Date: Sun, 7 Jun 1998 13:44:02 -1000
From: John Clark <janc55@hgea.org>
Subject: Jock-sucker ch. 9

Chapter 9

	"Please have a seat, Mr. Rollins.  Mr. Carlisle's expecting you.
He should be along in just a moment."  The cheerful secretary waved Dak to
an overstuffed settee by the wide, draped windows.  Dak hadn't known what
kind of reception he'd get when he'd called Media Services, the name on Tom
Carlisle's business card.  But he'd been given an immediate appointment.
Apparently his name was known here, and it hadn't just been a hype on
Carlisle's part.  That made it all the harder to face what he had to do.
	The door to the inner office opened and Tom Carlisle emerged,
ushering a young man out before him.  "Thanks for coming in.  Bring in your
portfolio and we'll have a look at it."  The man left, and Tom turned to
Dak with a wide smile.
	"Glad to see you, Dak.  Come on in."  He lead the way into his
office, and closed the door behind them.  Gesturing to a pair of
comfortable-looking chairs, he walked around to sit at his desk.  "Can I
get you anything?  Coffee?  Soda?"
	"No, thanks, Mr. Carlisle."
	"Hey, I told you to call me Tom, didn't I?"  Carlisle was coatless,
his shirt sleeves rolled up.  He was clearly at ease in his work.  Dak took
in the glistening black hair on the man's muscular forearms, as well as his
thick, sloping shoulders.  Tom Carlisle was obviously in good shape, and
intended to stay that way.
	"Okay, Tom.  Look, I don't know any good way to say this.  I have
to turn down the Foundation offer."
	Carlisle leaned forward in consternation.  "How come?  Better
offer?  We can negotiate."
	"No, nothing like that."
  	"Is it a time problem?  Studies backing up on you?  Maybe we can do
something to shorten the commitment."
	"Tom, I don't think there's anything we can do.  Tell me - this
group of churches the foundation is acting for, are they kind of
fundamentalist?"
	"Yeah.  Pretty conservative, I guess you could say."
	"Well, see, I don't think I can do the job for them that they'd
want.  See, I've just recently had to come to the conclusion that I'm gay.
Real recently.  Like, since the first time we talked.  After you made me
the offer."
	"Whew.  That would kinda distort their view of you, all right".
Tom stood and walked around his desk to where Dak sat.  Soberly he held out
his hand.  "Welcome to the family," he said as he shook with Dak.
	"I don't understand, sir.  I thought this would pretty much put me
out of the family."
	Tom perched on the edge of his desk, in front of Dak.  He gave a
wry smile.
	"Yeah, that family.  I'm talking about the family of gay men and
lesbians, little brother.  Proud to have you aboard."
	"No shit!  You don't look... I mean..."
	Carlisle laughed.  "Come on, Dak.  You know better than to go for
stereotypes.  What's a gay man look like?  Limp wrist?  Eye makeup?  Too
much cologne?"  His eyes twinkled.  "It's like all you black guys have
natural rhythm, right?  And play b-ball?"
	"Point taken."  Dak smiled up at the man leaning against the desk
in front of him.
	"I'll relay your regrets to the Dill Foundation.  On the grounds of
time commitment, I think.  You're thinking of graduate school, aren't you?"
	"Yes, sir.  I've got a pretty good shot at it."
	"Okay, that makes a pretty realistic story, then.  Preparing for
entrance exams, all that kind of thing.  But, I'll tell you what, I'm going
to keep your name in my file anyway.  We do a lot of different kinds of
representation.  Maybe we can work up some product endorsements, speaking
engagements, whatever.  If you're interested, that is?"
	"Sure!  Yeah, if being a queer doesn't screw it up..."
	"Were you planning to start wearing a dress to class?  Or come out
on the Today show?"
	"Tom, I met a man.  A man I want to be with.  You know what I
mean?"
	Carlisle smiled.  "Sure.  I know what you mean."
	"If anybody asks me why I hang out with this guy, I'm not gonna
hide what it's all about.  I'm damn proud of him.  But I wasn't figuring on
any big announcements, no."
	"Fine.  That's good enough to be getting on with.  I'll see what's
in the files that might fit you, and we'll play it on a case by case
basis."  He walked Dak toward the door, stopping before opening it.  "And
Dak.  I meant it when I welcomed you to the family.  If you need a friend,
call.  I'd be honored to be able to help."  He gave Dak a firm handshake.
	"Thanks, Tom.  I appreciate what you're doing.  I hope to see you
around."
	"I hope so too, Dak.  Best of luck to you and your friend."


	Bobby Shale was in a hurry.  Tom Carlisle really seemed interested
in taking a look at his work.  It was a shock, coming out of Carlisle's
office and seeing that big football player waiting outside.  For a
heart-stopping moment he thought he was doomed.  But no, the guy was
waiting to see Tom.  Which made sense, considering it was Tom's office.
