Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

March 17, 1962

Princeton, NJ

Those square-toed, ankle high shoes! He had to have been the guy in the bathroom yesterday. My mind was whirling; I had to get out of there, find a place to be by myself and digest this info. I cut André off in mid-sentence and excused myself to go to the bathroom. He gave me a worried look, convinced that I was going to lose my breakfast, but I ignored him. I got to the bathroom and found there were two stalls, ironically enough, so I picked one and locked myself in. I sat there, with my pants still pulled up, pondering what I had just seen.

That had to be the same guy. How many redheads with those shoes were there in this college town? How many were queer, as this guy obviously was? Did he recognize me? I tried to recall the look he'd given me on the way out. Was it a knowing one? No, it was a look of fear, of apprehension. I was safe. Luckily for them, so were they: can't be outing fellow queers.

My mind accepted my assumption as a conclusion, and I moved on to think more about him, and how cute he was. He had a really nice ass: the pants he had been wearing were tight enough to make it seem small and cute. When he walked, it was a confident stride, almost a strut. I don't think I'd ever seen anything like it. It was almost a masculine version of a woman walking and working her hips. The fluid way he moved his body, along with his oral talents that I'd already experienced, convinced me that he must be an amazing lover.

I had a vision of his face burned into my brain, distorted by that look of terror, but gorgeous anyway. His face was a long, oval shape, with blue eyes set back farther and closer together than normal. His nose was long, appropriately matching his face, with a pronounced bridge right below his eyes. He reminded me of Guy Madison, only with red hair. He was sporting a goatee, and even though I'd always thought they were ridiculous, on him it worked. He was one of Jack Kerouac's followers, no doubt.

It was inevitable that my mind would ultimately turn to sex. Was he Deep Voice or Soft Voice? I recalled the visual of him walking out the door, then recalled his cock sliding carefully through the hole in the bathroom yesterday...all of it making me hard as a rock and incredibly horny. I dropped my pants and beat off with a frenzy I rarely used, blowing my load in no time at all. A gave myself a few minutes to calm down, let my erection subside, clean up, and I was ready to return to the real world. But I'd look out for him. He's cute, he's sexy, and he's queer.

André looked up as I returned to the table. “Feel better?” he asked, assuming I'd been taking a massive crap or puking my guts out.

“Absolutely”, I responded with complete sincerity.

There was an incredibly painful noise dragging me from my desperately needed sleep. I lay in bed, thinking that maybe it would end soon, hoping it would end soon, then praying it would end soon. It didn't. I rolled out of bed, staggered a bit, and went in quest of the offending sound.

I walked into the front room to find the TV on. The noise was the test pattern. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 3am. No wonder the test pattern was on. TV programming had ended over 3 hours ago. I clicked the TV off, relieved to be rid of the din.

I scanned the room and found the reason for the test pattern. André was passed out on the couch. The street light shone through the open drapes, highlighting his magnificent form, sprawled on the couch. He was on his back, with one arm draped over his eyes and the other on the floor. His legs were spread wide apart, with one leg on the back of the couch, and one on the floor. I snickered to myself. He must have had the spinnies and needed to keep a hand and leg on the floor to keep the room from flying in circles around him.

We'd gone out to a local Irish pub, and André had drunk like a fish. I was still hung over from the night before, so I only had a few beers. By 10pm he was becoming obnoxious, not in a violent way, but in a way that could provoke other drunks who were. I took that as our cue to leave, so I dragged him home, pushed him into his room, and went to bed. He must have gotten up, stripped down to his boxers, and come out here to watch TV.

I walked quietly over and looked down at him. His hair was messed up, but that just made him cuter. I decided to fuck around with him, so I tickled his hairy armpit. He moved his arm down to shield it, grunted, but didn't wake up. I knew then that I was walking on dangerous ground, but the temptation, the temptation that had built up for two years now, was overwhelming.

I knelt next to him and ran my fingers up his arm, feeling his strong biceps, then moved up to his broad shoulders and over his protruding Adam's apple. I paused to shake him and say his name, but got no response. I shook him harder. Still no response. Then I damn near punched him. That got a grunt, but no other reaction.

