His name sounded like a weighty bludgeon of patriotic shout-outs: Franklin Madison Jefferson Washington. To me, he was always M.J.
I met him on my knees in the second floor restroom of my college library, where I spent a lot of my cold winter nights. The restroom’s most active hours were shortly after dinner, when students and staff would casually pour into the building, disappear into carrels, and settle beneath the blanket of white silence to study. I would usually start the evening at my favorite spot—the desk with a direct view of the men’s restroom door, just down the aisle of British literature to its left. From there I could listen to the door’s creaky hinge and peek down the aisle to see who was entering and leaving. If some of the more notorious campus trolls were out and about that night, I could stay in my seat and get some studying done. If it was someone hot, all I had to do was scoop up my books into my backpack. I could be in the heat of the action in ten seconds flat.
Watching was usually my goal, anyway. The reality was that I was so perpetually horny that I’d spent an hour studying—maybe—and then finally give in to temptation and spend the rest of my night in the restroom until I got laid, or satisfied . . . the latter took a lot more work than the former. It was on one of those evenings when I met M.J. I’d already given a couple of handjobs to unknown men beneath the marble partition when the door creaked open. There were only two stalls in that particular restroom; I liked to sit in the first of them, so I could peek at the men as they walked into the room. It had a perfect view of the urinal opposite. That’s where M.J. stood when he entered. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches, a pair of pressed khakis, and a button-down shirt. The faculty uniform of our institution, in other words. Over his shoulder hung a khaki-colored soft briefcase from Land’s End, with all four of his initials embroidered beneath the handle.
He looked over his shoulder. Stared at me, through the crack in my doorway. I saw he was a short man. A very, very old man. (He was forty-three. Which is younger than I am now.) Bearded. Grizzled and gray at the ends. His forearms were covered with a thick, thick coat of fur, which I interpreted then to mean the rest of his body was hairy as well. (It was.) I really went after the older guys at that time, so I had no problems in opening my stall door and showing him that I was hard and stroking.
He moved over to show me his hard cock. It wasn’t big, by any means. Four and a half inches, maybe, and I suspect I’m being generous in my imagination. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a size queen. I opened up and sucked him through the fly of his khakis, as he ran his fingers through my hair and looked at me fondly. He came quickly, shooting a sour load into my throat and then lingering in my wet mouth until he’d softened again.
I’d closed the door to the stall and had wiped down my mouth when he tapped gently at it again. He’d zipped up and washed his hands, and he looked over the top of the door down at me. There was a torn-off slip of paper hand towel between his fingers. “Are you a student?” he wanted to know. I nodded and told him I was. “Can you come to my office tomorrow at two?”
It was an unusual request, but I didn’t see any reason why not. The paper he handed me had an office number in Morton Hall on it. I did some recognizance that evening and found out not only his name, but from the department newsletter hanging in the hallway that M.J. was a visiting professor in Economics that year. It was the best I could do, twenty years before Google.
When I appeared in his office door shortly after two, he looked up from his desk hastily. I suspected that he’d been anticipating my arrival for some minutes. “Come in, come in,” he said hastily. “I hope this wasn’t too much of a bother.”
I told him it wasn’t, and asked if I should close the door.
He looked shocked at the suggestion, rightfully picking up on the fact I assumed he wanted my mouth again. I’d blown and taken fucks from several other professors over the previous year. There was no reason to presume he was any different from them. “Good heavens no,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for oral attentions last night.”
That’s the way M.J. always talked, when he spoke about sex. He sounded like someone’s maiden aunt, or a Victorian spinster reflexively smoothing down the antimacassars of her spotless parlor. “You mean the blow job?” I asked.
He looked horrified that I’d refer to it by name. “I wanted to thank you with a gift.” From one of his desk drawers he pulled out a box. I recognized it as a gift box from one of the tiny Williamsburg men’s stores in Merchant’s Square. He pushed it across the table. “Open it,” he said.
I’d been expecting more dick. Not a gift box. I pulled I across the desk and opened it. Inside was a sweater. It was a wool sweater of black and yellow horizontal stripes, each roughly four inches wide. It was pretty hideous. “Try it on,” he said.
Now, in college I was not the best dresser. I was also not the richest kid around. I was working two jobs in the afternoons and on weekends in order to pay for my expenses, and clothes were not at the top of my priorities list. I had three pairs of corduroys between which I alternated, and a couple of clean but worn cotton shirts. M.J. stood up from his desk, shut the door most but not all of the way, and out of sight of the hallway, tugged me into the sweater. It had one of those tight necks that raked all the skin cells from my face as it went over the head.
“There,” he said. “Very handsome.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic comb, which he ran through my hair. When my hair was longer, it always parted itself naturally in the middle. He made a very artificial part on the right side, and swept the hair over my forehead. “What do you think?”
I looked in the little mirror hanging on the back of his office door. I thought I looked like a Young Republican. And in that sweat, I thought I looked like an enormous bumblebee. “I guess it’s okay,” I said.
“You look very handsome this way. Now, I am going to pick you up tonight at seven-thirty and I am going to take you to my place,” he announced. “Where’s your dorm?” he asked. I told him. I was living at the very back of the campus, in housing supposed to be for creative artists. “Now, I want you to be waiting out front for me, and I want you to comb your hair nicely and wear this sweater and a pair of nice pants so I can take you out to dinner.”
I’m afraid I gaped. This sounded like a date. Men didn’t date me. Men fucked me. I’d never been on a date. Somehow I stammered out an okay.
“And wear nice shoes,” he added. I figured I had a pair of Top Siders that would suffice.
Then the next thing I knew, I was being ushered out of M.J.’s office and deposited in the hallway. “No sneakers!” he warned me, before sending me on my way.
I guessed I had a date.