Date: Thu, 27 Dec 2007 00:52:08 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: Fork in the Road, Chapter 4

FORK IN THE ROAD
By Scott Turner
Chapter 4

"If you see a fork in the road, take it."
-Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This work is a sequel to my first effort at writing gay erotic
fiction.  As such, it may help if you've read "Strange Bedfellows,"
(available in its entirety on Nifty, with a cleaned up and re-edited
version now partially posted at the Rainbow Community Writers' Project).
The story is fiction, but it occasional depicts scenes of sexual activity
between consenting adults.  If it's illegal for you to view such material,
then please move on.  The work is the sole property of the author, and my
not be reposted, reproduced or published elsewhere without my expressed
consent.  Thank you for reading.  I hope you enjoy it.


CHAPTER 4


Early Monday morning Frank Martine made his way through the bustling
rotunda of the Capitol in Madison and got directions to Jeremy Frick's
office.  He'd left Dubuque when it was still dark and was paying his first
visit to the dome.

Helen, the office receptionist checked the calendar.  "Yes, Mr. Martine"
she pronounced it `Marteen'.

"It's pronounced `martini,' like the drink.'"

"Oh, I'm sorry sir.  It reads like `marteen,' my apologies."  Helen was
already flustered by the stocky, overbearing man standing at her desk.
"Senator Frick will be with you in a few minutes."  She gestured toward a
chair against the opposite wall.  "If you'd care to have a seat.  Could I
get you some coffee, sir?"

Frank Martine plopped into a chair and loosened his tie a little bit.  "No,
I'm good thanks."  Frank was a forty-something man with an imposing
bearing.  Nearly six-foot-two and considerable girth, but he was not really
fat.  He'd played football for Iowa a couple decades earlier and had
maintained most of his physique.  He had a full head of curly dark hair and
a fairly dark complexion.  The name made sense, Helen thought to
herself. `He looks Italian, now that he says the name that way.'

Martine's dad had opened a Mexican restaurant in Dubuque when Frank was a
college freshman.  Since the college football career hadn't been solid
enough to even get him consideration in the professional draft, he worked
his way into taking over the old man's business.  He'd built it into three
more restaurants and now was looking at real estate development in order to
grow his burgeoning financial empire.  Southwest Wisconsin, just across the
river, was his target.  It was very rural and undeveloped, the "Appalachia
of Wisconsin" people joked, and it was ripe for growth.

It only needed two things.  An upgrade of state highway 151 between Madison
and Dubuque would be essential.  Second, as far as Frank was concerned,
some significant easing of the environmental regulations on developers
would be needed in order to make this dream really come true.  Wisconsin
was renowned for its tight rules on environmental impact studies and
statements any time a guy wanted to dig a hole, as far as Frank was
concerned.  Like many others, he sarcastically referred to the state's
Department of Natural Resources, the `DNR,' as "Damn Near Russia" when it
came to regulations.  The promise of a greater freeway and a relaxation of
the rules from the DNR, and...cha-ching!  But both would require the right
legislative action.

He just needed some muscle with the folks who could make it happen.  But he
wasn't even from Wisconsin.  That made it difficult.  There were a half
dozen investors in his small consortium.  But to Frank's mind they were
lazy and they were pessimists.  They said it couldn't be done.  Frank was a
go-getter and was going to prove the stupid bastards wrong.  As far as he
was concerned they had fat checkbooks but no balls.  `Sometimes you have to
shake the fucking tree and make the good stuff fall out of it,' he'd often
told himself and others.  He was here to see if he could shake the fucking
tree.  From what he'd heard, Frick was a tree that could be shaken.

The senator opened his door.  "Mr. Martine, I guess?"

Frank stood and acted humble.  "Yes sir."  They shook hands.  "Frank
Martine here."

"Senator Jeremy Frick."  He put a smug emphasis on the title. Frank had
anticipated that and then Frick gestured toward the open office door.
"Please come on in Mr. Martine."

Frick wasn't positive what the guy wanted but knew he had money, and he'd
done some homework.  He knew that Martine and some of his associates were
snooping around the southwest for development opportunities, and that they
could probably use some sort of help from Madison.  That's all he needed to
know for now.  He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.
"Interesting mix, if you don't mind my saying. An Italian-American running
a string of Tex-Mex restaurants in the heartland."

