Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The French Professor

At the little southern college I attended, he was the most senior of the French faculty, yet I never heard him speak the language. He was a tall man, balding, with a fringe of pewter-colored hair around the shiny dome of his head.

When I started college at seventeen, he had one of the largest cocks I’d ever seen.

I met the French professor the first day my parents dropped me off in the hot, humid tourist town that would be my home for four years. I’d arrived at my freshman dormitory early in the morning and had dropped off my books and clothes and meager belongings in the little room I was sharing with a stranger from New Hampshire. I opted to skip out of some kind of pep rally at the stadium to attend an orientation day box-lunch one woman show given by Anne Baxter, who of course played Eve Harrington in All About Eve.

As I sat there in the darkened gymnasium eating a dry ham sandwich and balancing little cups of potato salad and sweet tea, Baxter stood up in front of a slide projector and talked about Bette Davis and the ups and downs of her life. I became conscious of something: this was it. It was the last few moments of my life as an extension of my parents’ household. When that clock reached the top of the hour, the show would be over and my folks would be driving back to Richmond and leaving me on my very own, for the first time in my life. The realization made the minutes fly by quickly. Soon I was out in the hallway with hundreds of parents off to say their final goodbyes to the other fledglings about to fly from the nest. 

I stood with my own mother and father, hands thrust deep into the pockets of my corduroys, wishing that the whole goodbye thing could be skipped, or at least compacted to as short as possible. “Well, okay then,” I said, and gave them awkward hugs.

After some hugs and suppressed tears, they were off. I had two hours to kill before the mandatory lecture on the school honor system. I could have gone back to the dorm and made friends with my roommate, or headed over to the last of the stadium antics. Instead, I did what any seventeen-year-old on his own for the first time in his life did with the first hour of freedom. I went hunting for dick.

I didn’t actually intend to find any cock that day. I thought it might be a wise thing, however, to check out all the possible cruisy spots on campus so that I’d know where to go when I was ready. Hey, it sounded like an efficient use of my time, in the moment.

But that’s how I found myself in a dark, quiet hallway in the campus center basement. The school’s paper had an office nearby, but other than the quiet sounds of a few people talking from within its open door, this particular corner of the student center was empty. I knew I was onto something right away when I found the men’s room there was vast, cavernous, and shaped like a large U. One entered at the top left of the U, walked past a row of mirrors and sinks, made the hairpin turn, and then found the other half of the room with the urinals and toilet stalls. I settled in the middle of the three stalls with my pants around my ankles, dick in hand, and tried to make out the scratched hieroglyphics of faded graffiti.



I wasn’t waiting long before I heard the outer door creak open and someone make his way to the stalls. I noted with satisfaction that the time between the door opening to the time the footsteps sounded across from my door was a good eight or nine seconds—plenty of time to get settled if I ever was interrupted in the middle of a sex act, there. The guy opened the door to the stall to my left, undid his belt, and let his pants drop with a crash of the buckle. When I looked beneath the marble partition, I could see that he was probably an older man, judging by the tan slacks he wore and the tan suede bucks on his feet. The rightmost foot lifted up and tapped, and shifted in my direction.

I knew the drill. I tapped my sneaker, and brought it close to his. His buck closed the gap between our feet and rubbed up against mine, tapping and nudging me lovingly. I saw the shadows shift in his stall as he knelt down. “Open your door, son,” he whispered at me.

I obeyed. And that’s when I saw the French professor for the first time. Fully erect, he was a monster—I know one of my readers who’s an alumnus of the university could give an estimate of how large the guy really was, but I know it had to be over nine inches. When he was hard, the man was rock hard, too, especially for a guy who had to be in his late fifties at the very least.

“Do you suck?” he wanted to know. I nodded. “Suck me, then.” I thrilled to the order and set to work.

I bobbed back and forth on his dick while he leaned back against the marble partition and watched. He enjoyed looking down at me, I recall, and occasionally brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool. He never said much, but he always managed to make clear exactly what he wanted.

The French Professor knew how to kiss, too. From time to time he’d have me come up for air from his dick. He’d lift me to my feet and we’d stand there in the stall, our heads and shoulders protruding above the tops of the partitions for anyone to see had they come in. His arms would be around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue deep within. I’m six-foot-three, and he somehow managed to make me feel small, and young, and fragile. He’d play with my butt as we kiss; two of his fingers insistently toyed with the outside of my hole.

I don’t know how long I sucked him that first day, but I remember thinking it a miracle we were never interrupted. At last he stood me up a last time, turned me around so that he could sit on the toilet, and took my dick in his mouth.

I came almost immediately. He swallowed my load in a couple of gulps and then pulled up his pants and his hard dick inside them, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Freshman?” he asked. I nodded. “First day?” I nodded again. He really had me pegged. “Welcome to college.”