Suddenly I realized the huge risk I was taking. If he woke up now, and caught me touching him, what would he do? Kick my ass? God knows he could crush me if he wanted to. I stared at him, knowing that I was playing with fire, willing myself to get up and leave the room. He was out, I told myself, rationalizing. If he comes to I can always say that I was just trying to wake him up. After all, he had woken me by leaving the TV on.

I brushed my fingers over his cheeks, feeling the whiskers that always seemed to be on his face. I moved to his chest, gently playing with each of his nipples. He had no hair on his chest, surprisingly. He moaned a little at that. Apparently he like having his nipples played with. Feeling really daring, I leaned forward and blew on the closest nipple, watching the air cool it down and make it contract.

I backed off again, realizing that touching his face, touching his arm; those things could be explained. Even touching his chest was a credible move. But tweaking his nipple with my finger, blowing on it; those were clearly sexual moves. I stared down at his handsome form, and felt the lust surge within me. Two years of repressed feelings, of beat-off fantasies, of lust, and then love burned through my body and brain. I willed myself to get up, and amazingly enough I managed to overcome my desire enough to walk away. But even as I was heading to my room, my feet stopped and I turned. Something inside me was telling me to take the chance. It was as if there were a monumental battle going on in my conscience, a Gettysburg in my soul, and the side suggesting that I feel up my roommate just got some massive reinforcements. I knew that I should keep walking. I should go back to my room, and whack off. But I didn't.

I went back over to him, poking him some more, really trying to wake him up, but he didn't budge. If he didn't move, if he was that out, what would be the problem with me just exploring a little more? What would be the harm if I just got a closer look at the man of my dreams? I lowered my face down to his armpits, inhaling his scent, the ripe smell of his body odor. It should have grossed me out, but it didn't. The pheromones just stimulated me more. I moved my fingers over his abdomen, playing with his belly button. I knew he was ticklish there, and he squirmed as I tortured him. Still he didn't wake up. I moved my body down so I was directly over his bulging groin. I traced my fingers down his thick treasure trail. I'd always thought it was so sexy, and here I was, actually touching it! My own cock was throbbing, poking out from my boxers. I panicked and checked to make sure André was sleeping, but he was still out.

This was my point of no return. His boxers were tenting; his cock was hard, or hardening. I'd never seen him hard before. Naked and soft yes, but hard, no. Was it worth risking a friendship? Was it worth taking that kind of chance? I felt hormonal reinforcements arrive on the battlefield in my brain, slowly forcing back the forces of logic and reason.

I rearranged his boxers to let his cock poke out through the front slit. It was massive. I always imagined that he'd have a big dick, and I was right. If I stopped now, I could always say that it was sticking out like this when I came out to wake him up. I still might be able to make up an excuse. But I'd come this far, and the cautious forces in my brain were in full retreat. I traced my fingers gently up the shaft, watching his face for any sign that he was awake. He just moaned and thrust his hips up. I held it in my hand, studying it, gently stroking it. It must be all of 8 inches long. I'd seen big dicks and small dicks during my cruising activities throughout the years, but his was one of the biggest. Not only was it long, but it was fat. It was no wonder Barbara wouldn't let him fuck her with this thick cock.

I continued to slowly stroke his dick, running my hand over the head, pausing to trace the protruding veins with my fingers. I kept checking to see if he was awake, but there was no sign. His moaning was louder, and his thrusts more insistent. I ran my finger over the tip of his cock, rubbing the wet drop of pre-cum from it. I couldn't resist. I put my finger in my mouth and for the first time, I tasted him. Tasted his essence. I moved closer to add his smell to the palette, the same raw body odor smell now mixed with the natural odors of his groin, making a scent that was both repelling and compelling at the same time.

He'd always complained that none of the girls he dated could suck dick. No wonder. It was huge. But I could. I knew I could. I knew because I'd had lots of practice, and because I wanted it bad. Real bad. Was I willing to risk everything - our friendship, my reputation, maybe even my freedom - just to blow the man of my dreams? The thought of him scorning me, hating me, or worse, ignoring me, made me pause. But then my hormones generated a whole new rationale. How could I tease my friend, get him all excited, and then just leave him high and dry? A thinking person would dismiss that as ridiculous, but a horny male, with his ultimate goal in sight is easily susceptible to faulty arguments. I leaned over and slowly swallowed as much of his cock as I could.

