John Opens the Bottle

I called Cole as soon as I woke up the next morning. No one answered.

I called repeatedly throughout the day. His mother finally answered around five, asked who it was, and then insisted Cole was not at home. I left a message for him to call me. He did not.

I slept with Jennifer again that night, taking her from behind. She was warm and wet and smooth inside.

She had tried to give me a blowjob, but she was terrible at it. I wanted to tell her what to do, but I was worried she would wonder how I knew. So, I pulled her up, turned her around, and pretended she was Cole.

I got the same dance and song from Cole's mother the next day.

I spent the next week perpetuating the same routine. I pretended Jennifer was Cole as I delivered myself to her. And, then I pretended Cole was not avoiding me when I tried to track him down, like my betrayal of him had not forced an irrevocable rupture.

After a few more half-hearted efforts, I gave up. Cole had ghosted me. I deserved it. I had protected myself. In so doing, I had lost some of what I was protecting.

I never heard from or saw Cole again. I buried my anguish and myself in Jennifer the rest of the summer. I fucked her as often as I could to prove to myself that I was straight. I vowed to leave the Cole Interregunum behind me.

Part Two

At Yale, I intended to continue on the narrow and straight path I had set with Jennifer. I quickly learned that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

A principled conservative, I joined the Tory Party in the Yale Political Union. Although only a freshman, I shined as a debater. At CODASCO, I had absorbed books by William Buckley, Edmund Burke, Ayn Rand, and every other conservative thinker. I was well-versed in conservative political theory and thought.

As I attended more and more debates, I could not help but notice "Thatcher" Rees, a Junior who was also in my college. Although his name was Edward, he insisted on "Thatcher" to honor Margaret Thatcher, his heroine. "Thatch" was a Tory through and through. He was from Choate, and he was intrigued by my arrival from the Midwest.

"Thatch" was more privileged than I was. He had grown up in the Racquet Club of Philadelphia. He was an accomplished squash player. He sailed. He eschewed traditional American sports like baseball and football as "common."

He was an athletic, not muscled, 6'4". His wavy brown hair was perfect. His thick brown eyebrows were perfect. His grey eyes were perfect. His button nose was perfect. His straight, white teeth were perfect. His chiseled, strong jaw was perfect. His diction was perfect. He pronounced the "h" in "where" and the "th" in "clothes." He said every word exactly as it was intended to be said. He looked like I imagined James Bond had looked, when he was young and ruling a campus. He looked like Jude Law in The Talented Mr. Ripley, only with darker hair.

Slowly but surely, I was mad for him in a way I had never been for anyone else. I obsessed over him. I ached when we were not together.

In many ways, I wanted to be him. I wanted to walk the halls that he walked, command the affection and respect that he commanded, and arrogate his role to myself when he left Yale.

But, I also wanted to be with him. Cole had whetted an appetite that Jennifer and the girls through whom I worked my way at Yale could not sate.

We became inseparable and intimate in a brotherly way. We were affectionate in a platonic way. I searched and waited for even the hint of more. I never found it. If Thatch had even the slightest curiosity about same-sex sex, he never betrayed it to me.

We lived together his last year and my second. I should have known better. The proximity only whetted my appetite. I saw too much of him. I saw his broad shoulders, his packed stomach, his strong legs, and his rounded ass. I saw him dripping wet after the shower, his chest hair slick to his chest. I saw him bounce in and tent his boxers. I saw him slip into his compression shorts, his penis cradled against his scrotum as he pulled them up. I saw him rest his hand on his bulge as he reclined and read in his bed.

I also heard too much. He detailed his sexploits to me. He was a kiss and tell. He fucked a lot of girls, and he liked to tell me about them when he returned to our room

"John, wake up," he would say. "You're not going to believe this one."

I'd roll toward him, and he would tell me how he had cajoled a girl to do something she had swore she never would, whether it was letting him cum on her face, letting him fuck her in the ass, or something in between. I'd get as hard as a rock listening to him.

