Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

March 24, 1962

Northern Delaware

I drove south while Peter sawed away at his cuffs. “When he put these on, I thought the only way out of this mess was by cutting my wrists. I think I just did that, almost,” he said, then laughed at his own joke. Peter had such a contagious sense of humor, but occasionally he seemed to sink into depression. Those periods were brief, and he quickly regained his composure.

“Be careful,” I cautioned. I considered his behavior and compared it to my own stratagems for self-control. I used calm and coolness to shield my inner feelings. It dawned on me that Peter was not so different from me, but instead of my frostiness he used humor. It was just as effective, with the added benefit of making the other person laugh instead of merely feeling shut out.

“There, there's one down,” he said triumphantly, holding up the mangled handcuff. “Shall I keep it for later?” he joked, with a mock leer.

“No,” I replied. “We'll need to get rid of that where no one will ever find it.” I was focused on the problem at hand, and destroying any evidence was vital, so I brushed his humor aside. We drove across a bridge with a large estuary below us. “Peter,” I said with urgency, “Toss that handcuff out the window.” He pushed the button and rolled down the window, with the cool air blasting into the car even as the handcuff sailed out.

Peter paused from his labors to look out the window at the scenery, noticing our surroundings for the first time. “Damn, this place looks like a hurricane hit it.” He was joking, or so he thought.

“Actually, it did, or it was almost a hurricane anyway. They call it the Ash Wednesday Storm. Blasted the coast from North Carolina all the way up to New York. Don't you watch the news?” I joked back with him lightly, but the devastation was no laughing matter. All along the road we could see signs of wind and water damage.

“Not unless you can watch the news with your dick,” he said. “This place was just pounded. Is the whole coast like this?”

“Pretty much. The storms were so bad they even screwed up construction of that new tunnel they're building, the one that will connect this peninsula and Virginia. Rehoboth Beach got hit with 40 foot high waves that took out the whole boardwalk.” Seeing the remnants of the devastation from this storm made our moods considerably more somber.

“This is terrible,” he commented.

“Yeah. It may make finding a motel in Rehoboth a tough task. But the advantage is that things should be pretty deserted. They won't be expecting tourists.”

He smiled and joked back at me. “Hey, never underestimate a fag in distress.”

A few miles later, he managed to remove the other handcuff. He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had been in what I'm sure was a universal reaction to being unchained. I needed to get gas in the Pontiac, so I stopped at a gas station. An old man came out to fill up the car while Peter went out back and found a particularly rank dumpster to toss the remaining cuff in. As for me, I went to the bathroom. I'd had to piss for about an hour now, and felt like I was about to burst. On the wall was graffiti, most of it nonsense, but there were a few snippets that were more interesting. One said: “Blow job. Tonight. 8pm.” What night? I wondered if this was the prime cruising spot here in the middle of nowhere, the middle of Delaware.

I picked up a few roadmaps and we got back into the Pontiac and continued south until we got to Rehoboth. Peter spotted a large motel right on the beach shortly after we got into town. It didn't look like it had been too hammered by the storm, or if it had been, they'd sure repaired it fast. At any rate, it was open, and perfect for our purposes: It was a large place so it was spread out more and we wouldn't be close to other people. If it would have been a smaller motel, I would have been worried that the staff would be able to keep a closer eye on us. Nosy bastards, those innkeepers.

“You should get down on the floor” I said to Peter. “Just in case they are looking for two men.” He obligingly slunk down on the floor.

I went into the office and got an oceanfront room. I paid for the room with cash, telling the guy that I just wanted to get away for the weekend. He didn't seem to care. Probably just glad to get some business after the town had been all but wiped out. Fortunately the room was toward the end of the motel, secluded and peaceful. I drove up in front of the room and parked the car. It was dark now, so Peter was able to sneak into the room unseen. I was about to head out to the car to retrieve my newly purchased tools when Peter stopped me. “There were enough rank garbage cans back at the gas station that I figured I could dump the tools too.”

“Good thinking,” I said with a smile.

The motel room smelled of new carpet and paint. They had moved fast to renovate this one. There was a lingering scent of mold, a scent that told me that maybe they had worked just a little too fast and hadn't gotten all the wet walls fully dried.

I closed and locked the door behind us, only to turn around and find Peter bouncing on the bed like a little kid, making me laugh yet again. How ironic that here I was on the lam, possibly guilty of murder, and I was laughing, having a great time with this funny, sexy, charming guy. My stomach suddenly growled loudly, loud enough that both of us heard it clearly. He laughed at me again. “Let's go find something to eat,” I told him, rolling my eyes, as we headed into town to find some food.

