Alma Mater

I hadn't intended to visit my old college campus last week, when I was visiting my dad in Virginia. Considering that the temperature soared up above one hundred every day I was down there, walking around the dusty tourist town in the sun was one of the last things I wanted to do.

My father, who's also an alumnus of the college, wanted to take advantage of my chauffeur services. So I found myself on a Wednesday morning driving along I-64, past the long avenues of trees overgrown with kudzu, in the direction of the little college where we'd both spent a congenial four years of our lives.

Once we were off the tourist tracks, the campus itself was hushed and silent, its bricked walkways empty. Its picturesque buildings radiated heat, its expansive sunken garden baked in the sun. We kept to the shade, walking around the oldest part of campus, ducking into the air conditioned buildings when we could. Some of the dorms were under construction, their approaches cordoned off and inaccessible; it looked as if they were having air conditioning installed before the school year started. At the height of the day, though, there weren't any construction workers around. They were either all indoors, or they'd knocked off early because of the heat.

Toward the end of our circuit we stopped off at what used to be the old campus center, when my father and I were both students. It's an administrative building now, but it's air-conditioned, and provides a convenient cut-through on the way back to the commercial district. As my father stood with his face pressed against the glass of a former cafeteria, reminiscing about days of old, I stood with my arms crossed and enjoyed the cool. The doors from outside opened and a pair of men walked in. They were both dressed in polo shirts. The taller of the two, a goateed middle-aged guy with a former jock's build and an unflattering pair of navy pleated Dockers, caught my eye.

We looked at each other for a moment before he started talking to his colleague. And they were colleagues. I guessed from their dusty clothing and clipboards and holstered cell phones that they were some kind of contractors or construction supervisors, probably connected to the dorm renovations just down the street. My dad continued to peer and talk to me while the goateed guy and I continued to exchange glances. It was pretty obvious he was more interested in me than in the conversation he was pretending to have. At last he and the other guy parted, waving their clipboards in parting.

The colleague headed off toward the back of the building. The dark-haired goateed guy walked down the hallway towards which my father was headed, now that he was finally done telling me about the old days when he'd been a student waiter. As my father rambled on, the man looked over his shoulder several times, catching my eyes with every turn of his head. Then he diverged from his path and entered the men's room.

Now, I'd had so much sex in that men's room when I was an undergrad. I'd gone there lunchtimes to suck dick. I'd hung out there in the evenings, getting laid so I wouldn't have to go back to my dorm room. The last time I visited the college, I'd fucked an undergraduate in there. I wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. "Hey," I told my dad. "Why don't you head to the bookstore?" I gestured in the direction just across the street. "I'll meet you there. I have to hit the bathroom."

"I can wait," said my father.

"I need to poop," I amended. Because there is no information that is private or sacred in my family, you know. My dad, of an age to appreciate the merits of a good poop, nodded with understanding and ambled in the direction of the door and the campus bookstore.

I made sure he was on his way, then nudged open the men's room door with my shoulder, and headed in.

The restroom was always built for play. To get to the urinals and toilets, one has to push open the noisy door and walk a distance through the U-shaped enclosure, past the sinks and waste bins. The noise and distance gives a cruiser plenty of time to assume a less compromising position, if interrupted in the midst of the act. I walked to the urinal and unzipped, then pulled out my dick. The whiff of sexual intrigue had already made me swell. A few strokes brought me to hardness.

He occupied the first of the toilet stalls. It was the only one with a closed door. I could tell by the play of shadows inside that he was bending over to look at my feet, to see if I was the one who'd followed him in. After a moment he stood up casually, as if pulling up his pants to go. Our eyes met over the top of the marble partition. I turned to show him my hard dick.

He stared for a moment. Then he opened his stall door.

I stepped around, still stroking. Those awful Dockers were around his ankles, hanging around a pair of white athletic socks. The clipboard was balanced on the toilet paper dispenser. His dick was short, and fat, and uncut. With his left hand, he peeled back the skin to expose a purple, swollen head. I caught a glimpse of the wedding band he wore, for the first time. "Fuck," he whispered. "You are hung."

I lifted my chin in appreciation of the compliment, still stroking. Instead of saying anything, though, I merely pushed my hips forward. I wasn't there for conversation.

He took the hint and, after sitting down on the toilet seat and looking up at me for approval, he opened his mouth and took my dick in his mouth. The guy had a bushy goatee that rubbed against my balls in a pleasant way. I sighed, leaned back, and let him go down on me.

The man's phone started to go off in its holster as he sucked. His hands left my nuts and shaft to scramble for the switch that would shut it off. He didn't stop sucking, though. When he had the use of his hands back, he lifted my dick and jacked it while he nuzzled my nuts. His tongue darted out and licked beneath my balls; he ground his nose and mouth against my junk as tightly as he could before he started sucking once more.

I was keeping an ear out for the sound of the exterior door, the entire time. I knew I couldn't take long, so luckily the randomness and sudden heat of this encounter was already causing a load to simmer in my nuts. The contractor must have felt the same, because I felt a sudden spray of warm goo over my legs and onto my sandals. He'd shot on me; sperm continued to leak out of that furiously purple head as he grabbed my dick at the root, squeezed hard, and sucked me roughly.

When I came, it was with a violent buckling of my knees. He grabbed my ass to support me, spreading more of his stray seed on my skin. My sperm went into his mouth, though. His face contorted in pleasure, or effort, as he ate every drop. His face was wet with his own spit when finally he pulled off, and let my dick drop and swing between my legs. "Fuck," he said, eyes wide. "I got my stuff all over you."

Again his hands scrambled, this time for some toilet tissue. He dabbed at my legs, my ass, and at the tops of my sandals, murmuring apologies all the while. I didn't listen. I rubbed his hair affectionately after I pulled up my shorts, and went on my way.

My dad was browsing through the T-shirts at the bookstore when I joined him a couple of minutes later. "That didn't take long," he said.

"Nope," I agreed.

"Sometimes when you've got to do it," he said, "you've got to do it."

He was obviously still talking about pooping. "That's the truth," I agreed fervently.

"Feels better after, too."

We meant different things, of course. But I couldn't agree more.