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Connor’s Pretty Horny Pt. 06

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I cracked the door to the suite, Henry’s was note still crumpled in my fist – his bold, all-caps letters smudging against my palm. I was dead tired from my powerful fuck session with David, but my petering energy was enough power to keep me rolling around in bed thinking about that stupid note.

Alex Owens, that name echoed in that hollow space of my brain where worries often reverberated endlessly. Those resonant echoes of the tension I was trying to let go of for the day. Flip over, toss the covers, pound the pillow.

Alex Owens carried this angelic image in my mind, a gay guy I had met totally organically and actually connected with. Meeting someone of your same sexual orientation – and actually liking them too? That didn’t happen every day, right? Back to my stomach, hang one leg off the bed, pound the pillow again.

I could probably find him on social media and send him a message. With a little extra effort, I might even just run into him outside of a class or at the library. The trouble was that I didn’t want to come on too strong, I barely knew the guy outside of an hour at a party. He might not even remember my name, let alone my face. Alex had made an impression on me, but I very often made no impression on other people at all. Hauled to my side, pulled my leg back in again, blanket between my knees — then, darkness.

Well, I wanted to hunt down Alex, but letting everything else go for a few days had already been damaging enough. I was substantially behind on my rigorously-self-imposed homework schedule, and feeling badly neglectful of Henry after last night.

The weekend came and went without remark. By the time I was walking into English Literature on Monday morning, I hadn’t heard anything from David and had successfully delayed pursuit of Alex. Henry and I had hit the library on Sunday and cranked out two papers each without even the faintest mention of what I’d done with David or his note about Alex. There was this silent understanding between us to let things adjust back to normalcy. You could count on Henry to just let sleeping dogs lie forever, if you wanted them to.

Alas, Monday was a new week though and two days of busting ass on work had left my mind free to wander. Through that first class of English Lit, wander it did: I determined that I would friend Alex on social media and send him a message to test the waters. If he accepted me at all, that would indicate he probably remembered our clamored bathroom respite. If he responded to the message, he might even be interested in meeting up again.

So, the plan for dealing with Alex was settled. I saw the flowchart of our conversation out before me. I would say that we met at that party, and I wondered if he remembered me. He would say yes, and I’d say that was a really fun night – did he want to get coffee on campus sometime? He would say yes and we’d plan, or he’d say no thanks and I’d read the message but not reply.

Imagining conversations like that made me feel like a little kid using the phone to call an adult for the first time, carefully practicing their words to sound mature: “Hi, this is Connor, is Porter available to speak?” These were the foundational ethics of “fake it till you make it.”

I was ejected from mental images of that night with Alex when my ancient Lit teacher chirped: “Connor, were you going to get with you group?” Everyone else had shifted into our small discussion groups. Embarrassing.

I’d done the reading (of course, I always did the reading) but just couldn’t get into Lit today. Either my group was grateful for a break from the know-it-all or hadn’t done the reading themselves, since nobody bothered.

So, the second half of class was thinking about David. He was a hot fuck, no doubt. Still, I couldn’t shake feeling a little insulted. I knew that was immature. Sex was sex, and in 2017, you were expecting too much if you expected anything at all. I felt childish to even be thinking about him at all. I was nobody to David than a rapidly fading Grindr hookup.

I texted David between absentminded Beowful comments. “Hey. How’s your week?” – because I am an idiot. Later, I would reflect on why – despite my internal dialogue – I couldn’t help but text David. It seemed that, with greater frequency, there was something deeper than my monologue that was overriding my greater conscience. I loved to hate that feeling.

I put my phone away and tried to focus. By the time I was stuffing my books back into my backpack, David still hadn’t replied. Whatever, I didn’t even care. He was a dick anyway, right?

Rushing out of the building and into the gentle nip of early fall, I made a resolution to text Alex – and more importantly, connect with Henry. I knew I didn’t have to feel this way, but did still feel badly that something weird was going on at home and I’d abandoned him for David.

Henry and I met for an early lunch, and he gleefully assisted in stalking Alex on social media. Henry was simply more experienced Ankara escort in the matter, as he made a regular habit of finding girls from his classes online and using it as a way of introduction. I, admittedly, knew my way around a search engine but more for looking up my fan theories on my favorite TV shows. We were dramatically different and yet so alike, Henry and I.

