Date: Thu, 1 Apr 2004 05:54:28 -0500
From: sleeper029 <sleeper029@hotpop.com>
Subject: The Writer (Part 1)

Disclaimer: The story below may contain erotic situations between
consenting male adults. I urge you to stop if you find this
offensive. Ditto for those breaking any laws by reading it.

Side note: The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of my imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons is entirely
coincidental. No part of the story may be used or reproduced
without my permission.

This is my first try in writing a story in Nifty. Forgive me if
it is not perfect. Useful inputs and comments are appreciated. My
email is sleeper029@hotpop.com. Thanks. Hope you like it.

The Writer
Part 1

     I might have not been to the library's third floor but I'm
no dumb jock. I know jocks that are dumber than me and I haven't
failed any class - period. Besides, as I pass sections of
bookcases on this floor, I notice they contain mostly literature
fluff. Me no English major. Comprende? Perhaps, you wonder what
I'm doing here. Well, don't bother. You know why. I'm horny too.

     I live the closet life. The doors are guarded down and
locked. I can't afford to have the hunky wrestling team to take a
peek. No, I'm not on the team but some of my friends are. I'd
love to get pinned but sadly, that's not the goal of the sport.
Anyway, contact in wrestling (no matter how loving the position)
is not enough to deliver an orgasm (for me anyway). Putting the
reliable but lonesome spanking of the monkey aside, can you blame
me if I poke my nose in search for some physical, er, poking? As
long as I'm careful, I can have a fleeting yet satisfying one
afternoon stand, or sitting if I get tired.

     I "met" the guy online. Don't know what he looks like. He
said he'd be looking spiffy in a suit due to a presentation
earlier this morning. He said he's "discrete" - I figure he's a
Math major. Since my clique and I can't add without our handy
calculators, the buffer zone between him and us should be a-okay.
I told him I'd meet him after Macroeconomics class. But paranoid
me, I thought I'd look better in a green shirt so I went back to
dorm and changed my yellow shirt.

     As I walk towards the northern wing now, I am hoping Mr.
Discrete didn't quit on me or else I might have to study here to
punish myself. On the bright side, I haven't seen a single
student since I emerged from the elevator. Great! We have the
entire wing to ourselves. Oh bless this slacker university.

     I awkwardly tiptoed when I approached the last bookcase,
where I decided to temporarily hide and investigate. I peeked
over the musty books and saw him for the first time. He looked
amused writing in his notebook. Out of the blue, he glanced up as
if he had felt my presence. He didn't see me but his anxious eyes
scanned through the bookcase for movement. Then he turned a page
and continued writing.

     Even with a suit on, he looked like a boy. I don't know if
it was the nerves but now his face was in serious grim, as though
he's trying to wipe away his youthful looks. I quietly begged him
to smile again. He can be unbelievably cute. I want to place my
hand upon his smooth cheek and feel the thick black hair between
my fingers. His lips are tempting me when he pouts. I want to
suck them. His skin has a perfect tan. I imagine his body, if I'm
to strip him off that suit, to be smooth and slender. He's not
what I expected but I surprisingly felt aroused. He is different
and a new ...

     My hand slipped and toppled a couple of the books. He looked
up and instantly spotted me. So much for the smooth entrance I've
prepared. I'd look better in yellow have I known I'd stumble.

     He tilted his head and gasped, "Is that you, Scott?"

     "Uh - yes," I rearranged the books with a clumsy smile.

     "Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute," he mumbled.

     "I didn't catch your name." I said as I sat across from him.

     He shifted his eyes to the left, "Anthony."

     "You're pretty cute, Anthony," I distracted him with a wink.
He blinked twice, disconcerted as if my eye twitched. He avoided
my stare and resumed scribbling.

     "Let me just finish this, okay?"

     "Sure," I beamed. My smile frozen. Jaw muscles rigid. Did he
even get a good look at me? I think he likes me but why is he
still writing? Should I ask what he is writing?

     "What are you writing? An essay?"

     "Not exactly," he answered quickly.

     I was curious now as to what he is actually writing because
he was doing it so fast. I wanted to ask again, but I didn't want
to bother him with too much questions. Furthermore, I, sort of,
wanted to gawk at him guiding the pen to boogie across the page.
But then he slowed down when my mind began to draw blank.

     "Shit!" His tongue slipped. The outburst snapped me back to
reality. Obviously, he has lost his train of thought.

     "What's the matter?"

     Anthony bit his pencil while he stared at me sadly. He has
wonderful, piercing brown eyes.

     "You're distracting me. I think we should get it over with,"
Anthony uttered faintly, like I was some kind of chore. I ought
to feel a little hurt but my rising dick was nodding. He got up
from his chair and removed his jacket. He looked around, even at
the huge transparent windows, trying to detect company.

     "I'm nervous," he confessed, "I hope nobody hears us all the
way here."

     He's shorter than I thought. I was about the same height
when I was fourteen. But his presence overwhelmed me as he sidled
his way between the table and my chair.

     He looked deep into my eyes, curious as to what I was
thinking. But I got nothing. I wanted to gape. I kept thinking -
This is it. This is it. But I was stone cold. Why couldn't I just
reach out and make him lean on me?

     He smiled at me, but a clueless one. Was it a reflection of
my smile? He finally rested his hands on my tensed shoulders and
leaned in towards my face. Anthony was frustratingly slow. He
can't kiss me directly. His adorable face has to draw near from
the side while his eyes concentrated on my lips.  Why can't he
look at my eyes?

     Then I felt the soft landing. It widened my eyes. A surge of
hormones kicked in. I reached for his head so he couldn't escape
my nasty lips and tongue. I didn't feel him pull out but it
seemed like I was doing most of the work. When I released, I was
surprised I was standing and he was seated on the table.

