Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 1. Prologue and Chapter 1

CHRONICLES OF AN ACADEMIC PREDATOR

by: Mark Arbour

DISCLAIMER & WARNINGS: Author’s Note

Before you read this story, there are a few things you should consider:

• It contains graphic descriptions of sex, including heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, and group encounters. In some cases, these depictions may get kinky, and include borderline S&M.
• It is set in the early 1960s, an era before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when segregation and discrimination were the norm. African Americans were referred to as Negroes or Coloreds, although the “N” word was offensive then as it is now. I have retained the language of the era because it reminds me how far we have come on race relations.
• Be aware that the effects of inflation have been profound. A good rule of thumb is to consider that $1 in 1962 is probably similar to $12 in 2017.

PROLOGUE

March 16, 1962

Princeton, NJ

Professor Rosenberg studied the young man sitting across from him. He'd known the young man for three years now, had nurtured him through his doctorate, and now his post-doctorate. He'd encouraged and defended him as one does a protégé, and felt a burst of pride like a father would when the young man's study of French Algeria was published and received wide academic acclaim. Isn't that what old men who have reached the peak of their career are supposed to do?

Yet for all their time together, he really didn't know this young man: John Paul Crampton. He wondered if anyone really did. Crampton was a mystery, a closed book. He was always calm, always deliberate, and truly unshakable. He'd once seen a colleague taunt him about his paper to the point that anyone else would have probably punched the guy, but not Crampton. He just let the guy rant and rave, and then calmly rebutted his arguments. Absolutely unflappable. Normally he would expect such a person to be an introvert, and exceedingly shy. Not Crampton. He had highly developed and refined social skills, and was always popular at departmental social functions. Rosenberg's own wife had commented on how charming the young man was. What most people failed to realize was that despite the charm and conversation, after they were done talking to him, people rarely were able to discern any idea about who he really was.

To read Crampton you had to really look for the signs. Right now, he was sitting across the desk appearing nonchalant; no one could guess that he was being subjected to the intense scrutiny of his mentor and department chair. The light green eyes betrayed nothing, nor did the relaxed expression on his face. His hands weren't fiddling, his feet weren't tapping...no, this was one cool customer.

There it was! Professor Rosenberg smiled in triumph. Crampton had run his hand through his perfectly groomed blond hair. That was one of the only signs of nervousness Rosenberg had ever seen him display. Satisfied with his victory, with finally breaking through that hard outer shell, he decided that he'd tortured the young man enough. It was time to break the silence.

“So you've applied for a post-doc at Berkeley, and for assistant professorships at Brown, Northwestern, and Ohio State. I've sent my letters of recommendation to all those institutions, and of course they're glowing.”

“Thank you professor,” Crampton said with a smile. His smiles always seemed fake, but it was the twinkle in his eyes, the only other true sign of emotion one could detect from Crampton, that gave away his pleasure.

“So you decided not to apply for the professorship in Mississippi?” Rosenberg could guess why, but he wanted to hear it for himself.

“Yes sir. The racial situation down there is just too intense. I'd probably end up getting lynched if I went there.” Crampton said this with a wry smile, recalling his recent trip to the Mississippi campus. It had been draped with Confederate battle flags and there were signs and banners saying “Niggers stay out” posted throughout the campus. Not his cup of tea.

“So would I. Well, I wish you luck. If nothing works out for you, you know you can stay here at Princeton for another post-doc. It's been a great pleasure to have you here. I've rarely encountered such a promising young scholar.” Rosenberg was becoming a bit wistful.

“Thank you for everything you've done for me sir. You've really inspired me, and encouraged me. I don't think I'd have gotten my doctorate without you.” And with that, the shields briefly fell, and Rosenberg got his biggest present of all: the look of sincerity and affection that shot from Crampton's eyes was priceless. It was gone just as quickly. It was time to end this meeting before it got too maudlin.

“Well, good luck Crampton. Have a good weekend, and we'll see you here on Monday.” With that they stood up and shook hands.

CHAPTER ONE

March 16, 1962

Princeton, NJ

I walked out of the office and the meeting feeling pleased with myself. Praise from Rosenberg was rare, a commodity to be treasured. After I left the History Building my feet seemed to automatically take me two buildings down. I entered the building, similar to the others on campus, and made my way to the basement restroom. This place was like a release valve for my sexuality, the only place I went to experience an orgasm with another living being.