Nothing scares you like a guilty conscience, Bobby admitted to himself.
Let's concentrate on the good stuff.  Two years he'd been sticking it out
here on campus after graduating, hoping for a break with the Fine Arts
department.  He knew he could teach photography better than any of the
geeks he'd had classes from.  Now this man from Media Services was willing
to help him place some of his work.
	Shale was a good photographer.  He knew the science as well as the
art, and he had a keen eye for composition.  His portfolio was good.  He
had it pretty well covered in all categories, too.  His still life and
landscape sections were at least up to par, and his abstracts were, he
thought, pretty damn fine.  But his people were his best work.  As an
undergrad, he'd been a regular contributor to the school paper, often
furnishing all the art for the Sunday supplement.  His picture profiles of
students and faculty had depth and life.  Shale missed those days, and
hungered for the time when he could truly work at his craft again.
	As he crossed the concourse, Bobby spotted one of his favorite
faces coming toward him.  In his senior year he'd taken in a basketball
game, not his usual kind of thing, but you never knew where you'd find lens
fodder.  Russ Widdoes was a sophomore, but already on the starting lineup.
Bobby looked at the classic lines of the boy's face and body, silently
named him the African Adonis, and knew he had a profile on his hands.  It'd
worked out well.  The young man was willing, followed directions, posed as
though he'd been doing it all his life.  The session had produced one of
Shale's best photo layouts, and it led naturally into a series featuring
other campus athletes.  That was a special pleasure for Bobby.  He'd always
liked the sight of hard, male bodies.  He kept his professionalism intact,
though.  Kept his hands off his muscular young subjects, and went to the
off-campus bars to find his jollies.
	Widdoes was the one, though, who would have really tempted him to
"go black", if he had ever gotten up the nerve to sound the boy out.  They
neared, and Bobby smiled as he caught the other man's eye.  "Hey, Russ.
How's it going?"  The other man grinned back at him.


	Man!  I forgot how hot that red-headed stud photographer is, Widdie
thought.  Don't usually see artists with shoulders that wide, or veins
rippin' out their arms like that.  Wonder why in hell I never tried to get
next to that?  Guess I just didn't want to send out any signals long as he
wasn't sendin' any.  Sure took some nice pictures, though.  Mom and Dad put
that whole issue of the paper in a scrapbook by itself.
	Seeing Bobby Shale again made Widdie think.  Even though he
wondered casually how that fine looking guy had slipped through his net in
days gone by, Widdie had to admit he wasn't really interested now.  Funny.
Shale had the face of an angel, and a hell of a nice body.  Why in the
world am I not walking down the street makin' conversation with that dude,
instead of going on about my business, which I don't even have any of right
now?
	Wu's face came to his mind.  Wouldn't call him handsome, Widdie
figured.  Round face, cheerful, crew cut, thick black eyebrows, nose kinda
bent.  Damn, I was rough on him last night.  Ought to call him up, see how
he's doing.  Going home last night, he was limping pretty bad.  Wouldn't
say a word, though.  Makin' jokes, even when he was panting for breath.
Or, jeeze, maybe he was panting from pain.  I reamed him bad.  Really
animal.  Why'd I do that?  Why in the bloody hell did I do that?  All I
know is, I just needed to fuck him worse than I needed to breathe.  I never
felt it that strong before.  It's him.  Holy shit...


	Twill slammed his text book shut and dropped it to the floor.
Now's as good a time as any, he thought, staring at his roommate's back as
he hunched over his desk.  Ion was wearing black silk running shorts and an
almost non-existent muscle-t, also black, that showed more of his chiseled
torso than it covered.  Yeah, fucker, Twill thought, you've got your
running togs on.  Figure you're gonna join up with ol' Mandingo out there,
don't you?  Uh, uh, baby.  It's my turn on that sucky body of yours.
	"Hey, Ion.  Let's knock off for a while."
	Ion looked up, startled.  Jason seldom said anything beyond the
bare amenities.  Not that he was unfriendly, just quiet.  Reserved.
	"What?"
	"Let's drop our books and grab our dicks!"
	"Excuse me?"
	"Yeah, you know.  Let's have some fun.  You wanna start by sucking
my cock, or me sucking yours?"
	Ion stared, ashen faced.  He knows!  Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!
The thoughts jumbled and tumbled in Ion's mind as he tried to sort it all
out - what does Twill know, what does he want, and, ohmygod, what do I do
about it.  His heart raced, the sound of his blood whooshed through his
head.  And a cold fear pierced his gut.
