Academic Pursuits

by Harper, Lou

  I almost left right then and alone, but I spotted a floppy blond head and slim figure at the bar. It was the kid from the coffee shop. He was chatting up a local guy—not much of a competition for me. I sauntered up next to him and asked the bartender for another beer. Doing so I “accidentally” bumped into the blond kid. He turned.

  “Hey, sorry,” I apologized.

  “No problem,” he said, in no hurry to turn away. There were all kinds of recognitions in his gaze.

  “Wait, don’t I know you? The coffee shop, right?”

  “Yeah, I remember you, too.”

  “John, right?”

  “Jay.”

  Close enough.

  Ten minutes later, he was sucking me off in a bathroom stall. I stood against the door, while he sat at the edge of the toilet seat. The space was so cramped he barely had to lean forward to bury his face in my crotch. For his age, he was pretty damn good.

  “Hey, you’re at least seventeen, right?” I asked a little too late.

  He let go of my cock with a slurp. “Eighteen-and-a-half.”

  “Ah, good. Carry on then.”

  We had to be quiet as people came and went to use the urinals. Fortunately, the bathroom was almost as dark as the rest of the place, and the stalls had old-fashioned doors that went down almost to the floor—it had to be against code. The band was making enough racket to smother small noises, even in the bathroom.

  After I came, Jay seemed content to wank himself to finish, but I made him switch places and brought him off with my mouth. Fair is fair.

  “Seen you in the coffee shop then,” he said zipping up.

  He left first. I waited another minute or two and was about to follow when the sound of the band got louder, signaling that the door had opened. From the sound of it, two guys entered, in the middle of a conversation.

  “Don’t you think you’re a little harsh on the guy?” asked one of them.

  I didn’t recognize the voice.

  Zippers zipped and piss splashed against porcelain.

  “Well, sorry, but I just can’t stand their kind. They’re all the same; prance around shamelessly like they own the place.” Now I recognized that voice: Roger fuckin’ Hunt.

  “Aw, c’mon, don’t be so prejudiced. They’re not that different,” I heard the other protest weakly.

  “No, they’re not like us at all, trust me,” Roger snapped.

  Motherfucker. I gritted my teeth. So Roger Hunt was some self-hating homophobe. Fucking great. I had the urge to rush out and tell him off, but the instinct of self-preservation won. Roger was a big, strapping specimen, and even if the other guy didn’t share Roger’s phobias, I couldn’t exactly count on him to take my side. The last thing I needed was to be gay-bashed in a dirty bathroom.

  I waited for them to leave, then waited some more till my breathing returned to normal. I was just gonna get the hell out of there, but spotted Jay still loitering about at the bar, sans the youth he was chatting with earlier. It occurred to me it wasn’t safe to leave him there with a seething bigot on the loose. I marched up to him.

  “On second thought, wanna come home with me?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  ***

  The apartment was dark and quiet when we got home, so Jo was either still out or already in bed. I told Jay to keep it low, either way.

  He must have had practice in screwing discreetly because the only noises he made were small, throaty moans. His lissome body was mostly hairless, pale skin practically luminescent in the moonlight. It was like having sex with a ghost—a very randy, unabashed ghost riding my cock.

  “Oh fuck, that was good,” he muttered when we finished.

  I rolled out of the bed and padded to the bathroom to clean up the mess he’d made on my stomach.

  “Mind if I stay the night?” he asked when I returned.

  “Sure, as long as you don’t snore,” I replied, settling back on the bed and pulling the cover over us.

  “I’ll be quiet as a kitten. You know, you’re a much better fuck than the average student.”

  “Because you’ve screwed enough of them to have a sufficient statistical sample?” I asked, in mock seriousness. I sorta liked the kid.

  “Plenty enough. I prefer older guys, though. They know what they’re doing. And they have money.”

  “You’re shrewd beyond your years.”

  “I’ve been around the block. You, too, I can tell.”

  “A few times.”

  “So what happened with you and that other guy. I was sure you’d hook up.”

  “What other guy?”

  “Tall, dark, handsome, ugly shirt. I saw the way he kept looking at you. There was zing in the air.”

  “He’s a homophobe.”

  “You sure? I could swear he’s gay.”

  “Evidently, you can be both—if the Republican Party is anything to go by.”

  Jay turned to his side, facing away with a small laugh, tucking the pillow under his chin and pulling the covers up. I lay on my back, listening to the down tempo of his breathing. For no good reason, a melancholy feeling swept over me. These moods had found me from time to time, without warning or explanation. I turned to my side and curled around the boy in my bed. It wasn’t cuddling—I didn’t cuddle—but he was warm and smelled reassuring.

  ***

  I woke up alone, but when I lumbered out into the kitchen, I found Jay and Jo already there, having cereal for breakfast. He must have said something funny because Jo was trying hard not to choke on her cornflakes. Jay looked up, grinning.

  “Good morning, Jamie,” he said.

  A funny realization struck me. “It’s like being on Sesame Street: today’s episode was brought to you by the letter ‘J.’”

  Jo snorted and pushed the box of cereal in my direction. “Join us?”

  “Jolly good!” I said and sat.

