Cupid's Sophomore Year, Semester 01

This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult males, so if that's not allowed where you live then you should march in the streets. I'm releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license, which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as you give me credit and don't use it for commercial purposes of any kind. If you enjoy the story, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.

You don't need to have read my story "Cupid's Big Weekend" to understand what goes on here--though the characters in this story continue from that one, I've supplied background where needed.

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# 1 #

It's good to be a sophomore. Having suffered through a year with the Worst Roommate Ever, I've finally earned a spot in the newest dorm on campus. In my old dorm (and I do mean old--I think the foundations were laid during the Buchanan administration) the rooms were small and the bathrooms were a nightmare of cracked porcelain and mold. Here, the rooms are arranged in suites so that each pair of bedrooms shares a bathroom--only four people competing for the shower! It's going to be awesome.

I just hope I get a better roommate than I did last time. That loser was a constant pain in my ass all year. It wasn't just that he was straight--though that was definitely a strike against him--it's that he spent all of his time with that horrid girlfriend wrapped around him, mostly in our room. I rarely had a chance to rub one out in private, and I kind of need to do that on a daily (and usually twice--sometimes even thrice-daily) basis. Now at least I'll have a bathroom with a locking door if I get desperate.

I swipe my card in the door of my new castle, and venture in.

"Hello?"

No one here yet, apparently. Which is awesome--first one in gets dibs on the best bed.

I look around the small lounge area, which comprises a coffee table and four chairs just inside the door, and then explore the rest of the suite. The layout is actually pretty cool. Next to the lounge area is a little counter with a sink, microwave and fridge. Then you walk past the bathroom, which is actually three separate areas: first, the toilet is in a small room of its own; then there's the sink area, with two sinks and mirrors (this part is open to the rest of the suite), and then a shower in its own room. It's possible for all four people to use the bathroom at once, because one could be showering, one could be shaving, another brushing his teeth, and the fourth locked in the toilet jacking off because of the fact that everyone else is naked and he just can't stand it any more. You can guess which one I'll be.

Beyond the bathroom are the two bedrooms, one to the right and one to the left, each with two loft beds and two desks. Which one to choose? I try to be scientific about this, working from the room on the left (no good--it smells a bit stale, and somewhere inside the wall there are weird pipe noises) to the one on the right. Let's see--this bed seems okay, but the other...

Bingo.

The second bed in the room on the right has a view. While you can see out a window from all four beds, this one has a view diagonally across the courtyard to the hot tub. Oh, no one's using it right now, but come fall it's going to be magnet for steamy, speedo-suited guys who want to soak in the heat so that their muscles relax and their nipples perk up in the chill of the fall evening air. One imagines.

I hear the door open and close. Roommate!

I walk out of the bedroom to meet the new guy. Guys, actually--there are two of them. And they are a matched set of hot hot hot.

A perfectly matched set, in fact.

"Hey, I'm Josh," I offer, my hand outstretched.

They both smile. I am blinded.

"Nice to meet you, Josh. I'm Dexter." His hand is soft, but his grip is strong. A shiver shoots up my arm. "This is my brother, Porter."

"Pleased to meet you," the brother says. His voice is identical, his hand just as soft; the grip, though, is not quite as MBA-firm as Dexter's. It's more of a hand embrace than a handshake.

"Twins, huh?" I state, obviously. Sometimes it's best just to get those things out in the open.

"He's on to us, Dex," says Porter, smiling.

"So, I picked a bed--you guys should go have a look at which ones you want."

"Which room are you in?" Dexter asks.

"The one on the right."

"Oh, so we'll take the room on the left, I guess," says Porter.

Now, wait a minute! I don't get to watch either of you undress at the end of a hard day of classes? How is that fair?

The twins pick up their duffels and head for the room on the left. I watch them go, which is a treat in itself--four identical buttocks rising and falling rhythmically in their khaki enclosures. It's some compensation for not being able to bunk with one of them.

Now I wait for the door to open again, through which will walk my roomie for the year. Extrapolating the increasing hunk factor from me (I'm not bad to look at, I think) to the twins (two helpings of hunk, served hot), my roommate should be the love child of Channing Tatum and Ronaldo Cristiano. But I'm not getting my hopes up or anything.