It was 7pm, which even for this hick backwater was probably the prime dinner hour. We headed toward town and I saw a barbecue restaurant. “Let’s eat here,” I said. I hadn’t had barbecue in a long time.

“Barbecue?” he asked curiously. “What’s that?” I guess they didn't go for that kind of food up in Montreal.

I didn’t feel like going into a lengthy explanation, so I gave him a curt reply. “You’ll like it.”

We parked the car and walked into the restaurant, stopping in our tracks as soon as we made it past the door. We were the only white people in a restaurant full of colored people, all of whom had stopped eating and were staring right at us. It was like this in Claremont, and it was like this in Princeton. Hell, it was like this everywhere. Colored people ate at their restaurants, while white people ate at theirs, and the two did not mix.

Peter looked at me dubiously. I could tell his reaction was to turn and leave, and quite frankly, that was my initial thought as well. But I'd already assaulted a cop, freed a prisoner, and fled across state lines. I’d broken enough rules that eating at a Negro restaurant seemed like child’s play. I felt bad, daring, and my adrenaline was pumping. I scanned the restaurant. There were about 30 Negroes, but one stood out. A large Negro woman was standing almost in the middle of the restaurant, staring at me, with her hands on her hips. I decided to take a chance. I approached her confidently, all the eyes watching me; the only sound was the distant rumbling of an old juke box. The farther I went the more intense the smell got, that rich, thick smell of good barbecue. My stomach was really urging me on now.

“Pardon me ma'am,” I said respectfully. “We're both starving for some great barbecue. Would it be OK if we ate here?”

She eyeballed both of us up and down. “You got money, you can eat here,” she said, pronouncing judgment.

I smiled at her. “I got money, and I'm a good tipper.” She smiled back at me and that broke the ice. She led us to a small table in the corner, while all around us, conversation resumed just as it probably had been before we’d gotten here.

Peter looked at me with admiration. “Man, you are one cool cat. I would have turned and run.”

His admiration made me uncomfortable. “I figured I've been living on the edge all day, so why stop now, especially when I'm so fucking hungry.”

We ordered tons of food, amazing food, the best barbecue I'd ever had. The rest of the restaurant ignored us, except for the large Negro woman who ordained herself as our waitress. She had a genial but authoritative manner.

In between mouthfuls, I managed to start a conversation with Peter. “So you're from Montreal?” I asked.

He looked up at me and replied “Yeah” with a nod, then bit into another rib.

“Who was the guy you were with in the diner?” I asked, turning up the heat. That stopped him in mid chew.

“What diner?” he asked, pretending to be oblivious. I smiled to myself. He was dodging the issue, just like I would have. But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“You know what diner. Or do you have a whole bunch of guys who hang out with you and tell you that they love you and want to touch you all the time?” I threw this statement at him in French, just in case the locals were eavesdropping.

“You speak French!” he exclaimed, in a tone that exposed that he was both excited by that, and worried because he knew that I had him now. He was squirming, trying to figure a way out of it. He tried to change the subject. “Who was the guy you were with?” Our conversation had seamlessly changed to French.

“So you do remember?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. “That was my roommate, and we're friends. Seems like your relationship was a little more, uh, intense.”

He was blushing now. If I weren’t so curious, and if this weren’t such a big deal, I’d have probably backed off so he wasn’t so uncomfortable. “That was Georges. I guess you'd call him my boyfriend.” There was a certain pain in his expression when he mentioned Georges.

“Do people know you're a fag? I mean, do you guys go out as a couple and stuff?” I wondered what that life might be like. I'd always thought about it wistfully, how nice it would be to be married to André, go out as a couple, hold hands, maybe even kiss in plain view, but for me that was just a dream. I knew I'd never have the courage to defy society like that. But people who did, other fags, they intrigued me.

“No, 'though I guess some people figure Georges out on their own. He's such a dude. He even speaks Polari.” He paused, thinking. “Well, I guess I should tell you the whole deal, since you did rescue me from a life of servicing prisoners in jail.” That bit of humor was a shield, the last resistance to opening up to me, something I could relate to.

“Their loss,” I said, joking back, trying to ease his tension.

“Georges and I started, uh, hanging out about a year ago. He's really smart, but he's kind of like a teenage girl. He's insecure and jealous. Guess I've given him some reasons for that though.” He smirked at me and I smiled back at him. Those dimples were deadly. He could use those like a Roman Soldier would use his sword and shield. The humor would disarm you just like the shield, while the dimples would move in and charm you for the kill just like the sword. But I wasn't going to respond and give him an opportunity to change the subject.

