"Mr. Oakley, can you run this message over to my assistant, Mr. Claridge? Could you go right now? I have to arrange for him to take my three o'clock English class; my plane leaves earlier than I thought."

"Of course, Professor. Is he in the classroom now?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I think he's in the gymnasium sauna." I took the note, put it in my pocket, and walked out. "Thank you, Red," the prof called after me.

As I hurried out of the Arts & Sciences Building, I thought about Claridge. I had heard about him. Professional wrestler changed careers--went back to college at the age of 28 to get his degree, trying to become a professor of English. Of English! I grinned. Even worse, his specialty was Romantic Poetry. A pro wrestler turned pansy. What a hoot.

I didn't like the limp-wristed poetry fags. Simpering, swishy, effeminate nerds were an insult to manhood. I majored in a respectable subject--physical education. No lisping, slouch-postured homos on football teams. No whiny girly-men on the basketball court.

That's why Claridge was such a surprise. The dude made good money as a pro wrestler--couldn't miss his car in the parking lot: black Lamborghini Countach. Old-school Italian muscle-car. A cock & balls on wheels. Weird to see one in a parking lot with Fiats and Honda Civics. And with a student parking sticker.

Why in hell would he give all that up to prance through the poetry books memorizing a bird that flieth and my love whose graceful hand brushes airily at my cheek? I felt a little sorry for him. Maybe something happened to him in the ring. Maybe a medicine ball hit him in the balls. Some opponent went outside the script and crushed his balls with a stomp. Castrated him.

Without balls, how could anybody put up a good, fierce offense? He'd have to quit. With no testosterone pumping into his system, maybe he found himself preferring white wine to beer. Maybe he got out of wrestling before he found himself sniffing his opponent's crotch in a televised match.

Poor guy.

Then Evil Red appeared on my shoulder and whispered into my ear. Maybe de-balled Claridge has developed a taste for cock.

Interesting thought. I had no small rep among a certain group on campus as owner of an unforgettable package. No shortage of invitations. Every time I went in a rest room, fags gave me come-hither looks.

And since we all have to live on this world--poor bastards can't help what they are--from time to time I permitted some "indiscretions." Hey, my dick doesn't know if the cocksucker has an Adam's apple or not.

The Edmond Hohenjenna Gymnasium was an old building. Dark bricks covered over with lacy ivy. The windows stood in stone casements, making it look like a castle, and it wasn't hard to imagine the broad, straight sidewalk leading up to the front door as a drawbridge leading to the castle gate. A romantic, knighthood kind of place.

Evil Red again: Maybe Claridge has a hot mouth after all those years of screaming threats into the cameras, and maybe he's looking for a little romance. And you know you're horny--missed the morning jackoff because you were late to class. Maybe you can make up for it with a little sauna nookie.

Hmmm. I stopped off in a men's room, took off my underwear, and proceeded on my way Commando.

The sauna was an addition to the building, although it, too, was nearly 60 years old. The entrance to it was down a twisting hallway grown even more torturous as new additions and construction forced the hallway into new directions. It was so hard to find, in fact, that few people used it. Many didn't even know it existed.

Finally at the sauna, I opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Claridge, formerly the Beast of Boston, sat on the wooden bench. We were alone. He was taller, I figured 6'4". Broad shoulders, mighty chest. He had lats like broad wings tapering down to a slim waist. Big pecs. Nipples like brown bottle-caps.

Arms like oak branches stretched out on either side as he leaned back. Fuck, his arms are as big as my legs! And his legs were thick as my waist, solid iron, the muscles defined erotically under his skin--not an ounce of fat. Hard belly. A cast-iron plate. Wonder what it would feel like to stick my tongue in that belly-button.

What?? That's faggot thinking! You are a masculine man! Guys lick your belly-button!

And hair. Like icing on the cake, Claridge's physique was dusted with curly black hair over his chest and belly, and an erotic treasure trail funneled down from the Great Plains of his chest into a Mississippi River of black curls flowing around his belly-button down to the dark, mysterious delta covered with a white towel only a little bigger than a washcloth.

Claridge had one hell of a build. A magazine-cover physique. Handsome face, too. Wavy black hair with a curl dangling over his forehead. Blue eyes. Strong jaw. Reminded me of Superman. Wonder how he got the name "Beast."

