Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

June 6, 1962

Paris, France

It was 2am and André had still not come back to the hotel. My emotions were flying back and forth between anger and fear, but the anxiety I felt was the most pervasive. And more frustrating than anything was a feeling of helplessness. There wasn't anything I could do. I didn't have a car, and even if I did, where would I go looking? Brittany? If I called the cops, that could possibly make this into an international issue. The fact that André was in the army added yet another wrinkle. I decided that I needed to set some guidelines, that if I approached this in an orderly and deliberate manner, I’d be able to calm down. I finally resolved that if I didn’t hear from him by 8am then I’d involve the authorities. That would be a full 12 hours past when he was supposed to be here. I worried that 12 hours wasn’t enough time, but there was no way to make a perfect decision under these circumstances. In the meantime, I tried to sleep, then I tried to read, but nothing would distract me from worrying about André.

At exactly 3:12am I heard the doorknob jiggle. I was up and across the room in a flash, and as I pulled the door open, I pulled André in with me. The force of my movement pulled him into the room and he fell on the floor. I started to get really pissed. The only reason I could think of for him to come home this late and collapse on the floor if it he was drunk off his ass. I’d spent my night worrying about him, and he had the nerve to come back hours late, totally shitfaced. I felt the anger rising, rising beyond my self-control limits, like a boiler that finally blows.

“What the fuck?!” I screamed at him. “Do you know what time it is? You had me worried shitless you stupid bastard. I worry about you, and you don't give a shit about me. You go out, vanish for days, and don't even bother to call. I get no word from you, nothing. I guess I’m supposed to just hang out in a hotel room in Paris waiting for you to finally wear your dick out and come home? Is that how this works? Fuck you, André. Fuck you!”

I had never, ever, in my entire life yelled like that. I'd never lost control like that. Now that I had, I felt drained. My hands were shaking, my whole body was shaking, and I felt tears pouring down my face. I collapsed on the bed, head in my hands, and finally gave into my emotions. I sobbed, out loud, in front of someone else. The fact that I was losing it in front of him just made me angrier with him.

I felt an arm on my shoulder but I shoved it off. It returned and I gave in, leaning against André, burying my head in his chest. His shirt was wet. I felt like a complete idiot, crying so much I had soaked his shirt. Then I took a look at it and it wasn’t my tears that had gotten his shirt wet, it was blood.

I pulled myself out of my temper tantrum and really and looked at André. He was a mess. Someone, or some people, had beaten the shit out of him. He had a cut above his left eye, not that you could see them, since both of his eyes were practically swollen shut. His nose was bleeding, a slow trickle, and it was obviously broken. His lip was split open, and when I went to touch it he opened his mouth and I saw that two of his teeth were missing. I really felt like a total idiot. If I even needed a lesson in why it was important to curb my temper and to think before acting, this was it.

“My God, what happened to you?” He just looked at me, through the swollen slits that hid his eyes. “I'm so sorry I yelled at you André, I was just so worried and when you fell on the floor I thought you were drunk.” That actually made him chuckle, although he grabbed his chest when he did.

“JP, I'm the one who should be sorry. If I would have stayed here with you, like I was supposed to, none of this would have happened.” His speech was slow and slurred, not from booze, but because of his missing teeth.

“Yeah, I don’t think I could beat you up this badly even if I wanted to. Don't worry about it. Come on. We're getting you to the hospital.” I stood up and held out my hand.

“No! I can't go to a hospital. I'll be fine.” He seemed so emphatic, but he needed help, and with his broken nose, his slurred speech, and his erratic breathing, he needed it now.

“André, you are fucked up. You may have a broken rib; your face doesn't even look like you. Medical attention, right now, is not optional.” I was back in control again, and I wasn't going to brook any arguments.

“There will be questions, and I don't want that.” He mumbled. I just looked at him. “Isidore's father caught us, uh, in the act. He and her brothers sort of worked me over. Told me they'd call the authorities and turn me in for raping her. I didn't rape her JP. She wanted it. She actually pushed me into bed.” Now I understood. It would be a public relations nightmare, and undoubtedly create a diplomatic row when relations with the US and France weren’t exactly at their best. It was a story that was ingrained in the French psyche: An American Army Officer - even though he wasn't actually active yet - was caught having sex with a Frenchwoman, who then claims that he raped her. Two World Wars had already left an indelible impression on the French mind about American Soldiers: They were sex fiends. At the hands of the Gendarmerie, or a French Magistrate, he was road kill. We had to beat feet.