He really groaned at that, and tried to thrust into my mouth, but I held him down. No way was I going to let him ram that thing down my throat. I had to be in control. “Come on baby, that feels so good” he purred. I smiled. He must have thought he was dreaming. I certainly thought I was.

I'd thrown the dice, taken my chance, risked everything. The decision was made, the die was cast. I threw caution to the wind, determined to enjoy this, even if it was the last meaningful interaction we ever had. I began to work his cock like a pro. I took him deep; let him feel the back of my throat as it spasmed, working to master my gag reflex. Then I moved up to the head and swirled my tongue around it, teasing the bottom of his head with the tip. He was really moaning now, and leaking like a sieve. I savored his taste. I slid my hand up the legs of his boxers and stroked his balls. I was surprised, because unlike his cock, his balls were actually on the small side. That didn't make playing with them any less fun.

I kept working his cock, putting everything I had into it, enjoying every minute, knowing this was probably my one and only opportunity to blow him. I felt his balls start to rise and knew he was close. If he came, it might wake him up, but I couldn't leave him like this. I'd come this far. Then, without warning, he came. He let out a soft roar, that's the only way to describe it, and shot stream after stream of cum down my throat and into my mouth. I swallowed most, but saved some, savoring his taste. I'd never been a big fan of the taste of cum, I mean it was OK, but this was André.

Nervously I looked up at his face, where he had a blissful smile, but still seemed to be sound asleep. I squeezed the last drop of cum out of his dick, licked it off, and tucked it back into his boxers. I almost ran to the bathroom, spit the remaining cum out of my mouth into my hand, and used it as lube to jack myself to the biggest orgasm of my life.

I went to bed and lay there, reliving the last hour. At the time, it seemed worth it. Now that I'd satisfied my urges, now that I'd experienced nirvana, I feared for the consequences. Would he wake up in the morning and remember everything? Would he come in and beat me up? Would he yell at me? Or both? André wasn't a violent person. I'd never seen him harm anyone intentionally. I was prepared to believe that he had feelings for me, that he cared, or at least used to care about me. No, he'd probably get up and be so thoroughly disgusted he'd just leave. He'd avoid me at home, ignore me when he saw me, or, if he was feeling polite, just make excuses not to be around or not to do things with me.

The night was passing by at a snail's pace. I couldn't sleep. I was flat on my back, wide-awake; torturing myself with all the possibilities, all the potential forms of retribution André could take. In the end, I decided that I'd rather deal with anger and violence than to be ignored. Would life even be worth living if he truly hated me? Would I want to go on if he was no longer my friend? I began to wish with all my heart for a time machine to take me back to just a few hours ago so I could re-live those moments. How could I risk something so important to me?

Somehow I had managed to doze off, but the morning sun woke me the same as a loud klaxon would have. I was scared shitless. I almost tiptoed out of my room to the bathroom. I went in and locked the door behind me, feeling temporarily safe in this refuge. Suddenly there was a banging on the door. “Let me in man. I gotta take a whiz,” André said urgently. I opened the door and he came bursting in, whipping out his dick, the dick that I now knew so well, and let loose a strong stream.

“You were really messed up last night,” I ventured. “You must have passed out on the couch.”

“Yeah,” he said while shaking the last drops of pee out of his cock, “I was stoned. I don't remember a thing after we left the bar. But I woke up happy, so I must have had some good dreams”

I laughed, relieved, and proceeded to tell him what an ass he'd made out of himself, and how we probably should drink somewhere else for a while. I was reminded of the “miracle” of St. Elizabeth of Hungary who was secretly carrying food to the poor in her apron to hide it from her husband. When he demanded to see what was in her apron, she opened it to reveal nothing but flowers.

March 20, 1962

Over the weekend, France and the Algerians had finally signed a peace accord, ending their almost eight-year war that had killed over 150,000 people and wounded another 200,000. Since I was the resident expert on the subject, Rosenberg called a departmental lunch and asked me to brief them on events. I'd had all of two hours to prepare, and the only new information I could get was from the newspapers, and American ones at that. It wasn't much. I'd have to wait until the latest edition of LeMonde was flown in from Paris to get the latest scoop.

