Matriculation: (The Oxford Trilogy #1)

by Riley Meyer

  This is a work of fiction. The persons, places, and events depicted in this story are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Riley Meyer

  All rights reserved.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  Matriculation

  Riley Meyer

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  1

  Oxford guys were bloody hot. I’d only just arrived and already I was learning things. Guess that's what they meant by a world-class education.

  I was so busy looking around me that I dropped my bags, one on my back, a huge backpacking unit that was so beat up that it looked as though I’d dragged it all the way from New Zealand instead of flown with it, and a smaller one on my front, slightly less ragged because that’s where all my most important belongings were—my passport, money, and my condoms.

  I looked a sight. My black hair was dishevelled and in need of a cut and I was wearing the shorts I wore on the farm back home, leaving the shock of hairs on my legs on full display. With my bags on the ground, everyone who cared to look could see my formerly white t-shirt and the rip it had gotten when it hooked on the door of a bus. The result: a good slice of my right shoulder taking in the afternoon rays, and me looking like I’d only just survived a knife fight.

  An absolute mess. That’s what my Mum called me, and it was made all the more noticeable by my surroundings.

  I was in a huge quad, with grass so green it looked fake and ornate buildings all around me that I knew for a fact were older than my dear old Nan. And the people around me, well, they were another story. The quad was rammed with them, students and their parents, and they all oozed with money and all the things that money could buy you: looks, fashion, confidence—that je ne sais quais.

  I didn’t know whether I was more interested in the dads or their sons. Everywhere there were tight white tennis shorts, immaculate polo shirts, and perfectly trained arses and chests underneath every one. I was catching eyes left right and centre.

  Fuck, I thought, if only I had charged my phone: my Grindr would be beeping so fast it could make a drum and bass track. I just stood there, mouth hanging open looking at everything and everyone as they slid a safe distance around the little circle of belongings I’d left unceremoniously on the cobblestones. How the hell had I gotten here, I asked myself for about the millionth time.

  “Rafe Roger?” a voice called out.

  It took about a minute for the words to penetrate my thick, jet-lagged skull. The voice tried again, more exasperated this time:

  “Rafe? Rafe George Roger?”

  Funny, I’ve heard that name before, I thought.

  “Wait, that’s me!” I yelled, suddenly putting two and two together and getting four very familiar syllables.

  Man, I hated my middle name. In fact, I hated most of my names. Three of the things and not a last name between them.

  I spun around, looking for the source of a voice.

  “Over here, Rafe,” it called out again. Sexy voice, smooth resonant chords, like an organ in a church.

  Finally, I found the source. I wasn’t disappointed. Standing on a platform at the opposite end of a quad was one of the most handsome faces I’d seen outside of the movies. In fact, he looked like he belonged in a movie. He had deep blond hair, neatly styled to frame his face, and some killer stubble that made his jawline look as sharp as a blade. And he was tall, maybe six foot five, not including the platform, of course.

  When I caught his eyes (blue, obviously), he held up his hand and, like that guy from the Matrix, signalled me to come to him. He didn’t have to tell me twice. Well, I guess he did, but once I’d heard him—and seen him—he didn’t have to ask again, that’s for sure.

  I gathered up my bags as best I could and dutifully walked across the quad, straight across the beautifully clipped grass.

  For some reason the crowds of people suddenly fell silent. I felt eyes swivelling towards me. All the hot dads and their hot sons were staring at me, and not in the way I liked. I looked around as I walked, wondering if my bag had come open, or if my shirt finally disintegrated into rags.

  Then, halfway across, I spotted the sign: ‘Do Not Walk On The Grass”.

  Well, shit, you’ve gone and put your foot in it now, Rafe. Literally. But then I thought: Fuck it. I’m halfway now.

  I resolutely stared ahead and kept walking towards the blond god whose eyes were still locked on me, his eyebrows arching slightly. Stupid fucking rule. What’s grass for if you can’t walk on it?