A few minutes pass. I can hear the Beautiful Twins rustling about in their room, talking in half-sentences. I'm getting a little impatient (something that would surprise no one who's ever met me). I open the door to check out the traffic in the hall. There's a constant flow of people--those coming from the elevator lobby are dragging suitcases and boxes, while those heading back that way are empty-handed. Several times I see oncoming hotties I would like to grab and drag into the suite, but they pass serenely by to other rooms down the hall. Dammit. I go back into the suite to wait. I should be making runs out to the car to pick up more stuff to bring in, but if I'm not here to defend my claim on the bunk I may lose it. I don't want to start the year with a new roommate by having a turf war.

I'm just about to give up on the waiting when I hear someone fumbling with the card-swipe outside the door. The lock clicks open, the knob turns.

I count to three before looking up at the new guy. I use this time to imagine all of the possible configurations of lean muscle, flawless skin, and glittering beauty that are possible in the world, and wonder which I will find before me. And then I see him.

He's...average.

No, seriously, he's the absolute mean in all respects. He's not tall, nor is he short. He's not a bodybuilder, but he's not a fat slob either. His skin does not glow with radiant clarity, but neither is it horribly disfigured. In short, if I passed him on the street I wouldn't give him a second look. Which is fine, really, except that I'm going to be looking at him every day for the entire school year. Damn those twins.

"Hey, I'm Josh. How ya doin'?" I get up and walk over to him, putting on my super-friendly face to keep him from seeing my disappointment that he is not, in fact, the love child of Channing and Ronaldo.

"Um, hi...um, Josh." His voice is so quiet I have a hard time hearing him at all. He seems not at all sure what he should do now that he's found the room.

"And you are...?" I ask.

"Um, oh, sorry. I'm Seth." With that he seems to snap into awareness of where he is, and he sets down his bag and extends a hand.

His grip is nothing like that of the Wonder Twins, but I wasn't really expecting it to be.

"Nice to meet you, Seth. Let me show you where you'll be." I lead him past the bathroom and to--ugh, there's no better word for it--"our" room. I can hear the twins giggling on the other side of the wall, and I imagine what it would have been like to room with one of those specimens of manhood instead of Seth. And the day had been so promising!

We all spend about an hour shuttling stuff from our cars, except for Seth, whose parents seem to have just plopped him on the curb with all of his possessions and then driven away. Once everything's settled, we decide to head for dinner together, to get to know each other a bit.

We're sitting at a table in the commons, looking at plates full of prison-issue cookery that do not bode well for our dining enjoyment this year. The twins, however, plow through it with the energetic precision of German paratroopers. They even eat the same things, in the same order. This may get a little creepy.

Seth seems completely cowed by the twins. He keeps staring at them, and then looking away when one of them notices him. Which they do, frequently, because in addition to being sculpturally beautiful, they are also the nicest people I think I've ever met. They keep asking him about life in the little town he comes from, and he keeps answering their questions with nearly inaudible three-word mutterings; they respond with nods and agreeing noises far in excess of what his gruntings deserve.

Then they turn to me.

"So, Josh. What are you studying?" Dexter asks.

You, mostly.

"Undecided. Taking my time to figure it out." It's my standard answer to this question, and I've been practicing it during the weeks I've been home--one of my family's favorite hobbies is to ask me this a dozen times a day.

"Good for you," says Porter. I think I love Porter.

"What else keeps you busy?" asks Dexter, following up like a White House reporter.

"Well," I answer, "I'm vice-president of Campus Pride, and I'll also be helping out with the freshmen when they get here this week."

I scan the table quickly for reaction to my outing myself with the Campus Pride bit. It's the LGBTQ group on campus, and I've been active with it since I got here. Actually, since I got beaten up pretty badly outside a gay club early in my first semester.

I don't tell them this.

Here are the reactions I get: Dexter is smiling and nodding, in the manner of a father whose son has finally announced that he's running for political office to keep the family dynasty in power; Porter has a half-grin on his face, and one eyebrow is cocked up a bit, which makes me want to lunge across the table and have my way with him, right fucking now; Seth looks frankly terrified, as if I've just announced that I'm vice-president of the campus Al-Qaeda cell.