	"Ah, come on.  It's not that bad.  Just a little hanky panky in the
dormitory.  Everybody does it, uh?  What do you say, baby?"  Twill stood,
peeled off his shirt.  "Not too shabby, is it Ion?"  Slowly he struck a
muscle pose.  His body, like Ion's, was sleek, packed with well defined
muscle mass, and lightly haired.  Ion couldn't help but take in the sight.
It was a good body, but what was that to him?
	"Please, Jason.  What are you doing?  I do not understand."
	"Oh, yeah.  You do understand.  Don't play dumb, roomie.  You been
suckin' dick all along.  In fact, you've been suckin' black dick.  Does
that taste better, bunkie?  Can't tell unless you do a comparison test."
Twill unzipped his jeans, unsnapped them.  Ion watched, paralyzed, as the
other man hauled out his semi hard cock and displayed it not a foot away
from Ion's face.  It was longer than average, and proportionally thick.  As
he watched a pearly drop of precum oozed out through the slit.  "There ya
go, baby.  There's a nice little taste for you.  To get your motor running,
so to speak."
	Ion jerked back and scrambled out of his chair, backing away from
Twill.  "Jason, stop this.  What are you trying to do to me?"
	"You don't want to play with me, roomie?  You refusing my offer?"
	"Yes!  I want nothing like this.  Why have you thought that I
would?"
	"Aw, it could have been real pleasant for both of us.  But, okay,
if that's how you feel about it.  Guess we'll have to do it the hard way.
'Course it'll still be pleasant, at least for me."  Twill shook his cock
once, hard, flicking the drop of oily fluid off onto Ion's desk.  Staring
at Ion, he casually tucked himself back into his trousers.  Then he sidled
to his desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a packet of photographs.
	"Take a look."
	He splayed the snapshots out over his desktop.  Ion edged up to
take a peek, then lurched forward to stare in horror at the pictures that
clearly, very clearly, showed him going down on the huge, naked, form of
Dak Rollins.  All the shots were taken from the same vantage point, but
over a long enough time period that the two subjects were shown in many
positions.  Both men's faces were recognizable, even though Ion's was
distorted, in most of the shots, by the enormous pole stuffing his mouth,
and Dak's by grimaces of sexual pleasure/agony.
	Ion drew himself up.  "How did you get these?  And what does any of
this have to do with you?"
	"One slat missing in the venetian blinds.  Tsk, tsk.  Sloppy work.
And all I want is equal treatment."
	"You are not going to get it!  Give those to me."  Ion lunged
forward and scooped up the pile of photos.
	"Sure, roomie.  That's your set.  Now, if you want the other set,
you're gonna have to come across with the goodies."
	"No.  You are dreaming to think that I would submit to such
extortion."
	"You're not worried about what people will say when they see these
little beauties?"
	Ion was silent for a moment.
	"Yes.  Of course I am worried.  It will be unpleasant.  But not so
unpleasant as what you suggest."
	"Well, to tell you the truth I didn't really think you'd save your
ass by giving me your ass.  But what about the other guy?  Say, isn't that
a nice little deal he's got going with the Dill Foundation?  Five hundred
bucks a week, is what I heard."
	Ion gasped, his heart sinking still further.
	"Yeah!"  Twill went on.  "Just for getting his picture taken
tossing a football to a kid in a wheelchair or something.  'Course those
mean old church folks might take a slightly dim view of having their kids
fondled by a queer.  A pansy.  A practitioner of the filthy arts of sodomy,
fellatio, frigging, frotting, all that good stuff."
	"He does none of that!  Only I have done these things you say, not
him!"
	"Doesn't matter.  Those good ol' church fathers only got to see one
of these pictures, and their imaginations will fill in all the rest, way
beyond whatever the truth might be."
	Ion was silent.  Then, quietly he said, "I must have those
photographs.  What do you want of me?"
	"Well, I was going to suggest a nice little roll in the hay, we
both get our rocks off, you get the pics, and that's that.  But, you turned
me down, roomie, baby.  Now I think we're gonna have to fancy it up a
little."  His tone went cold.  "Take off your clothes," he ordered.
	Ion stripped quickly out of his shirt and shorts and stood
uncertainly before Twill.
	"Okay!  Yeah.  Turn all the way around, slow."  Twill gently rubbed
at his crotch as the gymnast slowly rotated.  "Baby, you are a fine looking
piece of meat, for sure, for sure."  Twill stepped in close.  With one hand
he stroked Ion's chest while the other cupped the quiescent genitals.  The
boy shuddered and Twill laughed.  "Like somebody said, 'spasms of love or
spasms of hate', either one's fine by me.
	"Scarpia.  You are like him."
	"Fine, whatever.  Put on sweatpants.  And shoes, no socks.  And a
windbreaker, no shirt.  I like the idea you're naked underneath."  Ion
quickly grabbed up his sweats, happy to be clothing himself.  "Why are you
having me put on clothes?"
	"Because it's too cold outside for you to walk around naked.  We're
going downtown.  Neat place I want you to see."