I saw the French professor all through my college career. If he saw me lingering in the television room at the campus center he’d pause outside the door and gaze in, as if watching MTV with the rest of us. Once our eyes would catch, I’d gather my knapsack and head outside to the first floor men’s room with him. Or, if that was busy, we’d head to either the basement or the second floor. Sometimes he’d see me at the campus library, and we’d retire to one of the men’s rooms there to suck each other off. And sometimes he’d find me studying under a tree somewhere on the picturesque college campus. Every time, in library or classroom or in the outdoors, when I was in earshot, he’d always ask, “Do you have time to take a walk?”

Always polite, always friendly, the French professor. He made me happy to gather my books and belongings and step away with him. Usually we'd make a beeline to the nearest quiet restroom,  but sometimes we'd use his office. When he discovered I worked at an ice cream store off campus, he would visit there with his pretty young wife and his grade school children, and buy the family ice cream while talking to me as if I were one of his former students. Then, after he’d paid and I’d be holding out my hand with the change in it, his own large hand would clasp over mine and hold it for a few seconds, with meaning, until at last he’d let me release the coins into his palm.

The last time I saw him was two years after my graduation, when I returned to campus for a retirement party of a favorite old professor. I’d gone looking for him in the little corner where the French department had its offices. His door was locked. I cursed my bad timing and took the staircase outdoors, only to find him entering the building. “Hey,” I said, blushing a little at the sight of him. “I don’t know if you remember me, but. . . .”

“Of course I remember you,” he said, leaning against the wall and smiling. “You graduated.”

“I did.” I’d come prepared with a speech, something about how I thought I’d pop in and say hello for old times’ sake, but the words wouldn't come out.

They didn’t need to. His voice was low and throaty as he leaned close. “So, do you have time to take a walk?”

I always had time for my favorite French professor.

28 comments:

  1. Ineffably sweet, well-written, & hot, this story! Thanks! :-)

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  2. It seems so perfectly, wonderfully—quintessentially—you that you were able in (basically) your first hour on campus to find a big-dicked fuckbuddy you'd continue to play with all through college and even after graduation!

    (Did you ever know that you're my hero...?) ;-)

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  3. Throb,

    Am I the wind beneath your wings, too? Huh? Huh?

    If it's any consolation, I also made one of the bigger enemies/stalkers I had during those four years, within twenty-four hours of arrival. That seems pretty typically me, too.

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  4. A beautiful story, beautifully told, sweet friend. As I put the finishing touches on my Fall classes today, I can only hope to find such a student.

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  5. Uh-huh. I thought you'd like that, being an accomplished karaokist (karaotura?) and all. (Will shoot for the higher-than-an-eagle thing but there will definitely be blowing involved.)

    It really is just trop parfaît that your first campus conquest was a married daddy academic. There's probably a more fitting French expression, but the one that comes to mind is plus ça change...

    Is there another story about your 24-hour nemesis we need to hear? You do not waste time, mister!

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  6. Breeder, that's a lovely tale. How delightful. It reminds me, though, that you were going to write up the tale of your picnic-table pigginess.

    throb919, I believe the correct word would be karaokeka (by analogy to aikidoka and karateka, which I know are the "one-who-does" words for aikido and karate respectively).

    In fact it's the same 'kara' bit in karaoke and karate; it means "empty."

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  7. Here is more “French,” perhaps pardonable.

    “Sympa! Délicieux!”

    “Le couer a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît pas.” [Blaise Pascal, Mathematician, Philosopher]

    “LA QUEUE a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît pas.” [Anonicus II, Mental Exhibitionist]

    Anonicus translates:

    Awesome! Delicious!

    The heart has its reasons, which reasoning doesn’t grasp.

    THE DONG has its reasons, which reasoning doesn’t grasp.

    NOTE: The Comments field would not accept French-style quotation marks and italics. One wonders if Google is using frustratingly-weak functionality to manipulate anonymous commenters into creating a profile, whereupon functionality improves.

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  8. Jnk,

    I now know more about the etymology of the word 'karaoke' (and 'karate,' I guess!) than I ever intended. That's fantastic.

    I do owe a picnic table entry sometime, don't I?

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  9. Anonicus,

    I'm not sure the functionality improves upon creating a profile, buddy. The comments section of blogspot is pretty weak. Would threaded comments really be so hard to implement? Seriously?

    'Queue' is French for 'dong'? Fascinating.

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  10. Merci mille fois mon ami.

    If I'd had a French teacher like that, I'd probably have a better grasp... of the language.

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  11. Just when I think your stories can't get any hotter, you out do yourself. Wow.

    I can't begin to imagine hitting on students on my campus like the French prof did, although admittedly, things have changed so much since then. Although I have to wonder what still goes on on my school that I'm entirely oblivious to...

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  12. Here are more naughty French terms of interest to phallic men everywhere. They appear in presumed “order of magnitude”. [Literal meaning, in my view] and (my explication) accompany them. Only pertinent meanings are considered.

    1. “La quéquette”: [the mini-tail] (smallest in length, girth).

    2. “Le petit frère”: [the little brother] (Even the littlest brother is larger than a tail.)

    3. “La cigare au moustache”: [the cigar with mustache] (While there is no literal sense of smallness, what tool with bragging rights drags along steel wool?)

    4. “La queue”: [the tail] (Logically, this designates endowments better known for length than for girth.)