Still, I labored on gamely, describing the conflict and the terms of settlement as best I knew them. I looked around the table at these scholars, some of the brightest minds in the world, assembled here in the History Department of Princeton. Rosenberg beamed at me with pride, while the others exhibited a variety of emotions. Some seemed genuinely interested, some seemed bored, and a few were openly hostile, jealous of the high esteem that Rosenberg held me in, and jealous that he treated me with greater respect than some of them. Well, respect is something you earn. Apparently they needed to work on that.

I left the building at about the same time that I did on Friday and wandered down to my favorite building with my favorite bathroom. I was hoping the redhead would be there. I walked into the bathroom where the same smells assaulted my nose, acting like an aphrodisiac once again, and simultaneously increasing my pulse and hardening my cock. Today, both stalls in the bathroom were occupied.

I walked past the first stall, pretending to check to see if it was vacant, but in reality trying to see who was in there. It was an old troll. Shit. That bastard had cock-blocked me plenty of times. Glancing at the second stall I saw the familiar square-toed shoes, so I slowly walked past the door, peering through to see if it was my redheaded friend. It was.

I stood against the wall as if waiting for one of them to finish up, but positioning myself so I could see through the crack between the door and the stall. The redhead looked at me and I looked away, avoiding eye contact. When I looked back at him, he looked away. Finally our eyes met. His had a pleading look about them, a look that told me that he wanted me, wanted me bad. He slowly moved his hand, showing me part of his hard cock. I moved closer, making sure the troll couldn't see me, until I was right up to the crack, peering directly in at him.

I could see that he'd put a piece of toilet paper over the hole to block the troll. A man after my own heart. He spread his legs wide giving me a great view of his cock and his pubic hair. He had nice balls, covered with the same furry red hair that formed the bush just above his cock. His red hair fascinated me. I noticed that his pubic hair seemed to rise to a point just below his abdomen where it flowed into his thin treasure trail, seemingly mirroring the goatee on his face that flowed in the opposite direction. My hand was stroking my cock through my pants...it was almost a subconscious action. He began stroking his cock with purpose, looking me in the eyes as he did, so I could feel his raw lust and sexuality pierce right into my soul. I looked at his eyes, then at his cock, then back into his eyes. Suddenly his mouth made the shape of an “O”; he aimed his cock into the toilet, and shot his load. Instead of watching his cock, I kept my eyes locked on his as he shot, and it felt as if we came together.

At that point I realized how much self-control I had lost. I was in a very vulnerable position, standing next to a stall, peering in, with a raging hard-on. I quickly moved to one of the urinals and pretended to pee, while waiting for my erection to subside. I heard the stall door open, then there were footsteps behind me, followed by the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing, and then he was gone. I still didn't know if he was Deep Voice or Soft Voice. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again.

March 21, 1962

I sat in my apartment, thinking, for once, about something besides sex. Spring Break was a week off, yet I still had not formalized my vacation plans. Should I do the fun thing and drive down to Florida and hang out on the beach for a few days? Or should I do the right thing, be a good son, and go home?

For me, home meant going to Claremont, Ohio. Claremont was either a big town or a small city, depending on your perspective, situated about 50 miles outside of Columbus. Claremont was one of those places where you may not personally know everyone, but you know who everyone is. My family was one of the three leading families in town. My father was Jack Crampton, President of Crampton Construction, a man who had relentlessly expanded our family's construction business. He’d done that by expanding into different markets, and that had really fueled the growth of the company over the past few years. Crampton construction was still involved in home construction, and it had damn near cornered the market on industrial building, at least in Ohio, but lately he’d focused more on building roads. He used his contacts in Columbus to nail down some of the big road construction deals, and with the interstate highway construction boom, it had kept them busy and been very profitable. These days he spent more time in Columbus than he did in Claremont. The business was his life, his one consuming passion, and my older brother Jim was following in his footsteps. Jim was just like my father, both in his business focus and his appearance. Jim had his unique combination of analytical and sales skills, while he could be described with that familiar cliché: Tall, dark, and handsome. It was all but pre-ordained that Jim would take over the company someday, and I was confident that he'd do a great job.

All of their hard work, and the labors before them of my ancestors, had made us all very rich. I'd always thought we were the wealthiest people around...that is until I went to Harvard for my undergraduate degree. The power and money that some of my classmates wielded (or their families did) made ours look like chump change. That was an eye-opening experience for me, one that helped me learn to appreciate the material side of life without obsessing about it. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself.