	Widdie's feet had taken him to Wu's dormitory.  He stood outside
for a while, thinking, deciding.  Then he went in, checked the building
roster for Wu's room number and boarded the elevator.  On the sixth floor,
he followed the hall to his destination, knocked.
	"Come on in, it's open."  The voice made his heart pound.  He
opened the door. "Hi, guy."
	"Widdie!"
	Russ closed the door and walked a few steps into the room.  Wu was
lying on his bed, the only one in the room - upperclassman's privilege.
The young man lay on his side, propped on an elbow, books strewn around
him.  He started to rise, obviously a painful task in spite of the happy
smile of welcome on his face.
	"Don't get up, Denny.  You look like you're pretty well settled in
there."  Widdie dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor beside the bed.
He looked sadly at Wu.  "And you also look like you hurt like hell.  I came
over to tell you I'm sorry."
	"For what?"
	"For being such a fuckin', beastly animal last night."
	"Hey!  Shut the fuck up right now!"  Anger washed over Wu's face.
"Last night was the most fantastic thing that ever happened to me.  Ever!"
His look softened.  "You were so goddam wonderful I passed out.  I've been
going back over it all day, trying to burn every single second of it into
my memory forever.  I sincerely believe we had the best fuck that there
ever was.  And nobody could have done it but you.  And then to top it all
off, after I made a complete ass of myself and shit myself, you cleaned me
off with your own shirt."  Tears started in Wu's eyes.  "Some thanks I gave
you for the best thing anybody ever gave me.  A pile of stinking shit!""
	Widdie's hand caressed the side of Wu's head.  "Baby, you didn't
shit yourself.  I pulled the shit out of you. I dicked you too damn hard,
and then shot the load of my life up there and liquefied everything that my
frickin' cock had shook loose.  All that shit was purely my fault."  He
smiled.  "I was kinda sorry to lose that shirt though.  You came all over
it, remember?"  Wu returned the smile, nodding.  "Yeah, Gingerman, up until
cleanup time, I was planning to take that shirt home and lick your sweet
juice out of it."  Both men laughed until Wu bent forward as a spasm of
pain lanced through his bowels.
	"I'm taking you to the med center!"
	" Nah, I'm okay.  It's not near as bad as it was.  Hey, it only
hurts when I laugh, yuk, yuk."
	"Are you bleeding?"
	"No.  Just at first, a little bit.  But not since last night.  I'm
just kinda stretched out inside, is all.  And anyway, stud, I'm glad it's
happening now so I can get it out of the way."
	"What do you mean?"
	"Well, your dick's not gonna shrink, so my guts've gotta get used
to the size and shape of it."
	"Are you serious?  You'd let me back in there after last night?!?"
	"Mr. Widdoes, sir, you can skip town tonight while I'm still kind
of laid up, if you want to.  But that's the only way you're gonna get out
of fucking me hard and fast and often.  Unless once was enough."  Wu's face
paled.  "I mean, I've been assuming you'd still want me.  I'm sorry.  Man,
I know you got other fish in the pond.  You are the campus stud.  What's
the matter with me..."
	Widdie stood and began lifting the books off the bed.  He talked as
he worked.  "I ran into an old friend today.  A guy who looks sorta like
Tom Cruse, but more muscles.  I never made it with him, but I always
thought about it, kinda in the back of my mind, you know?  Shit, he must of
been working out lately, 'cause he was pumped.  Hot!"
	Wu's guts spasmed again, this time from dread.  Was this kiss-off
time?  Why the damn hell did I have to shit on this man, he thought.  Bad
dog!
	Books and notebooks, pencils, everything was stacked on the desk
near the bed.  Now Widdie sat down on the edge of the bed, half-turned to
look down at Wu.  "So we waved at each other in passing, and I wondered why
I didn't want to plank him on the spot.  I mean, I'm not blind or anything.
I took in how good he's looking, did a sexual appropriateness assessment,
all that.  But I didn't want him.  No how.  I finally figured it out.  I
haven't wanted to lie down next to anybody else since I met you.  Wu the
Spoiler, that's you."  Widdie kicked off his loafers and lay down beside
Wu.
	"You mean it?  You're not just visiting the sick, or something?"
	"Now don't go getting all excited.  I didn't come over here tonight
to fuck.  I just came by to tell you I love you, that's all.  We can fuck
later, when you're all fine."  Tears came again to Wu's eyes.  "Please,
help me sit up."
	"Why, baby?  Don't you want me to hold you?"
	Wu inched himself off the bed and knelt on the floor, facing Widdie
who had twisted up into a sitting position.  "Russ, I want you to hold me
forever."  He reached for Widdie's zipper.  "But I haven't eaten all day.
I'm starving.  And it's only my ass that's sore, not my throat!"