’s my favorite, even though she won the Oscar for Mary Queen of Scots, which is also a good one, but I think the romance she did with Burt Reynolds—that’s her best performance, probably. I mean, she was convincing—and it can’t be easy to convince people you’re in love with him.”

“Sure.” I couldn’t ever say no to Blair about anything. I wanted him to smile at me. I kept thinking, If I could just please him, if I could just make him happy, maybe he would kiss me again. There were times when I thought I should make the first move—maybe he was just waiting for me? At night, in my bed, after I had wiped my come off myself with a Kleenex and lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering if the day would ever come when he would want me again, I would decide to be more assertive—to grow some balls, to know what I wanted and go for it. But in the light of day, when I was face to face with him, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, to say anything. There was no amount of beer or pot I could have inside of me that would make a difference, that could give me the courage to say, Blair, I want you, I want to kiss you and hold you, and run my tongue down your happy trail, and put your dick in my mouth.

And so, he would drive me home and drop me off, give me a friendly wave at the foot of the driveway, and then drive off. I would stand there in the yellow light from the street lamp, watching his tail lights disappear down the street before I would go into the house and go to bed and miss him.

You just need some experience.

But where would I get it from? And with whom?

“I won’t be in class tomorrow, so I won’t be picking you up,” Blair said one Wednesday night as he dropped me off. “Just come by the house after class, and we can hang out then.”

“Why aren’t you coming to class?” I asked. Blair was very serious about attendance. I was always ready and willing to skip class every day to spend it with him. But Blair always insisted: “You can pull a C just by showing up every day.”

“Because I have a doctor’s appointment—nothing serious,” he added hastily when he saw the look on my face. “Just a check-up, that’s all, I’ve been putting it off for a long time and Mom goes nuts on me about shit like that, so I’m going in tomorrow.” He scowled. “I keep telling her I’ll do it when I go back to LA in a couple of weeks, but—”

“You’re going back to LA?” My heart sank to my feet. It was the first I’d heard of these plans.

“Well, yeah. Summer session’s over, so I’m going to go stay with my dad for a few weeks.” He gave me a funny look. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. You can still come by the house every day—everyone likes you, you’re a shoo-in to get a bid during rush—and it’s only for a few weeks until school starts again.”

“So you’ll be gone during my birthday?” I felt incredibly betrayed, and struggled to keep a handle on my emotions.

“It’s not that big…” he sighed. “Look, we’ll talk about this sometime when you’re not so stoned, okay?”

I got out of the car and slammed the door. He sat there a moment, looking at me, before he finally shrugged and drove off. Almost immediately, I was sorry. I got out my cell phone and almost called—but then decided it wasn’t a good idea. And besides, was it so wrong to be disappointed that my so-called best friend wouldn’t be in town for my birthday? Was he really so selfish that he couldn’t understand why that would bother me?

He doesn’t really like you, that voice kept telling me as I undressed, otherwise he wouldn’t be gone for your birthday. And he never once mentioned that he was going home for a few weeks after summer session ended. Never once, and he had plenty of opportunities. You’re not really his friend. You’re just someone to hang out with until everyone comes back this fall.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept alternating between hurt and anger, would start to drift off to sleep after a while—and then my mind would start up again.

Just come by the house and hang out, everyone likes you.

Doesn’t he understand the only reason I even go over there is for him?

I finally decided, Fuck him, I’ll come home after class.

And then I was finally able to go to sleep.

But once class was over and I was in my car, I found myself driving over to the house. I’ll just see if he’s there and if he’s not, I won’t stay.

The Lexus wasn’t in the parking lot, but I drove in anyway.

I parked the car and got out. I stood there for a minute, debating, and then decided to just go ahead and go inside and wait.

I waved up at Jerry in the window and he waved back down to me with a smile. I can always get high with Jerry, I thought as I went into the downstairs hall.

“Hey man, Blair’s not here,” Rory Armagh called as I walked past his room.

I stopped and walked back to his door. “Blair’s not the only reason I come by the house, ya know,” I said with a big smile. “I’m going to pledge.”

“That’s cool, man. Beta Kappa’s a great house—best one on campus, don’t let anyone tell you different.” Rory was lying on his bed with his big hands behind his head. He was only wearing a pair of white BVD’s, which did nothing to disguise the huge bulge. I tried to keep my eyes on his face. “You wanna get high, bro?” he asked. “I got some killer stuff from my guy last night.”

I shrugged. “Sure.” Why the hell not? Be nice to have a buzz when Blair gets here.

“Shut the door then.”

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, reaching for a towel to place under it. It was silly, but smoking pot inside the house was a $250 fine. Everyone assured me it was never enforced, but it was on the books because the university required it. “We have to have a strict no-drug policy,” Jerry had said, rolling his eyes when I asked him about it. “Just like we’re not allowed to let underage people drink.”