Frank settled in and got comfy, dropping his right ankle on his left knee
and settling back in his chair.  "Ha.  It's better than that, senator.  My
grand dad's name was Stephano Martinopolous.  We're Greek, through and
through.  Not that it matters anymore, but when the old boy came here not
long after World War I, it was a bit safer to be Italian that Greek. Italy
switched sides and ended up fighting with our side, so it was a safer move
on his part.  So with the help of some bigoted Mics at Ellis Island, he
dropped the `opolous' when he got here and we became what most folks figure
are wops.  And that's okay with me.  I'm not real big on Uzo or feta cheese
or peta bread anyway.  So you got a Greek with an Italian sounding name
running a group of Mexican restaurants in Dubuque, Iowa.  Only in America!"

The senator laughed.  "Quite a story Mr. Martine.  So tell me.  What brings
a Dubuque businessman to Madison?"

"Well, I'm here on behalf of a modest group of six, and potentially more,
who are interested in pursuing some real estate development in the
southwest part of the state, bordering Iowa.  We're looking at cultivating
some commercial and residential land, but we're concerned that the state's
current regulatory posture isn't very conducive to our efforts to improve
the quality of life here."

Frick shifted in his chair and he smelled money in the air.  "And what is
it about the `state's posture' that you're concerned about?"

"Well, sir," Frank hated calling another guy sir.  "The infrastructure as
far as the freeway goes just stinks, and the DNR regulations basically tell
guys like me who want to build that we should just go away."

"I see."

"I just wanted to let you know that if we thought the transportation system
would be improved and the reg's might be relaxed, the good people of
southwest Wisconsin would see a good amount of investment poured into their
economies."

Frick leaned forward on his desktop.  "And Martine and friends would make a
handsome return."

Frank shrugged.  "Senator, we're businessmen, not the United Way or Unicef.
But the lack of broad transport and the environmental regulations are
what's stopping us from diving in and helping out everybody.  We're willing
to help make it possible here in Madison, if necessary."

"Help?"

Frank put his foot back on the floor and leaned forward.  "Yes, senator,
help.  I'll be direct, `cuz it's pretty much who I am.  I know your party
is hanging on by your fingernails.  I know that you have a narrow majority
in the Senate, and that you hope to take the majority in the Assembly in
the next go'round.  I know that Senator McCarthy is likely to leave her
post to run for Attorney General and that you want to replace her.  I know
that you direct the Senate Campaign Fund to elect or re-elect members of
your own party.  I'm prepared to begin some substantial contributions to
that fund, but only after I'm convinced that the legislature is serious
about improving the interstate system into that region and relaxing the
environmental regulations."

Frick actually licked his lips.  "What are we talking Mr. Martine?"

Frank leaned back and grinned.  "Several thousands as a gesture of good
will from a number of contributors."  He let it sink in.  "And if you can
deliver, your little campaign piggy bank will be fatter by over a million
once all is said and done."

Frick blinked.  "Two million."

Now Martine blinked.  "For state races?"

The senator leaned over his desk.  "There are thirty-three seats in the
State Senate, Seventeen up for a run a year from November.  Ninety-nine in
the Assembly, and all of them are up every two years.  On top of that,
we'll have the AG's race and the governor is going to be up for
re-election...for the last time, thank God.  We're in the process of
cultivating candidates for the seats we know will be open because of
retirements, and we're recruiting folks to run against those we think are
vulnerable on the other side.  I want to be in a position to dish out funds
to all of them, if they're worthy of it.  We won't be introducing any new
legislation until the spring session, but that will give you time to raise
some resources and us the time to research the issues you're concerned
about and draft the appropriate bill."

Frank smirked.  "I don't know politics all that much, Mr. Frick, but for
two million, they'll all owe you and you'll owe me," he paused, "if they're
worthy."  He snorted and shook his head " I love it."

Frick's wheels were spinning.  "Tell you what.  You come up with all the
contributions you can as soon as possible.  Meantime, e-mail me the DNR
regulations that you think are in your way.  The highway thing shouldn't be
a huge deal.  Local folks love building highways, even when they bitch
about the detours.  The unions and contractors do too.  Keeps
state-contracted workers on the job.  Thing is, there aren't a lot of
locals in that neck of the woods, so we're going to need to see some cash
in order to make this a priority.  Once I'm impressed with the cash flow,
then we could proceed."