He seemed to figure that out and continued. “So Georges got accepted to Princeton and started planning for us to move down here. I argued with him, told him I didn't want to go, but he wouldn't hear it. He told me that he wouldn't go if I wouldn’t go with him, that he'd rather throw his future away than to live without me. He even hinted that he might kill himself if I didn't. Well, I wasn't doing anything important in Montreal. Guess I'd hit a dead end. I figured I could be up for a new adventure.” His demeanor had changed, almost as if he was talking to himself now.

“Georges has money, not tons, but enough to support both of us pretty well. He promised me he'd pay for everything until I got a job. But when we got down here, I found out working in a foreign country without the right visa wasn't easy. So there I was, trapped and totally dependent on him.” He looked to me for validation.

“No one has the right to manipulate you like he did,” I said. He looked at me, clearly confused. “Think about the tricks he used to get you to move down here. Shit, that’s emotional blackmail.”

“I guess it is,” he said, digesting my words.

“Trapping someone and forcing them to love you isn't going to work,” I asserted. Internally I scoffed at myself and my big words, coming from a guy who'd never really been in love, or at least a reciprocated love. I knew I was full of shit, but I just wanted to make him feel better.

“Yeah, that was probably a bad omen,” he conceded. “When we got down here it just got worse and worse. I didn't have anything to do, so I was bored. I couldn't think of all that many fun ways to occupy my time, except my one favorite activity.” He leered at me with that comment and I felt myself blushing. “Aww, how cute, you're blushing,” he teased. I hated to be teased when my guard was down, I absolutely hated it, and he must have sensed that because he got back on track with his story.

“So he just got more and more clingy. He needed to have me around all the time. I was a kept man. A dick for hire, someone who was there to hug him, hold him, listen to his bitching, or fuck him on command. I was trapped.”

“Couldn’t you leave?” I asked. It seemed like the obvious solution to me. If you were in a bad situation, simply get out.

“Where would I go? I didn't have enough money to get back to Canada, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give it to me. Right now all I've got in my pocket is $10. That won't get me very far.” He reminded me of the caged lions I'd seen at the zoo.

“I see your point,” I agreed.

“So finally I broke down and told him that I wanted to move back to Montreal. I asked him if he'd loan me the money to get back. He whacked out on me, broke down crying, and threw a tantrum. Told me if I left he'd kill himself. Then he called me every name in the book, tossed some plates at me, and kicked me out of the house. He's done this before, but this one was worse than all the others.” I could see in his expression that as irritated as he was at Georges, he was still concerned that he'd follow through on his threats.

“I’m sorry,” I said. They were probably meaningless words to him, so it was no surprise that he just shrugged in response before going on with his tale of woe.

“So I left. Our standard routine is that I'd come back in an hour or so and grovel, then fuck him, and he'd forgive me. But this time I had enough. I was done with him and his bullshit, and I knew that I was leaving and I wasn't going back. That's why I made sure to grab my wallet and passport. All my clothes, well, he'd bought them for me, and I really didn't like them anyway. Besides, they'll fit him.”

“So that's when you headed to the bathroom and got busted?” I’d been wondering what drove him there, at least beyond the obvious reasons.

“Yep. I needed to relax, and I figured that if I could get off maybe I wouldn't be so quick to go back to him. You know, I wouldn't be horny. Besides, I was kind of hoping I'd run into you there.” He grinned at me, oozing charisma.

“Yeah right. Listen buddy, I'm not falling for your lame pick-up lines. Besides, first thing you do is stick your dick in a cop's face.” I was using his own technique, humor, on him.

“Were you there looking for me?” He asked me pointedly. He smiled as he watched me squirm, watched me waver, grappling for a way out of it.

I tried to think of another reason or excuse, but he'd been open with me, so I felt I owed him the truth. In the end, I just said, “Yes”.

He shot me his huge smile, but just as he'd put me on the spot and made me feel uncomfortable, he then turned around and tried to make it right with his sense of humor. “So I'm supposed to believe that you went there to see me, but when I tell you I went there to see you I'm a cad?”

“Well, aren't you?” I taunted back. “Cheating on your, er, boyfriend with older men. Tsk tsk tsk. And I'm supposed to risk my honor and virtue on you?” That made us both laugh.

The large colored woman came to our table. “I'd ask you boys if you want mo' food but you ate so much I don't know if there's anything left in the kitchen.” We laughed. “I'll go get your check.” She sauntered off and a large Negro man and his equally large friend came up and stood where she had.