He brought sex back to our room only when he had to. When he called my name, I had to pretend I was asleep. I would listen to girls gasp and pant under him. I never saw him hard, but the reactions of the girls suggested he was either endowed or knew how to fuck or both. I often wondered what it would be like to be them, to feel the weight of him on top of me, to feel his dick enter and then spread me, the fill him lose control and fill me. I fantasized about losing my same sex virginity to Thatcher.

Just before Spring break, I turned everything on its head. We were drunk and high and laughing on his bed. I put my head on his shoulder, and he put his head against my head. I started tickling the top of his forearm.

"What are you doing, John?" he asked, but not in any way that alarmed me. It seemed more innocent than alarming.

I turned my face to his voice, and he smiled at me. I mistook his smile as an invitation, and I moved my mouth toward his. He yanked his head back, slamming it against the wall.

He jumped off the bed angrily. "What the fuck, John?"

I panicked. "I do not know why I did that. I am drunk and high."

"I'm not a fag!"

"I am not either. . . . Please please please, Thatch, do not be mad and do not tell anyone. It was a mistake. It is not who I am. I do not know what came over me. I was being stupid. I was playing a game."

It was clear he did not believe me my inconsistent, panicked claims. He looked at me like I was a stranger he had never met and had no interest in knowing. He stalked out of the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

I was shaking, trying to figure out how to avert the impending crisis. I started thinking that I would have to transfer and wondering where I could or would go. I fell asleep plotting.

Thatch came and went as I slept. I saw little of him before break. Things were completely different between us the rest of the year. We rarely were together. When we were, he barely spoke to me. He was not openly hostile, but he was a stranger. He went his way, and I went mine.

I left a graduation gift for him, along with a note apologizing for losing my head. He never acknowledged either one.

As far as I could tell, he never told anyone I had tried to kiss him. But, I had ruined a friendship and learned a lesson I would never forget.

*****

I asked Vivian out the first day of my Junior year. I had long known of her, but her college was far from mine, and we had encountered each other only in passing during our first two years in New Haven.

That day, I was behind her in line at the Union, so I introduced myself. "I know who you are," she said. "Everyone knows who you are."

"Really?" I asked. "I did not know I was known."

"You are. You are the only Tory we all want to save, especially now that Thatcher is gone."

"You should try. You can start over dinner."

We had a great first date that ended with the promise of more. We had sex after our second date. When we were finished, she offered "I guess that answers that."

"Answers what?" I asked.

"Some of us wondered if you were gay. Actually, we thought maybe you and Thatcher were gay together. You two seemed like a couple. Then, you two seemed like a couple who had broken up."

"We were not. We were friends who had a falling out over something small that we let get big until it was too big to be small again. It was stupid."

To prove to her I was not gay, I went down on her until she cried out. Then, I pinned her legs to her shoulders and fucked her again, as passionately as I could. It was the first time I had ever had sex without a condom on. I had planned to pull out when I got close to reduce the risk as much as I could, but I did not. Her velvet felt too good. Even as she said "no no no" I buried myself inside of her as deeply as I could and filled her.

When I realized what I had done, I panicked. "Oh my God, I am so sorry. I should not have done that."

"It's fine," she said. "We just have to be more careful next time."

We were. We waited until she got a diaphragm. After not wearing one once, I never wanted to wear a condom again. And, she hated the pill.

Once we were protected, we had as much sex as we could. I was trying to prove something to myself.

We became the most recognizable couple on campus. We walked hither and yon hand in hand. Vi was raised in elite social circles, and she continued to run in them. Her friends became my friends.

Our sex life was active, but atavistic. Vi liked sex, but she was not adventuresome about it. She preferred to be on her back, her legs flat. She would not allow me to take her from behind, announcing it was base and bestial. She allowed me to touch her breasts and her body, but she barely returned the favor. Her hands rarely ventured over me. Her tongue never did. If she touched my dick, it was only to guide me back inside of her. She allowed me to go down on her, but she never returned the favor. She did not like fellatio. She hated cum.

It was unfulfilling. I liked to be touched. I liked the warmth of a hand on my shoulder, the palm of a hand on my chest, the eroticism of a tongue snaking down my sides and headed toward my crotch. I wanted forplay to be mutual. Ours was not. Vi was a recipient, not a participant.