  After what seemed like forever, I got off the grass and stood in front of the man; or rather he stood in front of me, towering over me on his podium. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties, but that didn’t put me off one bit, not with that hair, that perfect tan, those thick lips...

  I couldn’t help but notice that if I stared straight ahead, I was looking directly at his crotch. Everything he wore was skin tight in that style that was so fashionable right now. I wasn’t complaining. And if I were him, I wouldn’t be either—not with that package. I took a good eyeful and then looked back up at him. It was my turn to arch my eyebrows now.

  “You’re not allowed to walk on the grass,” he said, flatly.

  “Yeah, well, I figured. Just a bit too late”.

  “We like fast learners here.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, “I can take instruction”.

  Fuuck. Why had I said that, and more important why had I said it that way? I’d been put off by the no-walking-on-the-grass thing and I was trying to save face, but man, I’d chosen a funny way of doing it. A bit sardonic, a bit knowing—it’d come out a lot like: I’m ready to take your dick. I mean, this was true, I’d be on my knees as quick as you could say matriculation, but it wasn’t exactly the ivory tower impression I was going for.

  His eyes narrowed, brows furrowing (in disapproval?). I hoped to hell this guy wasn’t important.

  “Right,” he said, “We're assigning buddies. Yours is Jack Klein. He’ll meet you in the De Roi Room. Through the second quad, past the gardens, and into the big building at the back. Are you living in?”

  I tried to take this all in. Duh Rwah room? Living in?

  “Uhh, yeah I’m living in the college if that’s what you mean.”

  “That is indeed what I mean,” he said, “Well then the De Roi Room is in the same building as your accommodation. So you can drop your, uh, bags there. Got that? Remember: Jack Klein.”

  I nodded, “Clear as crystal”.

  Clear as a glass of milk, more like. I didn’t even know there was a second quad. In fact I’d only just learnt what a quad was. How big was this place, anyway?

  I shuffled off with my bags, a bit reluctant to give up the prime viewing platform of his crotch. He seemed like a bit of a wanker but wanker or not... it’s my firm belief that you can’t let a few personality faults ruin a sexual prospect. But as I walked off, vaguely following the direction the man had waved in, I realised I still had no idea what that guy’s name was and who he was. Probably I’d never see him again.

  I shrugged to myself, still scoping out parents and other students as I elbowed my way along. I kept overhearing snatches of conversations: conversations about the stockmarket, people saying “Pa-pah” and “Mama” like we were in an Austen adaptation. There were a few people who look
ed “normal”—as in not like a living embodiment of an Instagram profile—but many more seemed to belong to an entirely different species. One girl, probably about eighteen, was asking another if she played Polo:

  “Oh but I absolutely insist on using jumping saddles,” she went on, a doll-like hand flicking to tuck a perfect blond curl behind a perfect ear, “People think I’m mad for it, but it’s all that”ll do. And my Henry really does prefer them. And Pelham bits, don’t even!”

  I had no idea what they were on about. Was Henry the horse’s name? What’s a Pelham? I hadn’t in my life felt more fresh off the boat than I did standing in this quad, in this college, in this city. But here I was, Oxford.

  By some crazy cosmic coincidence or perhaps some administrative fuck-up, I was let in and given a scholarship. And so some 18000km away from home and only about 48 hours since I’d last milked a cow, I’d ended up here, and I was bloody well going to make the best of it.

  *

  Having failed to find the dur-wah room, I went for Plan B and tried to find my room. After an embarrassingly long time and asking for directions from every half-handsome man between 18 and 50 that walked past, I’d realised my room was on the top floor.

  Great, I thought, I’ll have a view.

  Turns out: not great, not great at all. I’d just pulled my bags up the tallest spiral staircase I’d ever seen when—slumped on the cold marble flagstones feeling like my heart was about to burst out my chest like in that Indiana Jones film—I saw a lift door open in front of me.

