Caught

One of the questions I repeatedly get asked is if I’ve ever gotten caught. There must be some kind of ‘getting caught’ fetish out there that taps into a strain of humiliation I’ve never properly appreciated—because for a good portion of my life, getting caught is the last thing I’ve wanted.

I didn’t want it as a kid when I was cruising the restrooms and parks. The one time it happened, it definitely wasn’t a kinky thrill—if anything it made me swear off having sex forever. Or more precisely, for about three or four days, which is an eternity to a pair of teen nuts. I didn’t want it in college, when I was trying very hard to fit in and stay in the closet, so that my Young Republicans governing-board-prominent college boyfriend could protect his reputation. Getting caught doesn’t thrill me in general, I’m afraid, so when I’m in a situation when it might possibly occur, I take precautions. I don’t screw guys by the front door. I leave an escape route, or the door closed, or better yet, closed and locked.

There have been a couple of times when I found myself intruded upon without expectation, though. The worst was during my full-time years at the university.

I was teaching at the time, and had a committee appointment that I absolutely hated. At the time, the university was doing some kind of showy initiative that was designed to make it look like it was busy examining every aspect of its operation from top to bottom, in order to transform it into a more efficient operation. What it really turned out to be was the university throwing a bundle of cash at a corporation to purchase the efficiency package, dick around with it in committees for about six years, and then to abandon it without mention when the next university president stepped in. At that point, though, I was in a committee that was busy designing and collecting pointless surveys that we all knew were going to be ignored when they reached a level higher than ours.

It was pretty thankless. Making the decision to leave that place was a good thing, though it certainly took me long enough to do it.

Anyway. My office was on the top floor of a newer building, directly across from the receptionist for the graduate school. All day I’d have a good view of the grad students and the new prospects going in and out of that office, armed with their applications and their forms for graduation and their course catalogs. A lot of them were quite cute. But I never hit on any of them until I was nearing the second year in that office.

I was walking to the men’s room very late one afternoon, a little bit after five o’clock. All the staff in that place poured out in the direction of the parking decks at 4:59, so I wasn’t surprised that the grad school office door was closed when I stepped into the hallway. A young guy was there, looking up at the door as if staring at it might cause it to open. “They’re gone for the day,” I told him.

He stared at me. He had an application for the grad school in his hand. He couldn’t have been more than 20 or 21 at most. His hair was shaggy and dark, and his eyebrows were like hairbrushes. He had dark slits of eyes that turned down at the ends, giving him the look of a sleepy dreamer. He wasn’t big or thin. Merely a round-shouldered kid in oversized clothes who was cute enough to make me look him up and down a few times before I turned to go. “They won’t be back tonight?”

“Not after five,” I told him, and then nodded before I went on my way.

I was in the restroom, not very far from my office, peeing at the urinal when I heard the door open. Someone stepped up next to me. It was the kid. My dick instantly started to harden, because I could tell from they way he pulled out his mouth into a half-smile and looked at me through those dreamy, droopy eyes that he’d followed me there deliberately. I’d honestly needed to pee, just seconds before, but when he stood there next to me with his fly open, pretending to look down at his own dick but really allowing his eyes to flit over to mine, my sphincter slammed shut. My hand trembled. I moved back a little, and held my hard dick in my hand, so he could see it.

This wasn’t a cruisy restroom. It wasn’t the library on campus, which I hit religiously for undergraduate tail. It wasn’t the basement of the art building, where I used to fuck with students when I wanted to do more than under-the-stall action. This was the restroom that the university president himself used, when he was trying to appear democratic and a man of the people, or if his secretary was using his personal and private toilet. Stuff like this didn’t happen in this particular john. The kid showed off his own dick, which was a respectable pickle of about five inches, blunt and fat and curved. Then he reached out for me.

I heard voices in the hallway. “Not here,” I told the kid. “Back in my office.” I zipped up and thrust my hands into my pockets so that hopefully my erection wouldn’t be plainly seen by any colleagues we happened to pass. He followed at a respectful distance, his backpack slung in front of the bulging part of his body. The halls were dead, though. Everyone had gone home.

In my office, with the doors closed, we went at each other. My mouth was on his, my hands were on his back, his butt, his groin. He was submissive in his kisses, sighing softly and tilting his head back as I ground my mouth against his. His pants hit the floor, and he stepped out of them.. He unbuckled my zipper and let loose the beast from my underwear. His mouth on my dick felt amazing. The kid clearly knew what to do.

I pulled him back to my chair and sat down. He knelt on the carpet with his naked backside poked beneath my steel desk, eyes closed, nursing on my dick. I spread my knees wide apart and settle back for a long and sloppy blow job.

And then I heard the sound of a key in the door.

The next few seconds seemed to take a thousand years to pass. I couldn’t think who the fuck would possibly have a key, other than the custodians—and they came through in the early mornings. My mind began making up a thousand possible explanations as to why I had my pants down and a naked boy on my floor. Then I panicked because the kid’s pants were on the other side of the room, right at the door. Oh, it was terrible.

At the very last moment I yanked my desk chair forward so that my naked lower half rolled beneath the desk. The kid, who had frozen at the sound of the key, folded himself into a ball and shivered there, in the shadows. The door opened, sweeping the pants behind it. And in walked the Vice President of the division. “Oh, hello,” he said, as if he’d almost expected me there. “I thought I’d leave this last batch of surveys on your desk.”

Now, mind you, I had a mail box in the main office, ten steps from this guy’s own door. I had a drop box outside my own office. And yet this guy had to use his master key to barge on in to drop some useless forms onto my desk personally? I just stared at him, ready to drop some useless comment about how I’d, um, been changing into my jeans when he stopped in. Instead, I just said, “Okay, thanks.”

He started to leave. Then, at the door, he paused, and opened his mouth. Oh fuck, I thought to myself. He knows. He’s going to fire me. “Did you see that article in the Chronicle this week about. . . ?”

I didn’t hear much after that. I nodded and stammered and sat stock still and just waited for him to get the fuck out of my office. When he eventually did, he was none the wiser, I’m pretty sure.

I rolled my chair out. The kid was still sitting on the floor, wearing only his shirt, trembling like a leaf.

I think we gave it the old college try after that, but the noise of footsteps in the hall made us both jumpy and nervous, and eventually we gave it up. The chemicals our bodies had been producing during those tense moments didn’t make us want to lunge at each other with abandon. They made us stink like we’d been lifting old tires all afternoon. It was decidedly unsexy. I collected his pants from the flat pancake they’d formed from being shoved between the wall and the door, we both dressed, and we parted.

I never saw that kid again. I kind of imagine he might’ve looked for some other graduate school.