"Good for you," Dexter enthuses. "That kind of stuff is great for the resume." The others decide not to offer commentary--actually, I'm not sure Seth is even breathing.

"How about you guys?" I ask the table, mainly to get the topic onto something that won't cause Seth to topple over in a dead faint.

"We're both pre-med," answers Porter. Of course they are--why stop at gorgeous and sweet? Might as well be rich, and save lives for good measure.

"And outside of class?"

"We both came here to play water polo," replies Dexter. "But after the first year we decided it was taking too much time away from our studies--"

"And other things," Porter adds, and is that a wink? Did he just wink at me? My penis thinks so.

"So we decided to leave the team and focus on our classes," concludes Dexter. Porter's interruption doesn't seem to have thrown him at all--I guess that's what it's like with twins.

"And you, Seth?" Porter asks, ever the gentlemen. I bet our kids would have his eyes. Sigh.

"Um," Seth begins, as he begins every sentence I think I've heard him utter since I met him. "I'm majoring in physics."

This makes me happy, because it will be like having a built-in tutor, but also sad, because it means that the chances of his having hot friends over to study is slim indeed.

"And what do you do when you're not studying physics?" asks Dexter.

"Um, sleep, I guess. It keeps me pretty busy."

I don't know what I was expecting from a new roommate--perhaps a champion wrestler whose hobbies include gourmet cooking and nudity. We would have been very happy, my naked wrestler and me, but now that's not going to happen. I take another look at Seth, squinting a bit to see the inner beauty. It must be pretty deep in there, because I still can't see it.

We return to our suite, and spend some time getting settled in. You can tell a lot about people by what they put on their dorm walls, and this group is no exception. My side of the room is populated by a range of athletes and musical artists in various stages of undress and dampness--I kind of have a thing for soccer players in the rain, if you must know--as well as a calendar that my friend Pete found for me in a dodgy shop in eastern Europe that provides pastoral views of mostly-naked men doing things that mostly-naked men enjoy doing, like threshing wheat and fixing Stalin-era tractors. I keep it high on the wall, where I can see it as I drift off at night.

Seth, on the other hand, has decorated with the images that give him wood--a periodic table, a glamor shot of Stephen Hawking, and a series of posters by his favorite photographer, the Hubble telescope. The top shelf of his bookcase displays a set of pictures, clearly of his family. They all look just as hip as Seth. Tucked up on the end of that high shelf is a small frame, angled so that he can see it from bed, that seems to hold a photo of someone on a beach with a sunset in the background.

"Who's that?" I ask.

Seth blushes furiously. Then he reaches up and tips the frame onto its front so that the picture is no longer visible.

"No one," he answers, and then bolts from the room.

Okay, then.

I venture next door to see what the twins are up to. Dexter has taken the right side of the room, and his taste runs to the best traditions of dorm decor. Above the desk is a poster of an airbrushed and silicone-enhanced young woman who would very much like us to enjoy her favorite brand of beer--so much so, in fact, that in her haste to deliver this marketing message she has neglected to button her shorts. Next to her is a more sports-themed poster, this one depicting a group of cheerleaders in ridiculously short skirts who would no doubt blacken their own eyes if they attempted even a half-hearted jump. High on the wall, above his bunk, are more explicit images, each of the same sort of woman (the poster in the middle shows two of them together--like, really together). Well, so now we know what turns Dexter's crank.

I turn to Porter's side of the room, expecting to see a mirror image in this as in all things. What I see, though, stops me cold.

Above his desk is a poster quite similar to the one on Dexter's side of the room, except that the here the product is not beer, but--leather goods? Oh, and the model wearing the strappy leather harness thing is a strapping gentleman, apparently on a float in one of the more upscale pride parades. There's a team photo too, though Porter's taste runs not to cheerleaders but naked French rugby players (the poor dears seem to have gotten a bit muddy on their way to the photo shoot). Higher on the wall is a calendar much like mine, except that his focuses on skimpy swimwear rather than overalls, and the photography is lush and artistic.