The other two leading families of Claremont were the Hendricksons and the Schluters. Bill Hendrickson ran (and owned most of) the local mill. He was a pretty rough and tumble kind of guy, but had a good heart. I guess you had to be tough to run a mill and deal with a bunch of unionized workers. The Schluters were the epitome of ‘old money’ in Claremont. Barry Schluter was a descendant of one of the city founders, served as the local judge, and owned a shitload of land in and around the city. The Schluters had a long history of serving in the military and in local government.

I thought about the historical tendency of European aristocrats to marry amongst themselves, tying various families and dynasties together through the use of holy matrimony. In that regard, Claremont wasn’t all that different. Bill Hendrickson’s daughter was married to my brother, solidifying their link with us. Barry Schluter was married to my father's sister, Gail, which made him my uncle. The cool thing, and a rarity I'm sure, is that all three of these guys worked together, usually for the good of the city. Schluter had control of the local government, Hendrickson dominated the local economy, and my father had tight state political connections.

I continued my deliberation between enjoying the sun and sand of the Florida beaches versus making the filial choice and going back to Claremont. The allure of Florida was apparent, while the attraction of Claremont was less obvious. On the one hand, it would be great to see my parents, my brother, and the rest of my relatives, but with my cousin Billy Schluter gone, I didn't have any friends there that I really wanted to see. I'd probably end up wandering around my parent’s large house for a week, bored out of my mind.

André burst in, interrupting my train of thought. André always seemed to dominate a room. From his entry to his exit, his raw persona just demanded attention.

“Hey André, wanna go to Florida or Ohio next week?” I asked. Why not let him make the decision?

“Can't go anywhere man. Gotta work.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if it wasn't a big deal, as if we hadn't been talking about going somewhere all semester. He knew we were supposed to leave town, and he was just tossing this out casually, hoping I wouldn't make a big deal out of it. Fat chance of that.

“I'm confused,” I said slowly and deliberately. “I thought we agreed to go out of town next week?” My tone warned him that I was seriously pissed off about this.

“Old man Caro needs me to work. He's done so much for me, I couldn't say no. So I promised I'd work Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday.” He looked at me, pleading with his eyes for me to understand. He was such a nice guy, which made it almost impossible for him to say no to someone who asked for his help.

“That's too bad,” I said coldly. He waited for me to say more, but he finally realized that wasn’t happening. The frustrating thing is that I knew he'd already made the commitment to his boss, so nothing I did would change that. And, quite frankly, if I really thought about it, I probably wouldn't want him to do that anyway. Part of what made André so incredibly attractive was his sense of honor. So while I didn’t want him to surrender that, and I didn’t really want him to change his mind, he wasn't going to have to pay the price, a little guilt, for caving to old man Caro.

“Look JP, how about if we wait until Tuesday to leave? Maybe we can go back to Claremont? We can leave after I get off on Tuesday. I'll make sure I'm done by 7.” I just looked at him, making him uncomfortable with my gaze, before I grudgingly relented.

“That will work. My parents will be happy to see us,” I said flatly. Only having resolved the issue didn’t really make me feel any better. In fact, it made me feel almost claustrophobic, and I had an overwhelming desire to get out of our apartment. “I've got to run back to campus and hit the library. I'll catch up with you later.” I could feel his eyes on my back as I left, but fortunately he didn’t try to stop me. I started my car and sat there as it warmed up, rolling my eyes at what a great spring break I had in store. First I’d be hanging out in a deserted college town, then I’d spend the rest of the week with my parents. Whoopee.

March 24, 1962

Friday: The last day before Spring Break. Things had been predictably busy on campus in the morning, but by the afternoon, they’d gotten progressively quieter as most of the students had escaped, trying to get out of New-Fucking-Jersey as fast as they could. Not me. I had nowhere to be until Tuesday. I sighed and decided my best option was to just go home and beat off. I was feeling sorry for myself.

Unsurprisingly, another option popped into my head, and that was how I found myself walking to my favorite bathroom once again. I knew exactly why I made that decision: I wanted to see my red-headed friend again. Maybe he was stuck in town too? I’d kept an eye out for him all week, but I hadn’t seen him once. And it seemed that the more elusive he was, the harder I looked for him. I'd found myself taking longer routes around campus just to see if I could spy him. I'd even made a point to stroll down by the diner a couple of times a day, just to see if maybe he was in there. I don't know what it was about him, but I was becoming a little obsessed. I forced my emotions back where they belonged, deep in my psyche.

