Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (40 page)

*
*
*
* *

Weeks and months passed with
Adrian
leading a double life.
Each night the adorable
Paris
brought
Adrian
new joys and pleasures.
Then when they had
flown through all the avenues of
passion,
Paris
would, like any normal being, fall into a deep sleep.
Adrian
wasn
’
t quite so normal.
In fact, now that the ancient Greeks had shown the way, he was insatiable.
While
Paris
slept he would steal down the hall to the waiting arms of Horny Helen
.

Everything went just
beautifully until that fateful night
Paris
awoke to find himself alone.
Suspecting foul play, he rose and scurried down the hall to Helen
’
s room.
He opened the door very softly and peered in.
Sure enough, across the room he could just make out someone
’
s pumping ass in the moonlight.
Th
e ass looked familiar, and as his eyes adjusted to the light
,
he could see it was indeed the beautiful buns of his loving companion, Adrian.

Paris
hesitated not a moment, but flung open the door and rushed to the bed.
The Trojan prince was furious and gave
Adrian
a swat on his bare, pumping ass.

Adrian
turned and gave
Paris
a big grin, while the Queen glared at the Prince.

“
Come on in. The fuckin
’
s fine
,
”
invited
Adrian
.

The Prince hesitated, but he was naked and when Helen got a look at his majestic and erect tool, she made a grab for it.

“
Yum,
y
um,
y
um
,
let me suck your lollypop, Prince
,
”
she crooned.

Helen sucked
Paris
’
s
big member while
Paris
kissed and caressed
Adrian
.
Adrian
, in turn, fucked
the
hell out o
f
Helen.
The three of them began to enjoy each other
’
s company in and out of bed.
They joked and played the whole day long.
One of their favorite bedtime pastimes was Adrian in front and Paris giving it to Helen in the back side.
S
he loved the game
,
and she loved her two fellas.

*
*
*
* *

A couple of things happened at the same time:
Helen discovered she was pregnant, and the invading Spartan
Army pulled the
“
Great Wooden Horse Caper
.”

Cassandra warned the populace against accepting the Greeks peace offering.
For once, at least
Paris
listened.

He and his two roomies were on hand when the horse was brought ceremoniously into the city.
They watched while the celebrants became blotto, and the trio sat horrified and silent as a squad of Spartan soldiers stole out of the horse and let in the army.

While the Spartans sacked and pillage
d
and raped the Trojans, the great horse was left unattended.
Paris
helped Helen and Adrian inside and with a crow bar got the great animal rolling toward the main gates.

The Prince of Troy jumped aboard as the horse rolled out of the gates, down the beach and into the surf.

It was well constructed and floated out with the ebbing tide.
Out they went past the thousand ships, which ironically, had brought the Spartan army to rescue Helen
,
and on into the open
Aegean Sea
.

The next day,
Paris
rigged a sail
,
and they proceeded through the
Dardanelles
, across the narrow sea to a deserted stretch of Grecian coastline.
There they built a cozy cottage for the expectant Helen.

By the way, her exposure to her two companions
’
tender, loving care had completely rid her of her shrewish, viperous tongue.
After the two men helped her deliver their son, Helen of Troy and
Sparta
turned out to be the sweetest mother and wife
imaginable.

No one was sure which one was the father, but they didn
’
t care. The trio loved each other in their fashion
,
and they adored their baby boy,
Troy
.

However,
i
t must be remembered that most men will shove their erect
cocks
into any place that feels good; be it hand, mouth, ass, wet n
’
wild snatch or
...
uh
...
armpit
,
s
o
Adrian and Paris serviced
Helen regularly to keep her happy and agreed the three-way stuff was OK. Still, the two males
were predominantly gay, and preferred their love-making one-on-one
. T
heir tender togetherness giving them the sort of pleasure
ordinary love can never bring.

