Summer Course Correction

Parker and I met on an early June afternoon under the Spirit of St. Louis in the Boeing Milestones of Flight Hall of the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum. We were both there to study about Charles Lindbergh's use of the plane to take the first trans-Atlantic flight in 1927. Having established we both were students of the period between the two world wars—and figured out so much more about each other in a very short amount of time—we agreed to meet in the museum's café in an hour. I think we both were more interested in getting to know each other better in such a meeting than in honing in on our shared interests in the history of the period. I readily admit I was ready for something—maybe not a full-blown relationship, but something physical for a short time at least.

Parker was sex on a stick.

As it was, our interests in the period were somewhat different and our levels of study definitely didn't match. Parker Stevens was a lecturer in political history at Bridgewater College, a four-year liberal arts college in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. He was working on his PhD across the Blue Ridge Mountains at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. I was still an undergraduate, working on a bachelor's degree on social history at Randolph-Macon College, north of Richmond. Parker was studying the isolationist movement in the United States that Charles Lindbergh was a prominent leader of. I was just researching a paper on how his trans-Atlantic flight opened up interest in commercial flight between the wars. Parker was intense and I was sort of just drifting along.

The convergence of Lindbergh in our interests was tenuous, but my interest in Parker wasn't. He was sex on a stick.

I guess the two Lindbergh interests related, but that wasn't the basis of the mutual interests that had the two of us eyeing each other and striking up a conversation under the Spirit of St. Louis plane hanging in the museum's exhibit hall and then agreeing we wanted to meet for a drink and snacks at the café. We both were able to discern as we moved around under the airplane and pretended to be looking it over when we actually were looking each other over that we were both actively gay and that he was a top I was attracted to and I was a submissive he was attracted too.

We were both athletic. Parker was a tennis player and good enough to have been on the very good University of Virginia team as an undergraduate. I was on the college swim team and had almost made it to the Olympic trials. We were both fit, although Parker's "fit" was muscular and mine was more streamlined. He was at least four years older than my twenty-one. He was all Nordic blond to my darker Mediterranean aspect. He was outgoing and commanding, while I was shyer and more yielding. I didn't see how any of those contrasts wouldn't make us a good sexual fit, though, and I already was fantasizing him fitting in me.

It, of course, had been his idea that we meet in the café. I had automatically agreed to that. I was delighted he suggested it; I never would have but I would have spent the rest of the afternoon, as I drove south on I-95 to Ashland to pack out my dorm room and decide where to go over the summer, thinking what could have happened if the two of us had hooked up.

"So, what do you plan to do this summer, Drew?" he asked. "You're going back to Randy-Mac for your last year, I guess, and then you want to go on to UVa for graduate work?"

"Yes, that's the plan. I'm glad you give a good recommendation for the UVa history department. The swim program there has expressed interest in me, and I'll have another year of eligibility left after college. I'll need some scholarship money to swing grad school."

"And this summer?" he asked. We were sitting next to each other at a small table in a remote part of the café. He'd touched me on the forearm and the thigh a couple of times and gave me long, lingering looks with bedroom eyes, so I was pretty sure something was building here. That was OK with me—more than OK. I had no trouble with casual lays when the vibes were right. The vibes definitely were right with Parker, and I hadn't had any for too long.

"I don't have anything yet. I thought I'd just write some papers ahead for next term. That's what I was doing here. I got everything packed up at school early, so I came up to the museum here to get some research done for a paper. I don't want to go home—to Norfolk—because my folks are in the middle of a messy divorce. I can always do what I did last summer, lifeguard on the beach in Virginia Beach."

I didn't go on to say that there were a couple of guys who probably would put me up there for the summer so I wouldn't have to go home. They'd do it in exchange for sex, though, and I didn't know how knowing that would go over with Parker. I might be more promiscuous or less interested in commitment than he was.

"You don't want to do anything this summer that built up your academic résumé to apply to graduate school at UVa?"

"That would have been nice," I said. "But the summer internship I was looking into fell through."