He sat breathing in the steam from a nearby stove, and next to him on the bench was a leafy birch branch. Oh, god, the big fag likes to beat himself. A real fem.

He looked up. "Mr. Oakley, what brings you here?"

He knows me? I smiled. "Just call me 'Red.' "

"Okay, Red it is."

I had to make conversation: "I read the article you wrote for the 'College Brazenia.' I liked it. 'Seducing the Curious.' Interesting title for a story about romantic poetry." It was bullshit, but I can sling it when I have to.

He leaned back further on the bench, stretching out his legs, and the small towel fell away from his hips. God. Could've knocked me over with a feather. Okay, let's be clear here. Bret "Beast of Boston" Claridge had a body to die for. Fucking him would be dream-intercourse. I wanted to do him so bad, my cock was whining.

But I had to take my hat off to his cock! Huge! Thick pubic hair, not stiff and scraggly like mine. His was shiny black, curly, thick, and soft. For a brief, insane second, I wanted to pet it.

The huge cock didn't look outrageous on him because he was tall and muscled--had to weigh 250-280 pounds. The Beast of Boston. Claridge's "normal-looking" cock was "to scale." In fact it had to be something like nine or ten inches. And that was soft.

I was overwheled. The big fag is coming on to me. Showing me a little skin. Hoping to turn me on

I almost snickered. This is too easy. I think I'll play with the big fool for a while.

I placed a finger on my forehead as if trying to think. "I've got a message for you from Dr. Ensor. But what was it? Suddenly . . . suddenly I can't remember."

He smiled:
"For sweet Saint Marie and your order's sake.
I loosen my pouch-thread,
And therefrom piece of silver take;
Here take this silver, it may ease thy care;
We are God's stewards all, nothing is our own."

I blinked. "Huh?"

"From a poem by Thomas Chatterton. Let's just say I 'loosened my pouch-thread' to 'ease thy care.' Let's just say to jog your memory." He lowered his voice. "Or 'a pecker for your thoughts.' "

He didn't want to hear my thoughts. In my head his tongue swiped up the shaft of my hard dick while that that giant, de-balled cock of his swung back and forth useless in the breeze. Damn, I'll bet that thing's a foot long when he gets hard.

"Red."

I looked up. Damn, I'd been staring again. He was grinning. "Want to see it hard?"

What? That's my line. Why's he asking that? Confused, I sputtered, then grunted, "Yeah." No, wait, I mean NO.

His callused thumb rubbed at the tip of his cockhead, then slid down to the magic spot just underneath. The big pendulum began to fill out, and I'm afraid my mouth fell open. Not since I was in the Army looking at field artillery cannons had I seen anything so lethal.

Claridge's voice again:
"In Virginia the sweltry sun did shine,
And hot upon the meadows did caste his ray;
The apple rose up palid green,
And the pear did spread out fat and bend the leafy branch;
'Tis now the pride of manhood we see,
And soon we find ourselves reclined upon the ground"

"Huh?"

"My version of Chatterton again." He lowered his voice. "You like the "pride of manhood we see"?

My mouth was dry. I gulped, then licked my lips. "Yeah." Wait a minute, idiot, this is getting out of hand! The big moron doesn't know his place! I cleared my throat. "Want to see mine?"

His eyes twinkled. I knew it! "Sure. What're you packing?"

Ordinarily, when I let a fag touch me, he was the one to walk over, kneel down, and pull open my pants. I had to allow a little leeway to my big conquest, though. He did have a million-dollar income, after all. I unbuckled my belt, pulled open my pants, and Ol' Thumper hopped out. I gave him a couple of morning-stretch strokes, then looked up.

Fuck. In the meantime, Claridge's dong had swelled up like a Zeppelin. God, at least 12 inches! So fat it's like--I gulped--a beer can! Something else: Claridge was one of those guys with a pyramid cock--not only was it huge, it tapered from a pointed, almost sharp cockhead to the broad, beer-can base. It would get in easy but would ream out any hole it entered to stunning size. I'd be screaming by the time he pushed in the last inches of that!

You'd be screaming? What in hell are you thinking?? You are going to fuck him! Isn't that the plan?

I was turned on. On the threshold of what could be the biggest conquest of my career. Ol' Thumper was up, hard, and throbbing.