"Proceed how?"

"Well, I could start planting seeds in the majority leader's office about
the need for highway improvement, and talk with the chair of the
transportation committee.  And since the DNR is basically part of the
executive branch, I'd have a few conversations with Hackett's staff about
the onerous burden those regulations place on folks looking to boost the
economy.  Hackett hasn't run all that strong in that corner of the state,
and if the request for relaxation comes from them, the committee that
oversees environmental law will have to listen.  If economic development is
the goal, there won't be a problem in the other house.  The trick would be
getting the changes through the Senate and have the governor's stamp of
approval."  He mulled it over for a long several seconds.  "But, yeah, it
could be done."

Frank knew the conversation was over so he stood up and extended a hand,
choosing his words carefully.  "Well, sir, I appreciate your time and
attention.  I'll do all I can for the good of the cause, and I look forward
to working with you in the future."

Frick appreciated Martine's caution.  "And I look forward to working with
you as well, Mr. Martine.  I think we're very much on the same page here
and hope that we can help you out and, together, we can serve the good
people of Wisconsin.  I hope you have a great day."

"I'll be in touch about what I can do, and when, to advance our common
cause."

"Contact our caucus director, Will Maxson.  He'll assist you in the
mechanics.  You can get a hold of him through his executive assistant,
Clara, or she can give you his direct contact information.  Either way, I'm
always monitoring the efforts of our supporters, so will know what's coming
in and from whom.  But send me your recommendations on those regulatory
issues that have you and your associates reluctant to invest in Wisconsin.
We do want to work with you on those issues."

Frank smiled.  "Well, I'm glad to hear that, sir.  I'll e-mail my specific
concerns to your office and will contact Mr. Maxson as soon as we have
things in line on my end.  It shouldn't be too long.  I'll be in touch."

They shook hands once more.  "Well, then, that'll work just fine."

Both men smiled as Frank Martine walked out the door humming.

An hour and a half later, he was back in his office in the Dubuque
restaurant making phone calls.  `This shouldn't be too hard a sell,' he
thought.  `An improved highway 151 will go over well enough on its face for
a lot of businesses from here to Cedar Rapids.  If we can get the
environmental stuff taken care of, the serious investors in the land
developments over there will pony up the rest.  Two million.  Christ, what
a whore!'

His first call was to his attorney.  He needed the guy to start digging
into campaign finance laws in Wisconsin and learn how to buy a change in
the law without getting his `tit caught in a wringer,' as his dad would
have said.

Morry's Steak House was half way between Dubuque and Cedar Rapids.  Seven
other men joined Frank for dinner the next night.  As they ate their
steaks, Frank summarized his meeting with Frick.  Then he got down to
business and broke down his attorney's advice.  "Okay, here's how it works.
Frick's willing to deal.  But we're all limited in what we can give under
Wisconsin law.  But if we find others who will put their names on our
money, then we walk around the limit laws.  I got fifty grand to put up now
and fifteen "donors" lined up so far.  Some are willing to put up their own
cash, and all of them are willing to write checks if we pony up the cash to
cover them.  I have another ten I'm gonna contact."  He wiped his lips.
"Now for this to work, you're all going to have to come up with or raise
the same kind of dollar amounts I just outlined, and find safe folks who
will donate it if we give it to them.  Ya' get it?  You write them a check
for two grand, and they write a check for two grand to the senate committee
and send it back to you.  You get it to me and I get it to Frick's people."
He dropped his napkin on his plate and gulped his water.  "Then, gentlemen,
a year or so from now we start breaking ground across the river with the
blessings of the State of Wisconsin."  He looked around the table.  "Guys,
this can be done.  All we gotta do is grease the skids, and Frick and his
committee are the key.  And, technically, what I'm proposing is legal.
Well, mostly legal."  That was a stretch.  The donations were probably
legal, his lawyer had told him.  Buying a change in laws in exchange for
donations most certainly was not.  But that was all on Frick.  He looked at
his cousin Jerry.  "If your dopey brother donates two grand to the
committee, nobody asks where he got the two grand.  It's a legal donation
from an individual.  No red flags, no questions."