Crammed in a tiny corner booth of the massive cafeteria, Henry and I did find an active profile for Alex. In the clear light of a completely sober day, he was still powerfully magnetic. Alex was the type to take moody pictures outside of abandoned buildings, but held his confidence so firmly in his hand as to say: Fuck the wanna-be’s, I am the real deal.

He took his 80s haircut and complimented it with authentic 80s style, and clearly didn’t care. HIs photos were artistic, but not without being delightfully possessed. Alex knew he was sexy and impishly handsome, and didn’t care to be humble. That part of him, the self-absorption of several dozen shirtless beach photos, I wasn’t sure if I recognized from our tryst on Pine Drive.

He was about as excited as me, swiping through pictures and making offhanded comments like:

“Well, he’s no jock – but he seems like your type,” and “All that action, but you didn’t even know his last name? I mean, come on.” Henry could tease me all he wanted, but in truth, I was grateful for the teasing. The awkwardness of so many situations was so diffused by a few well-timed jokes that a wingman like Henry could never go too far.

That, and a seasoned socialite never hurt when crafting an introductory direct message. I gave the wheel to Henry and he graciously accepted, tapping out a message after sending a friend request that read out:

“Hey. Remember me from that party last week? Crazy, haha ;).” I had strongly objected to use of the winky face, but Henry insisted that it was essential to get my meaning across. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but trusted him all the same. I’d also tried to persuade him that we should set a specific plan and propose coffee. Again, Henry knew better: Play it cool, check his temperature and then move forward.

With that, lunch was over. A full lunch of finding Alex complete, I felt accomplished. But as I watched Henry trounce off to class, there was a pang of regret there too. I had forgotten to ask him about why he hadn’t gone home that weekend. Somehow I knew though that I didn’t need to, because Henry would bring it up again in his own time or he wouldn’t at all and that meant we were burying the topic, together. In our own way, we knew enough to give each other the space to do things in our own time. He hadn’t pushed me for details on that night on Pine, and I would respect the same for him. It was our same, beautiful harmony.

That, and watching his ass go as he jogged off to class: completely priceless. That boy was something.

With some newfound pep in my step, I was off to Stats. I actually loved stats, which was possibly one of the most universally hated classes on campus because it was a general education requirement. I, for one, thought it was essential. My cohort clearly disagreed. Looking out across our semi-circle lecture hall, most students had their heads buried in their laptops or lolled their head against their hands, looking lazily at the projection screen.

I had already done this chapter of reading and even gotten started on the homework, so I permitted myself the time to let my brain slacken a bit and followed suit. Immediately though, something caught my eye. Sitting in the second or third row and directly across the circle from me across the huge lecture hall was a familiar face.

Dark haired and with a knit beanie over his ears, he was more than just a sea of college faces. I would have been surprised I hadn’t noticed him in the few weeks prior of the class, but I typically paid rapt attention and in a class this huge… Then the guy’s eyes flitted up and we suddenly were making eye contact. I flipped my vision towards the projector and made like I had been taking notes and let my eyes wandered.

He hadn’t fallen for it. When I looked back, he was still looking in my direction. Our eyes met again and he cracked a smile, and then I knew: It was the guy from the other night, the gas station clerk by my dorm. Now, here he was in my stats class. Small world, huh? And he had given me a goofy ‘I remember you’ smile, back which I promptly returned before going back to miming taking notes.

He was a cute guy, though. My dick stirred in my pants. My hand wrote stats, and my brain was back in David’s dorm, shoving my cock up his tight ass. It was that wave of horniness, you know the one I’m talking about. It washes over you from a small smile, a flash of upper thigh, a minor sexual reference. And then you’re trapped in a reverie of sexual frustration as you take notes in your stats class. We’ve all been there, and I was there now.

I painfully adjusted my cock discreetly Ankara escort bayan in my shorts before stealing another glance down at gas-station-man. He had gone back to taking notes but I took the opportunity to admire him. I wondered if, between the other night and our shared moment just now, there might be a hint of flirtatiousness.

