“Wake up, shithead! Get your goddamn lazy fuckin ass out of bed!”
My disgusting roommate Carl’s raspy voice betrayed the fact that he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, plus God knows how many joints. He roughly shook my shoulder as he exhaled his ashtray-breath close to my face.
“Wha…? What the fuck?” I groaned sleepily.
“You said you’d have your goddamn stinkin’ ass outta the room by noon. The bitch from last night is coming over, and I wanna fuck the shit out of her. You need to go to the library or wherever the fuck you nerds hang out.”
I vaguely recalled making a promise to that effect the night before, when Carl stumbled into our room at 3 AM, making enough noise to wake the whole dorm. He had said something about some girl he had met at a party, and that he had invited her over for an afternoon delight today.
“OK. Gimme a goddamn minute, and the room’s all yours.”
“Well, hurry the fuck up! She’ll be here any minute, and I don’t want your sorry ass around when she gets here, rich boy.” Carl was resentful of the fact that I came from a wealthy family, whereas he was studying on scholarships and loans that he’d be paying back for the next twenty years.
Both of us were engineering students, here at Stanford. He was in something new and exciting called “computer science,” and I was in plain old, boring, civil engineering. While I’d spend my future building bridges and dams, Carl planned to become an overnight millionaire like Bill Gates or Steve Jobs.
I pulled on my pants, got a clean shirt out of the dresser, and slipped on sandals. Picking up my backpack, I saluted Carl with, “Morituri te saluant!”
“Whatever. Fuck you.”
Carl glared at me as I made my exit. As I reached the elevator, the doors opened and a woman of at least 30 exited. She was wearing knee-high boots, a miniskirt, a blouse that barely fit around her mega-titties, and her hair was purple.
I gallantly bowed and stepped aside to let her exit, saying, “Room 304, madam, second on the left.” I gestured down the hall.
She glared at me and said, “Fuck you, asshole!”
It had no effect on me. Since arriving at Stanford in September, I had quickly become immune to the constant profanity and gross things that my fellow students said to each other. None of it was meant with malice – it was just an affectation of speech. I had never heard anything like it in Denver, but then I went to an exclusive college-prep school where the strongest language heard in the halls might be “Oh, shit!”
Reaching the ground-floor lobby, I headed out into the daylight, mostly awake by now. I was no night owl, but I worked so goddamn hard Monday through Friday that I cherished one morning to sleep in and catch up on rest that I had missed during the week. Carl had just rudely truncated my peaceful repose, but it was OK. I would head over to the cafeteria for a strong coffee and then to the library to see if any of my classmates were there. And to perform my morning ritual…
Coffee in hand, I entered the Lathrop Library and found an empty study carrel. Dropping my book bag, I took a long drag on the caffeine and opened the textbook to a chapter I was supposed to read by Monday.
I couldn’t concentrate. My head was spinning with meaningless, unconnected thoughts. I could picture Carl, naked with his hairy ass pumping up and down as he fucked the ugly woman. Then they would smoke a cigarette together (something completely forbidden in our dorm) and do it again, maybe a couple more times.
Then my thoughts drifted to Craig. After our “break-up” over Christmas, I wondered if he was having fun and lots of sex at Yale. Or was he just as alone and adrift as I was? My mind wandered to pleasant memories…
Suddenly, I was back with him in The Hide on our last day together before we headed in opposite directions to colleges on both coasts. Like always, we mostly raced up the hill to the cabin, tore off our clothes and quickly began fucking each other in turn until we were both satisfied. Then we lay side-by-side, cuddling and whispering affectionately. That led to another round, but this time it was gentle, passionate, and lasted a long time. After we both came again, we got up and sat, naked, on the sofa, looking out the window at the August afternoon.
“I wish we didn’t go to different colleges,” I began.
“Me, too, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Your dad went to Stanford, so you gotta go there, too. And I got a scholarship to Yale, so that’s all my family can afford.”
We talked back and forth like that for a while, and then I turned to face Craig.
“You know I love you, don’t you?” I asked.
“Of course. And you know I love you back, right?”
“Then why the fuck don’t we just run away together and find a life that doesn’t fucking tear us apart?”
Craig was silent for a time. Then he said, “it sounds great, but we both know it would never work. You have a family business to take over some day, and I need to get an education so I can make a shitload of money and help my parents when they get old.” He leaned over and hugged me. I sobbed quietly.
“Bruce, it’s going to be all right. In fact, it’s going to be fine… hell, it’s going to be great. We are always going to remember what we had this summer, and I swear, next summer when we’re both back home, we’ll come back up here and fuck our brains out the whole time.”
I didn’t believe a word he said, but I nodded and forced a smile. “It sounds great. I guess I’ll have to keep remembering that until next summer.”
