(This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part One.)
The first thing I found out from Professor Washington—M.J.—on our date was that he and my father had known each other during college. My father had been a year ahead of him. The coincidence wasn’t that far a stretch. I was attending my college because it was my dad’s alma mater; he’d really pushed me to attend because of his idyllic memories of the place. M.J.’s entire reason for hooking a visiting professor position at my college had been to assess whether or not he could wrangle his way back into the college as a faculty member. It really is the kind of school that people attempt to linger around,long past their expiration date.
The second thing I found out from M.J. was that he didn’t like my dad. We were sitting in the King’s Arms Tavern, which is what passed for a classy dinner joint in town back then, eating peanut soup, when he let that little tidbit drop. “Why not?” I asked, when he made that announcement.
I was sitting there in my clean but rumpled khakis—the only pair of ‘good pants’ I owned—and that black-and-yellow striped sweater he’d given me and ordered me to wear. My hair was combed neatly, though not on the side, as he’d done in my office. “Because he was a dick,” M.J. said, before taking a bite of his pork chop.
And that was as much as I ever found out about that. I had to wonder if he was remembering my dad correctly. He’s a sweet man. Absent-minded, yes. Paranoid, absolutely. Unable to come within a hundred yards of a computing device without breaking it and then feeling the urge to phone me about it, guaranteed. But he’s not a dick. I’m frequently a dick. He never is. (Later on, when I asked my father in a casual way if he remembered M.J., his puzzled response was, “Who?”)
The topic put a damper on conversation for the rest of the evening. He ate his dinner in silence and I ate mine looking around the room at the tourists and wondering if it was ever going to be over. Then he escorted me to his car, and drove me back to his apartment on the campus’ outskirts. Using the slightest and gentlest of touches on my bee-striped elbow, he steered me through the front door and up to his bedroom, where in silence he undressed me in the same unerotic manner he might’ve undressed a five-year-old nephew for his bath. He laid me in the bed, removed his own clothes, crawled in beside me, and turned out the light.
For a moment, we lay there unmoving between the chilly sheets. I wondered if that was it.
Then he was on me, straddling my chest and shoving his cock into my mouth. M.J. wasn’t gifted down there by any means, and his dick looked even shorter under the best of circumstances because he had pubes that would’ve made Rapunzel stop, pout, and ask his secrets. That shit was long. I remember once noticing that tendrils of it snaked through the fly of his underwear still, after he’d peed at some public toilet earlier in the day and undressed for me later in the day. When he was fully erect, his pubes were still longer than his dick. I’d feel them tickling my face long before I felt the nudge of a cockhead against my lips. It was a bit of a turn-off.
What also turned me off was that M.J. had a mole on his dick. It wasn’t a flat discoloration, or even a beet-colored bump. No, this was a full-blown, juicy, dark red mole that sat like a cooked pea three-quarters of the length down his cock, and every time M.J. straddled my chest and inserted it between my lips, my goal was to do anything to keep that mole out of my mouth.
I’m not really sure why I was so repulsed by it. I had some fear that my teeth would scrape it and I’d find myself spitting it out, maybe, or that I’d accidentally bite it off. Either way, I’d wrap my hand around the base and keep it from crossing my lips.
Or else I’d talk him into fucking me. “Don’t use that word,” M.J. sniffed the first night, when I said it. “It’s Anglo-Saxon.” I wanted to point out, every time, that I was Anglo-Saxon, and that I was pretty sure the name he’d called my dad was an Anglo-Saxonism, but I didn’t see the point of pressing it. If I used words like fuck or shit in front of him, I found out that first night—even if I was beginning him, “Fuck me, fuck my ass,”—he’d stop whatever we were doing to lecture me like a maiden aunt about to wash out my mouth with soap. It was certainly a lecture of a sort I never got from my own dad, the alleged dick. But M.J. liked to fuck, even though he didn’t like to say the word. He would rub my hole with a tiny fingertip of jelly from the ancient jar of Vaseline he kept by the bedside, and then with me face-down and my nose in the pillow, he’d insert himself, raise himself up and down a few times, then gently squirt a load into my hole.
It was about as passionate and erotic as pushups. Then he would roll over and fall asleep. Typically I would spend the night with him. In the mornings, he would either make sure I was back to campus in time for class, or if it was a weekend, he would take me into Merchant’s Square to the men’s department store there and pick out something for my wardrobe. His choices were always conservative, always something I didn’t want, and always something I’d never wear except for him. But he did like it when I wore his clothing on our dates.
That first date was the hard template to all the many dates that followed over the following months. M.J. would track me down somehow—either stumble across me on campus, or call my dorm—tell me when he’d be picking me up, and give me a time to be there. We’d have a silent dinner at a stodgy restaurant with good meat-and-potatoes food. He’d have a glass or two of wine. We’d retire to his place, I’d submit to being undressed, and then I’d struggle to keep his dick out of my mouth and try to maneuver it to my ass. There’d be five minutes of old-lady lovemaking, and then he’d lurch off of me and fall asleep.
Yet for some reason I kept going back to him. For a few months I considered him my boyfriend, even. I think on a lot of levels it was because with M.J. I had a lot of firsts. My first actual dinner date. I’d spent a couple of nights at Earl’s during my teens to work parties, but M.J. was the first guy with whom I actually slept side by side, the way boyfriends do. His gifts weren’t great, or even good, but with M.J., for a while, I felt like I was being courted. He was a gentleman, and I was young and dumb enough to think that maybe a gentleman was really what I needed.
Part of me, too, enjoyed the drama and intrigue of it. I’d always had older fuckbuddies, but now I had an older, even an elderly (at forty-three) gentleman caller! Someone who knew my father, even! The lies I told my roommate on the nights I spent away were at first elaborate tales of deceit and justification, but as time went on, I just left for the night or the weekend and didn’t bother to tell him in advance. I would’ve said that I grew devil-may-care and didn’t give a fuck what he thought I was doing, but I didn’t want to be accused of being Anglo-Saxon.
This is how M.J. and I carried on our relationship, such as it was, for a good four or five months. Until the warm weather of spring came around, that is, and an impromptu excursion out into the countryside changed things.