“OK, here's what we're going to do, André. We're going to go the hospital right now.” I held up my hand to stop his protests. “We're going to tell them that you fell down a flight of stairs. Hopefully they won't ask too many questions. We'll give them fake names and pay the bill in cash.”

“Okay,” he said, and nodded for emphasis.

“Now let me help you. We'll get downstairs and grab a cab. We’ll try to go out the back way, that way the Ritz won't know what's going on. You ready?” He nodded again.

I cleaned off his face, and put a jacket over his shoulders. There wasn't anything I could do about his eyes, so I told him to stare at the ground and say nothing. There was a back entry that was less obvious. We took the elevators down to the first floor then negotiated the back stairs, not easy for him, but we did it. After we went out the back door, it was just a short walk to the Rue Rivoli, where I flagged down a cab.

The cab driver had been really helpful, while the hospital was less pleasant. They took André off for his examination while I dealt with their complicated paperwork, but I managed to work through it. I made up fake names for both of us and told them we were Canadians. They wanted passports but I told them we didn't have them with us. I further explained that we had no identification at all, but I did have cash for the bill. That seemed to do the trick. Fortunately this was a private hospital so I didn't have to troll through the intricacies of French socialized medicine. I couldn’t imagine what the paperwork would have been like in that case.

It took us five hours to get out of the hospital. His face looked more like something you’d see around Halloween. They'd set André's broken nose and put tape on it, and even though the swelling had gone down around his eyes, they’d turned a bright purple color from bruising. He had two bruised ribs, so no cast was required, and we told them we'd get his teeth fixed when we got back to “Montreal”. I almost got busted because one of the nurses was from Toronto and asked me all about the new subway they'd just started to dig in Montreal, but I think I bullshitted my way through.

We were both exhausted, but André was paranoid and refused to go back to the Ritz. He was convinced that Isidore’s family would send the authorities to track him down there. I humored him and booked a room at a cheap place off Avenue Kleber, got him settled, and took a cab back to the Ritz to get our stuff. I packed both our bags and checked out. There was a message for André from Isidore, asking him to call her. Maybe he was right to be paranoid. I stopped and grabbed some food on my way back, and then we just crashed at the Avenue Kleber hotel that night. I called the airline and got the next flight out to New York. André just lay in bed, alternately sleeping and staring at the ceiling. He finally seemed to come out of his self-induced coma and spoke to me.

“I'm sorry I ruined our trip to Paris. You're the best friend JP. I blow your vacation and you still bend over backwards to help me.” He was beating himself up, but I had limited patience for his whining.

“André, everything I've done, well, you would have done the same for me. That what friends do. You've got my back, and I've got yours.” I was pretty keyed up so my sympathy level was pretty low.

“What if they track me down, track me back to the US and try to press charges. Won't it look like I ran away, fled the scene? Maybe I should try to talk to Isidore and work this out now.” André, happy go lucky André, Mr. Let's-have-a-party himself, was now completely out of his depth with something this complicated. Worse than that, something I'd never seen from him before, he was scared.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I snapped dismissively. “There is no way you are going to talk to her or go near her. Don't even fucking think about it! Do you understand me?” There was no way I was going to let him get all emotional and stir things up again.

“Don’t you think it’s the right thing to check…” he began, but I cut him off.

“No,” I said firmly and emphatically, then mellowed and explained my reasoning. “Her father will probably kill you if he sees you again, so the best thing, the only thing for us to do is to get out of here. In a few months, this will be behind him. He'll probably marry Isidore off to some yokel, and that will be that.” That was how things were done in France, at least in the country.

“So she'll get stuck marrying some asshole and it will be all my fault.” André's comment, combined with that woe-is-me attitude was starting to really fire me up.

“Don't you even start with how much you liked her, and how you should do the honorable thing. We're out of here tomorrow, just you and me. She was a fling in your life, one that cost you some teeth and bruises, and me about 300 Francs.” I hadn't meant to throw the money into it. I regretted it as soon as I said it.

“JP, I'm gonna pay you back. I've got some money, and I'll start getting paid regularly once I go into the army...” I stopped him mid sentence.

“André, I don't want your money.” I wanted to say “I want you”, but I couldn't really do that. “Look, I'm sorry I brought it up. It was dumb. I'm just stressed out over all this stuff, and the thought of you trying to call this chick to make things right is enough to make me go ape. So it's not going to happen, right?” I looked at him intensely, and prompted him to respond. “Right?”

He looked at me, conceding. “Right.”