271

Mickey Erlach

He had the longest, smoothest, most perfectly shaped legs I
’
d ever seen, with hair the color of corn silk, soft like down and glinting gold in the morning sun as it swirled up skin tanned to just the right shade.
His shoulders were broad, but not so much that they dominated his body, and his hips were slim, but not so much that they seemed narrow.
More of the golden threads whispered up clean arms and even more lay gentle over his chest (well, what little of his chest that I could see above the few buttons he
’
d left undone).
Further glints were visible across a smooth but firm chin (probably three days growth of beard for him), indicating how masculine he was even though his face was still unlined.
He was at least six
-
feet tall
,
and longish hair crowned impossibly blue eyes that were still open to the world.
He wore a white cotton shirt (long sleeves rolled up) tucked into an old pair of corduroy
“
OP
”
shorts that were so retro they were new, again, with Topsiders on his feet (no socks) instead of Nikes or boots, giving his casual stride just the right grace and making his proportions feel exactly right.
And when I saw him on that April day under a cloudless sky, exiting one of those overpriced Lexus convertibles, all I could think was,
“
I
’
ve got to have you.
”

On canvas, that is.
Nothing weird or kinky here.
I
’
m too – what was that word my mom once used on me? –
“
risky-less
”
to get into something like that.
Besides, I already knew better than to expect such a thing was possible because of the golden female
“
twin
”
who was driving the Lexus.
I
’
d seen them both around campus
,
and you could tell from the way they clung to each other and kissed that they were anything but brother and sister.

Dammit.

I mean it
’
s one thing to want to possess perfection; it
’
s totally something else to have to compete with it for it
if that makes any sense.
Especially when you
’
re like me.

Not that I
’
m ugly or vividly deformed or anything.
I
’
m just
average
–
i
n every way
b
e i
t
height, weight, looks or attitude.
I can
’
t tell you how many times I
’
ve been told by my jock brothers that if I
’
d just put some effort into it, I could have a good body instead of an okay one (and lose twenty IQ points doing it, I
’
m sure).
And how many times my sister told me I could get any girl I wanted if I
’
d just talk to them and smile a bit more
– “
as
if
,
”
to quote an old
“
Valley G
i
rl
”
.
And how many times my mom told me that even though my skin freckles instead of browns, like theirs, it
’
s no big deal (to them, maybe).
Fact is I think the only time I ever heard my dad make a joke was when he suggested I was conceived by the Holy Ghost because I was almost that white (which for years made me wonder if what he was really saying was, I wasn
’
t really his).
No, the one problem here was I
’
m male and I saw zero indication Mr. Perfect-Man-On-Campus would be interested in anything like
what
I wanted him to be interested in.

If I really was interested in that.

I know, it makes no sense.
After all, I
’
ve done things with guys.
Older ones who picked me up and liked to be called
“
daddy
”
as they sucked me off (a crude way of putting it, but it was a brutally crude kind of fulfillment).
And others about my own age who liked the fact that I looked five years younger than I really am (which was creepy) and who only wanted to get their rocks off and split before you were able to find out their name
s
.
I
’
d get a moment
’
s satisfaction out of it, but I never really enjoyed it, never really knew if it was right for me
,
if it really was
“
my way.
”

Not that women ever did anything more than make me uncomfortable.
I mean, a couple have, but I
’
ve only come close to going all the way with one
,
and she was a dyke in my high school who just wanted to see what it was like with a guy.
Jeez, we got so freaked at just the heavy petting stage we both bolted from the bedroom and slammed
The Sound
o
f Music
into the DVD player to keep from having to deal with it
(I still sigh over Christopher Plummer singing
“
Edelweiss
”
at the end)
.

Anyway, there
’
s the real problem.
Here I am, a third year art major, finally and officially legal for anything and everything I could possibly want to do (at least, what I
’
d be allowed to do in Texas, it being such a fascist state)
,
and I don
’
t know what it is that I want to do
–
i
n anything
,
b
e it career, future, life or love.
Not cool, to say the least.