I walked down the familiar stairs, and I was about to open the door when I heard loud voices in the restroom. I opened the door a crack and peeked in. I cringed at the sight that greeted me. There was my red-headed friend, handcuffed, leaning forward against the sinks, with a look of absolute terror on his face. This was real fear, complete and uninhibited horror, on a scale so much larger than I'd seen on his face at the diner. He even had tears running down his cheeks.

“You're under arrest you fucking faggot.” The man behind him said. He must be a cop. “You put your dick through the hole in the wall, that makes you a fuckin' queer, and it means you're going to jail you sick bastard!” This guy was on a roll.

I gently shut the door and fled up the stairs. The smart thing would be to just get the fuck out of there. I had too much to lose to get involved. That kid's life was ruined. He'd probably go to jail. Even if he avoided that, he'd at least get kicked out of school, and he’d probably be deported back to Montreal. What would his friend say? Would he stick by him, or would he hang him out to dry? Man, he was in some deep shit. The only times I'd seen his face had either been when he was scared, like he was at the diner, or close to blowing his load, like he was last time in the bathroom. Yet this time, his expression went way beyond that. Figuratively, he was tied to the tracks and the train was coming.

I did a brief survey of my life as I climbed the stairs, noting that I'd always done the right thing, the proper thing, at least as far as anyone else knew. I'd never seriously defied the law, gotten arrested, or even gotten a speeding ticket. Yet now, as I rounded the narrow staircase, I was contemplating doing something very illegal. Something that, if it failed, would land me in deep shit, deeper than my redheaded friend was in. My logical mind tried to reassert control. The only interactions I'd I had with him had been basically with my dick. Why did I feel such a strong need to help him? Why was I willing to risk so much to save him? In this situation, the logical arguments fell flat. I stared at the fire extinguisher on the wall in front of me, pondering my options, and slipped my gloves on.

I heard the door open below, and that noise was followed by the cop’s growl. “You first, queer, and no tricks.” There was no one around on this Friday before spring break, so the only sound was that of their footsteps as they started walking up the stairs. I made my decision, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and got into position. The stairs made a switch back, with a wall in between, so as I crouched on the next flight, they couldn't see me as they walked up. The steps got closer and closer. Then I saw a shoe on the riser in front of me. It was the square-toed, ankle high shoe of my red-headed friend. He took one more step, hitting the spot I’d preordained as my action point, and with that I jumped up and sprayed the fire extinguisher directly in the cop's face. The cop reeled, blinded by the chemicals, but before he could recover, I used the extinguisher like a massive battering ram and smashed it into his face, knocking him down the stairs.

The red-head looked at me, shocked and amazed. “Come on,” I whispered loudly, “Let's get the fuck out of here.” I dropped the extinguisher and we both ran from the building. I threw my jacket over his shoulders, so it hung down his back and covered the handcuffs, and we rushed to my car as fast as we could without arousing suspicion. I found myself wondering if the cop was dead. I decided that he probably wasn't, and realized, much to my surprise, that I really didn't care whether he’d survived my attack or not.

I opened the car door and pushed the red-head in a bit roughly, but there was no time for niceties. I hurried around to the driver’s side, jumped in myself, and took off. Neither one of us said anything as I headed off campus and out of town. I think we were both too keyed up to talk.

As soon as we were on the highway, heading south, I calmed down enough to start planning our next moves. “I don't suppose you can slide your hands out of those cuffs?”

He looked at me dubiously. “Do you think if I could have, I would have been sitting here with them on?” That's the first time I'd ever heard him speak, or at least knew that it was his voice. It was the Deep Voice, the resonant sexy voice. I was secretly relieved, because it went with his overall cocky demeanor and good looks so much better than his friend's squeaky, effeminate voice would have.

“Fine. Be a smart ass. You can keep them on for all I care,” I said in my normal monotone voice. The silence returned, but I felt my anger building. Then, for the first time since I can remember, something extraordinary happened. I lost my self-control, and actually yelled. “You know, you sure have a weird fucking way of showing your gratitude. I risked everything to save your sorry ass. You would have ended up in jail, thrown out of school, deported!” I glared over at him, and then continued. “I should just toss you out of the car, handcuffs and all, and let you try to explain it to the locals.”