But, fuck! About half as tall as Claridge's package. No, that's not right! I have eight inches. I sighed. Three-quarters as tall as his. As beer cans went, mine was a good Alka-Seltzer bottle.

"Nice cock, man." His voice was low and deep. I could almost hear the laughter in it. Hey, fuck you, man, you're the one coming on to me here! I was pissed. No homosexual laughs at me! I don't give a fuck how well he's built! Claridge, you big fairy, you just lost out on a chance to suck on my big cock!

"Well, I have to be on my way to class," I said, stuffing Ol' Thumper back inside. I fetched Dr. Ensor's note out of my pocket and handed it to him.

Claridge smiled up at me. "We'll have to get together again," he said in a sultry voice.

"The sun was gleaming in the middle of day,
Dead still the air, and above the pure blue,
When from the sea arose in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable, sullen hue,
Which full into the woodland drew,
Hiding the sun's festive face,
And the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.

"More from Chatterton. A sad goodbye."

Yeah, stepped on your own dick, didn't you? Sorry you let the moment pass? Begging me for another chance? "Yeah, goodbye." I paused. "You want to hang out sometime?" I'm not an asshole. I'll give him another chance.

The electric-bass voice again: "Meet me this evening at the Corral. We'll have a couple of beers."

Beers. Poor fucker. Still trying to convince everybody he's still a real male. I wondered when his voice would get higher. As it was, his voice was so deep it shook the room like a mega-bass booster in the trunk of a car.

In class later that day (thankfully a good, safe PE class, free of wine-drinkers, poetry recitations, and dumb fucks who could screw up a good, developing blowjob), I overheard a couple of guys mention Claridge. Talking about his car.

I butted in: "Hey, I hear he got an injury to his balls, and now he's gay. Is that right?"

"Claridge is gay? Jesus Christ, that's unbelievable!"

"Hey, that's what I heard."

The other guy sneered at me. "No, man, that is utter bullshit. I used to work for a TV production company that handled the pro wrestling circuit when it came to town. Bret Claridge is the biggest top since the Empire State Building. Two ex-wives and a fucking platoon of guys following him around to suck his cock."

"What??"

"Yes! He is such a sex-addict . . . you know why he came back to college?" I was all ears. "So he could lay a few college students! He was sick of wrestling groupies!"

"But, but romantic poetry??"

"Yes! He wanted no sex-offender suspicions, so he signed up for the most innocent major he could find. Who would worry about a guy who reads poetry?"

My blood ran cold. I couldn't concentrate on anything for the rest of the day. Fuck. I may have just dodged the buzz-saw.

So you're not going to the Corral for a drink?

Hell, no!

Evil Red was pissed. You promised!

The hell I did--

--but Evil Red cut me off. Did he not, indeed, come on to you? Did he not, indeed, ask to see your cock? Didn't you see the desire in his eyes? He wants you!

Really?

Think about it! Big as he is, he could've raped you in that sauna before your books hit the floor. But what did he do? Leaned back, spread out, legs wide like a whore. Showed you his cock. Is that what tops do?

At sundown, my Toyota pulled into the diagonal parking in front of the Corral. Right beside a black Lamborghini.

Evil Red and Good Red sat on my shoulders. Tonight you're going to get a blowjob from the richest student on campus. I gloated. No, the poor bastard has lost his manhood! You can't make his life even more miserable. Treat him like a man, make him think you respect him!

The Corral was a CW-themed bar built out of an old lumber warehouse. Next to a Catholic parish high school, it had a history of neighborhood complaints, police raids, and pastoral denunciations. An old wood building built in the early '40s, before the days of professional interior wiring, it looked like an ancient pony express stop--and had no air conditioning other than whining window units in several holes knocked in the walls.

A classic saloon, the Corral was simply a large, dark room paneled in pine planks. The latest owners had created "atmosphere" with kerosene-style electric lighting fixtures and a couple piles of sawdust on the wood floor. Everything in the place was some shade of brown.

As I walked in, a tired trio played tunes from the stage--guitar, bass, and fiddle. The Corral catered to a college crowd. Students gathered at the bar. A few shuffled around the dance floor.

And there he was.