“So how'd you boys like eatin' at a colored place?” the guy asked us menacingly. Since we’d gotten here, I’d felt pretty safe, but these guys were trying to intimidate us. I was determined not to let them achieve that goal.

“Well I'll tell you, that's the best damn barbecue I ever had,” I said, looking him squarely in the eye. Show no fear, my instincts told me. He stared at me as if waiting for me to flinch, and then when I didn’t, he smiled.

“Well boy, you sho' got good taste. Took some guts to come in here when everyone's jus' starin' at you two. You OK. You ever 'round here again, you come back.” And with that, they walked off. Peter and I looked at each other, pretty stunned.

The waitress brought the check, and despite all the food we'd eaten the total bill only came to $3. She stood there, waiting for me to pay her. I took out my wallet and looked at the cash I had. I'd gotten a lot out yesterday, planning ahead for my trip to Claremont. I handed her $20. “Thanks for the great food and great service ma'am.” I said politely. “Keep the change.” She gaped at me as we walked out.

We stopped by a local store on the way back to the motel. I needed to get some toiletries, including a razor for Peter. At least they were much more efficient than the old man at the hardware store, I thought. I came back to the car and tossed the bag of stuff in his lap. “Well Peter, you're going to have to say goodbye to the goatee.” He looked at me, about to protest, so I continued. “If they're looking for you, that's sure to be in your description. Besides, I think a clean-shaven fresh start would be good for you.” He laughed at my little pun

When we got back to the motel, he took the bag and disappeared into the bathroom. Five minutes later he came out with no facial hair, sporting a nice clean shave. He looked great, even more handsome than before. Without the goatee, this guy was as beautiful as a model. “Wow, you are drop-dead gorgeous!” I blurted, then blushed, embarrassed by my boldness.

He grinned at me and those dimples that had been so powerful with his goatee were now exponentially more powerful with his clean-shaven face. “I'll bet you say that to all the boys,” he said in his flirtatious way.

“So anyway,” I continued soberly, “There's only one bed, so you'll have to sleep on the floor. I might be able to spare you a blanket, but the pillows are mine.” He looked up at me, shocked, and I started laughing. He just shook his head. But despite my joking around, I did have to address the sleeping situation. I had planned and hoped that he'd want to sleep with me and fool around with me, but at the same time, I wanted it to be his decision. I didn't want him to feel like a rent boy, that he had to pay me back for rescuing him with sex. That was even more important after hearing how Georges had all but emotionally enslaved him. “Seriously, I only got one bed because I didn't want the guy at the front desk to be suspicious. If you're OK with it we can share, but I promise that I won't try and hit on you or anyth...” Before I could say anything more, he cut short my rambling by leaning over and kissing me. A pretty effective way to shut me up.

His lips meshed with mine, our arms went around each other and we fell back onto the bed with him partially splayed across me. I felt his lips part and his tongue push forward, seeking permission or demanding entry, it didn't matter. I wrapped my tongue around his. Peter was a great kisser. It was like we just meshed, we synced perfectly. We lay there making out for what seemed like an eternity, and it could have been. I never wanted it to end, but it did.

Peter moved off me and began pulling off his clothes. He grinned as I watched him and that prompted him to make a game out of it, acting like he was doing a strip tease. First he unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing his hands seductively over his chest, then he slowly removed each sleeve, and then whipped off the shirt with a dramatic “whoosh”. I grinned at him and got into the game, standing up and mirroring his moves.

Next he unbuckled his belt, pulled it out of the loops, and tossed it across the room. Laughing, I did the same, and then I took the lead by unbuttoning my pants and pushing my fingertips down the front. He raised his eyebrow and did the same, then pulled down his zipper, but not at once, first down a little, then up, then down, then up a little, then finally down. He pushed his pants down, and there he was, just in briefs, with his dick straining to get out. I did the same thing, so we were both standing there staring at each other in just our underwear. Then I turned around and slowly pulled my boxers down, pushing them down to my ankles, so my bare ass was aimed right at him as I was bent over in front of him. He whistled, and I stood up and playfully looked over my shoulder at him. He pulled the waist band down on his underwear slowly, exposing the increasing mass of red pubes, then the base of his hard cock, and then, as I turned around, his whole package. Now we were both naked and hard, and he walked toward me, our bodies coming into contact first, then our lips, and then he pushed me back onto the bed. He began thrusting against me, and I wrapped my legs around him, squeezing him tightly. The feel of his skin against mine, his pubic hair against mine, his hard cock straining against mine, was more than I could handle. I threw my head back and growled, feeling my orgasm rising up from my balls. “I'm gonna cum!” I said, probably a bit too loudly. He kept on thrusting rhythmically against my cock with a deliberateness that told me he wanted to bring me off.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I cried as I came, and I found that shouting was exhilarating, so much so that it seemed to make my orgasm start all over again. I never yelled like that when I came, primarily because when I did I was either in my own bedroom with André in the next bedroom, or in some public location. I shot and shot and shot, thrusting up against him with wild abandon until I was almost completely spent.