Most of the men were grinning.  A couple were nodding and mentally putting
together lists of people on both sides of the river to contact tomorrow.


Will Maxson was tired.  It had been a long weekend entertaining his son and
grandkids while his son's wife was away on business.  Those three little
girls always wore him out, but he loved them dearly.  Only another year and
he could retire, and then nap on Mondays after the little darlings had put
him through his paces over the weekend.

He opened the email inbox and scanned it quickly for what he knew he could
delete without opening, and then Clara brought in the snail mail.  Three
stacks: one addressed to Will, one addressed to the party, one addressed to
the campaign committee.  Will hated the last stack.  He'd long wished the
Senate Re-election Committee's finances were handled outside of the caucus
office.

He started with the last stack first, as usual.  `Get the money grubbing
out of the way,' he thought.  Log the donors and the amounts, do the
paperwork for a deposit and then send a staffer across the street to submit
the funds at the bank.  Then, move onto the important stuff.  Same shit,
different day.

"Hoooo-leeeee Shit!"

Clara leaned back in her chair and peeked into the office.  "Everything
okay, Mr. Maxson?"

Frank coughed on his coffee.  "Yeah.  Fine."  He waved her away and looked
at the checks that had spilled out of the envelope.  Twenty checks, each
for two thousand dollars.  He couldn't remember when they'd gotten forty
thousand dollars in one single bundle.  Party fundraisers were one thing,
when they'd handle much more than this.  But this one batch had come
through the mail.  That was a first.  And the odd thing was, most of the
checks were drawn from banks in Iowa.

Bundling donations was a popular tactic among those playing the game in
Wisconsin and elsewhere.  Individuals were limited in what they could
donate to a single campaign.  Political Action Committees were limited,
too, if the donation came in the name of the PAC.  But there was nothing to
stop, say twenty or fifty or a hundred individuals from making their own
contributions all at the same time and for the same reason.  And if the
recipient understood what the contributors were hoping for, all the better.
Frank Martine had learned this from his attorney.

There was a brief note.  "Mr. Maxson, Senator Frick has advised me that
contributions to the party's Senate Campaign Committee are appropriately
handled through your office.  I am happy to forward these contributions,
with others to follow, for the good of the causes you and your party are
working to advance.  Regards, Frank Martine."

He shook his head, and then went back to work.  `Not my problem, and it's
legal,' he said to himself.  After disposing with the rest of the mail, he
handed them over to Clara to document them and prepare the bank paperwork.
She said she could take care of the deposit during her lunch hour.  That
was okay with him.

Frick was reading an e-mail.  "Senator, by now your committee has received
forty thousand dollars in `earnest money' regarding the issues we recently
discussed.  I can assure you that additional fund raising on my end is
going well, and I am confident that we can meet the benchmarks we both
discussed during last week's meeting.  It might take some time, but it will
provide us with the opportunity to monitor the introduction and the
progress of the initiatives we considered."

Frick grinned.  `Good move.  Pony up a taste and then hold out to make sure
the other guy can deliver.  That's what I'd do too.'  He deleted the email
and picked up the phone.

"Will Maxson."

"Will, it's Jeremy Frick."

"Good morning, Senator."

"And you too.  Will, I'd like your staff to do a study of our current
environmental restrictions on land development, both commercial and
residential.  Not the huge stuff, like mining, but building subdivisions
and malls and the like.  Boil down for me which statutes come down on a
someone who wants to build a house or put up a Wal-Mart out in the
boonies."

This wasn't on the party caucus agenda for the session.  Will scratched his
head with the eraser of his pencil.  "Well, uhm..."

"I know you folks are already being stretched, but we have a couple members
who are seriously facing some challenges on these issues, and we need to be
ready.  We just need to know in concrete terms what barriers are really
standing in the way of somebody who wants to develop some rural land.  If
it's not as bad as the other guys will say, then our folks need to be able
to cite, chapter and verse, what the deal is in reality.  I mean there must
be a half dozen or more current statutes that direct the DNR in terms of
land use."

"Oh, hell, Senator, there's probably at least a dozen different laws that
would stop you from clearing land just to begin a building project.  Then
there's all the zoning issues involved."

Frick sighed.  "Stick to the environmental stuff.  Zoning is local.  Not
our problem I just want a clear view on where the state stands on the
tree-hugging meter in clear and concrete terms.  The question is, if I were
a developer what statutes would touch me if I wanted to grow a subdivision
or build a strip mall.  Keep it simple."