Sitting at the back of a circular booth, leaning back, arms out wide on the backrest. His legs splayed out under the table--just like I first saw him in the sauna. Except that incredible cock was not visible.

Good Red: Go over and say hello. Make him think you don't see him as a fairy fag.

Evil Red: You see that? He licked his lips! That's a signal!

Again, I was Commando under my shorts, a pair of nylon exercise trunks with hardly any legs left. Sure enough, as I got closer, Claridge smiled in recognition. "I see you're circumcised."

Fuck, what a brazen bastard!

Hey, why else did you wear those shorts?

Claridge had me off-balance, though. "Yeah, uh, I ought to throw these shorts out. Too tight."

He went on: "And wear underwear."

Shit, he just doesn't let up!

Evil Red: Part of the game. He's just making sure you're in a sexy mood. See how he's offering himself to you?

"Sit down, Red, let me buy you a drink."

Good Red: You see? He just wants to be friends, hoping you won't betray him like others who know his terrible secret.

I sat in the booth, sliding over nearer him--but not too close. We weren't like a couple, after all. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The bartender looked over. "Two more here!" I spotted the watch on his wrist. Rolex.

Good Red: The poor man. Already his empty scrotum is causing him to lose control. Soon he'll be an alcoholic. How pitiful.

Evil Red: Now's your chance. If you can somehow show him a little skin in this place, he'll be on his knees under the table before you can set your glass down.

The situation was weird. A typical fag trying to get into my pants would end up saying something obvious like, "Let me see how big you're hung." But Claridge was either the world's dumbest fairy or--That's it! He's rich, not used to doing his own work. I took a slug from my drink. Good stuff. Irish whiskey. I knew he's not a beer man. At least it's not some cheap cabernet.

I took another drink, then looked at him. The more faggoty he grows, the more subservient he'll be, but right now I've got him fresh. Almost virgin, you might say. But apparently he was so new at this, he didn't even know the pick-up words. Shit, do I have to do this myself??

Hey, the end justifies the means.

Claridge was spouting more poetry--"...What a grand thing, to be loved! What a grander thing still, to love!" You see? He's saying he wants to do it! Claridge smiled down at me. "Victor Hugo."

I decided to go for it. I placed my hand on his thigh. "Would you like to see how big I'm hung?"

"Say what?"

Oops, shit, what a dimwit! "(Ahem!) Let me see how big you're hung."

That big smile again. With his hand under the table, unzipping, he looked at me: "Love comforteth like sunshine after rain . . . William Shakespeare."

He shifted himself in the booth, and there it was. What a cock! I had to give him his due. Hung better than any gorilla I ever saw, and he had a hardon. Fuck, did he have a dong! It stuck up above the edge of the table. Any passerby could see it.

What in hell are you thinking?? You are the top here! This poor bastard is a newly neutered queer. He can't perform. Don't you see? He's begging you for it! Showing you skin to turn you on!

Still, I had to admire. His cockshaft was a tawny column sculptured with huge veins and smaller ripples. Never been so close to anything like that in my whole life! Ohmigod! I spotted a large bubble of clear, syrupy liquid oozing out of it. Claridge's bass-viol voice pulled me back to reality: "One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love . . . Sophocles."

I looked in his eyes. "Are you in love?"

His voice was a deep purr. "I'd like to be."

You see? He's begging! I looked down at his gigantic hardon. "Looks like you're ready for love."

"Would you like to touch it?" Again the bass purr.

It was not according to top/bottom protocol, but I reached out. My god! My own cock burgeoned up like I was grabbing it!. Waves of pleasure surged through me, but for god's sake I was holding another man's dong! No doubt about it, Claridge's sexual hunger was so strong, it oozed out through his skin: Spanish Fly soaking through the palm of my hand!

Good Red: The poor guy! Feeling his manhood slipping away, he's desperate for any last scraps of sexuality he can enjoy.

Evil Red: Make him suck your cock! Make him suck your cock!

Claridge leaned closer. "Want to suck it? Go ahead, nobody can see."

What did he say?? Do I want to suck it?

No, no, he said I want to suck it. Let him go ahead. Nobody can see.

I took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "Okay."

For a long time we faced each other. My heart pounded in my ears. Nobody moved. Didn't he understand me?