  Fuck me, I didn’t know there were lifts!

  A group of students came out, rolling their suitcases with their perfect hair and not a drop a sweat on them. A few of them glanced, disapproving at me, most didn’t even notice. I figured they were used to ignoring the great unwashed like yours truly. Didn’t stop me, though, from checking out a stocky rugby-player type whose thick, roped arms were bursting out of his striped shirt. He caught my glance for a second and then looked quickly away.

  Very quickly. Interesting. Was that a blush I saw?

  A shorter girl, lacking the equestrian sheen of the others came out of the lift last, walked over, and stared down at me. She had about a bottle and a half of foundation on and so much hairspray in her beehive she looked flammable.

  “You fucked it boyo,” she said in a thick Irish accent that I had to process twice to understand.

  “Didn’t know there was a lift,” I explained apologetically.

  “Course there’s a lift! What, you’re gonna push the wheelchair lot straight down the stairs, are yer?”

  “I thought because it was an old building...”

  “What, cause it’s an old building they’re gonna put the cripples in the basement? Yer can’t do that you ableist fuck.”

  I looked around, bewildered. Had I put my foot in it? Can you accuse someone of being ableist while using the word cripple? Her fuck sounded like fook, just like on Derry Girls. She must have seen my confusion because she sighed and reached down to pick up my huge backpack.

  “Come on, let’s get you sorted you fine thing. What floor’s this anyway?”

  Get you saaarted. I couldn’t help loving her accent. But what did she mean, saying I was a fine thing? Was she hitting on me?

  Meanwhile she had picked up my pack as though it weighed nothing and put it straight over her petite shoulders. It reminded me a bit of my older brother, the hunting enthusiast, with his latest dead deer. Fortunately this involved less in the way of blood.

  “What room yer got?” she asked.

  “8A-2.”

  “God, sounds like home, doesn’t it? Warm fire, beautiful curtains, lovely rug, few bookshelves. That’s 8A-2 for yer. Come on, get up off the ground. What’ve you found down there that’s got you so interested?”

  “Nothing,” I said, struggling to understand this girl while also acting like a normal person, “Coming. Wait up!”

  It turned out that the girl’s name was Maura and she hailed from Dublin. When she found out I was from New Zealand she stopped and turned on me, almost yelling at me, Yer shittin me! Turns out, she liked New Zealanders.

  “Best fuck I’ve ever had was with a Kiwi. In a hostel in Lima. God, he knew his way round a fanny”

  “Oh,” I said, “right. That’s good.”

  Come on, Rafe, I thought, show a bit of fucking personality.

  “Actually, my best was Irish,” I offered, belatedly.

  “Was her name Maura?” she shot back and winked.

  “Nah,” I replied hesitantly, “it was, uh, Conor.”

  Maura rolled her eyes:

  “Feck me, what’s the good of that to me! I mean fair play and all that, fair play to you, but what a waste of my time. Yer think of that before you gone and decided to like cock? Because I don’t mean to eat the head off you, but yer a grand total of zero use to me, being that way inclined. And such a fine thing, too. But look, fair play, and looks are that you need a bit of help, what with not having lifts in New Zealand and not being able to carry yer own bags, so I’m not going to push you down the stairs yet—even though you seem so keen on the idea—but let me just say I’m disappointed in yer. Not a bisexual?”

  It was all I could do to keep up with her mile a minute chat.

  “70-30,” I said after a lag in processing time.

  “Thirty! Thirty percent into fanny. Well, that’s something. Beggars can’t be choosers, and god knows you gay fellas are making us beggars. Did you know my ex turned out to be one of you? No wonder he didn’t know his way around. It was like watching me marm try to use Google Maps. Ooh, here we are, 8A-2.”

  I was still at this point stumbling after her and had absorbed approximately fifty percent of what she was going on about, and while I was only thirty percent into “fanny” I was hundred percent sure that I’d found somebody who wasn’t into polo. That, at least, was something.