“A little bit longer...” he panted into my ear and then he cried too. I squeezed my legs around him, pulling him in as tightly as I could while he shook and quivered.

He rolled off of me and lay on his back next to me, both of us panting. “I knew you'd be a lot of fun in bed,” he said, and looked over at me with a smile.

“Oh yeah. What made you think you'd get me here?” I asked, trying to be coquettish.

“Hmmm, maybe the way you latched onto my cock in the bathroom?” We both lay there, laughing, enjoying our post-orgasmic high. After a few minutes I was conscious of the fact that I was covered in cum.

“Well, you got me all messed up. Time for a shower.” I jumped up and headed to the bathroom. I looked back at him, and he looked lonely and abandoned. My heart went out to him when I realized that, except for me, he really was alone. “Going to join me?” He smiled, and jumped up to follow me into the shower.

March 25, 1962

Rehoboth Beach, DE

I woke up disoriented, wondering where I was. That lasted for about a millisecond, until I realized that someone was blowing me, and doing a damn good job of it. I looked down and saw Peter expertly work his mouth down my pole, allowing my head to lodge in his throat. He looked up at me, a smile in his eyes, and swallowed so I could feel his throat squeeze my head. That did it, and I shot my load straight down his throat. I felt kind of cheated; I must have slept through most of it. Not that I'm complaining.

He stood up on his knees, straddling me, grabbed his hard cock and started stroking it. He began to move up my body, shifting from knee to knee as he stroked and sidled up over my chest. I watched his nice cock as it got closer and closer to my face, licking my lips subconsciously in anticipation of his taste.

He finally reached my face and pushed his cock down toward my waiting mouth, while at the same time he gently grabbed the back of my head and pulled it upright into his cock. His dick glided into my mouth and I wrapped my lips around it, enjoying his reaction, his moans, and the way his body twitched in delight.

Slowly he began fucking my mouth. I never would have let someone do this before, afraid that I'd get a dick crammed down my throat. Oh hell, the truth of the matter was that I just didn't want to give up that much control. But Peter was gentle and slow, and he knew exactly where to stop. As he got closer, he picked up his pace, thrusting more urgently and more quickly, but still not gagging me.

“I'm gonna cum” he said through gritted teeth and he tried to pull away. I reached up and grabbed his two beautiful ass cheeks, pulling them to me, giving him permission to blast in my mouth, so that's exactly what he did. He fucked his load into my mouth until he was drained, then he collapsed onto the bed next to me. He looked into my eyes, piercing through my shields, penetrating deep within my psyche, and it made me uncomfortable. Instead, I rolled over onto him and laid my head on his still heaving chest as he tried to get his breath.

“So here we are in this po-dunk beach town. You plan for us to live here forever?” He asked me this with that lilt to his voice that told me that even though he sounded like he was joking, he was in fact prodding me to figure out what our next move should be.

“What time is it?” I asked, mostly to myself. It was dark in the room, so I leaned to turn on one of the lights by the bed. I gave my eyes a few seconds to adjust. My watch said 7:30am, and that sparked a moment of panic. I jumped out of bed and headed for the phone. I didn't realize it was morning already. By drawing the drapes I had turned the place into a tomb. “I've got to call my roommate.”

I dialed my number, not sure if I'd get an answer. It only rang once. “Hello,” André's voice said. If the fact that he’d answered on the first ring didn’t give away how anxious he was, his tone certainly did.

“Hey, it's me, I...” He cut me off.

“Where the fuck have you been? I've been fucking worried shitless. It's not like you to just disappear. I figured you went home, but they hadn't seen you there either.” My first reaction was to get pissed at him for acting like he had the right to know my every move, especially since he’d fucked up our spring break trip in the first place, but I forced that reaction aside, knowing that he was right. I was meticulous about planning my schedule and my whereabouts. Vanishing like I had was totally out of character. I almost groaned at the knowledge that he had called my parents, so now they were involved, but I absorbed that as my fault too.

“Look, I'm sorry if I worried you. I was having a brain block over this latest paper so I decided to head down to the beach for a few days to see if a little fresh air would clear my head. I guess I fell asleep.” I hoped the lame-ass excuse would work. I sure couldn't tell him the truth.