Finally, with a questioning expression, Claridge put his big hand behind my neck! Is he pulling my head down into his lap? What? What the hell?? Ohmigod, no he wants me to--

--GLMMMPH! Claridge's cock crammed into my mouth, forcing my jaws apart like I was swallowing a walrus! What the fuck?? I don't suck cock! The big meat moved to the back of my throat, and I tasted a dribble--Fuck, his precum!.

I tried to back off, to move his cock out of my mouth, but he held me in like an iron grip. I didn't feel his hand on the back of my neck, but somehow I was forced into his crotch. Breathing harder No! No way am I getting turned on by this!and out of sheer desperation, I reached up and grasped the big cockshaft with both hands, anything to get some leverage, to pull myself up somehow.
But his hip-lunges turned my grip into jacking strokes, and I'll be damned--after about five minutes of that, he groaned, straining to keep quiet, and turned loose on me! Rockets of Boston Beast juice shot into my mouth, and I swallowed out of sheer desperation. I was scared! I could see the headlines the next day:

College Student Found Dead in Local Bar, Mysteriously Drowned in Sperm

Damn it, this is all going wrong!

No, it's not! He grabbed your neck to bring you to him, hoping for a kiss! You're the one who dropped down to his crotch! Now you've gone ahead and sucked him off. You've sucked out his passion for the night!

Shit.

Sure enough, Claridge slumped back in the booth, his head back, his mouth open. I had plans to get into his ass, but there's no pleasure in fucking a dead body. The man was dizzy--no doubt with gratitude that somebody had not made him submit. You've done a good deed.

I sat up in the booth. A couple of waiters were looking at me. One of them smiled outright and gave me a wink. Insolent bastard!

I shook Claridge's arm. "I gotta go. I'll see you later." I thought for a second. "Maybe in the sauna."

All the way home I was fuming. This is bullshit! That was the worst date I've ever had! Can you believe it, I ended up sucking him!!

Good Red: Hey, accidents happen. You gave the guy a little boost for his ego.

Evil Red: The next time you see him, he'll be so hot for you, he'll be on hands and knees before you can pull down your zipper! And by the way, what did his cum taste like?

I thought about that one. Never sucked a cock before. Now that I have, does this make me a cocksucker? Claridge's jism tasted like . . . steak. Slimy, slippery, bitter--but like meat. Beefy. Like a bitter sirloin in liquid form. I gulped. Like a man!

Not so bad, really. Thought I would puke to suck a man's cock, but I didn't. Something magic about it. Swallowing his essence. The down-to-the-balls distillation of male! Hey! He cummed! How can he cum with no balls?

Idiot. Castrated men can ejaculate. But no swimmers. Just egg-white. The key is no male hormones. Gradual decline into faghood.

I lay in bed that night thinking about it. I sucked Claridge's cock. The more I thought about it, the more I felt okay about it. I'm not a queer. Not a fag.

Ohmigod, did you like it?

Of course not! I'm still a man, still a top, right? But I thought about it. It was a bit of a thrill to feel the big flare of his cockhead with my tongue. My first cocksucking. I felt that big tube on the bottom of his shaft. When he cummed in my mouth, I could feel the surges coming up through it. I liked that. Had to admit it. I can see I have to be careful, though.

I sat up in bed. Motherfucker, it was a thrill to feel him shooting in my mouth.

Fuck, did sucking his cock make me start slipping into being a fag, too?

Evil Red: No, it was all a big mistake! He wants you! Think about it: as a guy who's lost his manhood, to have somebody suck his cock must've been a real boost to his ego. Since you've done that for him, all he wants now is to return the favor! The next time you see him, he'll spread his ass-cheeks for you!

God damn it, this better not fuck up next time!

I didn't cross paths with Claridge for a couple of days. Didn't see him in the sauna. Finally I decided to check out the Corral.

On the way to the saloon's door, I saw two guys running toward me at full speed, looking behind them as if they were chased by something. But when they passed me and disappeared into the darkness, there was nothing after them.

Curious, I walked beyond the door of the Corral and looked down the alley. Somebody was on the ground there, unmoving. I ran over. Oh, hell, it's Claridge! He had welts on his head. The hip pocket of his pants was torn out--somebody yanked away his wallet--and the Rolex was gone. Muggers, the poor bastard.