"There's something at Bridgewater this summer—a course on the Roaring Thirties, with some scholarships still open. I'm the assistant to two professors running that."

"That would sound great if I could afford housing for the summer. I assume the scholarship is for tuition only."

"I think I could help you with housing," he said. "I have an apartment in Bridgewater." He was more than touching my arm now—he was gripping my forearm and giving me "that" look.

How many bedrooms; how many beds?

"That's certainly something to look into," I said.

"And today," he continued. "Are you planning to go back to Ashland from here this evening?"

"I was sort of hanging loose on that. I'm all packed up at the college and I brought some things in a duffel bag in case I decided to stay a night or two here. I haven't made any arrangements, though. My bag's in a locker here."

"I'm not going back to Bridgewater for a couple of days," he said. "I have a motel room over by Dulles Airport. You could . . . we could . . . you know . . . We could take the Metro into D.C. and do some partying tonight. I know the places."

"That sounds good to me," I said. "If you took charge. I haven't done any clubbing in the D.C. area." If this was going to go anywhere, he'd have to take charge of it. I didn't initiate sex.

"Oh, you can bet I'll take charge," Parker said. "After a couple of bars we can go back to the motel, and if we've hit it off, we can fuck—if you take cock. How does that sound to you?"

There it was, clicking right into place. "That sounds just fine."

He did take charge. From there on out everything was done on Parker's command.

It was then, after it had been established that I would go with him, that I'd open my legs for him, that Parker did something I thought was peculiar at the time. Noticing that I was looking around at other guys sitting in the café and kept returning my gaze to a muscular black guy several tables alone, who was eating alone, Parker suddenly said, "You like the looks of that black guy over there?"

"Yes, I do like to look at guys and speculate," I said, "which you should know as I looked you over good back there at the Spirit of St. Louis exhibit."

"Yes, I noticed that," he said, with a laugh. "So, are you attracted to that guy because he's built or because he's black?"

"Yes," I said, and then we both laughed.

Then the peculiar thing—at least in that moment. "Have you ever thought about a threesome—about doubling even? Ever done it?"

I gave him a pointed look, but then thought, why the hell not be honest? "Yes," I said.

"Which?"

"Yes," I said. He laughed and that was that, but later I had a reason to think back on that short exchange.

"You have a car here, I presume," he said as we were tossing the leftovers from our café snack.

"Yes," I answered.

"Mine's a red Mustang," he said, changing gears. "I'll pull up near the entrance while you get your duffel bag and your car, and you can follow me to the Dulles Airport Best Western. We'll leave your car there and I'll drive us to a Metro and we can go into the gay bars around Dupont Circle in D.C. for dinner and some clubbing before coming back to the motel."

"OK," I said.

That isn't quite what we did, however. At the motel, we both got out of our cars and he said, "Let's put your bag in my room."

"OK," I said. Everything was on his command. I hoped he was planning something for us before we went into D.C. He was.

We didn't immediately head into D.C., though, after I took my bag to his room. He laid me out and fucked me before we went clubbing. We stood inside the door to his room, close together, kissing and running our hands over each other greedily. He took the initiative in getting us both unzipped and exposed while we necked standing up. He fisted our cocks together, both of us already in erection, already in heat, and frotted the shafts together, my moaning merging with his.

Coming out of the lip lock, Parker said, "Blow me," in a low husky voice and backed away from me, stripping his trousers and briefs off, and sat on the side of the bed, spreading his thighs. "You do give blow jobs, don't you?"

"Yes," I answered. "You think I do this for any guy on command, though?"

"Yes. I think you're a slut for it. Come here and go down on your knees," he commanded.

He reached out with a hand and I came to him, unbuckling my belt and letting my trousers and briefs puddle to the floor. I stepped out of them as he reached up, cupped the back of my neck, and pulled my face down to his for a renewed kiss. His hands went to my shoulders, pressing down, so that I went down on my knees between his spread thighs. The hands then went to the back of my head, and I was being dipped down to where I took his cock in my mouth and then my throat, and he held my head captive, in place, while he face fucked me. Nothing was anything I hadn't done before.