*****

Although Vi and I were entrenched as a couple, I had to actively fight to suppress the base urges that lurked just beneath my surface. They say "half the battle is the will to wage war." My will was strong, and I girded it by avoiding situations where I might be tempted. I spent as much time with Vi as I could. I avoided intimate friendships with boys. I avoided any boy to whom I found myself attracted.

By the time Luther Gordon arrived on campus, I had not been with a man for more than three years. I had learned from my misadventure with Thatcher, and I sublimated any attraction I had to anyone other than Vi.

I was starting my Senior year, and Luther was a Junior transfer who was to be the point guard on Yale's woeful basketball team. At the time, Yale had not been to the NCAA Tournament since 1962. Until this year, it still had not.

Lute's arrival was highly anticipated. He was supposed to be a terrific guard. He was also supposed to be a genius and gorgeous.

Lute was as heralded. Knowing nothing about basketball other than that it bored me to tears, I could not evaluate his athletic skills. But, those who cared about such things expected him to transform Yale into an Ivy League contender. He was described as a terrific ball handler and as having a stroke so sweet he was identified as a "pure shooter." I chuckled about how sexual basketball seemed.

I could evaluate his brain. To my surprise, he became the first black member of the Tory Club and immediately became a force to be reckoned with. He had all the arguments down. He seemed to have read everything I had read. He was eloquent and erudite in a way that made me more than a little jealous.

I could also evaluate his looks. He was stunning. He had a simple, untroubled face. His eyes were large and "doey." His nose was small and flailed. His lips were thick and shapely. His teeth were large and straight and white. They made his smile, which was wide and melted butter. His face was stubbled. When I later saw William DeMerritt in The Outs, I was transported back to Yale and Lute.

His body eclipsed his face. All 76 inches of him appeared to be chiseled from rock. His clothes seemed to stick to his skin. I had never been attracted to a black person before, but I could not keep my eyes off of "Lute." Almost every time he looked at me, I was already looking at him. I would quickly avert my eyes, but I knew he was clocking me.

I also knew I was wasting my time. As I heard it, Lute was surfing his way through campus as quickly as he could, leaving broken girls - all of them white - in his wake, needing and wanting more than he was willing to give.

We were both at the same party just before the start of Fall break. I was on my own, as Vi had headed home to D.C. for the long weekend.

I tried not to follow him with my eyes, but I failed miserably. I knew he was noticing me notice him, but I could not stop myself from noticing him.

Before I got too tempted to scheme, I said my good-byes and headed back toward Silliman. I was suprised to hear a "Jo, wait up" as I did. I knew it was Lute chasing me down.

"Where are you going right now?" he asked.

"Just back to my room."

"Come with me instead."

I did, following him past Silliman to Dwight. Rather than heading upstairs to the rooms, we headed downstairs and down a long hallway.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see."

After one turn, he opened a door, ushered me into a small room that was more like a closet, and pulled the door shut behind us, locking it. It was a tomb until he flicked on a small lamp. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that we were, in fact, in a converted broom closet that was populated with two bean bags, blankets, a small table, and a small refrigerator.

"What is this?"

"A couple of us set it up. We call it The Hole. We come down here when we need peace or privacy or when we want to get high."

"What are we doing here?" I asked, emphasizing the we.

"I thought we might need some privacy."

"For what?" I asked, not at all expecting what came back at me.

"To figure out why you watch me so much."

I wanted to bolt. I feared he had clocked me and had brought me to The Hole to bully or beat me.

I decided the best defense was a good offense. "You watch me as much as I watch you. Maybe you should figure out why you do that."

"I don't have to," he said. "I already know."

"Then why do you do it?" I asked, my throat constricting with fear.

He moved directly in front of me. I braced myself for what I feared was coming.

I misread him completely. Rather than drill his finger into my chest or punch me in the stomach, he put his right hand on my shoulder and, in the gentlest voice I had ever heard, said, "I was trying to figure out what you'd do . . . if I did this." He then lowered his mouth to mine and sent a blue flame down my throat, through my groin, and out through my toes. I answered him wordlessly, opening my mouth and allowing his tongue the freedom to run wild inside. His lips were firm and full. His grip was tight. His tongue was aggressive and big and strong. He was powerful in a way Cole had not been.

