These two stories, Undergraduate Experiments: Drunk and Undergraduate Experiments: Sober are designed to be read together. Richie and Adrian are established geeky characters of mine, but here they're just geeking about sex.
I've had feedback on other stories about Adrian that people enjoy the 'sweet, loving, hot sex'. The sex in these stories is not sweet nor loving. Hot? I hope so.
Many thanks to yowser for beta-reading.
Category: Gay Male
Tags: Geek Pride, first gay sex, drunk sex, friends with benefits, bisexual man, college, gay anal, cock, big cock, bicurious man
_______
Undergraduate Experiments: Drunk
I was round at a friend's college room, comforting her latest broken heart. I don't know what Laura sees in women, least not the ones she's gone out with. Obviously women in general are glorious. Like her. I told her so, while I was offering to cheer her up totally to the best of my ability, if you know what I mean.
She laughed as she sniffled. "Adrian,
no.
You're drunk. Pissed as a fucking newt."
I told her, that really wasn't a problem. It wasn't like I'd regret her in the morning or anything. Nor like being half-cut wasn't my normal state of affairs. If I couldn't get it up, that's what a man has a tongue for, right?
I could see the temptation flash across her face, but for whatever reason, she insisted on just going to bed, alone. I'd helped Laura nurse her sorrows -- some bird called Ali had decided to get serious with some other woman, apparently -- but if Laura didn't want cheering up with any sexual favours from the most charming student on her Materials Science degree course, leastways the best charmer from t'other side of the Irish Sea, then there's no helping some girls.
So I simply tucked her in and polished off her Bacardi, until she fell asleep. She'd had at least half what I did, so it's not like I'd had much more than half a litre. Barely a pint. Even at 40% a.b.v., that's not enough to knock me out.
Once she was snoring, I crept downstairs, as quietly as you can when seeing double. I left the staircase, and tried to get my bearings in her college's courtyard. One of the courtyards. Too many courtyards... Square, so all the walls look the same, especially in the dark and the drizzling rain. I aimed myself at the middle of the opposite wall, hoping it would be the exit. It wasn't, but I spied an alleyway in the corner of the court and tottered my way to that. I avoided the rose bushes, only hitting one windowsill as I lurched along a cobbled path.
Then I slipped on a cobblestone that jumped out at me, and fell over.
"Ah,
shit!"
I tried to stand up again, but the gravity wasn't working right. So I compromised, just working on sitting. I was in a covered tunnel, leading to the next court. Large wheelie-bin next to me to lean on, recycling bins opposite. One doorway with cement stairs going down, one with wider wooden stairs going up.
I had myself a wee rest there. No reason for me to be moving, after all. Until some person emerged from the basement.
"You OK, there?" The figure pauses, recognising me. "Oh, it's you, you fucking pisshead."
"Hey, there's no need to be insulting! Just because a man likes a drink." Sitting on the wet ground, I don't sound convincing.
"Yes, there is. You're a fucking alcoholic, Adrian, and we all know it."
"Eh..." I mean, the voice is right, but it's not like a problem, you know? I try to focus to see who it is. Looks kinda like a woman, only very tall. No idea.
"For fuck's sake." My hand is grabbed and I'm hauled to my feet, where I stumble, because, again, those wet cobbles make anyone wobble all over. The swearing bod sticks an arm round my waist until I'm reliably standing. I wrap my arm round his. Hers? His, I think.
"Cheers, love," I tell them.
It's definitely a guy who snorts at me in contempt. A deep voice as he picks up a laundry basket, followed by curses as I lurch against the wall. He drops the laundry, and drags me out into the next court, which is larger with immaculate lawns and presumably a dozen wee 'Keep off the grass' signs which I can't focus on right now. And it's dark. "Stand there."
I don't know what his problem is, but I stand still. Walking might still be a wee bit optimistic, anyhow. He returns, with the laundry basket, glares at me, then disappears into a staircase.
No idea if he's coming back.