I notice suddenly that Porter is watching me, trying to gauge my reaction. I'm not sure what to say.

"Your calendar is on September," is all I can come up with. Smooth, right?

He laughs. "That's because I don't really like looking at the model for August," he answers.

"Why?"

"Because it's him," replies Dexter, who at this moment is trying to finish hooking up the flat-screen TV that occupies the space under his loft bed.

Porter shrugs and nods. Of course these two would be models. Why not?

"So, I guess we have some stuff in common," I say to Porter, as casually as I can. He raises his eyebrows at me, and I nod to the collection of fine male flesh on the walls. He smiles and nods.

"You mean the gay thing? Yeah, seems we do. Hey," he continues, not missing a beat, "We brought an XBox. You play?"

I don't.

"Hells yeah," I reply.

"Awesome. We'll tear it up once we get it sorted." he says, and then turns back to putting his stuff away.

It's getting late, and I have to get up early in the morning to prepare for the arrival of the freshmen, who will be moving in this week. As I lie in bed, looking at the calendar above my bed in the orange glow of the courtyard lights, I listen to the grumbling snore of Seth who dropped off to sleep as soon as he climbed into bed an hour ago. I can hear the twins next door clicking madly on their XBox controllers, no doubt dominating a worldwide army of sweaty, muscled warriors. It takes me a while to fall asleep.

# 2 #

I wake up before my alarm goes off, my sleep broken by the sound of the shower running. It's all of six-thirty in the morning, and I cannot imagine who would be up at this hour--classes don't even start until next week. I slip down off my loft bed and shuffle to the door; just as I open it, the door to the shower room opens and the twins walk out, towels around their waists. Unsurprisingly, they are uniformly beautiful specimens, bearing the hallmarks of the water polo champion--toned muscle, zero fat, an easy grace of movement. They each take a sink and begin their morning ritual. One reaches over to borrow shaving cream from the other, causing his towel to slide off. Oh, fuck me. His ass is a wonder--smooth and muscled and gorgeous. Now, for once, it is possible to tell them apart, as one is wearing a towel and the other is not. But I don't know which is which.

Then, suddenly, as if to restore order to the universe, the towel around the waist of the other slides off, and they are both naked at the sink. An involuntary gasp escapes me, and they both look behind them in the mirror and see me lurking in the doorway. I yawn and step out, trying to make it look as though I had just opened the door and, in my sleepy state, have not yet even noticed their presence, their naked, beautiful presence.

"Mmmmorning," I mumble, heading for the toilet room.

"Morning," they answer together, turning back to their shaving. If they were perturbed by my creeping on them, they don't let it show.

My morning pee accomplished, I come back out of the toilet room and stand behind them--they're still working away at their mysterious beauty regimen, now applying--moisturizer? The one closest to me steps aside from the sink to let me wash my hands. I nod my thanks, making extra special sure not to glance down the front of him, though every fiber in my being wants me to.

I dry my hands and step back, letting them finish. I take a moment to memorize this sight, sure that they will take greater care to cover up in the future. Unfortunately, before I can make a graceful exit, the one on the left meets my eyes in the mirror. Caught. I try to casual it up.

"So, you guys are up early," I venture, in what I hope is a non-creeper tone.

"We run every morning," the one on the right answers. I nod--not because I understand what makes people get up at o'dark-thirty to run, but because I tend to agree with naked men, whatever the topic.

"You know, I have no idea how to tell you two apart," I say, as casually as I can. They really are identical--I have tried to find some marking that will allow me to distinguish between them, but that would require one of them to have a blemish or imperfection of some kind, and they clearly do not.

They laugh.

"Yeah, that's a problem for a lot of people," the one on the left answers.

"It was even hard for our parents when we were little," adds the other.

"There was only one way to tell us apart," concludes the one on the left.

"How was that?" I ask--I can imagine it's going to be really awkward around here if I don't know whether I'm talking to the gay one or the straight one.

In perfect sync, they both turn around to face me. Holy fucking fuck.

Their front side is as lovely as their backside. From the slabs of muscle that form their perfect pectorals, to the bricklayer abs, to the...oh, I don't know if I have words for what comes next.