Everyone called him John, but his real name was Juan. It reminded me of how the Pittsburg Pirates called baseball great Roberto Clemente "Bobbie" instead of Roberto to make him more palatable to white fans. The only difference is that Juan wanted everyone to call him John instead of Juan to make himself less Latin. He wasn't black like Clemente, but had the beautiful brown skin and short stature of his Carib ancestors. His family had escaped the Dominican Republic during the political unrest of the 1960s and he grew up in a big-city barrio, becoming a teen runaway when his family disowned him for being gay.
I am less clear about how he ended up at our small college the summer before my senior year began. From what I gleaned his story went something like this: ever since he could walk John wanted to dance. He worked out, practiced his moves, street danced and even got into a high school for performing arts before the conflict with his family led him to drop out. There the story gets murky. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but it's hard to imagine he ended up on the streets. He was too flash for that. It's more likely someone in the gay community took him in. He never said, but it may have been the guy with whom he shared an apartment. John said they were not lovers, but when his roomie got a job at the university John moved with him. Compared to the metropolis our sleepy college town bored John. At nineteen he craved the kind of excitement he had left behind in the big city.
His other secret was that John danced. He danced at the one gay club in town. He performed in all-male revues, sometimes in bars but most often in private parties for women. Bachelorette parties. Women's business conferences. Employer parties. Women's social clubs. Dial-a-male-stripper. He told me how the ladies stuck bills and hotel room keys in his g-string. When I asked if he ever went to their rooms he said no, but I could see the attraction. A ripped dancer's body combined with a full bouncing bulge in a g-string had a magnetic effect. His smooth, dark-skinned Carib body and coal black eyes fueled his exotic appeal.
He showed me some of the g-strings he kept in his locker at work. We worked in a big dormitory building that was empty for the summer. Like many ancient dorms it had a handful of classrooms the university rented out as meeting space. My work-study job was at the reception desk there behind a tiny sliding glass window. His job was custodial—cleaning the classrooms afternoons and evenings so they were ready the next day. Even though the place was empty I had to wait until he finished his work and clocked out before I could lock up the building and go. Unmolested for hours, I sat and did homework. Sometimes he sat with me waiting for a meeting to finish, chatting his little gay head off. No one else was around. A few times he modeled his g-strings for me. He loved showing off his body and his big bulge always showed in his jeans.
One day while he waited for a classroom to empty he asked me to help him study for his GED and sat close when I did, leaning or pressing against me outright. It didn't take long to realize it was an excuse to create body contact. I didn't stop him so it became a daily occurrence as did shoulder rubs. He bent over the desk while I massaged his shoulders and back. Then one night after rubbing his shoulders he gave me an irritated look.
"You don't know nothing about the real world," he said.
"What?" I said.
He stood leaning against the desk right next to me where I sat. God he smelled good.
"You don't know nothing about the real world."
It wasn't true. My world looked boring to him, but he didn't know I had banged a few guys. I understood instantly he was irritated because I had done nothing about his overtures.
"You mean this world?" I said, sliding my hand up the inside of his thigh and over his tight butt.
His eyes and mouth went wide. The look of irritation vanished.
I looked in his huge black Caribbean eyes, caressing the insides of his thighs and pressing fingers and thumb between his butt cheeks where I knew his hungry little boy pussy ached. He let out a little gasp and bent over the desk. My hand moved forward and cupped his big bulge through denim. His cock grew rock hard under my hand. He sighed and hummed his pleasure. I kept feeling his thighs, butt and bulge from behind, wondering how far he would go.
"You like this world?" I whispered.
"Yes," he sighed, his eyes half closed.
After several minutes of this I decided to up the ante. I moved my hand from his hard rod to his zipper and started to pull it down.
"Not here," he said, stopping my hand.
