Date: Fri, 14 Jul 2006 14:53:49 -0400
From: Andre Goremsa <goremsa@hotmail.com>
Subject: College Dorm Incident

The following is an original work of fiction that contains graphic
depictions of sexual activity between males.  All characters are portrayed
as being over 18 years of age, as you must be to read this.  If you aren't,
or if such material is offensive to you or illegal to read where you are,
go away.

All rights are reserved by the author.  Please download for personal use
only.

60s Dorm Incident
By Goremsa

At the beginning of my sophomore year in college I found myself in a
housing bind -- at the end of the previous spring semester I had arranged
to share an off-campus apartment with a friend, but now he had had to drop
out of school at the last minute.  I spent a few frantic days in early
September rushing around, trying unsuccessfully to find a replacement,
someone I could actually stand to live with in a small studio, but all my
friends had already made other arrangements.  Since I couldn't afford the
keep the apartment by myself, I had to give up on the idea off-campus
housing and go back into the dreaded and low- prestige dorm system.  By
then, of course, all the decent rooms were gone, and all the housing office
could offer me was a closet-size single room in an old, run-down freshman
dorm, sharing space in a series of suites with a dozen or so overflow
upperclassmen who like me had been unable to make better arrangements.

I hated the idea of dorm living, even though there were plenty of cute boys
to be admired, more or less openly, among all those freshmen in the showers
(long communal ones with the entrance at one end and the shower heads all
along the same wall, so that latecomers had to walk nude down the gauntlet
of five other guys -- there was always plenty of open glancing among the
freshmen, and a lot of very cutely self-conscious unease visible among
those being glanced at).  But the noise levels and generally stupid
screwing around of the freshmen were irritating.  I'd been through all that
as a freshman myself and didn't relish another year of the same, but unless
I found some magic money someplace to be able to afford an apartment on my
own, I was stuck with a bunch of jocks and vomiting drunks and full-scale
idiotic mayhem.  At least I had a room to myself.

This was in the early 60s, and my school, a middling-to-good liberal arts
college in Maryland with an enrolment of around 1,000 undergraduates, was,
like so many in those days, all-male.  If you were gay and looking for
serious love, you'd probably come to the wrong place.  If you did anything
close to what later came to be called coming out, you were as good as dead
-- you'd be lucky to get off with a quiet expulsion.  But if you were
looking for interesting erotic adventure, the place was great.  1,000 horny
young guys, and the only women (they were still called girls then) within
hailing distance were pimply townies or faux-sophisticates from woman's
colleges in the general vicinity -- the result was that everyone was
supremely repressed.  The sexual charge could be felt in every corner of
the campus. Anything could happen, some of it quite dangerous.

Every year brought its crop of stupid gags, always designed to humiliate
the victim and allow for repressed eroticism to be expressed in suitably
he-manly, hawhaw kinds of ways.  This year, the going gag was particularly
lame and dumb, not that that ever seemed to matter.  It was related to
pretend-hypnosis and involved the following: a group of gaggers would look
for a suitable victim, probably someone mild and a bit dim-witted (it
wouldn't work with real he-men: the pretense couldn't be maintained).
You'd tell your victim excitedly about this really cool hypnosis experiment
that they were doing in the psych department: the subject lies down on his
back on the floor and closes his eyes very tight.  A group surrounds the
subject and starts counting to a hundred, in very loud voices, and the
subject counts along with them.  At a certain, random point the subject
will suddenly be told to open his eyes and spring up into a sitting
position.  But by then, the victim was told, he'd find that he was
completely paralyzed and unable to move or even open his eyes.  Only the
strongest and manliest 10% (or whatever)could actually open their eyes and
sit up.  It took, the group excitedly said, great concentration and
willpower: wanna try?

And so the victim would lie down, he and the group would start shouting
very loudly, counting away, and, while the victim's eyes were closed and he
was presumably concentrating on not letting himself become paralyzed, one
of the tormenters would quietly straddle him, drop his trousers and shorts
("drop trou", in the parlance of the time), and the order would then
suddenly be given to the victim to sit up.  The victim, having eagerly
husbanded his energies to show that he was unparalyzable, was supposed to
spring up with a violent movement which, if the tormenter had positioned
himself right, would cause the other boy to smack his nose very
satisfyingly into his tormenter's asshole.  Gales of laughter would ensue,
the victim would have been made to look weak and foolish and would have to
seal his humiliation by laughing along with everyone, though if he chose to
throw a tantrum, that would only add to the fun and to his disgrace.
Pretty dumb stuff, as I say.