And
,
on that particular day (period of time, really)
,
I was in the middle of really regretting coming to this university because suddenly nothing I did seemed to please me or the idiots who call themselves
“
professors of art.
”
My smooth, sweeping, monochrome landscapes were
“
perfunctory.
”
My still-lifes layered in colorful oils were
“
derivative.
”
My graphic art style portraits (sort of a more detailed Nagel with expansive color; a bit retro but I liked the feel) were compared to
“
second rate crap you
’
d see in a junior high public school.
”
And as for history and geology and a course on Faulkner (of all people), they were off to very bad starts.
On top of all that, my ridiculously over-priced dorm room was feeling way too small even if it was just me living in it and had piss-poor natural light available, and my folks were howling about the money vis-à-vis my mid-term grades.

But I think the capper was when my asshole former roommate who still swears he
’
s straight got wasted on Tina and tried to rape me.
When I wouldn
’
t let him (probably the only time I ever successfully knocked a guy on his butt), he called my mom while he was still stoned and told her how I liked it up the ass
,
which I don
’
t; I don
’
t think; at least, I haven
’
t, yet.
I convinced her he was full of it, and what helped put it over was how his folks yanked him into rehab the very next day
,
hence my solitary quarters.
All in all, not a banner year.

Anyway, there I was sitting on a bench in the quad, soaking in the last cool breeze of spring (there were already hints in the air of the usual eight-month
Texas
summer) as I waited to go to my horror of a life drawing class
when he hopped out of the Lexus and
“
his twin
”
drove away.

Now, I
’
d seen him around campus before, and I
’
ve sketched him on so many sheets of paper (in pencil, in pen) that I
’
ve lost count, dashing off the feeling, grabbing the curve of his body under his clothes, adding the details from memory and usually turning out something good (well
decent, anyway).
You see, there was more than just physical attraction here (I don
’
t usually go for blondes)
.
I have this obsession with proportion.
It
’
s so rare to see every aspect of anything match just right – be it a building or tree or human body – that when I do happen upon something or someone that does, I freeze-frame and try to burn it into my brain by rendering it in some form or fashion.
So it
’
s not
as if
he was sudden or new to me.

But there was something about this one time
and this one place
with everything crashing in on me
that seeing how he looked that morning, b
inging
me a hint of peace.
A sense of
–
I dunno
–
consistency, I guess.
So I whipped out my sketchbook and pen, by habit, and glanced at him a few times as he passed, trying to get the feel of the moment as I let my pen dance over the page.
Then he caught my eyes for the first time and smiled and nodded in that college-guy way of saying,
“
I
’
ve seen you around campus,
”
and I forgot to breathe.
I just sat there, my mind a complete blank until I heard a perfectly modulated
Texas
drawl purr,
“
What
’
s that?
”

I jerked around to find he was eyeing the few lines I
’
d managed to do in my sketchbook.
He laughed, a bit embarrassed.

“
Didn
’
t mean to spook you,
”
he said.
“
Just wanted to see what you
’
re drawin
’
.
”

“
Nothing,
”
I mumbled.
“
Just trying to capture something on the fly.
”

“
What?
”

Numbly, I slipped the previous page over to reveal the last sketch I
’
d done – a felt tip scribble of him in left profile, smiling, his arms crossed.
I didn
’
t like it, much; it was missing something
–
a final spark to give it life, maybe
,
but he still grinned with pleasure.

“
That
’
s me.
Wow, you
’
re good.
”

I shrugged and said,
“
This was just a quickie – a
.
..
a quick sketch
,
”
w
hich was a lie
.
H
e
’
d stood still for a good ten minutes waiting for his girlfriend to finish talking with a girl she knew.
“
I
’
ve done better.
”

He leaned closer to look.
“
You still signed it.
”

“
I
...
I sign all my work, even the stuff that
’
s crap.
”

“
Uh-huh,
”
and he flashed me a smile touched with a twinkle that suggested he knew I knew it was better than I said, then he looked closer at the sketch.
“
So you
’
re Joe.
You did that paintin
’
that
’
s hangin
’
in the refectory.
”