    5. “La verge”: [the staff/rod, baton, billy club] (Who hasn‘t wondered why potentates, cheerleaders/athletes, police carry one? This implies the power of length and girth, at least in the mind of the holder [VS beholder].)

    Of course, these terms are figuratively translated as pecker, prick, dong, dick, penis, ETC.

    Anonicus (Who else?!)

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  13. I CAN attest to the size of said professor's length and girth as he was a favorite of mine during the summer I attended the same college. I was working as a painter to earn a few extra bucks for books that summer, as my scholarship was iffy, at best, in filling out my financial needs. The student center was remodeling the worn out common area and I was charged with the task of painting the main lobby and the same TV room you mentioned. The professor came in and ate lunch many afternoons that summer and I noticed him watching me as I painted. Or he may have been looking at my short shorts...whatever. It didn't take long to discover that the bathrooms there were a hotbed of sexual activity, and as a horny 20 yr old, I wanted to find out what this guy was after. I cleaned my roller and set it aside and made my way down the hall to the restroom. I claimed the last stall to see if I would be followed and where he would go. The marble walled partition had been damaged and a smooth hole seperated the two stalls. No sooner had I sat down, the professor entered and moments later his head appeared above the wall entering the adjoining stall. He sat and as I peered through the hole I saw him stroking this monstrous erection. Hard, thick, smooth...if I'd had any doubts about sucking this older man, they were completely dashed upon seeing him work his fist around this HUGE cock. We played the foot tap game awhile until he slid his cock under the wall. I nursed on that beautiful cock for at least 20 minutes before I was able to hear him mutter "I'm gonna cum..."

    We

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  14. met off and on throughout the next year or two, both at the student center and at the Library where his office conveniently faced an aisle where he would sit facing me, rubbing his thick cock through his cords. He disappeared my Senior year, maybe retired or moved on to another college, but I'll never forget the unassuming French professor.

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  15. M. qui remplit le trou,

    Surely it will not have escaped your notice what hotsome & talented storytellers there are amongst your readers, for example, "Anonymous" next here preceding (formerly student painter, same college) & of course the wondrous throb919 & that many would make delightful guest contributors from time to time to your honored columns?

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  16. I have wondered about this foot tapping thing for years. I guess I never bothered to really look it up - perhaps there is a Wikipedia entry that explains what the signals are when two people in a restroom want to have sex. Aside from another incredibly hot story, I now have some research to do! No telling how many opportunities I have passed up, thinking the guy in the stall next to me was having a nervous tic or an epileptic seizure.

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  17. Richard,

    It's not like I learned a thing from him other than how to throat a monster dick!

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  18. Anonymous,

    Thanks! If you're not aware of students/professor relationships on campus, it's because you're not really keeping your eyes open. It happens at every university.

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  19. Anonicus,

    You are a veritable fount of information that I find fascinating, no matter how unlikely I am to utilize it!

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  20. My anonymous alumnus,

    I knew you'd pull through for me. He was a large-dicked man. I didn't know about the painting, though. And you didn't discover that restroom until your junior/senior year? That seems a real pity!

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  21. JFBreak,

    Maybe I need a Toe-Tapping 101 entry. What do you think?

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  22. "penis" in argot French... un zizi, une bite, un chibre



    "masturbate" en argot... se branler ex: je me branle



    in argot.
    give a hand job = ce donner du bon temps..

    in (slang)English "to give oneself a good time"

    .

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  23. “Open your door, son.” At first by "door" I thought something other than stall door. My bad.

    “Suck me, then.” Didn't those words...especially in youth...make the blood pound in your ears?

    "...brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool." Yes. This is why porn actors are...or should be...instructed no to let hair or a stray arm obstruct the view. We all want to SEE it.

    And "I'm gonna come" is much better when intoned as I'm gonna cum! instead of I'm gonna cum?

    Seph

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  24. Seph,

    Yeah, those words really made the blood pound in my ears. Just entering those restrooms did it to me then--I thought I was going to keel over from the elevated blood pressure.

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  25. When I was in college in Kentucky, the hottest restroom to go to was located in the gymnasium. Jocks and the guys who loved to love them would meet in a room painted bright red (a male bordello!) and play there or else move on to either a more remote upstairs john or the men's locker room (though only at certain off-peak hours). It was a great place to meet lots of different types of guys - though the swim team members were my favorites. The smell of the place was intoxicating - a pure rush like distilled poppers that went straight to the brain! I loved it all - especially when guys would stand up in their stalls and watch what was happening in mine as I'd suck off (or get sucked by) a third guy. Thanks for bringing that smell back into my nostrils....and that rush back into my groin.
    --jonking

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  26. Jonking,

    Damn. We had a cruisy spot on campus in the gyms, but it was far enough away on campus that I didn't use it much. The smell was incredible, just like you describe--kind of like distilled essence of masculinity.

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  27. I was a Math major at College with a minor in French. If only he had taught where I was, and I had a clue about the toilets, I would now be commenting in french. Although I like to think my french skills are decent, his tutelage would be like a master class.
    JPinPDX

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