He was right. I could be a slut for it. And talking baldly and dirty about it was one way of getting me on my knees and on my back.

I gave him head but not to the point of making him come. He wanted more. I let him have what he wanted. Pulling my head off his cock, he growled, "Up now, bend over the bed. Give me your ass."

I did as he commanded—not the least

because

he commanded it and because he had discovered I took commands—and there we were, both still with our T-shirts and socks on, but trouserless, me bent over the bed, my arms extended out over the bed, the heels of my hands dug into the mattress, while Parker hovered over me, mounted on my tail, his hands gliding down my arms and fisting my wrists once his bulb was in place, lodged in my entrance. I was panting as I felt him at my entrance and then groaning and jerking as he pressed in, his breath hot on my neck, him muttering, "Take it. Take it, you little bitch."

I took it as he penetrated, stretching me, going deep. I stopped jerking when he was in and I was spreading to accommodate him. Then the stroking began, slow and shallow at first and then more rapid, deeper, more insistent as we fell into a rhythm and I cried out, "Yes, fuck yes. Take it. Fuck me. Get it!" He laughed and fucked on.

He moved one hand to palming my belly and the other to cupping my chin and arching me back up into his chest. His mouth was close to my ear. He was breathing was heavy and he was murmuring a mantra of "Fuck you, yeah. Fuck you hard, yeah, you little slut," as he did just that. I moved one hand back to clutch one of his butt cheeks, feeling the orb clutch and release with his rhythm of stroking. I fisted my cock with one hand and stroked myself off.

"Come for me, baby," he whispered in my ear, and I did so. Then he did, pulled away from me immediately, rolled the spent condom off his cock, tossed it into the wastebasket next to the bed, and went off to the shower.

I lay on my belly on the bed, feet on the floor, arms outstretched, fists clutching bunches of bedspread, panting and calming down my breathing as I watched planes landing at Dulles Airport through the motel's picture window and listened to the shower.

It had been a good fuck. Parker was a great dominator. Big-cocked, fit, vigorous, virile. He was so polite and formal in public, but he talked dirty and took cruel command while he fucked me. He made me his bitch.

I already was restructuring my summer plans to include taking the history course at Bridgewater and rooming in Parker's apartment there, lying under him, and being fucked just like that at his command.

We stayed another night at the Best Western motel near Dulles Airport, and we went clubbing in D.C. again. This time I let loose more and drank more than I did the night before. And this time I was more friendly, with Parker's encouragement, with other guys in the bars around Dupont Circle. It was in one of these bars, when I was already three sheets to the wind and very, very happy, and I was being kissed by a muscular black tattooed guy in tight leather jeans and a black mesh T-shirt, and my hand had been moved to the black guy's basket, that Parker invited the black guy back to our motel room. He didn't ask me if that was OK with me. Parker had all of the decisions and I yielded to them. If he'd asked me, though, I was riding so high that I would have said yes.

Parker had come in close to the black guy as he was fondling me with both of us perched on bar stools and said, "You want to fuck my friend here? You can if I can watch and participate?"

"Yeah, if he wants to."

"Who gives a fuck what he wants? He'll do what I want him to."

That should have outraged me. It didn't, though. It sent a jolt of arousal through me. The key to me was being the master. It also was to demand something at the edge of my comfort zone.

* * * *

The black guy, naked and covered in tattoos, was lying on his back on the motel bed at the Dulles Airport Best Western, and I, also naked, was straddling his hips and rising and falling on his cock to the rhythm of the takeoffs and landings on the runways beyond the room's picture window. The black stud was hung and it had taken several, initially painful minutes for me to descend on his shaft. We'd been fucking like that a good dozen minutes, with Parker, naked, sitting beside us, guiding our movements with his hands, when he came up onto the bed behind me.

"Good, good, take it. You too are beauty in motion," he murmured in my ear. He embraced me with one hand, holding me steady and in place, while he moved his erection in place at my back.