As I walked into the bathroom, the familiar smells assaulted my nostrils, the urinal soaps, the air freshener, and the residual floor cleaner...all fueling my anticipation and plumping my dick. There were two urinals and two stalls. Sometimes I'd come here and there would be no one. I'd wait and wait until I had wasted enough time, then I'd leave. Other days I'd come in and the other stall would be occupied by one of the old trolls that lurked around here. Old men, men over 60, who lurked here hoping a young college guy wouldn't notice how ancient they were, or wouldn't care, and let them suck his dick anyway. Those trolls would camp here for hours, ruining the place for the rest of us.

Today I was in luck, or at least I hoped so. The bathroom wasn't empty; there was someone else in the first stall. Only the guy's shoes were visible under the stall, a pair of those new ankle-high square-toed numbers that were all the rage lately. It's unlikely that old trolls would sport a pair of those. I entered the second stall and took a piece of toilet paper from the roll and leaned over to wipe off the seat, not really concerned about cleanliness, but using it as an innocuous excuse to lean over and peek through the large hole in the divider. The hole was large enough to fit a dick through, even a big one, something I'd found out on several occasions.

Looking through the hole was almost an art form because you had to look like you weren't looking. This meant stooping down over the seat only a little lower than normal and then only tilting your head slightly toward the hole, forcing your peripheral vision to do most of the work. The last thing I wanted, the thing that would be a total disaster, would be to get caught. Campus cops sometimes patrolled here, looking for guys like me, but just as scary were regular guys, guys who might be offended, guys who might recognize me, guys who might tell the world I was a faggot. I glanced through long enough to make sure that the other guy wasn't an old troll. The best way to do this was to try to get a glimpse of his face, but if that failed, to try to see his hands. Young guys didn't have wrinkled, grizzled hands. In this case the guy had one hand on his thigh, young and taut skin, while the other covered up his crotch. The excitement surged within me as I quickly unbuckled my pants and slid them down, along with my boxers, and sat on the toilet, being careful to hold my hand so it blocked the view of my crotch, only showing a little bit of my blond pubic hair. My pubic hair was just like the hair on my head; thick and dense.

The guy in the next stall was carefully moving his right hand. It was innocent enough; it could be construed as someone just scratching his balls. I mirrored the movement, conscious that both of us were staring through the hole.

The other guy's movement became more deliberate, showing me a view of his pubic hair, which was bright red. For some reason, that red hair seemed incredibly erotic. I could see him move closer to the hole, watching me repeat his moves, becoming bolder now, showing me the base of his hard cock. I showed him mine, plus a little more. Now he was obviously jacking his cock, and I could see it clearly, only partially shielded by his hand.

Seeing that I was jacking as well, he removed his hand and gave me a look at his hard dick. It was bigger than mine by about half an inch, so that put it at 7 inches, and pretty similar in thickness. I rubbed my finger on the bottom of the hole, and he stood up slowly, guiding his beautiful dick through the opening. There it was, live and in color, in front of me. I stroked it once or twice then swallowed it whole. Bathroom encounters don't provide much time for foreplay and teasing.

He was thrusting against the wall, and I could taste the pre-cum leaking out of his cock. He was getting close, when all of a sudden the bathroom door opened. He jumped back and sat down quickly to make sure we didn't get caught. I noticed that he performed that maneuver pretty well. Pulling a dick as long as his through a glory hole that quickly could cause a really unpleasant scrape.

The guy that walked in went over to the urinal, peed, and then left. If it would have been one of the trolls he would have lurked outside the stalls, trying to see through the cracks around the door, hounding us until one of us left. This time I was lucky.

As soon as the bathroom was empty again, my ‘friend’ motioned for me to put my cock through the hole. I was so horny, so excited, I had to force my hands not to shake. I felt the fortunately dulled edges of the hole brush against my dick, I could feel his breath flowing around the head of my cock, the humidity and warmth of his mouth as he slowly enveloped it. Then he wrapped his lips around my cock and went for it. He worked on my cock like a pro, driving me nuts with his tongue. I reached the point of no return, and whispered loudly “I'm gonna cum!”