Will shrugged.  "Will do, Senator.  I'll get somebody on it right away."
This just didn't smell right.  Nothing on the governor's agenda, or even
that of the majority caucus suggested changing environmental regulations.
But he was just a lackey, here to do the bidding of the caucus chairman and
Assistant Majority Leader for about another year.  He was going to do as he
was told, document everything and not make waves.  Will jotted the
appropriate notes in the day planner on his computer's desktop, and went to
get another cup of coffee.  He stopped by Scott's cube, but Turner was away
at the time.  `Probably best,' he thought.  `Turner's tuned in enough to
smell that this is kind of goofy, and he'd probably bring it up with
Maureen McCarthy.  If she's not in the loop on this yet, that could get
messy.'  Frick was Will's immediate supervisor, but Maureen was Majority
Leader. And Scott was actually closer to her personally than was any member
of the Senate.  But with Jeremy Frick in charge of the caucus staff, Maxson
knew he could spend the year trying to dodge bullets.  `I'm not going to
start some internal pissing match. I'll give this to Cornell.'

The tall redhead was typing away when Will walked into his cubicle.
"Grant, got another job for you from the chief."

Grant saved the document he was working on and smirked, then swiveled in
his chair.  "Yeah, Mr. Maxson, whatcha got?"

"Please, Grant, its Will, okay?

Grant chuckled, knowing that's what he'd say, and he teased.  "But you're
old enough to be my dad, and I use that with everybody in your generation.
It's habit.  My folks raised me right.  Blame my father."

Will chuckled.  "Yeah, I guess they did.  We'll work on it."  He sipped his
coffee.  "Anyway, we need an analysis of the statutes or DNR reg's that
might affect commercial or residential land development in Wisconsin.
Senator Frick wants to know what might get in the way of anybody wanting to
dig into the land and build houses or businesses or the like."

Grant's brows scrunched.  "`Scuse me, ah, Will, but where'd this come from?
We were all given the agenda for the current session's priorities, and this
is nowhere."

Will shrugged.  "Not sure where it's coming from, but Senator Frick said
it's suddenly a priority.  So, we make it a priority.  Just scour the
statutes and the DNR regulations and get back to me this week with a
summary of whatever might get in the way if, say, you wanted to build a
subdivision or a business in rural Wisconsin."

Grant shrugged.  "Okay.  Get right on it.  I'll e-mail what I find."

"Atta boy."  And Maxson was gone.

Scott got back to his cube just as the phone was ringing.  It was Clara.
"Scott, honey, you're leaving in a little while for class, right?"

"Yep.  Have a one o'clock on Wednesday's."

"Can you cut out a little early and handle the bank deposit for the
committee?  Got a bunch of contributions that need to get into the account
today, and I'm just not going to have time."  Clara was a nice lady, but
never seemed to have the time to do much more than work the phones.

"No problem.  There's a Mickey Dee's right next to the bank, so I'll do the
bank drop, grab lunch and then scuttle off to class.  I'll stop by your
desk in a little while and pick up the bag.  Deposit's all set?"

She sounded a little miffed.  "Of course it is.  But make sure you bring
back a receipt tomorrow so I have it for the records."

"Will do, Clara.  Be there in thirty."

Scott was next in line to face the teller when he unzipped the deposit bag.
He'd handled this task before a few times and was mildly shocked by what he
felt when he slid his hand into the bag.  `Jeez," he thought, `that feels
kinda fat.'

He muttered under his breath.  "Holy Christ!"  They weren't yet in an
election cycle because everybody had just been elected or re-elected less
than a year earlier.  Plus, they were in session, so there were serious
regulations on fundraising.  But this was a truckload of cash by his
reckoning.  As he waited for the little old lady in front of him to finish
her business, he scanned the checks.  Most were from Iowa.

`This is nuts,' he thought just as the teller smiled and chirped, "How may
I help you?"

He made the deposit, put the receipt in his book bag and headed off to
class.

Three days later, he was sitting with Grant chowing down a gyros sandwich
on State Street.  Grant wiped the dressing off his chin and looked up
cautiously.  "Hey Scott, why the hell do you think Will has me digging into
environmental laws?"