  “I should get going,” Jay said, pushing his bowl away before heading off to the bathroom.

  “He’s adorable. Can we keep him?” Jo gushed.

  “He’s not a puppy,” I scolded her.

  “You don’t often have guys stay the night. I thought maybe you’d hit it off.”

  “Jay’s cool, but not really my type; too twinky.”

  Jo looked disappointed.

  I needed to replenish my energy—eggs, bacon, and the works would’ve been nice, but I was too lazy to make it myself and knew better than to ask Jo. So I filled a bowl with frosted cereal and added an extra scoop of sugar for good measure. There was just enough milk left to round up my breakfast.

  I was scooping up the last spoonfuls of sweet mush out of the bowl when Jay emerged, fully dressed. I walked him to the door.

  “Hey, it was fun—” I started.

  He didn’t let me finish. “Don’t worry; you’re not really my type either. Too young. See you around,” he said and left.

  Well, that went well. I was still hungry, so I went back to the kitchen to rummage through the cabinets for more food that didn’t require much effort. I was stuffing a strawberry Pop Tart into my face when the phone rang.

  Jo answered it. A moment later, she appeared in the doorway with a wicked smile on her face.

  “No, Bill, no bother at all,” she said, looking straight into my eyes.

  I shook my head vigorously, making the international sign of I’m-not-here.

  “Yes, he’s here. His mouth is full.”

  Jo stood impervious to my withering gaze.

  “No, no. Just eating,” she said, giggling.

  “Hey!” I protested, crumbs shooting from my lips, but Jo paid no heed.

  “He’s helping me with something this morning. How about after lunch? … Perfect, I’ll tell him. Bye, Bill.” She hung up with an evil leer. “Bill’s coming over at two. I need to go to the library anyway, so you can have the apartment to yourselves. By the way, are you and Bill dating now?”

  “What? No! I don’t do dating. Only mindless sex.” />
  “You’re a real slut, you know,” she said, sitting at the other side of the kitchen table.

  “I didn’t expect Bill to be so enthusiastic about getting buggered.”

  “Maybe he’s gay?”

  “Nah. He’s no more than five percent fairy. At most. He just discovered a major erogenous zone and is unwilling to give it up.”

  “Doesn’t it make you gay by definition?”

  “Not at all. You can be totally hetero and still enjoy your prostate being stimulated. The problem is I’m too good at what I do, and Bill is a very responsive kinda guy. I can just rub the back of his head for a minute and he gets hard.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “You don’t get it—it could be anyone. He doesn’t get hot and bothered thinking of guys or even looking at them. It’s not me who excites him, but what I do to him. Bill’s just one giant erogenous zone, and I’m his self-powered sex toy.”

  “So you’re tired of doing all the work?”

  “Well…no, it’s not the issue. It even feels a little bit like seducing him for the first time every time. But the novelty is wearing off, and while he’s a nice guy, and I enjoy screwing him, it would be nice to have someone who’s more than just a willing body, you know? Somebody who has dirty fantasies about me.”

  “That’s almost romantic. So what are you gonna do about Bill?”

  “It’s obvious. We need to find him a girl with a strap-on.”

  “Oh yeah, that should be easy,” she said snarkily.

  “There must be someone at a school this big. Hey, why don’t you ask one of those freaky art chicks?”

  Jo gave me the stink-eye.

  “What?” I asked defensively. “Just bring it up in a casual conversation. Don’t you chicks always talk about sex and stuff?”

  “No, not really.”

  “How about that girl with all the hardware in her face? She looks like the adventurous type.”

  “Melissa?” Jo snorted derisively. “Total poser.”

  “Well, damn.”

  “I can’t think of a single…”

  “What? You got something—I can tell.”

  “Maybe, probably not. Speaking of bodies, I need you to get naked, so I can paint you.”

  “Oh, fine. Everyone wants me for my body only, even you.”

  Chapter Six

  The next couple of weeks were busy. I introduced Bill to dildos, hoping they'd help wean him off me, but all it got me was Bill realizing how nice it was to have something up your ass while somebody sucked your cock. Being a considerate guy, he offered to return the favor. He didn’t balk at taking my cock into his mouth and did his best to reciprocate, but I could tell he didn’t get much out of it. With a little practice, he gave more than adequate blowjobs, but it just wasn’t the same as getting sucked by a guy who was turned on by the act.

  I tried to steer him in the direction of girls without much success.

  I had one more painting session with Jo, but then she took the canvas to school, saying she didn’t need me to finish it. She had a studio there that she shared with a couple of other undergrads. I didn’t visit her there at all, not willing to risk running into Roger again.

  The person I was trying to run into was Bryan, but he was never alone. Since we didn’t have class together, my opportunities were limited without full-out stalking him, and I didn’t have the time for such endeavors. Mid-term was coming up with the heartless certainty of a freight train. I had papers to write and exams to cram for.