Then I shoved the thought out of my mind entirely as I felt my phone buzz, sitting face-down on my desk. I flipped it over and peeked at the screen to see that Alex had replied. In an instant, my heart was hammering against my chest in nervousness as my cock felt the same beating. I was an island in stats now, without Henry here to coach me.

I calmed myself with a deep breath and opened the message. It read: “I remember. Thought I might see u on campus. Coffee 2nite?”

I suffered an involuntary eye roll for the text-speak, but the rest was thrillingly good news. He did remember and wanted to meet up as soon as tonight, which I accepted quickly. Henry probably would have advised against responding so quickly, but I just couldn’t resist.

So, now my cock was hard for all too many reasons and I was trapped in the exact wrong place to resolve it: The vivid memory of David, the possibility of Alex, and a gas station clerk. My life, it seemed ,was destined to be a continuos train wreck of a horny, sordid mess.

With an hour left in the lesson and feeling myself literally panting with sexual desire, and not at all being the type to skip out on class in the middle, I resolved to do something I hadn’t ever done before: I was going to sneak off to the restroom and rub one out. Really quick, three minutes, tops.

You know how in TV, someone will tell the main character “Act natural” and then the main dude suddenly looks like an android, making a bad attempt at being human? That was me, rising to my feet quietly and casually rearranging my erection again. I silently took the steps up the lecture hall and hurriedly strode to the restroom.

In this old 70s style building, the bathroom was no exception. Yellowed tile, dim fluorescent lights, a long row of urinals and stalls with a wash basin in the middle of the room. Like nothing that had been built post-2k, essentially. In old buildings like this one, I felt a weird connection with students of the past. Classrooms now had projectors and new carpeting, but bathrooms were always the same: dim, faded, musty. I might even have reflected further on my compatriots of the past, but my dick was throbbing to the point of pain and I needed to bust.

To my great relief, it was completely deserted which was typical. I took a small corner stall and was immediately grasping at my cock through my shorts before pulling them down, tucking the waistband below my balls, and hammering away. My legs were shaking with sexual desire and my brain filled with those images of David’s dick, hard as ever as I fucked him. What a great memory.

In the dark stall, I looked down at my dick. Truly, I don’t believe there was even a thin strand of DNA in my body that constituted narcissism. If anything, I probably suffered from the tiniest bit of an inferiority complex. Just a tiny bit, as you’ve probably noticed. But still, looking down at that perfectly formed, hefty tube of cock, I admired it. That pride made me horny.

My toes were curling in my sneakers and I felt those first few longing feelings of being close when I heard the restroom door swing open. Immediately, I stopped all movement and felt my heart jump into my throat. Even in the safety of a bathroom stall, the feeling of being ‘walked in on’ is so powerfully immobilizing. I waited and listened.

Footsteps shuffled towards the stalls. I rolled my eyes again at the thought of some inconsiderate guy taking a stall next to me, the height of social ineptitude. But the familiar creak of a stall door swinging open never came as the shadow of a person came into view under my own stall door. A very light tap, tap, tap came against the cheap metal.

My brain said: You’ve got to be kidding me? I pictured a few different scenarios. Homeless waif wanders into restroom to harass cute college boy? Axe-murderer takes unique strategy for finding victims? Angry professor seeks out missing student in restroom? That last one was particularly unlikely, but whatever.

“Uh, occupied.” I replied. I’m not sure if that would deter an axe murderer, but it was worth a shot.

“Hey, stats class guy, right?” A familiar younger voice whispered.

“Uh. Yeah. Just.. using the bathroom.” I responded, trying to keep my voice level. What the fuck was going on?

“I thought — that smile? I thought you wanted me to follow. Sorry dude.” He sounded embarrassed and I saw his shadow turn to leave.

The feeling returned to my legs and my stomach de-iced. Something else came back in the place of fear though, that feeling that had texted David and gone with Alex. Power, confidence, and a numbness of the conscience.

I leaned Escort Ankara forward and pulled the lock back, letting the door drift open a crack. Before he could take his first step away, I called out: “Yeah, come in dude.”