He said nothing. At first, I didn’t give a shit. Venting my anger at him made me feel so much better. I thought about the risks I’d taken, and that just fueled my rage, but quickly enough, the rage faded, leaving me with my emotions back on a relatively even keel. Then it dawned on me that while lashing out at him had made me feel temporarily better, now that I was calmer, I felt like a complete idiot for losing it like that. I reminded myself that this was a valuable reminder of why I was the way I was, that I never lost control like that, because if I did, I’d end up looking like a stupid asshole. I sighed, and that seemed to prompt a response from him. “Look man, I'm sorry if I seem like a fucking ingrate. I guess I'm still a little shaken up. It's like I saw my whole life flash before my eyes, you know?”

“I can see that,” I allowed.

“Shit, I thought I was done, that there was no hope, and then there you were, spraying the cop with the fire extinguisher and knocking him down the stairs like you're Attila the Hun or something.”

That made me laugh. “So if I'm the knight on the white horse, that would make you the damsel in distress.” He laughed with me. He had a deep laugh, and when he smiled his cheeks sported two cute dimples.

“More like some cat in a red Pontiac rescuing a fag,” he joked wryly.

1962 Pontiac Grand Prix

I looked at my watch. It was almost 3pm and time to think about plans to get out of this mess. I started looking for a hardware store and found one when we hit Trenton. “I'm going to go in here to try to find something to cut those handcuffs off. I'm thinking a hacksaw? I don't spring convicts very often, so I'm not sure exactly what we'll need. I figured I'd go in alone. You might arouse some suspicion.”

He grinned at me, then felt them with his hands. “Not that I've spent any significant time shackled up to know what to do with them either, but some chain cutters might be useful too.” So I went in and dealt with the plodding old man in the hardware store. If he’d moved any slower he'd be going in reverse.

I took my jailbreak kit back to the car and drove down the road about a mile until we found a secluded place to pull over. I pulled out the chain cutters and went to work on the links connecting the cuffs. It wasn't easy, and it took some assistance from the hacksaw, but I finally got the chain cut. He wisely kept a good look-out, but fortunately I'd found a pretty good place to pull over, and there wasn’t much traffic.

I started the car up and began driving again. “I figured with the chain cut you have free hands and you can work on the cuffs?” He nodded, and started sawing away on them.

“So what's your plan, now that you've sprung me?” he asked. He had a really playful sense of humor, one that I found both disarming and relaxing.

“Well, my first instinct was to haul you off to some motel, keep the handcuffs on you, and just have my way with you for the next week.” His humor was contagious.

“Here, let me see if I can put them back on,” he retorted, which made us both laugh, and made me think about how much fun it would be to actually have him chained to a bed for a few days.

“Seriously though, I thought I'd head down the Delaware Coast, maybe find a motel on the beach, and then try to figure out what to do next. We'll need to find out if I killed the cop or not, and whether or not there's a massive manhunt on for you. That work for you, or did you have some pressing social engagement this evening?” I heard my humorous comment fly from my mouth. It was amazing how he had that effect on me.

He seemed to suddenly get somber. “No, I have nowhere to be, and nowhere to go.” I regretted his change in mood.

“Well, you do now. By the way, my name's JP.” It had suddenly occurred to me that I didn't even know his name.

“I'm Peter. I'd shake your hand but I seem to be indisposed.” We both laughed again.

“Nice to meet you, Peter. Anyway, I thought we'd start looking around Dewey or Rehoboth Beach, so when we get there keep your eyes peeled for a good place, OK?

He looked over at me, slightly worried. “That sounds like a good plan, but I don't have much money, and these are the only clothes I've got. I basically have nothing.” By the time he'd finished his sentence, the worried look had changed to despondency.

“Don't worry about it. I got it covered.” Thanks to my parents, money was not something I had to worry about.

“I don't want to be a charity case,” he grumbled, with a degree of pride in his voice.

“Well, you don't really have a whole lot of choices right now do you? So be a good fag in distress and look out for motels will ya?” We both laughed at that, and traveled on.