“So here's what we're doing. You're staying in this room until a couple of hours before our flight tomorrow. We're not calling anyone. And if Isidore's family decides to make this an issue and they chase you across the Atlantic, they're going to run smack into the best lawyers money can buy.”

He looked at me appreciatively. “Thanks JP, for everything, and for thinking so clearly. Just let me know what to do to get out of this, and I'm there.”

June 7, 1962

New York, NY

Despite my worst fears, the trip back had been pretty uneventful, although André did get a few odd looks. I decided that we should stay in New York for a few days until André's face got a little less scary. There was no way either one of us wanted to explain that to my parents and everyone else we knew in Claremont. We put the time to good use, and even found a dentist to fix his teeth, so his speech got back to normal. It was funny how hard it was for him to speak French without those teeth, but his English was still pretty good. I’d handled everything, and while I didn’t mind that, I was starting to get pretty annoyed with him for his pervasive melancholy. We were walking down Fifth Avenue, it was a beautiful day, and all he was doing was being a downer. It finally bugged me enough to say something.

“André, quit moping around. We're in New York, and it’s a beautiful day. Let's just try to enjoy the city.”

“I'm sorry. I ruined everything. I ruined our trip to Paris, and now I'm ruining our time here in New York,” he said morosely. I was so tired of his pity party.

“Yeah, I know. So what. I had a good trip to Paris, even if you didn't. I don't see why you should punish me now though. You're so committed to being miserable that you're making me miserable too.” I glared at him, and I think he finally got the message.

“Good point, JP. Let's get some dinner and you can tell me what you did in Paris.” So over dinner, I told him about my trip to the Sorbonne and Versailles, conveniently leaving out my extracurricular activities. He was impressed that Gireaux was so encouraging, and that I was able to cajole my way into the inner recesses of the Palace of Versailles.

We were staying at the Waldorf so, ironically, he and I ended up at that same hotel bar I had been to with Billy. And to complete the cycle, we drank just about as much as Billy and I had. We closed the bar down and headed to the room, if you can call it that. I stepped into the elevator and I was like a ping-pong ball, bouncing from one side to the other. It would have been much easier if the damn thing would quit spinning around.

We got back to the room and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived. I felt those ominous signs, the cold sweat, the bile in my throat, and I charged to the bathroom where, for the next half hour, I puked my guts out. That sobered me up a bit. I looked in the mirror and grinned at myself idiotically. My teeth were perfect, the results of extensive orthodontia, so I brushed them to make them gleam, and to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. Somewhere along the way I had shucked off all my clothes except my boxers. I was ready for bed.

I stumbled out of the room, bumping into a wall and then a dresser before collapsing on my bed. I looked over at André, who was lying there wearing just his boxers. He had that shit-eating grin, the grin of someone who hasn't puked. He looked magnificent. He reached up to push his hair back with a movement that was smooth like a cat would make, lifting up his arm to display that thick, dark patch of hair under his arms. There was only a dusting of hair on his chest, but that was easily eclipsed by his dark red nipples that were the size of quarters. I allowed my eyes to move lower, to his treasure trail, and narrow mass of black hair that led to the place I'd only been to once before. I looked up and met his brown eyes, and knew that I'd been busted checking him out. He had a stupid grin on his face.

I got up and went back to the bathroom to pee. How I'd forgotten that little detail when I was vomiting is a mystery. I strolled (ok, staggered) back into the room and noticed his eyes focus on my body, although why he would bother to look at me was beyond explanation. He made eye contact with me, started laughing, which made me start laughing too. I walked over by him, ostensibly to head to my bed, but when I was next to him I reached out and grabbed his right nipple hard, squeezing and twisting. “Aaaaaah,” he yelled as he grabbed his sore tit, while I laughed even more.

The next thing I knew he had tackled me and we were on the floor (thank God there was a carpet there). He was trying to pin me down, and while he was so much stronger than me, I was pretty good at slipping away. First he tackled me on my stomach, but I was able to squirm away. He grabbed for me but got my boxers instead, pulling them off and leaving me stark naked with my butt in the air. He slapped my bare butt hard, and it stung. I jumped on my bed to escape but he jumped on me again, pinning me down with both of my arms splayed out to the side and his body firmly on top of me.

I was drunk, and my mind was working slowly, so it took me a minute to realize that his cock was rock hard and pressed firmly against my own. I could feel his pubic hairs brushing against my shaft, and I instinctively thrust my hip up into his, grinding us together. He didn't respond, and I knew real fear then. I nervously looked up into his eyes. They were bright, wide, and alert, but not in an angry way, in a crazed way. The look in his eyes was lust.