That perfect grass looks comfy. It's your feet they don't want on the grass, after all, so there's no reason not to collapse and appreciate the perfect green chequered pattern from collegiate lawn-mowing, close-up. It takes three hundred years to achieve that level of lush, flat, verdant grassy perfection, you know.
A moment later the guy is back. "Fucking hell, Adrian!"
He knows me, knows my name. I spy a pigtail as he hauls me to upright again, off that springy, friendly, albeit damp lawn. And there, a wooden ear gauge. Ah. It's Laura's mate, that opinionated arsehole genius who lived with her in first year. I suspect he's fucked her, too. Lucky git. He's OK, Richie is, just doesn't take any shit from anyone.
"Evening, Richie. About ye? All right?"
"Me? Fine. You? Not so much."
That's sarcasm. That's just rude. "I'm grand, you fucking cunt. Just having a wee rest, on my wee way home."
"Uh-huh. You think you could cross the main roads, safely, in your condition?"
I shrug, fall against him a bit because he's kinda hot and I'm not concentrating. "Never been run over yet."
"The luck of the Irish," the bastard mutters. "Can't leave you here all night. Come on."
He pushes me into his staircase, up a treacherous stone step with two huge holes worn by the feet of a few centuries of students, then I trip over the steep wooden stairs in front of me. They twist round, and get no less steep, so I go up on hands and knees, Richie huffing behind me. We reach a landing, where I pull myself up onto a wee bay window seat overlooking the front court. His laundry basket is sitting on the ancient oak next to me.
"Don't even think of puking on my clean clothes," he growls. "One more flight. You can make it."
I get the impression he'd prefer to hurl me down the stairs, so I keep climbing. There's two doors at the top, the landing about three feet square. He reaches around me, unlocks the door, which is hobbit-sized. I fall in through the doorway, and down two steps the bastard didn't warn me about.
"Ah, fuck."
"They left the gravity switched on again? It's terrible, how that happens. No, I'm not leaving you in my bedroom; keep going to the lounge. There's more of them sneaky steps, don't say I didn't warn you this time."
The doorway is six feet in front of me, two steps up, and -- I notice these ones -- two down on the other side. There's an armchair just beyond that, so I collapse into it in relief. I could sleep here.
I'm guessing the noises are Richie putting his laundry away, the anal-retentive twat, shoving drawers closed, so it's a couple minutes before he appears, shoving a large plastic glass of water at my face. No sense of personal space, Rich hasn't got.
I take the water before he tips it over me -- he just might, he's that sort of cunt.
"Drink it, then."
Like I wouldn't. I knock it back. You need water with booze. Pint for pint, that's my mantra, though I hear some people think that means pints of beer, not spirits. "Ta."
"Right. I was going to make toast. You want some?"
"Wouldn't mind."
"I'll take that as a yes. Marmalade, Marmite, or just butter?"
I concentrate on the question. "A scrape of Marmite, if you would." I'm not a fan of sweet stuff.
He nods. Then I see him pulling out a toaster on a tray, which he places on a table next to the kettle.
"Ha! I knew it! Toaster in a cupboard!" I'm killing myself, laughing. He doesn't get it.
"The housekeeper doesn't allow heating appliances. Except kettles, under duress, on trays. Shut it, you. It's not that fucking funny."
"Is! Uptight wanker keeps his toaster in the cupboard!" I manage to calm myself. I suppose it's funnier if you're from Northern Ireland. I have a college mate, from across the divide, who hotly denied ever doing any such thing, though he let on his gran tidies hers away each night. I
knew
it wasn't an urban myth.
Rich shakes his head, jabs a middle finger up at me, and plonks two slices of sliced white on a flowery plate. He's generous with the butter, applies Marmite sensibly. "Here you go. Line your stomach."
"Tcheers." It's a difficult word to say, around my uncooperative tongue. "How's yourself, then? Laundry on a Friday night? What a hobby! You've not got a thriving social life, nor a shag, eh?"
I steel myself for getting beaten up, as happens so much when I let my mouth run off. But Richie's a sound bloke beneath his bluster, so he'll probably just swear at me.