In my little closet off a larger study where another upperclassman's bed
had been placed, I had remained aloof from that year's freshmen.  We'd meet
in the shower and pee and defecate together in the head's doorless
cubicles, but otherwise I had my own life with friends in the upperclass
dorms or off campus.  The freshmen probably got the feeling that I and the
others in our small upperclass colony were stuck up and needed to be taken
down a peg, and so one evening a group of them came prowling down to our
end of the hall and came across me as I was coming back from class.

"Hey," one of them called out, "want to see a really neat experiment?"  By
then, of course, I'd been told by friends of this imbecilic gag du jour,
and even if I hadn't been, it was perfectly clear from the glint in their
stupid little eyes that the group was trying to set me up.  But some of
them were kind of cute and I thought the situation had possibilities.  The
boy who slept in the middle room of our suite was out, so we all tramped in
there and I tried to act as dumb as I could and said something like, "Sure,
what's it all about?"

Grins and giggles were not very well suppressed as I stretched out on the
floor and the others crouched in a huddle all around me.  The smell of
late-teen secretions and erotic excitement closed in on me and I said to
myself that this was going to be fun.  As I was ordered to do, I closed my
eyes and the counting began.  I vaguely sensed the designated target-boy
move into position (how could any victim ever have missed it?) and as the
chanting ("eighty-THREE, eighty- FOUR") grew louder I let myself relax and
enjoy the sexual charge of the situation.  Then came the shout: "SIT UP!".

Instead of sitting up, I merely opened my eyes slowly and stared up at a
hairy asshole, with a ballsack and the tip of a flaccid circumcised cock
staring back down at me.  Since I didn't sit up, everything was in
suspended animation, so I said in a calm and steady voice, "You want me to
cornhole that tight little asshole for you, buddy?"

The guy -- who was a chiseled featherweight wrestler with dark curly hair
and a mean grin whose trim little body and fat, floppy cock I had often
admired in the shower -- froze in confusion.  The rest of the group held
their breaths in excited anticipation: things had taken an unexpected twist
-- this was going to be more fun than they'd bargained for.  The wrestler
was still in his crouch, and from that undignified position, he made my day
-- in fact, my week and my month as well.

"You could never get it up to cornhole me, you sophomore pussy!," said he
and actually reached back, grabbed his cheeks to spread them further and
wiggled his ass in my face, showing that he was even stupider than he
looked.  This really was going to be fun.  I stood up, pushed him forward
slightly, and ripped open my jeans, pulling out a fine, raging hard-on.

The others stared and were clearly getting excited themselves -- for all
the sexual talk and innuendo that went around the place, hard-ons flapping
out in the open were not a daily sight.  And mine was at full attention,
pulsing away.  By now, I had already won the day -- the wrestler had taken
my place as victim, humiliated in whatever he did.

And he made it worse.  His sweatsuit bottoms were still down around his
ankles, and he failed to make the quick move that might have saved a bit of
his own dignity.  "What, are you some kind of faggot?" he snarled instead.

"No," I lied (that's how it had to work back then) "I'd much rather have
pussy -- it's juicier.  But since you were offering me your pink little
asshole, well, I figured, any hole in a storm.  If you like having guys'
noses up your ass, you'll love having some real cock."  By now the others
were beside themselves, sniggering with excitement, and the wrestler looked
around and realized he had to do something dramatic to reclaim his image.
Given that my cut 7 inches were already out there and pulsing upwards with
a raging red tip, he astonished me (though I managed to keep my face
completely impassible) by turning around and bending over again and saying
with the best sneer he could muster, "you wouldn't dare!"

Well, by then, of course, I certainly would -- indeed, had to -- so I moved
forward and grabbed him around the waist with one hand.  While rubbing my
dick along his ass-crack, I reached around and cupped the palm of my other
hand under his chin, covering his mouth and said, "You'd better give me all
the spit you've got, you're going to need it to survive this one."  He
sneered and actually managed to slosh a good-sized wad of spittle into my
hand.