He thrust his hips back at mine and I couldn't help but moan. Here was the guy of my dreams, my jack off fantasy, and he was thrusting his cock against mine and he seemed to like it. Then he did something that shocked the shit out of me. He leaned down and kissed me. Gently at first, in time to his slow thrusts, and then more aggressively, forcing his tongue past my teeth so it could wrestle with my tongue. I could taste his breath, tinged with the alcohol and Marlboros that made him even sexier. I wrapped my legs around his, wrapped my arms around his back, and reveled in the feeling of the strength of his body as he moved against me. This was ecstasy, this was a dream come true.

Slowly he slid off me and allowed his hands to trace my body, gently brushing my nipples, working down to my stomach, then lower, until I felt his hand firmly but gently grab my cock. I moaned, scared that I'd shoot right then and there, but he moved down to my balls, caressing each one, then moved lower, sliding his fingers across my hole. I felt a jolt go through my whole body, and I knew he wanted to fuck me, and I knew that I wanted that too, more than anything else.

He got up and went to the bathroom. I sat up, worried that he left, wondering what was going on. He returned quickly, carrying a jar of Vaseline. He walked up to me and dropped his boxers so I was staring right at his cock, the object of my lust. I gently ran my fingers up and down the shaft, admiring its size. Damn he was big. I wanted to taste him. I licked the end of his dick, tasting the pre-cum that was oozing out. I swirled my tongue around the head, then slowly took his cock into my mouth.

To my surprise, he pushed me away and opened the jar of Vaseline. He put a good amount on his dick, like he was going to jack off, and then turned me over onto my stomach. I felt his fingers brush down my back and across my ass crack, and I willingly spread my legs to give him access. He brushed his fingers across my hole a few times, and then he slowly inserted one finger in just a little bit, like he was teasing me. Then he took it out, and did it again, going in a little farther. He lay down next to me and nuzzled into my neck as he finally inserted his finger all the way in. As he moved it, I felt like he pushed a magic button. A shot of electricity flew through my body, and I moved my ass back into his finger. I think he interpreted that to mean that I was ready.

I felt him on top of me, lining up the head of his cock against my hole. I wanted this so bad, but I was scared and tense. He was big, and while I knew this was going to hurt, I wasn’t ready for how much pain was involved. He pushed against my hole, and I was too tight and resisted. He pushed harder, harder still, until he forced his way past the ring and drove into my hole. The pain was excruciating. I buried my head in his pillow as I screamed, but I think he thought I was just moaning. Slowly, gently he began to move in and out, the care he took to be gentle seemed ironic since it hurt so bad. This is what I wanted. This is what I had waited for. Yet this dream, this fantasy, hurt like hell and it wasn't fun at all.

After a few minutes, the pain began to ebb. In fact, it seemed like with every stroke it got better. I brushed my eyes against the pillow so he wouldn't see my tears, and then moved away from him, feeling his cock pop out of my hole. I felt suddenly relieved, but also empty. “I want to watch you fuck me,” I said as I rolled over. He smiled and grabbed my legs, pushing them back as he re-entered me. This time I was ready, and watching him and the pleasure I was giving him helped me block some of the pain, at least enough so that he didn't see it. I grabbed his head and pulled his mouth to mine, pushing my tongue into his mouth as he pushed his cock into my ass. I let him go to pant, and stared at his magnificent physique as he picked up his pace.

He picked up his pace and I knew he was close. “I'm gonna cum JP” he said, and I felt him explode into me. I swear I could feel the shots of his cum slamming into the walls of my asshole.

He collapsed onto me and we lay there, stunned and satisfied. Then he rolled off of me and I laid my head on his chest, while he put his arm around me, gently stroking my back. I looked up at him, and with a self-destructive spurt of impulsiveness I revealed something I never thought I’d be able to tell him. “Well, now you know all my secrets. I love you.”

I almost panicked, but he just smiled back at me. “It's not such a big secret. I love you too.” I snuggled up into him and felt myself gently drifting off to sleep. I'd never been that happy before.

June 9, 1962

I woke up the next morning alone in bed. Paranoia gripped me. What if André woke up, remembered what we did, and just left. I looked over at his bed and it was empty too. Then I heard the running shower and relaxed slightly.

Still, what would he say when he came out? Would he tell me that he wasn't a fag like me and end our friendship? I really didn't think he'd do that. I remembered my fears after that night I’d blown him, and just like now, the biggest fear wasn’t that he’d directly spurn me, it was that he would ignore me, that he would become cold and distant. I chided myself for acting like a lovesick teenage girl. There was nothing I could do about it now other than to be a man and face the consequences.