Scott swallowed and gulped his Coke.  "Huh?"

"Well, you know what the party agenda is for the session, and DNR stuff
hasn't been on it.  Education, ethics and election reform and property tax
relief have been the biggies, and we were told that was about it for this
session.  But Maxson gave me a project, one that he said Frick directed, to
dig up everything we have on the books about regulations on land use and
development.  I don't mind doing it, though it's boring as hell, but it
doesn't make sense."

Scott's eyebrows sunk and he pursed his lips.  "Any link to the property
tax angle?"

Grant leaned back.  "Nope.  Not that I can find."

Scott shrugged.  "Well, if Frick wants it done, and if he's leaning on Will
to get it done, then I'd just write it up.  Will's a good guy, and he needs
to keep Frick happy."

Cornell shook his head.  "Well, yeah.  I know that, and that's what I'm
going to do.  It just doesn't make any sense.  I'd vacuum the office if
Will asked, but this just seems like a waste of time, considering what the
caucus has said was on the agenda this session."

Scott shrugged and dropped his napkin into his plastic basket.  "I'll ask
Maureen when I have the chance, but she holds the cards pretty close."

Grant smirked.  "Even with you?"

Scott sipped his soda.  "Yeah, Grant.  Even with me.  You know we're close,
but she's too smart to say too much to too many people."  He batted his
eyes.  "Even those she loves."  They both laughed.  "Get over it."

And that was true.  Maureen McCarthy had encouraged him every step of the
way along his college political career, and she'd paved the way for him to
join the caucus staff.  But she was a shrewd politician and wasn't in the
habit of sharing too much with Scott that others didn't already know.  In
fact, for several months she had been encouraging and helping to plan his
own father's race to replace her when she ran for Attorney General.  And
all of that was done without Scott's knowledge.  That had pissed him off at
the time but, after mulling it over, the politico in him understood it.

"Doesn't bother me, but this project doesn't make sense to me either."

"Just do it.  If Frick wants it done, just do it.  Just write up a summary
for Will citing the laws and the DNR reg's that hamper or encourage land
development and move on.  Frick might have something else going, might want
to build a case to adjust the party agenda or might just be wanting to
placate somebody who wants to dig a hole somewhere.  Not our problem.
We're just grunts up there."

Grant picked the last shred of lamb out of his basket, wiped it through the
drippings of the cucumber sauce on the paper and popped it into his mouth.
"Yeah, no shit."

They parted ways on the sidewalk.  Scott squinted into the sunlight of the
fall afternoon.  `He's right.  Doesn't make sense.  Oh well.  It's his
friggin' job.'


The following morning Will Maxson dug into the same three piles of mail,
starting with the stuff addressed to him in care of the committee.  "Holy
Shit!"

Clara glanced in.  "Something wrong, Mr. Maxson?"

"Uhm, no Clara.  Not at all."

He quickly did the math.  Just over two hundred thousand; all the checks
written from Iowa businesses this time, Dubuque and Cedar Rapids dominated
the supporting donors.  `Fuck,' he thought.  `At this rate, Iowa is gonna
overtake our in-state donors to the committee.'

Jeremy Frick opened his inbox.  He smiled.  Amongst the usual crap there
was one email from Frank Martine, and another from Will Maxson with an
attachment.

He opened the one from Maxson first.  "Senator.  I am forwarding our
staff's summary of the environmental laws and DNR regulations you
requested.  Please let me know if you have any questions or if you require
anything else."

Scott was getting ready to head back to campus.  He stopped by Clara's
desk.  "Heading out for the day, Clara.  Need any errands done?"

She looked perplexed and annoyed.  "No.  Not today, Scott.  I got lunch
already, and Mr. Maxson said he's going to the bank with the deposit."

Scott's eyes widened.  "Will's gonna do the leg work for the deposit?"

She sniffed and shrugged her shoulders but her eyes never left the computer
screen.  "First time for everything I suppose.  He just said that he wanted
to do it himself."

"Okay, then.  See you tomorrow."  She just nodded.

He scampered down the stairs and into the massive rotunda.  `That's weird,'
he thought to himself as he nodded to the security chief that passed him on
his way across the beautiful, shiny marble.  He wove his way through a
group of third graders who were staring upwards, marveling at the
magnificent dome.  `Oh, well.  Not my problem.'  He hit the huge revolving
door and headed toward State Street.  `Not my friggin' problem.'