This was going even better than expected.  Dumb jock that he was, he
probably thought that I'd make some joking insult, break the clutch, and
let it go at that.  I reached down and slobbered his own spittle around his
hairy asshole, poking roughly at his tightly squeezed pucker.

Time for some audience participation, I figured, so, with my head up tight
against my victim's and an arm around his waist bending us both forward, I
said to for the others' benefit, "I'm going to need more than that to slip
into this tight ass", and held my remaining hand out.  A big lunk of a guy
next to me actually came over and hawked a huge mound of phlegm into my
palm while the others guffawed, so I said "thanks, guy, you're a real pal,"
to great peals of laughter from the group.  I reached down and lathered up
my cock.  By now, of course, I had the other guys' total attention.  There
was no turning back, and so I thrust my hips forward, made contact with the
proffered asshole and pushed hard.  He resisted at first but then realized
that he had to see this through -- he was a goner anyway, reputation-wise,
of course, but pulling away now would only make it worse.  In his
neanderthal-macho kind of world, dares are sacred -- he had launched one
and couldn't back down.  He had to back into me instead.

My little wrestler was nice and compact and his asshole was at just the
right height, so after pausing long enough so that everyone could see that
I was prepared to show mercy if it was asked for, I pushed and shoved a
bit, popped through (eliciting a strangled grunt), paused for a second or
two, then ploughed all the way in and began thrusting, still with my right
arm around the guy's waist.  He burbled a bit, then grit his teeth and, to
his credit, stayed quiet and still, though I'm sure I must have been
hurting him like hell.  The others, I could tell (though I was careful to
look at no one), were by now completely spellbound -- nothing in their
repressed little middle-class lives had prepared them for anything this
real and raw.

Nothing in mine had prepared me for this moment, either -- it just came
naturally, I said to myself, and then, yup, after a minute or two of
rabbit-like pumping, it sure did come.  And come and come.  I'd been inside
a few assholes before, and plenty of mouths and even a few twats, but I had
never felt a surge like this one.  To this day, I'm convinced that the
floor shook.  I pulled out while I was still spurting, so that all could
see that my triumph was complete, and rubbed my still hard-cock around the
small of his back, painting Jackson Pollack-like swirls of sperm onto his
flesh.  I stood up and, though I felt shaky, I managed to muster a firm
enough voice and say to the drop-jawed gaggle of freshmen, "Any of you guys
want the same favor, you know where I am."  I grabbed my victim's
sweatpants from around his ankles and used inside of their rear to wipe the
remaining spit, spunk and shit off my cock, then pulled them up around his
waist.  I pulled up own my pants in turn, buttoned up, and went
deliberately into my room, closing the door quietly.  I heard some
muttering and shifting around, and I guess someone helped my hairy little
wrestler to rearrange his clothes and leave with whatever look on his face
he could manage.  After what I took to be his exit there were hoots and
gales of laughter -- all that pent-up energy, I guess.  It was the nastiest
sound I'd ever heard.

I would run into him in the hall and give him a stony stare.  He would
glare back, but there was nothing he could do: I had destroyed him, he was
finished.  I never saw him on campus after that semester.  Maybe he
transferred or dropped out -- I didn't care.  I was, literally, the cock of
that walk, and the guys in the dorm would stand aside and whisper to each
other when I passed.  It was, I have to admit, a great feeling.  As a gay
guy ("fairy" was the word then), I ought to have been the lowest of the
low, someone who, if found out, would by rights be spat upon and beaten up
and forced into giving blowjobs or worse, but in one inspired moment I had
instead been transformed into some kind of macho hero.

And boy did it pay off.  Two nights later, as I sat at my desk studying,
there was a soft knock at my door.  I stood up and opened it and there was
a kid from the audience of freshmen from that night, one I'd noticed as
about the cutest, small and blond and with a sweetly off center smile.  The
smile was there when I opened the door for him, but it wasn't sweet at all.
It was horny.  I reached out and pinched him at the back of his neck, drew
him into my room, locked the door and turned off the light.  Not a word was
spoken.  From then on, it was a great semester.