     "You had Tic-tac?" Anthony exhaled.

     "Yeah, the white ones," I told him, "They keep me awake in
Macro."

     "How refreshing," Anthony softly chuckled, "I suck on
Skittles myself."

     "Let me help you lie on the table," I said. He silently
nodded as I guided his back and set the notebook aside. I got a
glimpse of his neat handwriting and then - bog!

     I carelessly drop him and the table smacked his head.

     "Aw. Careful," He caressed the bump but I wasn't paying
attention to him. My eyes were locked on the notebook. Its first
lines on its fresh page:

     Even with a suit on, he looked like a boy. I don't know if
     it was the nerves but now his face was in serious grim, as
     though ...

     My very own words stunned me. They were right there on the
page, written out in Anthony's scribble. I quickly scanned the
final written lines:

     I, sort of, wanted to gawk at him guiding the pen to boogie
     across the page. But then he slowed down when my mind began
     to draw blank.

     "What is this?" I shrieked, "Are you telepathetic or
something?"

     "No - I mean - uh - yes. No, I'm not!" Anthony snatched the
notebook from my grip and crawled backwards on the table.

     "Why did you write that?"

     "Y-you're in my story. You're the main character. I'm the
writer."

     "What?" The words are not clicking.

     "You're in my story. You're the main character. I'm the
writer."

     He appeared certain of his answer and it frightened me. I
calmed down and waited for the light bulb to turn on. I waited
and I waited as I watched Anthony inch his way to the end of the
table. If you fucking figured out by now, please fucking tell ...

     "Tell me what I'm thinking right now." I'm thinking that I'm
not real, if I am just a character.

     "You're thinking that you're not real if you're just a
character."

     "Tell me it's not true."

     He shook his head.

     "Wait, what kind of story?" I asked.

     "Erotic," Anthony bit his lip.

     "Well, you must like me then," I lit up, "You created me."

     "I didn't create you. You came with the story. I just write
your thoughts and what's happening to you."

     I nodded but one question persisted, "But you do like me,
right?"

     "I-I do," he stammered, "B-but why can't we just make out?
We're in an erotic story. There must be a sex scene."

     "Oh," the thought paralyzed me, "I was up for it, but you
just had to blow my mind. Sure, I wanted you to blow my mind but
this isn't the blowing I had in mind... I don't know."

     "Oh fuck it!" He jumped out on the other side of the table,
seized his jacket, and ran. I went after him in a maze of
bookcases but I lost him somewhere in the mythology section. It
should have been easy to catch him, but my thoughts weighed me
down. Call it existential crisis or whatever. There goes my
sexual drive and the guy I could have driven.

     But I hate him. Damn it, I was up against the writer, who
knows everything about me. My strengths. My weaknesses. My
thoughts. He is like a god. I'm just a character. He can do
whatever with me and I'm completely powerless. I don't care what
I am anymore. I didn't even attempt to see where I was heading.

     I bumped into this gorgeous guy on my way to the elevator.
He was wearing a sleeveless black shirt. We exchanged glances
briefly and then I let him walk away when the elevator doors
kissed. Then it dawned on me. It's not fantasy anymore to wonder
if a guy was gay. It could be the truth. If I am the main
character of an erotic story, then he must be gay too, right? But
I'm terrified of this very new outlook. I have come to know this
campus to be mostly populated by straight students. I still
believe it.

     From the lowered elevator, I stepped into the first floor
and eyed every person. Do they know they were characters in a
story? Is it possible I could get it on with them? My heart
throbbed rapidly in response. The stern-looking lady behind the
desk was a turn-off. Ew! I saw an old professor pass by. Double
Ew! A group of guys are joking in the corner. Some are definitely
worth a try. A guy with glasses was using the photocopy machine.
The guy can dress. I actually pictured him naked. Not bad. A
beautiful redhead with big boobs came in as I came out of the
library. She's a hottie but girls are so high school. Maybe I'll
dabble in bisexuality after college.

     When I arrived at the parking lot, there was a freshman kid
standing in front of my car. I'd bother describing him but he's
pissing me off.

     "Hey. Get out of the way!"

     He wasn't listening to me. He was looking up. His jaw
suddenly dropped. I followed his gaze and dropped my jaw as well.
On the third floor, Anthony was pinned against the transparent
window. Behind him was the gorgeous guy with sleeveless black
shirt. There was no doubt about it. Black Shirt was fucking
Anthony's brains out. Anthony's open shirt exposed a mouth-
watering smooth body and the cutest defined abs I've seen. It was
hot but the view was frustratingly limited to Anthony's upper
body. I'm fucking jealous of that Black Shirt. I should be the
one getting some.

     There's the sex scene, (ladies and) gentlemen. I am indeed
in an erotic story. What campus library in America could display
something like that behind their windows? This must be a dream.
No - a nightmare. I refuse to watch. It's not a sex scene if I
didn't see any cum and I won't let that happen unless it's my cum
on Anthony's body and vice versa. I won't let this be the end,
literally "the end." It ain't over until the fat lady --- no,
screw that old saying. It ain't over until I cum ... for the
second time... no, third... no, fourth ...

     I turned away and started my car. I floored the pedal and
ran over the gawking freshman. It's not like I killed him. He's a
character after all. He's not real.

     Can you read my mind, Anthony? I want you badly. Rip out
this story to pieces and remove your ass from Black Shirt's dick.
You're wasting the tightness. You like black shirts? I bought a
silky one from Banana Republic just last week. Maybe I didn't pay
too much for the shirt after all. You want a real erotic story?
Come and get it. Or better yet, get it and cum.