It was a hot and muggy September day, and Scott was sweating by the time he
made it up the hill to the Education Building.  He'd taken an elective
course in education policy studies and was quickly becoming fascinated by
that particular area of public policy.  More than that, he enjoyed the
interactions with the budding teachers in his class.  After a stimulating
discussion over the essential mission of public schools, he sweated his way
to his physics course and left with a headache.

By five o'clock, he'd changed into his running shorts and had hit the
pavement.  He intentionally headed past the diamond where he knew the
baseball team worked out in the off-season.  He was carrying his t-shirt by
now and covered in sweat.  His hair was plastered to his forehead and his
face and chest glistened in the setting sunlight.

The guys on the team were just packing up their gear and heading to their
cars or their bikes.  Scott slowed and then stopped.  He saw Greg bending
over and packing up some baseballs and grinned at the taut ass under the
blue nylon shorts.  He shouted Greg's name.

Greg grinned and waved, and walked to the fence's opening and put out a
hand.  "Scott!"  He eyed him from head to toe.  "Looks like you've got a
good workout in today."

Scott was still gasping a bit.  "Yeah...it'll be about eight miles...by the
time I get back home.  Just passing by and saw you here.  Thought I'd take
a breather and see how it's going."

Greg put down the bag full of balls and kind of shrugged.  "Okay, I guess."

Scott wiped his face with his t-shirt and scoped him out one more time.  He
caught Greg's left hand adjusting his package.  "Just okay?"

"Only two weeks in and I already feel like I'm buried.  Up to my ass in
Shakespeare and a History project that's a bitch."

Scott rolled his eyes.  "Lit. 107.  Probably `The Tempest,'" Greg smiled
and nodded shyly.  "What's goin' on in the History?"

"Oh, a bunch of shit on the Founders.  Constitutional Convention and
political stuff, and current applications of what they were up to a couple
centuries ago."

Scott's head went back.  "Oh, man...I love that stuff.  Can I lend you a
hand?"

Greg's eyes widened and he flashed that wonderful smile and the dimples,
and then nervously adjusted his cap.  "Well, uhm, that'd be great.  Let me
take a stab at it, and then maybe give you a shout if I think I need to get
bailed out."

Scott shifted his weight and adjusted his own package more obviously than
Greg had.  "Well, I hope you will."  He thought about it.  "Not that I hope
you'll need it, but I hope you'll give me a call."  After another second's
thought, "I mean gimme a call either way."

Greg's shy smile returned and he looked at his shoes, eyeing Scott again on
the trip down.  `Damn,' he thought to himself.  `Fucking hot!'  Then he
looked back up.  "I will.  Uhm, one of these days I will."

Scott trudged up the stairs, holding his t-shirt in front of him to hide
the wood he'd sprung, even during the run home.  He knew Brett and Craig
would be there and his boner was obvious.  He grabbed a beer and sat in the
living room with the guys, his t-shirt lying on his lap.

Brett looked over at him.  "Dude.  You positively reek."

Scott lifted both arms and sniffed.  "I'd say I negatively reek, but if you
like the scent, I can hang out here a while."

Brett chuckled.  "Dumbass."

Scott smirked, swatted Brett's knee and headed to his room.  He patted the
dog's head on his way down the hall, but refused to call him by the name
Brett had given him.

By this time Greg was on his dorm room bed, thrusting his hips up and down
with two fingers buried deep inside his hole while he stroked his very
large cock.  He measured nearly nine inches and was very thick, and he
could only see Scott's sweaty chest and smiling face behind his closed
eyelids.  "Oh, Scott!  Drill me, dammit" he moaned softly as he spewed his
seed all over his chest.

In the shower, Scott used the bar of Zest as lube for his fist.  In his
mind's eye was Greg fine ass, outlined by the straps of his jock.  He'd
seen the contour of the back straps under Greg's shorts when he was
approaching the baseball field.  He pumped his raging wood mercilessly
envisioning the same position without the shorts, and gritted his teeth
while he fired all over the wall and surface of the bathtub.

He rinsed himself, the shower stall and dried off.  Then he fed the fattest
cat in the world and then retired to his room to hit the books.