My cock has risen back to attention. As expected, the door opened and a tall figure slipped in. It was the guy from the gas station and in a short glimpse I took him in again. Unlike Alex, who was perfectly coiffed or David who was forgettably handsome, this guy had an authenticity. Darkness under his eyes and a slightly unkempt appearance, but still good looking.

As he entered, he whispered: “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” as he began to undo his belt. For all that uncertainty, he sure knew what to do next. I might have been thinking the same, but that cautionary part of my brain was off. My dick took over.

I reached out and grasped the fly of his well-worn jeans as the belt loosened, pulling it down and feeling a sizeable member against my palm. Reaching into his pants, I fished a thick, maybe 6.5 inch uncut dick out of his tight black briefs. Under my touch, I heard and felt him gasp quietly.

He took a step closer and was between my knees as I sat on the toilet seat. I took his dick into my mouth and again, unlike David, he tasted authentic. Taking the shaft against my tongue, I slowly inched his dick down my throat before pulling it out again. The guy shuddered as I began slowly deepthroating his dick, standing there with his hand lazily holding his shirt up to reveal a slightly hairy stomach.

As I took his dick down my throat, his hand took to the back of my head and before long he was fucking my face. No problem. My own hand took my own dick into my hand which I was now pumping at furiously. Fuck, I wanted to cum so fucking bad. More than that, I was down to swallow his load today, too.

His breathing quickened as he violently thrust into my mouth. I was gagging on his dick, but loving it all the same. My own cock was leaking precum from a full set of balls as well, getting between my fingers and making my own jerking slippery. His hand left the back of my head, so I took my free hand to his shaft to compliment my sucking.

Before long of jerking and sucking him off, he whispered, “Dude, I’m gonna cum soon. Can I-?” but before he could finish, I was vigorously sucking his dick back into my mouth and he moaned out. I wanted his cum really badly, and I didn’t completely know why. For balance, he grabbed roughly at my shoulder and began to withdraw his dick when he spurt a thick, warm load of cum onto my tongue. He was still grasping my shoulder and letting his dick sit in my mouth when I brought on my own orgasm, shooting over his jeans and onto the bathroom floor. I swallowed.

I’m not sure if I had ever needed to cum that badly. It was one of those orgasms where all you can do is sit and gasp for air. Gas station guy pulled his pants up and began to re-buckle his belt.

Regaining my composure, I pointed to a long streak of my cum across his pant leg. “Sorry about that.”

He grinned back at me, “Small price to pay.” We both exited the bathroom stall and headed to sinks. In the mirror, we made eye-contact and chatted.

“I’m Greg, by the way.” He said.

“Connor.” I responded, washing a mixture of spit and precum off my hands.

“I thought you were really cute, that day at the gas station, just so you know.” He said, smiling at me in the mirror. He had a cute, soft-spoken nature about him. Not the kind of guy that typically follows you into a restroom.

“Oh. Well, thanks. You are too.” I said, but wasn’t sure where to go with it next. The part of me that loved Stats knew what to do though: “Well, see you around, Greg.”

I hurriedly walked out of the restroom, leaving him to dry his hands. I wiped my own on the back of my shorts. Those shitty hand-dryers never worked anyway.

Back in stats, we were looking at the tail fifteen minutes of class. I was already back in my seat by the time Greg snuck back into the auditorium. With better planning, we might have spaced out our arrival a little more, but who would suspect?

With the last few minutes of stats, the prof (who was very into new learning techniques) would have a student volunteer go up and talk through a problem from the lesson. Despite my shyness, I found this an easy enough exercise and often volunteered for the exta credit and brownie points. Today was no different, and my hand went up when he asked for a volunteer to demonstrate z-score calculation. Yeah, z-score calculation – and people had the gall to complain about this class? Come on, people.

I did the problem with ease, talked nervously through my logic, and class was dismissed. As I returned to my seat to backup my notebook and laptop after most all of the class had cleared out and I had schmoozed the prof sufficiently, I saw a small folded piece of lined paper on my keyboard. I unfurled it and it read in stiff pencil lines: “Greg” followed by a phone number. For once, I was the judge of social value: Did you really have to give your number to a one-time bathroom hookup? Come on, Greg! Later, I would reflect shamefully on that reaction as very uncool. Maybe he just liked me.

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