Rather than pull back he just sucked harder, and was rewarded a second later as I shot a huge load in his mouth. It seemed like I came forever. My knees were so weak that I thought I was going to collapse, but I regained my balance, pulled my cock out of the hole, pulled up my pants, and left. I didn't feel bad about it, it was simply the custom, the way things were. No reciprocation was necessary. No words needed to be exchanged. That was the etiquette of the bathroom. This was closeted queer life in 1962.

It was a short drive back to the apartment I called home. I walked through the front door and found my roommate, André, lounging on the couch in the front room, wearing only a pair of boxers, offering me a tantalizing view. If I had to describe André in one word, it would be ‘masculine.’ He was tall, about 6'2”, with dark hair fashionably slicked back with lots of grease. His dark features reminded me of that guy in West Side Story, George Chakiris, but his looks weren't classically handsome; rather they were rugged, with a perennial 5 o'clock shadow and a prominent nose with a big bump in it, a nose that anyone who had been to France would immediately recognize as a consummate Gallic feature.

The nose didn't lie. André was born in France; His family had immigrated to the US when World War II started, part of the Exode. That was the first thing that ignited our friendship, our French connection. I was only ‘half’ French. My mother had been born and raised in the Champagne region, and had raised my brother and me to be bilingual. The fact that both André and I could converse fluently in French with each other had created an instant bond between us, and over the past few years we'd become as close as brothers. He even spent the holidays with my family, and my mother adored him. He knew all of my secrets except one: he didn't know that I'd fallen completely in love with him, and I was determined that he never would.

For the past two years we'd been roommates, and become inseparable. We went out together, ate together, and double-dated...although those dates usually ended up with him making out with his girl and me politely kissing mine on the cheek. I played it off against my persona, the nice young gentleman from a good family who was simply prim and proper, not some whacked-out queer who lusted after his roommate all the time.

But that was getting harder and harder to do, both literally and figuratively. There were only two people who could penetrate my tough shell: André and my mother. Yet even those two weren't allowed into that deep recess of my brain, the part that housed my sexuality. I'd only had ‘sex’ with one guy that I knew, my cousin Billy Schluter, and I think he just wrote that off as some experimental thing from when we were teenagers. “Sex” in any event consisted of jacking each other off, and me blowing him. Now he was in the Navy, married with two kids.

With André it was different. It was love. I wanted him more than anything I'd ever wanted. More than the professorship at Northwestern, more than my new Pontiac, more than fame and respect as a scholar. And I was worried, worried that my feelings were starting to leak through my shields. It was getting tougher and tougher to maintain the façade, but I had to. What if he found out? That would be the end of our friendship. He was in the ROTC program, in a few months he'd be off to training, then into the big dangerous world as a Lieutenant. What military man wants a queer best friend? What military man can risk having a queer best friend?

Worse, what if he was so disgusted that he told everyone? Professor Rosenberg, with all his nice phrases, well, that would change. Who would hire me? Who would want a queer professor? Worse yet, what if I got arrested? Sodomy is illegal everywhere. What would my family say if I were tossed in jail for being a queer? I would become a freak.

He stared at me with a look of concern on his face. My shield was already cracking. “Hey Iceman, what's bugging you?” He called me Iceman to tease me into letting down my guard. No way that was happening today.

“Nothing. Had a good meeting with Rosenberg and I was just deep in thought. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be working?” Changing the subject was important.

“Nah. Got the night off. Wanna go out dancing? We could call those two chicks we met last week, or maybe go stag and try to pick up some new ones?” He always got this sexy leer when he was talking about women. It made me jealous, and uncomfortable.

“Let’s go stag. Let me take a quick shower and change.” Dancing would be fun. I enjoyed it. My mother, conscious that a young man should be able to dance correctly, had made sure that I learned the basic ballroom steps despite my total lack of rhythm. I ended up as a very good dancer. From a technical standpoint I probably danced better than André, but I couldn't come close to matching him in passion and style.

March 17, 1962

I woke up in a bad mood. First of all, there was the hangover from drinking too much last night. The taste of cheap gin was still resident in my mouth, and I fought off the nausea that threatened to leave an entirely different taste instead. As if that weren't enough, I was tired, having gotten no sleep last night. André had brought Barbara home and spent the whole night trying to fuck her. From what I could gather from the thin walls, André had ended up settling with a blowjob. At first it had been erotic, and I'd jacked off listening to their groping and panting. After that, it had just been annoying. And finally, today was St. Patrick's Day, which meant that I'd probably end up out drinking again.