He nodded solemnly, and I said no more…
Jolted back to reality by a distant noise, here I was, in a goddamn library on a Saturday afternoon, alone and lonely. And it was all my fault. I didn’t have to hurt him the way I did; I could have gone through the motions for the whole break, and both of us would have had a good time. Why the fuck did I tell him the fucking truth? Tears welled up in my eyes, and I quickly wiped them away. I had to do something, anything, and right now.
I took the coffee with me and headed down the stairs to the sub-basement. There, amid musty volumes and a century of dust, I entered the men’s room.
True to form, the three stalls were all occupied. Everything went quiet when I opened the door, but as I moved over to a urinal, soft sounds could be heard.
I chose the porcelain pisser right next to the first stall in the row. I unzipped my pants, pulled out my dick, and relieved myself of the coffee’s diuretic effects. After I had finished pissing, I deftly massaged my cock to erection. I heard heavy breathing to my right and looked down at the wall of the stall.
There was a round hole in the wooden panel, waist-high. Through it, I could see just an open mouth, surmounted by a bristly mustache. I hated the feeling of whiskers on my cock, but I guess that’s what fate had given me this morning. Looking around to make sure there was no one else in the restroom except the men in the stalls, I turned to my right and stuck my dick through the hole. Immediately, the mouth closed around it and began hungrily sucking.
The guy wasn’t half bad. I was becoming an connoisseur of cock-sucking at college – at least the receiving of it. The mustache even kept mostly out of the way.
I began to pump my cock down his throat. After initially gagging, he quickly accommodated to my motions and soon I felt that growing sensation of imminent release down in my balls. Letting out a low sigh, I emptied my first load of semen for the day into the man’s rapidly swallowing mouth. After five or six pumps, I was finished, but I liked to leave my dick in place for a while, enjoying the overall feeling. Some guys let me do it, while others quickly withdrew and spit into the toilet.
This one was a swallower, and he savored every last drop of my cum, carefully licking my cock to remove most of his saliva. Satiated, I pulled back, zipped up my pants and adjusted my shirt. Leaning down to the hole, I whispered, “Thanks. Nice job, Phil.”
After a stunned silence, I saw an eye appear at the hole and look up at me. “Oh. You’re welcome, Bruce. Any time.”
With that, I left the basement men’s room and returned to my carrel, ready to open the fluid mechanics book that I needed to study for that test on Monday.
Around 7 PM, I figured that Carl had probably fucked his brains out and was out somewhere partying again, so I headed back to our dorm room. There was no one in the room, but when I turned on the light, I was instantly furious. Carl’s filthy bed was in its usual state of disarray, but my bed, which I had hastily made while Carl was shooing me out of the room, looked like it had been through a war. The blanket and sheets were half-way on the floor, and the pillow-case had come off. The bare pillow lay in the center of the bed and appeared to be wet.
“That fucking son of a bitch!” I exclaimed.
Carl had obviously screwed his lady friend on my bed and left it that way to make sure I knew about it. I didn’t even want to imagine what the wet spot on my pillow was. I stripped the bed and took everything down to the laundry room. I was going to have to get a different room, or at least a better roommate. I decided to call my father and ask, once again, for the funds to move into an off-campus apartment.
The light was already on in the laundry room as I rounded the corner in the hall. “Shit!” I thought. Since it was a Saturday night, I had been hoping for some privacy. I didn’t really want to try to explain why I needed to wash my bedding this late in the day.
As I entered the laundry, I saw that one washer and one dryer were in use. “Good. At least I don’t have to sit around and wait for some asshole to finish whatever he’s washing,” I thought to myself.
A masculine voice came from the other side of the room. “Hi. I’m only using one set.”
I looked in the direction of the speaker, and almost froze.
It was a very good-looking young man of around my age that I had seen many times, entering and leaving the dorm. He was about five-ten, 175 pounds, ginger hair, and had a great body. He was sitting in a small alcove around the corner of the room, where chairs had been provided for people to wait for their washing and drying.
“Hmm. This has some interesting possibilities,” I thought to myself. I smiled at him and nodded, then put my bedding into a large-capacity washer, inserted the quarters, poured in the detergent, and stood for a moment, collecting my thoughts and outlining a plan of action in my head.
Taking a deep breath, I turned in the direction of the seating area, a wide smile on my face. I hope I looked friendly, rather than like I was stalking my next victim, which, truth be told, was exactly what I was doing.
Walking casually, trying my best not to look or feel like a predator, I turning the corner into the shabby waiting area (which thankfully was out of sight of the door and the rest of the laundry room), and took a seat in a hard plastic chair directly opposite my prey.
“Hi, there. I ’m Bruce.”