He groaned. I felt the artery at his neck. He'll be okay. Just beat up. I managed to pull him up to his feet, and supporting him best I could, we walked, stumbled, dragged, and lurched--I couldn't manhandle him all the way to the parking lot and my car, so we stopped at the Lamborghini. I fumbled in his pocket for the key, shoehorned him into the Lambo's passenger seat, pushed down the door, then got myself into the pilot's seat.

Sonofabitch! Never driven anything like this! The V-12 about 24 inches behind us fired up like the afterburner on an F-14, but suddenly realizing the double-barreled lawsuit that would come from damaging Claridge's $100,000 car, I eased it out of the parking space like an old woman in a Model T.

I didn't know where he lived, so I drove to my place.

I dragged him up to my apartment and put him to bed. Then I had a problem. My apartment was tiny. One room. One bed. Typical bachelor pad with desk, light, hot plate, and coffee-maker. I tried to keep the joint clean, but it smelled of old socks, a hamper of underwear, a mattress on its 500th customer, and the garlic and oregano from the pizzeria on the bottom floor.

Good Red: Be a good guy. The poor bastard's been beat up and robbed. Let him sleep it out. It's not cold. You can sack out on the floor in some blankets

Evil Red: The hell you say! That is your goddamned bed! There's space in there for two! Get in bed with him!

I kicked off my shoes.

And take all your clothes off. While you're at it, take his clothes off, too. Damn it, after all you've been through, you are not going to let that big lunk escape before you've shown his asshole what a PE student can do!

Yeah. A few minutes later, I slipped between the sheets next to the naked, sleeping Claridge.

He slept all through the night. I was horny enough to beat the meat, but (a) I didn't want to get caught, and (b) I didn't want to have shot my wad if he happened to wake up, ready to get fucked. The night was a bust.

At sunrise, though, he groaned and rolled over. "Where am I?"

"You got mugged. You were out cold, so I brought you here."

"Red? You brought me"--he looked around--"This is your apartment!" He looked down. "I'm naked."

"You're expecting pajamas?"

"Ohh, my head. I remember those bastards. Hit me with a stick. Robbed me, the motherfuckers!"

"I didn't know where else to take you, so I brought you here to sleep it off."

He lay back, his eyes closed. "Thank you, man, you're a good guy"--

--At that instant, the door burst open, and and a woman rushed in. She was about my age, hair tousled, mascara streaked down her cheeks. "I've been looking for you, you bastard!" Who, me? She was at full, hysterical scream. "When I saw your car out front, I knew you were in here fucking around again!" Oh, him. She bent down, picked up one of our shoes, and threw it at Claridge. "You goddamned son of a bitch! I'm pregnant!!"

He sat up. "What?"

What??

Screaming and crying, the woman ran out of the apartment, and we heard her cries all the way down the stairs and out.

We looked at each other. Ohmigod! All this time I've been playing with dynamite. I moved to slide out of the bed, but Claridge caught me.

"You've been so good to me. Took care of me when I was beat up. It's time I gave you what you want." With that he took me into his arms--which could sound romantic, but I was encircled with the iron clamps of the Jaws of Life, and no way could I escape.

"Wait, no, don't"

The newly reconstituted--apparently never actually de-constituted--Beast of Boston rolled over on top of me, spread my legs with his knees, then reached with his hands to pull my knees up to my chest. My panic-stricken asshole rolled into range. "No, man, don't! I'm a virgin!"

He smiled. "You're in good hands. I'll go slow."

Hey, we're not talking Allstate here! I do not let guys--

--His hairy chest against mine, the pointed cockhead entered my asshole--Not so bad, really--so farbut I knew his arrowhead glans was just the beginning. I was going to be sore as hell as soon as he shoved in enough of that Roto-Rooter to spread me out into a sewerpipe. He didn't give me much time to stretch, either. The huge cock was in and out between my cheeks like a jackhammer, and I spread my legs wider out of sheer self-defense.

This is the last time I listen to my conscience, either one of you assholes!

Hey, you're the one who fucked up. If you had taken my advice--

I shook my head. Claridge's cock was gradually getting wetter and slimier, and it didn't hurt so much. I relaxed. It hurt at the end of the in-strokes, as he reached the max of my ass-stretch, but--Damn!--each time he sank in deeper. I'm stretching wider.