“Well, it would have been nice to have a phone call, a note, or something,” André mumbled.

“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?” I was starting to get a little pissed. He didn't control my life. I’d fucked up and I’d apologized. I’d forgiven him easily for worse things than this.

“I was just worried that's all,” he said, but in a bitchy, hurt kind of way. I sighed to myself. This was not how this conversation was supposed to be going. I tried a different tack.

“Hey André, can you grab the paper and check a few things for me?” I asked pleasantly, to try and change not only the mood, but the topic.

I heard him mumble “fine,” then I heard his footsteps and the door as he went out to get it. “OK, got it. What do you want to know?” His mood seemed considerably better now, so hopefully that would make getting info out of him easier. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out how to ask him whether there was an all-points-bulletin out on me and/or Peter, when I came up with a pretty good strategy. All I had to do was get him to start rambling.

“Rosenberg was supposed to get some award last night. See anything in there?” There was no award, but it was the best I could come up with. Please let him start babbling away.

“Nope. Nothing on Rosenberg.” No babbling.

“Anything else happening in our exciting little town? No rapes and murders?” I tried to joke, hoping he'd lighten up.

“Hmmm. Let's see,” he said. I heard him flipping the pages of the paper. “Looks like they're going to re-do Cherry Street and it will be closed down off and on over the summer.” I heard the pages rustling around some more. “Looks like they busted a party at the DT house. No surprise there.” More pages flipped. “Seems some cop fell down the stairs on campus. Got a broken nose and a concussion, but he's OK now. Clumsy bastard.” I almost jumped up and down with relief, but managed to stay calm, even as I heard him rustling through the paper. “That's about it.”

“Well, looks like I better hurry back so I don't miss out on the excitement,” I joked sarcastically, using the news he’d given me to help my mood. My comment made André chuckle, so I used that to try and extract a favor from him. “Hey can you call my parents and tell them I'm fine? I'll be back in a few days, in plenty of time to go to Claremont on Tuesday anyway.”

“Sure,” he agreed, and then after a few goodbye platitudes, I hung up, much relieved.

Peter looked at me curiously, and I had this intense desire to tease him mercilessly by not telling him a thing. That desire passed by quickly. This was a big deal for him. He'd been through enough. “All they said in the paper was that the cop fell down the stairs. My roommate thinks he's a clumsy bastard.” His eyes brightened with relief and he laughed at my little joke. “So that means there's not an all-points-bulletin out on either one of us, or at least if there is, it isn't public.”

“So what do I do now?” He asked, more to himself than to me.

“I think it would be a bad idea for you to go back to Princeton.” He looked at me as if to say “Duh”. “Well, I just wanted to make sure that's what you wanted. I mean, I know how you left things with Georges, but I didn't know if you had any unfinished business with him.”

“Georges isn't part of my life anymore,” he said firmly and vehemently. “I don't want to go back there, and I don't want to see him again. He makes me feel guilty and trapped, and if I go back there he'll try to manipulate me into staying.”

“So any idea where you want to go?” I could see his mind move from the melancholy of the past to the uncertainty of the future.

“I guess I could go back to Montreal, but I don’t really want to do that.” He paused, then explained his reasons. “If I do, he'll probably track me down there and bug the shit out of me. Besides, no one knows I left with him. They think I was the one who got into Princeton. So I have this whole trail of lies behind me, and I really don't want to face them.” Peter had woven a pretty tangled web, and lied to a whole bunch of people. I could condemn him for that, but I had a feeling that it was his way of trying to grab at some small amount of self-esteem. He didn't give himself credit for his incredible good looks, his disarming sense of humor, or his charm and charisma.

“Look, here's what I think we should do. Let's drive up to Philly. We can get there in a few hours and go shopping. You'll need some new stuff. You need clothes and a bag to throw them in. While we're doing that, you can think of where you want to go. Pick somewhere and I'll buy you a bus ticket.” It wouldn't cost much money to give him a fighting chance for a future, and something told me that Peter was worth the investment.

“I don't want to take your money. It would be just like taking money from Georges.” I could see the struggle of pride versus practicality on his face.

“It's not like that at all. I don't want to control you, I don't want to be your boyfriend, and I don't want you to tell me that you love me. I don't want any of that shit. I think you have potential buried beneath all the bullshit and the lies that you spin, so I'm going to give you a chance to prove it.” He looked at me with a smile. “That and I want your body for the next few days.”

“That sounds like something I can work with.” And in no time he was on his knees sucking my dick again.