Once I got my sea legs, I kissed him back as hard as he was kissing me. I fought his tongue with my own. Two inches shorter than his 6'4", I had to pull his head to mine to keep the kiss intact.

He slid his hands down my back, gripped my backside, and forced his hips into mine. An unrecognizable noise gurgled out of my chest.

When the kiss finally ended, I gasped for air. As I did, Lute looked me directly in the eyes, moved his hands to my belt and zipper, and pleaded "I want to fuck you, Jo" before he started kissing me again.

I clenched. I grabbed his hands and pulled my mouth from his. "I have never done that," I admitted through ragged breaths.

"There's a first time for everything," he assured me, pulling his hands free of mine and tugging my shirt up. I had no choice but to raise my arms and allow him to remove my shirt completely. He threw it to the floor and pulled my body toward him, lowering his mouth to my right nipple as his hands again worked my belt and my zipper.

As he struggled to set me free, I took over, opening my khakis and pulling them and my boxers down. It had been a long time since Cole, and my suppressed, base desires broke free.

Lute used my autonomy to his advantage, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing a strong chest with a thick patch of curly hair right in the middle. He then opened and stepped out of his khakis, revealing thick legs also covered with curly hair. When he pulled his boxers down and off, we were naked with each other.

I was hard, my uncut penis pointing straight out and curved slightly upward. Lute was also hard, his cut and proportionate penis longer and thicker than mine. It, too, stood straight out and was slightly curved upward.

I had no idea what to do. I confessed my diffidence. "I have only given a couple of blow jobs, and I do not think they were very good," I admitted.

"We're going to take a nice trip together," he assured me, taking me into his hand. "I like that you're uncut," he said. "It's a nice change of pace."

He moved in front of me, held us both in his large right hand, and started to stroke us together as he kissed my mouth again. "Don't you dare come," he whispered into my mouth.

"Soon, I will have no choice."

"Then let's move to better things," he said, lowering his mouth to my neck and licking his way down my body to my crotch. He held my hips as he took me all the way to the base. I was mesmerized watching my white penis slide in and out of his brown face and his thick, soft lips. I started to come. I could not help it. It had been too long.

Luke did not care that I came without warning him. He swallowed and kept going, draining all I offered.

When he was finished, he ordered me to kneel over one of the bean bags. I was terrified by what he intended to do.

Lute was experienced, and he licked and stretched me with his finger until he thought I was ready. I was terrified, but I was also riled up by the lashing he had given my opening.

He sheathed himself and pressed at me from behind. To my surprise, I wanted him inside of me, like I had never wanted anything before.

"You have to relax," he whispered in my ear. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I exhaled deeply and felt him start into me. "Yeah, just like that," he said. "Open to me. Let me in."

I exhaled deeply again as I felt Lute work himself in. "Okay," he said. "My head is all the way in. The hard part's over. Now, just breathe. And relax."

He worked himself back and forth slowly, moving in a little deeper with each move forward. He kept whispering "breathe" and "yeah, just like that" in my ear as he did. His hot breath in my ear was erotic as hell, and it overshadowed the discomfort of opening to him.

"I'm all the way in," he whispered. "I'm just going to hold right here and let you adjust to me. Take deep breaths and try to relax as much as you can."

I did as he instructed. With every breath, I felt more and more of the fear subside.

"Are you ready for me to fuck you, white boy?" he asked. I was. Really, really ready. I nodded my head, and he started to move in and out of me, slowly and surely.

"Oh my God," I said.

"Oh my God is right," he answered.

Using his hands, he forced my face and shoulders into the bean bag. I moved my hands to my face and held it.

"Oh, fuck, I'm going to come," I heard from behind me. "I'm going to come in your tight white ass."

He rammed into me so hard I thought I would tear. Again and again. I could tell he was coming. I whimpered as he did, partially out of pain, and partially out of pleasure.

"Shhh shhh shhh" he whispered as he pulled out of me, removed the condom, tied it, and dropped it in a Ziplock bag. "Concealing the evidence" he said, dropping the bag on the floor to be taken with us and disposed of later.