The drug rules were disregarded completely by every house on fraternity row. Everyone referred to Sigma Chi, just across the mall for example, as Sigma High. Legend held that Sigma Alpha Epsilon parties were always full of high school-age girls, getting drunk and getting laid.

No, all you had to do, everyone assured me, was try to make sure the smell wasn’t too obvious in the hallway and no one cared. Everyone smoked, so unless it was totally obvious, or a parent was in the house, no one turned anyone else in. All you needed to do was put a towel across the foot of the door to block the smoke, and if you really wanted to cover it up, light incense.

After I had finished putting the towel in its place, I straightened back up. Rory hadn’t bothered to put on shorts or anything, and was holding what had to be the biggest bong I had ever seen. It stood on the floor at least three feet high between his legs, and had at least three chambers and scores of little plastic tubes running between them. He grinned at me. “You’ve never smoked out of the monster, have you?”

“No,” I replied, my eyes wide.

“You are about to officially become initiated into the stoner fraternity. This ride is not for small-fry.” He was loading pot into five bowls that sat in the front of the huge contraption. All five of the bowls were carved into a single piece of round metal. He winked at me. “Watch carefully, and learn…and don’t feel bad if you can’t handle it at first. Even I had trouble the first time.”

I sat down beside him on the ratty love seat as he flicked a lighter to flame and bent his head down over the mouth. He started inhaling as he held the lighter to one bowl, and the lowest chamber filled with smoke. He then deftly lifted the round piece of metal, and turned it so another bowl went into the tubing, and burned it, still inhaling. Smoke snaked from the first chamber through two pipes into another chamber. He then switched in another bowl, still inhaling, as the smoke moved from the second chamber into a third—and finally, as he switched the fourth bowl in, into the final chamber. He turned his head, exhaled, and then put his mouth back on top of the bong. He inhaled for longer than I thought humanly possible and raised his head, placing one hand over the opening. He smiled at me, opened his mouth, and blew out a gigantic cumulus cloud. “Gooooood stuff.” He passed the contraption over to me, his hand still over the top. “When I take my hand off, just put your mouth down and inhale as deep and as long as you can. You got it?”

I nodded and did as ordered. As I inhaled, I could feel the smoke moving down my throat into my lungs. It was pungent, more pungent than what Blair usually had—or the other brothers, for that matter—and it tasted green somehow. I sat back and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before my lungs rebelled and the smoke poured out of me in a huge cloud. I kept coughing until Rory swatted me on the back and handed me a bottle of water.

“Dude, that was a swimmer’s hit.” He grinned at me, nodding. “Bro, I really mean it—that was fucking impressive. And Blair said you only started smoking this summer? Cool. You had to have been a swimmer at some point.”

“No, I don’t know how to swim, but thanks.” I grinned back at him, my eyes watering. I took another swig of water. “Damn, that’s some good stuff.” My head was already starting to float away.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Water polo players, man, we get the good stuff all the time. One of the guys on the team is from Humboldt, another from Chico, man. That’s where the best stuff comes from, unless you can get some Thai somewhere.” He kept nodding. “So, you definitely gonna pledge, man?”

“Yeah. I kind of like it here.”

“You’re going to fit in just fine.” Rory grinned over at me. He picked up a remote and flicked it at the stereo, and Pink Floyd’s The Wall started playing. “Nothing better for a buzz than some Floyd.”

“Cool.” Everyone liked Pink Floyd at Beta Kappa—sometimes it seemed like something by them was playing somewhere in the house at every moment. I’d never really listened to it before, but I was becoming fond of Pink Floyd. The song playing was “Comfortably Numb,” which was becoming my favorite. It described in music exactly the way I felt when I was stoned. “Can I ask you something? Do you mind? It’s kind of personal.”

“You’re gonna be a brother, man, so sure. Ask me anything.”

“Did you really—” I hesitated. “Did you really do porn?”

Rory threw his head back and laughed. “Man, oh man, did Blair tell you about that? I am going to kick his ass.” He winked at me. “Just one weekend. I spent one weekend in Sacramento making some cash and it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.” He shook his head. “You know, this guy comes up to me after a water polo match, and gives me his card. Asks me if I want to make some easy cash. I just put it away, you know, didn’t think nothing of it. Then last summer I was broke and needed to make some money—and I found the card. So I went up there for a weekend, fucked some chicks on camera, and made some money. Is that some crazy shit or what?”

“I think it’s kind of cool.” I shrugged.

“You wanna see?” His eyes lit up. “Nobody around here’s seen it besides me.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure!” He winked at me. “Love to hear what you think of my performance.”