We got to Philly by noon and checked into the Warwick Hotel. I usually stayed there not only because it was a nice hotel, but because I liked Rittenhouse Square, and because there was ample shopping nearby. There was also a branch of my bank there, and I was lucky enough to get there and cash a check before they closed. I wanted to make sure Peter had some money for his new life.

The weather had given us the gift of a marvelous spring day, and we took advantage of it by shopping like maniacs. We walked all over downtown, buying a whole new wardrobe for Peter and some cool new stuff for me too. I had a BankAmericard that billed directly to my parents, so I wasn't too worried about the cost. My mother was always on me to get myself more clothes and stuff anyway, so she’d be happy that I finally indulged myself.

We made it back to the hotel around 7pm, totally exhausted. But hunger was a more pressing feeling than our fatigue, so we took a long shower to revive ourselves, then went out for a nice dinner in our new duds. A big steak and a nice bottle of wine was the perfect ending to a great day.

“I don't know how to thank you for all this,” Peter said with a smile as we left the restaurant.

“I'll think of something when we get back to the hotel,” I said with a leer that made him laugh. “Seriously, it was fun. And you look great.” He really did. He was wearing a blue suit that set off his looks perfectly. That and a visit to the hair stylist had completed his makeover. He was sure to melt any heart he wanted to. It disturbed me that the thought of that made me jealous. “So did you decide where you want to go?” Changing the subject was important. I was starting to understand why Georges was so possessive.

“I'm thinking that I should go west, maybe to California. Do you think that would be OK?” The only thing he needed my approval for was the cost of travel.

“I bet you'll love it out there. You look hot enough to model. You want to head to LA, or San Francisco?” I had an East Coast perspective on California; those were the only two places I could envision going to.

“I don't know. Maybe I'll try LA. Try to find out if one of the Beach Boys is queer.” We both laughed at that.

After dinner we strolled back to the hotel. The weather was still beautiful and the city was alive and vibrant on this Saturday night. I felt like I was on top of the world. “You want to hit a club or something?” I asked Peter.

“No, I'd rather go back to the room and get these clothes off,” he said, and gave me that sexy look of his. We picked up our pace and made it back to the room in no time.

We got back to the room, put out the “Do Not Disturb” sign, and locked the door. I stood in front of Peter, enjoying his handsome looks and noticing, not for the first time, his inherent sex appeal. I moved toward him and he put out his hands to keep me distant. “Don't want to wrinkle my new clothes,” he said with a smile. So we both stood there undressing slowly, not sensually like we'd done before, but in an unhurried way that seemed to say “we have the whole night ahead, no need to rush.”

When we were both naked, I moved toward him and kissed him, and kept kissing him while I dragged him over to the bed. We lay there, him on top of me like I liked it, grinding against each other, enjoying the physical contact. Then Peter moved down my chest, licking my nipples, teasing his way down my flat stomach, until he engulfed my cock in his mouth. He moved his body around so that he was kneeling over me, his cock dangling in front of my face. For the first time, I experienced the joy of a 69.

I ran my hands up his thighs, admiring his muscles and the soft red coat of down that covered them. I allowed my hands to wander up to his ass, feeling the cheeks that were soft until I touched them, then he clenched them up and they were like two rocks. His ass had dimples just like his face did, cute little indents in the side. I took his cock into my mouth, swirling it around, teasing his head with my tongue, but only for a bit. Then I let go of his cock and slid down so I could pay attention to his balls. I nuzzled my nose into them, smelling his muskiness, following my nose with my tongue.

I'd never had a chance to really look at a guy's ass, so I slid my cock out of his mouth and moved myself away from under him. He seemed disoriented, not expecting that. Now, kneeling behind him, I had a great view and total access to his rear end. I gently pushed him forward so he was lying down on the bed with his ass in the air, and I moved my mouth down to resume licking his balls, focusing on the area at the very base of them, so my nose landed right in his perineum. Before, when I had my nose in his balls, the sharp smell of his musk had filled my brain with pheromones, urging me on. That was nothing compared to the smell of his taint. The musk smell was stronger than ever, stronger than the scent of his balls, but it was mixed with a sweet tanginess, almost like sweet vinegar. I nuzzled that special spot between his balls and his hole, inhaling him, driving him nuts.

Now I had a new target. In front of me was his ass, with his cute little pucker at eye level. I always thought that touching another guy's hole would be disgusting, but his was irresistible. I gently ran my fingers down his crack, brushing the tips over his hole. He moaned loudly and moved back into my fingers. I guess every guy has his “spot”, and I had now found Peter's.