To clear my head I took a shower. André teased me all the time about taking too many showers, said that Freud would diagnose me as being anal retentive, but the water refreshed me and woke me up, and I liked to be clean. André didn't have a car, and he'd need to take his bimbo home, so I left my car keys and a note for him and strolled down to the local diner. Some coffee and some food began to soften my mood, while I delved into the newspaper, catching up on current events. I was soon absorbed in the latest news on the Evian peace talks between France, Algeria, and the paramilitary forces involved in the revolution. So much violence, so many dead. Britain was granting its colonies independence at a rapid pace, and it didn't seem to cause them the same convulsions that it had in France. In France the Algerian Conflict had not only brought down an entire government, it had caused a virtual re-drafting of the constitution. That's primarily because the British viewed their colonies as, well, colonies, while the French viewed theirs, especially Algeria, as a part of France, as much a part of France as Provence or the Midi. But fortunately the conflict was winding down and the Evian talks looked to be successful.

I heard the song, Peggy Sue, playing on the jukebox, reminding me of my ‘date’ last night, and how she'd tried to get information out of me, which had just made me more defensive. I'd become a master at making small talk while saying, in essence, nothing, and it was going to take someone a lot brighter and more attractive than Peggy to break down that barrier.

Two young men walked by and sat at the table behind me. They both looked to be about 19, one with dark hair and the other with red hair. As they sat, they started speaking, but not in English. I listened more intently, not to eavesdrop, but just to see if I could figure out which language they were using. At first I thought it might be Spanish, which I was competent in, but after a few seconds I realized it was French. Not French like the French spoke, not even the heavily accented French that was spoken in Brittany or Languedoc. No, this was a guttural type of French. It was...Quebecois! These guys must be French Canadians. Listening to them was like an Englishman listening to someone from the Southern Appalachians. Whether I planned to eavesdrop or not, the temptation to hear their accents and diction sealed the deal.

“I told you we have to be careful. You can't hold my hand in public like you just did. We'll get arrested, deported!” one of the guys implored. He had a deep, resonant voice, the kind of voice that a sexy guy would have, the kind of voice that you might expect someone who was a good singer to have.

“I'm sorry. I made a mistake. It's just so hard, I love you so much and I just want to touch you all the time,” said the other guy. This one had a softer, more pleading voice dripping with effeminacy. I found myself trying to figure out which was which, wishing I were sitting on the other side of the table so I’d be looking at them. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if I were over there, I wouldn't be able to hear them as well.

“Just watch it, OK. We're foreigners here, and I don't want to get sent back to Montreal with the word ‘Queer’ stamped on my forehead,” Deep Voice said. His husky voice was almost an aphrodisiac.

“I love you,” asserted Soft Voice. “Do you love me?”

“I love you too,” responded Deep Voice, relenting and calming down. It seemed to placate Soft Voice, even though it didn't sound very sincere to me. “I hope no one in here can understand us,” he continued, the caution returning. I could almost feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I pretended to pay close attention to my paper, and made sure to turn the page once in a while to make it seemed like I was absorbed in it.

“Not likely,” said Soft Voice soothingly. What a contrast they were, Deep Voice so fearful of being outed, while Soft Voice was only concerned with being in love.

Nonetheless, they started whispering so that I couldn't hear what they were saying. I could gather that some of their conversation was about money, but beyond that it was too jumbled.

Suddenly André appeared, and before I could stop him he began speaking to me in French. I responded in English, which brought a puzzled look to his face, but I motioned him to leave it alone. He shrugged, sat down with a thump, and started reading the menu. I could feel the tension at the table behind me. I could hear the muted whispering, the near panic.

Within seconds, they'd gotten their check and prepared to leave. I was listening to André recount his adventures with Barbara the Bimbo, pretending to pay attention, while I waited for the two guys to walk by on their way out. The footsteps started, and then they were next to our table. I casually looked up and made eye contact with the redhead. He looked at me with a terrified expression. I felt so sorry for him; I broke my rule and actually smiled at a stranger. It didn’t seem to have any effect on him at all. As he walked away, I noticed his lithe body, his nice clothes, and his new shoes. He was wearing fashionable ankle high, square-toed numbers. André rambled on, oblivious as usual.