I’ve been back to my old alma mater many times in the nearly thirty years since my graduation. I barely recognize the place, now. As long as I’m in the old section of campus I’m fine, but once I wander past the boundary line of the old, historical buildings, I have a tendency to get lost.
There’s been so much construction there since I left, you see. The library had a whole new facade constructed around it; there’s a huge student center in the center of campus that wasn’t there during my matriculation. Where there used to be a large and deserted stretch of grass for field hockey is now a veritable Times Square of activity, where new air-conditioned dormitories and tall classroom buildings shadow student-crowded sidewalks.
I guess on a solipsistic level I expected it to remain the same forever. I was young; I didn’t know any better. Plus during my time there, the only construction that took place was during my sophomore year, when my freshman dormitory burned to the ground and had to be rebuilt.
Then there was the Muscarelle, the art museum that sprung up the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I’d spent the previous summer back at my parents’ home, working at King’s Dominion up the road, but I’d taken on extra hours at my job in the ice cream store and in a burst of independence had decided to spend that summer shoving sticky cones in thirty flavors to tourists taking a break from their colonial sightseeing. I loved my summers in Williamsburg. Despite the fact I was working most days for a good eight-hour shift, I had plenty of leisure time. My female friend Perry was in town that summer as well; she and I spent a good deal of our hours off exploring the little town, wandering places we weren’t supposed to, and investigating every open door on the college campus—occupied or not.
The Muscarelle appeared almost overnight, like a July mushroom. One minute there was a marshy stretch of land next to Phi Beta Kappa hall, and then suddenly a pocket-sized museum. The Muscarelle attracted attention because of an installation of plexiglass tubes all along one side of the building. They were filled with water dyed in a number of vibrant colors that immediately began blooming with a vicious and unbanishable algae that made the spanking-new building look like some kind of target of a post-apocalyptic bio-terrorism attack.
But Perry and I liked the Muscarelle simply because we were poor, hungry, sometimes bored, and
could count on a good museum reception—they had many, right after it opened—in order to score an evening’s worth of free wine and cheese. If we saw that the museum being prepped for a lecture or a private event, we’d dress up in our very best (and honestly, I shudder to think at what my very best was, in those days, even by Southern standards, compared to what the actual adults were wearing), smile and slither into the museum, mingle with the strangers, and position ourselves at the refreshments table while we stuffed our gullets with free food and boxed rosé.
Ah, my salad days. I don’t miss them a bit.
It was at one of these events that I locked eyes with an older gentleman—very handsome, very tall. He had curly salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed beard, in a decade when the only men really sporting beards were either fishing for bass on Sunday morning television or driving tow trucks and wearing overalls with their names sewn on. There may have been a lecture that night; I seem to recall a bunch of the people present circled around some guy yammering on about something. But this guy was outside of the group, and I was over by the cubed Swiss with a plastic cup in my hand. He kept looking at me, and smiling. I was slightly tipsy, and smiled back. I remember thinking I was particularly dressed up that night, in my khakis, my short-sleeved turquoise-blue shirt, my best Docksiders, and my (here I sigh, and remind everyone it was the nineteen-eighties and I was only eighteen) bolo tie with a hammered copper clasp.
I wasn’t really the kind of guy who kept up these flirtations indefinitely. Not now, not back then. If I sniffed blood in the water, I was in there like a hungry shark, and this guy was chum to me. After I’d made sure that Perry was occupied elsewhere, I jerked my head in the direction of the men’s room. He followed.
We went right at it, in there. He unbuttoned the bottom two-thirds of my shirt and yanked down my
pants and went down on my cock. I fell back against the wall and dizzily let him blow me. I seem to recall the Muscarelle really only had one men’s room, and it was the sort that had no stalls or urinals, but only a single toilet and a lock on the door. It wasn’t long before someone rattled the doorknob expectantly, but we weren’t deterred. With our trousers around our ankles, we ground against each other, big cock to big cock, mouth on mouth, enjoying the tastes and smells and new, exciting scents of the unexplored. His hands groped my skinny ass.
“You wanna go somewhere?” he murmured. They were his first words to me.
I did, but I hadn’t considered anything long-range, not beyond getting this guy alone and seeing his cock. The two of us were in a locked bathroom with only one exit. Anyone just beyond the door would be certain to see us leaving. I had Perry waiting for me, out there. Plus I was living in a dormitory with my born-again Christian roommate; I had nowhere for us to go.
He solved the problem by exiting the bathroom after instructing me to count to thirty before I came out. Then he left me in the dark. (Now, as I reflect on it, I’m thinking the guy was an ass. It’s courtesy to let the boy out first. I mean, jeez. That’s what I’d do.) I followed my instructions and was relieved to find that no one was really in the vicinity, or raised an eyebrow when I came out. I found Perry and told her I had a stomachache and that I’d meet up with her the next day. Easy enough.
As for the last issue, the guy had that covered. He had his hands plunged deep into his slacks to cover up the boner he was sporting when I met him outside. He apparently knew the campus quite well, because without any backtracking or hesitation he led me to Morton Hall, which was home to the economics department. On the building’s first floor was some kind of graduate lounge with a sofa and a study table. It happened to be one of the few public places on campus with a door that locked.
(I remembered that important fact for the future. I had more fucks on that graduate lounge sofa than anywhere else on campus, eventually.)
Once the door was shut, we stripped all the way down. He mounted me on the sofa; I’d wanted to make out with him, to get smoochy and romantic, but he had my ass in mind. The moment my back hit the cushions, he had my legs up and apart and his sizable cock probing for my hole. He wanted to shove in raw, without lube. Off-balance as I was from his hands on my ankles, I managed to stop him and slick myself up with a little bit of spit. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing—and I was grateful for the chance to get it in there before his cock forced its way in.
I was infinitely more adept at taking fucks back in my bottom days, but even his dick hurt. He didn’t care. He just spied something young and fuckable and easy, and his intention was to breed it as quickly as possible. To make his mark and move on. He didn’t ask if I’d done it before, didn’t ask if I enjoyed getting fucked. He just lifted my legs, shoved in his meat, and went at it. He huffed and puffed heavily as the lower half of his lean body pistoned in and out; he got both my ankles in one of his hands and used the other to steady himself against the wall.
Without so much as a word or a gesture, without asking if I was doing okay, he took his pleasure from me. And I was one hundred percent good with that. That’s what I was made for, back then. I wasn’t thinking about the locked door, or wondering who might have a key. I wasn’t worried about Perry or the fact I’d left my bike in the Muscarelle rack. I just wanted cock. It was what I was there for. It was my purpose.
He didn’t come with a big climax. I felt his cock pulse a couple of times. He stopped thrusting and closed his eyes. He let out the smallest and most minute of sighs. If I hadn’t been quiet, I would’ve missed it. He held himself inside for a moment while the last of his sperm drained into me. Then he pulled out, hopped up, and started dressing.
“Thanks,” I said, reluctantly pulling on my own clothes.
He didn’t say anything.
“Maybe I could see you again sometime,” I said.
He pulled on his pants and sat down to tug on his socks.
“Are you on campus a lot?” I tried.
“Listen, kid,” he said. His voice was gruff. “You were just a fuck. That’s it.” He made sure he had his wallet. “That’s all this was ever going to be.”
Then he walked out. Thinking about it now, I realize the was pretty much an asshole.
At the time though, with my boner still bobbing between my legs and an ass full of his sperm, and the taste of him still on my lips, I thought it was one of the hottest and most romantic things a guy could’ve said to me.
Like I said. I was eighteen. And definitely not as smart as I thought I was.