I gently traced around the rim of his hole, watching it throb against my fingers. Then I did something I thought I'd never do. I sank my face into his ass and ran my tongue over his asshole. He really moaned now, thrusting his butt back into me, so intent was he on appreciating each lick. I discovered that I was enjoying this, rimming his hole, not so much for the activity itself, but for the incredible ecstasy I was giving him.

“JP, I want you to fuck me.” He phrased this as a request, but it was as much a command.

“I've never done that before,” I said nervously. I was excited at the thought of actually penetrating him, anticipating how good it must feel, but I really didn't know how to do it.

He turned around and kissed me urgently. “Don't worry, I'll show you how.” And with a smile he jumped up, ran into the bathroom, and came out with a jar of Vaseline. He returned to his position on the bed with his ass in the air, and coached me as I probed his hole first with my tongue, then with one finger, then with more of my fingers.

“I'm ready,” he said, with a breathlessness that was sexy beyond belief. He pushed me on my back and straddled me, pausing to reach down and grease my pole with Vaseline. He positioned my cock against his hole, and slowly started to sit down on it. I felt his hole touch the tip of my cock and then slowly envelop it, increasing the pressure. I watched as his expression alternated between excitement, anticipation, and discomfort. The contortions on his handsome face made him seem totally unhinged, disconnected from real thought, focused on one thing and one thing only: taking my dick up his ass. I thought that there was no way my cock was going to make it into his tight hole, and the grimace on his face along with his rapidly deflating dick convinced me that he was thinking the same thing. Just as I was about to stop him, there was a “pop”, and I was in.

The feeling was amazing, an incredibly soft, moist, yet firm membrane had enveloped my cock and its only purpose seemed to be to give me pleasure. I struggled with my body, willing myself to maintain my control and not to explode, wanting this to last and last, but it was not to be. He moved up and down on my pole two times and I knew I couldn't hold out. With the third time, I erupted inside him, cumming for what seemed like an hour.

When I finished, Peter collapsed next to me and smiled. I was embarrassed at blowing so soon, and not a little guilty about leaving him so high and dry. “I'm sorry Peter, that was so awesome, I just couldn't hold out.” I knew now what I had feared for years: I was a shitty lover.

“JP, relax, it's no big deal. The same thing happened to me. Besides, I know you. You'll be back in action in no time.” He was so reassuring and so kind, I felt my heart go out to him. We cuddled and kissed, something I hadn't been able to do with another guy before, and I felt completely bonded with him. I’d barely known this guy two days ago, and now he had worked his way firmly into my heart. It wasn't just the sex, because I'd gotten off with other guys, it was the whole package. It was his gorgeous looks, and the way he made me laugh. It was the way he gave himself to me not just willingly, but with a desire to do so. It was the way he moved his body, a body I’d gotten to know almost as well as my own. It was the way I could spend time with him and not feel the need to run off and be alone. And on top of all that, I had just lost my virginity to him. I refused to believe that I could fall in love this quickly, but it wouldn't be hard to do. I wrote it off to infatuation and lust, and decided that cocktail was almost as potent as love. He was right; it didn't take long for me to recover, especially when I felt his hard cock rubbing against my thigh.

I rolled over on top of him and our lips met, meshing in that incredible way that said we were meant to kiss each other. Our kisses ignited our passion, and he moved his legs back, grabbing his ankles, poking his ass up in the air, all but begging me to enter it. I guided my hard and still lubed cock toward his hole and slowly entered him, finding that same feeling of blissful envelopment waiting for me. I began to slowly thrust in and out of him, appreciative of the sacrifice he was making to give me so much joy. Even as my body reveled in the ecstasy he was giving me, my mind rebelled against the data in front of me. I’d always thought that letting another guy fuck you was a sacrifice, one in which the man being penetrated derived satisfaction solely from the pleasure he gave the penetrator. I’d classified it as a selfless act, a supreme sacrifice made to give someone else such amazing pleasure.

That conclusion was now being torn to shreds by the reaction of Peter. I looked down at him as I fucked him and saw that he was enjoying this at least as much as I was. How was that possible? His eyes had rolled back into his head and his hard cock was leaking, oozing out a drop or two with every thrust of my cock. I started to pick up my pace and he cried “Oh yes, fuck me!” I reached down and began stroking his cock as I thrust, working it in time with my own motions. He reached down and moved my hands away, and then, a few thrusts later, he came all over himself. Watching him blow his major load, and feeling his ass tighten around me in spasms from his orgasm set me over the edge. When I was finally finished, and the euphoria faded, I lay in bed next to him, stunned and confused. Could being penetrated truly be as enjoyable as being the penetrator? How as that possible? I forced my analytical mind to the background and we collapsed into each other's arms, falling asleep in pure bliss.