"Now me too. Hold steady there. This will be great." With effort and writhing and huffing from me, Parker worked his cock inside me above the already-buried cock of the tattooed black stud, and the two began to work me together in a rhythmic double penetration fuck. I managed to take them both.

I now knew why Parker asked me if I had and would take two cocks at once.

At no time did Parker ask me if I was OK with this. At no time did I think of saying it wasn't. As long as he was in command and directed me, I was his to use as he wanted. Together, he and the black bull used me hard.

* * * *

It was working out fine in Bridgewater. Parker took over everything. He had me moved into his one-bedroom apartment on North 2nd Street in time for the opening of Bridgewater College's summer session in late June. There being only one bedroom—and one bed—there wasn't much question where I was going to sleep. And Parker being young, virile, and randy, there wasn't much question that I was going to be kept well-fucked in exchange for a discount on rent and board. It wasn't long until we were settled into being a "couple." There was a small gay community in Bridgewater, mostly connected with the college, the town's primary employer, but most of the mingling of gays were in apartments and somewhat subdued. This was rural Virginia. Most gay men here knew each other and it didn't take long for Parker and me to settle in as a "couple," not just casual players. I'd been a casual player before, but I was adjusting to the ways of a small Virginia town. As long as you were together and not swinging from the lampposts, it was OK in Bridgewater if you were the same gender.

Parker also arranged everything on getting me into the summer "The Roaring 30s" class in the history department, complete with a scholarship that covered tuition and enough living money for me to kick in with Parker's rent and food money. He went the extra mile to ensure that I got credit for the course applied to my degree at Randolph-Macon and thus freeing up time there next year for extra time working with the swim team. If I stayed at Randolph-Macon.

He was talking about me transferring to Bridgewater. He introduced me to the professors of the class I was taking before it began, both history professors at Bridgewater, giving me a leg up on other students in the class for recognition. He also arranged for me to tour the college's sports department and to meet with the athletic director, who knew—from Parker, I'm sure—of my swimming record and spoke in glowing terms of the possibility of an athletic scholarship if I transferred to Bridgewater. The school was small and there really wasn't a swim program here, but the athletic director said he wished there was and having someone who almost got to the Olympic trials in the athletic program here would help make that happen.

That Parker was trying to get me to relocate to Bridgewater—and to remain in his bed—was fairly obvious even before summer classes started. Our sex life was good—no, it was great—and I was increasingly losing the urge for variety. Parker was dominant in just the ways I liked, and I gave him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. If I thought about it, my move to Bridgewater depended on what Parker really wanted, not what I wanted. If he told me I was moving to Bridgewater, I'd move to Bridgewater.

The professors for the class were interesting. They were quite different from each other and they made the class come alive. They were different enough that I was surprised to learn that they lived together in a big, old Victorian manse on North College Street about four blocks from the college campus, and I was even more surprised when I heard they were both gay.

"But they aren't a couple," Parker had said.

"I don't understand," I responded.

"They are the same—they have the same preferences."

"So, why do they—?"

"They hunt together. Let's leave it at that. What do you have out to fix for dinner?"

They certainly weren't the same in my view. The older of the two, Elliott Brady, who taught the social aspects of the Roaring Thirties, was tall and slim and reserved. He had to use the microphone in teaching class because his voice was so quiet. He was a handsome man—or I'm sure was very handsome at some point—once blond, with blue eyes and a movie star face. He was well over fifty now. His face looked like he'd had some help keeping it close to his former glory. His effeminacy had come out with age, and I could see him going home in the evening and changing into a colorful flowered kimono and even putting on makeup. Parker had said the two men had the same preference and I thus saw them as submissives and thus not of interest to me, as that was what I was as well.

That influenced how I saw the other professor, Myles Merton, who taught the political and industrial aspects of the Roaring Thirties. Where Brady was tall and willowy, Merton was on the short side and solid. If I thought of Brady as a white-collar worker, I thought of Merton as blue collar. He was muscular and boisterous. There was no way he needed amplification to get his lectures across. I estimated that he was at least a quarter black, but what I could see of that in him was appealing.