I sat up in the bed and rubbed my eyes. When I looked up, André was standing in front of me, wearing just a towel. “Good morning,” he said with a smile, then he leaned down and kissed me. That blew my mind and not because it was such a good kiss, but because that kiss meant our encounter wasn’t just a drunken mirage. He really did want me.

I kissed him back, then as he stood back up I pulled his towel off, revealing his plumping cock. I began to caress it like I did last night, and took it into my mouth, putting all of my talents and experience into this blow job. He moaned and began thrusting into my face. I wrapped my fist around his cock to regulate his depth, and let him fuck my mouth. I give good head, I know that, and he didn't last long. Soon he was shooting his load into my mouth, and I remembered that taste from that one fleeting encounter months ago. I savored it before swallowing, thinking that this was the ultimate rush: to give someone I love so much pleasure.

“Damn, JP, that was the best blowjob I've ever had. I can't believe I missed out on that for the last two years.” He lovingly ran his hand through my hair. “I won't make that mistake again.” I was in heaven. Sheer bliss. “Now go take a shower. We've got to get back to Claremont. I've got to report in on Monday.” The thought of him leaving threatened to destroy my mood, but I pushed it out of my mind. For the next few days, I was going to live in the present. Carpe Diem.

We got dressed, grabbed some breakfast, then loaded up the Pontiac and hit the road. It rained all morning, making driving less than pleasant, but not even Mother Nature could ruin my mood. André was driving and I laughed at myself, sitting on the passenger side pointing out interesting sights, just like a wife. If I put on lipstick and a wig anyone who drove past us would think we were a happy hetero couple.

We'd avoided the topic of last night's encounter, primarily because we’d been rushing to get out of town, but now that we were on the road, that pressure was gone. I wasn't sure how to broach the topic, so I didn't say anything, but it burned in the back of my mind. I knew that I wouldn't be able to really relax until I dealt with it. I waited until we had just passed Harrisburg, Pa, before I got up enough courage to raise the issue.

“André.” I wanted to make sure I had his attention.

“Yeah?” He responded. I could tell from his tone he knew what I was about to talk about.

“I didn't know that you, uh, liked guys.” There it was. Not the best way to phrase it. It was like calling him a fag.

“I don't like guys JP. But I love you.” He beamed his smile at me, and I smiled back at him. “I guess I finally figured out a way to show you how much.”

“You don't hate me for being a queer? Did you know?” I asked, diving into the abyss.

“I kind of figured it out that night you sucked my dick.” He looked at me and winked, and I slunk down in my seat, horrified. “I guess I didn't know what to think, but you did one hell of a job, so I figured you must be queer. It explained a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when we go out and you meet girls, you never try to fuck them. You're always the perfect gentleman. Charming, polite, and you keep your distance. At first, I thought it was just good breeding, but after a while I realized you weren't into it. I figured you either had to like guys, or you were asexual. And you beat off too much to be asexual.”

I just stared at him, even as my mouth hit the floor. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed. “JP, you moan pretty loud when you cum.”

I blushed three shades of red. “Whatever,” I said grumpily, since I was embarrassed.

“Anyway,” he said, gracefully changing the subject, “I didn't really know what to do, since you're not a chick. But these past few days, all we've been through, I realized that I love you, and whether you got a dick or not shouldn't ruin that.”

“I didn't know how to tell you. I was afraid that if I did you'd hate me. You're friendship was too important to me to risk.” I spoke quietly, staring at my feet.

“Well, you know better than that, but I can see why you'd be scared. Besides, you turned out to be a lot of fun.” He said that with a tone that indicated he was done talking about the issue. André amazed me with the way he could deal with things and just move on. What a gift.

“So you think I give good head?” I asked, looking at his face, then down at his crotch.

He laughed. “Best I ever had.” I leaned over and grabbed his zipper.

“Ever gotten blown while driving?” I leered up at him.

“Nope.” He smiled back at me as I unzipped him.

“Before now,” I said, winking at him, then I swallowed his hardening cock. I was starting to really know what to do to get him going, getting better with each blow, so to speak. When he came I felt the car swerve a bit, and I wondered if he'd crash. He didn't.

“Damn, I almost drove off the road. Thank God I didn't hit anything. I'd have lost half my dick.”

“It's big enough that if you lost half of it you'd still be hung,” I joked back. We both laughed, and drove on.