  The room was small but beautiful. Because it was on the top floor it had high ceilings and tall windows. It was flooded with light, had a sloped antique writing desk and some dark wood shelves and a bed, neatly made, which even though it was only a single looked like the most comfortable oasis I could have imagined.

  I almost wanted to cry, I was so tired. The jet lag had fallen on my eyes like a tonne of bricks and I was struggling to keep them open.

  “Fecking greenhouse in here,” Maura said, walking straight through the door and opening the windows. Then she turned and looked back at me. I was staring at the bed, too tired to move towards it.

  “Yer just got off the plane or something?”

  “Yeah pretty much. At seven this morning.”

  "Sivin!” Maura said, mocking my accent with a laugh, “Love that! Sivin!”

  I thought this mockery was a bit rich, coming from her (Luve thaat!), but my powers of articulation were at that moment much diminished. I must have looked as wrecked as I felt because Maura put a hand on my shoulder. She had long, pink fake nails.

  “Yer have a sleep. Everyone’s going out ta-night and I’m hoping for a wild one. But I’m not gonna last if I have to chat to the pony club all night and don’t have backup. So, not to recruit myself for fag-hag, but I’m gonna need you there. Come to 7B-3. It’s across the bridge, floor down, got it? Eight o'clock. Sivin if you want to try out yer 'thirty percent'. Got it?”

  I nodded, feeling my brain go out like a light. A very dim, flickering light. There’s nothing like swapping to the exact opposite time zone and then running around Oxford like a madman.

  Maura pushed her lips on my cheek, leaving a smack of lip gloss, left the room and slammed the door behind me.

  I sat on the bed, dropping my other bag onto the floor. I was sweaty, so I pulled off my pants and then slumped on my bed in my ruined shirt and the boxers that I knew had a hole in the back.

  Without even thinking, I started rubbing my crotch against the new bed and felt my dick stir.

  What can I say? It was warm and I’d just seen about thirty guys who I k
new would become star performers in my wanking fantasies.

  I arched my hips against the mattress one more time, feeling the head of my cock rolling out of its hood. Then I hesitated, laughed at myself, and dropped back down against the mattress.

  What was I thinking? If I didn’t sleep now I might die mid-ejaculation.

  Better save it for tonight.

  2

  Only when I awoke—about four hours later, drool pooled on the pillow and my brain filled with what felt like dust—did I remember that the hot blond that looked like Alexander Skarsgård had told me to find the Duh-wahwah room and meet my “buddy”, Jack, or something like that.

  Well, I’d fucked that one, and while people who volunteered to be buddies tended to be patient do-gooders, four hours late seemed a bit of a stretch. I decided to deploy the tried and tested strategy of dealing with it tomorrow.

  Checking the clock on my phone, I saw it was already past seven. I was late for my fanny appointment, which I was only 70% sure was a joke, but in time to go out drinking so I pulled myself out of bed, got my laptop out of my bag and put on my Getting Ready playlist as loud as my laptop would go.

  I walked over to the window, hoping some fresh air would blow some of the dust out of my head, and took my first proper look at my new surroundings. It was absolutely stunning. Being on the top storey meant that I looked over all the college grounds. I could see the contiguous squares of the three quads, bright emerald oblongs surrounded by centuries-old buildings, their white and yellow stone pocked with history—even their tiled rooves and chimneys alone were more beautiful than any building in New Zealand. There wasn’t any corrugated iron in sight.

  Separated by the quads lay the two halves of the college grounds, neither of which I’d stepped foot in yet (that is, if you were allowed to walk on the grass). First, the floral wilderness of the fellow’s garden where students lay on the grass in the ebbing light of the evening, talking and laughing, or reading, pen in hand. Then, on the opposite end of the quads, the famous deer park with acres of pristine wooded green all enclosed by the imposing college wall: a stone perimeter meters tall that separated town from gown. Well, I was gown now.