“Um, I’ve never really seen a porn movie before,” I replied, “So I really don’t have a frame of reference.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me! Where are you from, Kansas or something? Dude, porn is awesome! What do you beat off to?”

I didn’t answer that, assuming he didn’t expect an answer. I mean, I seriously doubted he cared what I beat off to—and it wasn’t like I was going to tell him anyway. He grabbed another remote and turned the TV on, muted the sound so as not to compete with the Pink Floyd CD, and then clicked another button. Suddenly, the heavily made-up weeping woman from As the World Turns was replaced by a large-breasted woman in a string bikini and stiletto heels sitting by a swimming pool reading People magazine. A gate in the wooden fence opened, and there was Rory, looking about twenty years younger than the woman, wearing only a pair of baggy shorts. He walked over to where she was sitting, they apparently spoke a few words to each other, and then she unzipped his shorts and started sucking his cock.

My eyes about popped out of my head.

If I thought it was huge when limp, well, it was gigantic when hard.

Almost inhuman.

“They keep calling me, wanting me to do more,” Rory said as he sat back down on the bed. “I guess they like my big ol’ dick. But you know, I don’t need the money, and it would be just my luck to make the Olympic team and then have this come out, you know? Porn always seems to come back to bite you in the ass.”

I glanced over at Rory on the bed. His eyes were transfixed on the screen, and he was stroking himself through his underwear. He looked over at me, and smiled. “It kind of turns me on watching myself, you know? Do you think that’s weird?”

I swallowed, and looked back at the television screen. “Um, no, I don’t. I mean, I guess not. I don’t know if I’d get turned on watching myself.”

“Sure you would! You’ve got a nice body, man.”

“You think so?”

“Sure, man.” He looked over at me. “Really nice, in shape. Good looking too. The little sisters are going to line up to suck your dick, man. That’s one of the benefits of the house you know. The house whores.”

“Um, okay.”

He patted the bed beside him. “Why don’t you come sit over here?”

I took a deep breath and walked over to the bed. This isn’t happening, I kept saying to myself over and over, this isn’t happening. I looked at his crotch. The head of his cock was sticking out through the waistband of his BVD’s. It was big, so big and thick and red. A single clear drop oozed out of the slit.

“You want to help a brother out and suck me off?” he whispered.

You wanted experience—here’s your chance.

“Um…I don’t know…”

“I won’t tell anyone. It’s just between us.” He pulled the waistband down, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. His balls were thick and heavy, and the cock—it had to be eleven, twelve inches long and a minimum of six around.

“I—I—”

“I won’t come in your mouth,” he whispered. “Come on, Jeff, no one will know.”

I sat down on the side of the bed. My entire body was trembling. I leaned over, took a deep breath, and put my hand on it. It was so warm, and Rory moaned a little bit.

“Just suck it, man, put it in your mouth. I won’t tell anyone.”

I closed my eyes and put the head in my mouth.

It tasted slightly salty, sweaty with a slight tinge of chlorine.

Of course it’s chlorine, dumb ass, he’s a swimmer!

I started licking the head.

“Oh, man, that’s nice, Jeff, yeah, keep doing that.”

I started licking it, not really knowing what I was doing. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at the porn video playing. She was sucking his cock, and if that nasty looking old whore could do it, so could I.

I started moving my mouth up and down on it, but couldn’t get that far.

I looked over at the screen. How the hell was she—

And then I remembered something from a party in Kansas. Two guys were talking about shooting a beer, “You have to open your throat, man, then everything just goes pouring straight down…”

Open your throat.

I focused on an upward movement, and then as I came back down again, I opened my throat and it went down.

“Ooooooh fuck man!” Rory’s hips started moving, and he gripped my hair with both hands.

I found myself getting into it. I loved the taste of his cock in my mouth, I loved the power I had over him. I was controlling this great big hunk of man. I was sucking him off like a pro, and it was the first fucking time I’d ever given a blow job. I began using my tongue, and put my hand around the base to keep it in place. I started moving faster and faster, and then he was pulling my head away, yanking me by the hair, and I was angry.

I didn’t want to stop, goddamnit!

And his entire body arched and shook as he shot a huge load onto his stomach and chest, his body heaving with each shot.

And when he was finished, he closed his eyes and laid there for a moment.

I wiped at my mouth. I could still taste him…. I wanted to keep on….

“Thanks bud.” He opened his eyes and smiled at me. He picked up the remote and switched the television off. “You mind? I’m going to take a nap.”

“Sure. Yeah.” I got up, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. What have I done?

I shut the door behind me and walked back into the parking lot.

What have I done?

Somehow, I managed to get to my car and drive home.

And no matter how much I brushed my teeth, I could still taste his cock.