  Jo was just as busy, dragging herself home late night, smelling of paint thinner. When she announced her intent to enter her painting of me in the student show scheduled to open just before spring break, I tried to talk her out of it. Then I came to my senses. She was right; I wasn’t exactly shy, but I also had an ulterior motive. These shows happened in the middle and the end of each semester and were minor social events. Faculty from other departments showed up in force—at least from humanities. Likewise, the art faculty showed its numbers when the history or English department brought in a guest author or expert to give a lecture. Sciences and med school existed in a different realm. Ergo, there was a very good chance that Professor Woodford would be there and see me splayed out in the nude—in the most artistic fashion, I was sure.

  It bothered me only a smidgeon not having seen the finished painting. I knew Jo was good. Her professors were already talking about what grad schools she should consider.

  ***

  The opening night of the student exhibit took place a week before spring break. It wasn’t one of those events where every junior and senior art student gets to show a piece, like they do at the end of each semester. No, this time a panel of professors and a guest judge picked the participating artworks. They even offered modest monetary prizes. The entry was open from juniors to grad students, so Jo had every reason to be proud of having her painting getting in. Naturally, she tried to act like it was nothing special, but under the surface she was a ball of nervous energy as we were getting ready for the opening. As always when she was in a tizzy, she changed her hair color—this time to a shade of red flirting with purple.

  “Dressed for the occasion, I see,” I remarked, as she emerged from her room.

  Jo was wearing her special silver-spray-painted boots with magenta laces—they matched her hair down to the hue. Otherwise, she wore all black.

  “You’re one to talk! You’re wearing your ‘lucky’ shirt,” she snapped back.

  I was, and I had a good reason to, but no way was I going to admit it. Call me superstitious.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to look nice for your big event.”

  She snorted.

  “You shouldn’t make noises like that, Josephine. It’s not lady-like,” I said, imitating my mother’s softly lilting voice.

  Jo snorted louder. “You’re scary when you do that. You sound just like Livia.”

  “Well, let’s go or all the cheese and crackers will be gone!”

  Those exhibits tended to draw quite a crowd; the entire art faculty had to be there, of course, and art students showed up en-masse—if not for the art, certainly for the chips and dip. Art students always seemed to flock to free food. Maybe it was some sort of “starving artist” image they had to uphold.

  We arrived early, giving me time to prowl around. Jo and I split up at the door; she went to socialize with the other artsy types, while I worked my way through the exhibit, piece by piece. At a show like this without a set theme, it took me longer to absorb each piece. I didn’t pretend to understand art. I simply went with my gut reactions, but I tried to give each piece a chance.

  I deliberately skipped reading the tags with the artist’s name and other info to avoid being swayed by what I considered irrelevant information. So there I was, puzzling over a piece of sculpture, when a tall, redheaded girl sidled up to me.

  "Hi, Dayna," I said.

  She returned my greeting, and glanced at the sculpture I’d been contemplating. “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to make up my mind. There’s something about it.”

  “Have you seen the description?”

  “Nah, I never do. In my opinion, if I need to read an essay to appreciate the work, something’s not right.”

  “Don’t you think knowing the context helps you appreciate the artwork better?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the artist’s just blowing hot air up my ass.”

  She chuckled. “Okay. Tell me what you think of this sculpture.”

  “Is this a test?”

  “Nah, I’m simply curious.”

  I considered it. The sculpture was a twisty, bulbous thing made out of one piece of wood. “I’m afraid I’m not very smart when it comes to abstract art. I like it on a gut level: the shapes are very organic and even suggest muscles or body parts, depending on the angle you look at it. The wood grain showing through enhances the effect. Sort of primal and sophisticated at once. I
think.”

  Dayna was sort of nodding, but didn’t comment.

  The sculpture had a smooth, lacquered surface. “It makes me want to touch it, but I’m known to be tactile,” I admitted.

  “Why don’t you?”

  I ran my fingers along a curve and caressed a particularly inviting bulge. “Feels nice. Is it yours? I thought you were in photography.”

  “I still am. No, this is Roger’s.”

  I snatched my hands off the piece. “Roger Hunt?”

  “Yup.”

  “I would’ve never guessed. I figured that was his,” I said, gesturing at a spiky steel monstrosity.

  Dayna wrinkled her nose. “Undergraduate. Lots of passion, little finesse.”

  I looked around, but there was not a stitch of plaid in sight. Then I spotted Roger in a group, wearing a black sweater for a change.

  “He’s not looking this way, thank goodness. I wouldn’t want him to see me fondling his piece.”

  It might have come out a little snippy, because Dayna was looking at me funny.

  “You got a problem with Roger?”

  “Me? Nah.”

  She let it go. “Have you seen Jo’s painting?”

  “No. She wouldn’t show me beforehand, and I haven’t made my way to it yet.”

  Dayna smirked. “Maybe you should.”

  “A’ight,” I said and fought my way through the thickening crowd toward the wall where the said painting was supposed to hang.

  And there it was. I’d always known Jo could paint. Even when we were kids it’d been obvious. We were a rowdy pair, yet we often spent whole afternoons inside the house, with me reading and Jo filling sheets of paper with her drawings. She had a natural talent for it. The truth is, I’d taken it for granted ever since. I’d seen so many of her drawings and paintings over the years I hadn’t truly looked at anything she’d done recently. I should’ve.