I no longer cared. My life was so confused and fucked up, I needed someone else to be in control for a while. For once, I relinquished command. I'm still a top. I'm just seeing how the other half lives.

But Claridge grew more aggressive, grinding that big thing into me faster and faster, flexing his muscles like a body builder, showing off to me. Have to admit it; he's one hot motherfucker. I moved my hand into his thick, curly crotch hair, just as I'd always wanted to. Like petting a poodle.

I seized a handful of fur and tugged. He grunted, appreciating the pain, and rammed himself even further into me--I liked the pain, too.

By that point, the pain of the stretch had leveled out into a strange mix of pleasure and soreness. Have to admit it: this is fabulous. I couldn't help but admire the beautiful specimen of man rutting over me. The Beast of Boston is one handsome fucker.

At that moment, the big guy, his hips still lunging that giant cock through my guts, brought his head down beside mine, his mouth at my ear:

"Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?"

I knew that one from a Lit class. Percy Bysshe Shelley. A love poem. A love poem! The big fucker is reciting love poetry to me!

Don't know what happened. Something about the big brute's murmuring love words set me off. I writhed in his arms, my asshole suddenly so sensitive it spawned an orgasm. "Oh, God, I'm cumming!"

With that, Claridge brought his mouth to mine and kissed me, and that really did push me over the falls. Crushed between my body and the hard weight of the Beast of Boston, my cock shot out streams of slimy white satisfaction as I closed my eyes in bliss. God, what an orgasm!

The ecstasy was almost more than I could stand, and even when Claridge's tongue forced its way into my mouth, for as much as I wanted to duel with it, my own tongue lay limp and helpless--sagging like a drunk against a lamp post.

About then Claridge got his gun. He rose up off me, his body stiffening--and I noticed that my ejaculation, trapped as it was by his body pressed against mine, ended up like a white tattoo carefully outlining his muscle groups. He had white, pearlescent tracery around the cobblestones of his belly, a pool of jism marked his belly button, and long lines of white sperm circled his pecs.

His face contorted as he went through the fabulous insanity of sexual climax, and although I couldn't feel them, I knew surges of his potent cum were trying to make his next illegitimate baby. I didn't mind. Somehow I felt a little proud that I was one of the chosen, that I had just been fucked by the biggest cock, the biggest guy--and the handsomest stud at the college.

When he finished, he lowered himself down onto me again, and once more:
"Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

"Christopher Marlowe had it right." He paused. "My thoughts exactly."

He pulled out of me, rolled over, and leaned back on the pillows, breathing hard. "That was great," he panted. "You're a great fuck." He reached down to his pants and brought up a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter. He lit himself one, passed it to me, then lit himself another. Oh, God, the Great Romantic Tradition.

We sat in bed, smoking a victory salute. I didn't know about him, but I was still floating along in a very dreamy afterglow. Claridge started blowing smoke rings. "Funny thing about that girl. It's not my baby."

I looked over at him.

Still blowing smoke rings, he went on: "I'll tell you a secret. A year ago, in an accident in the ring, a guy crushed my balls. Bad. Internal bleeding. Hemorrhaging. They had to remove my testicles." He looked over at me. "I'm castrated."

My jaw dropped open.

"For a year, as I felt my hormone levels dropping, I worked out and took shots. It kept my body in trim, but"--he smiled--"my attitudes kept changing." He rolled over and kissed me.

"Red, I've wanted you to fuck me since the day I saw you in that sauna. Since then I've been throwing myself at you like a whore." He paused, then kissed me again. "But you broke my heart, man. I thought you were straight, or at least a top, but when you blew me, I knew you were a bottom." He sighed. "Just like me."

He kissed my forehead, my temples, my cheek, then my mouth again. "But I've got it bad for you, man. As much as I would love to feel that big dong of yours up my ass, I'll play the top for you."

Speechless. Knock me over with a feather if I weren't already on my back. I almost swallowed the cigarette.

He went on: "I'll be anything you want me to be if you'll just let me love you." When he kissed me again, I swear I heard us both saying, "I do."

Claridge and I roomed together until he got his Master of Arts in English Literature. When he got a job teaching at a college in the east, I went with him.

Rupert Brooke said it best:

. . . the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns . . .

These are the things we built our life on. The rest we left to "taking turns."