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21 Kasım 2022, 10:42
Nothing is what it seems
Dedicated to tampabayed
*
"Sorry, Eddie. That's just the way it is. Buck up, you'll get over it." He smiled like a poker player, no humor. "You'll find another cock to suck."
"Chucky! Don't leave me!"
When Ed heard the restroom door close behind his ex-lover, he pulled the stall door shut, put his head down on his knees, and cried. For one shining, glorious, but short time, he had been in safe haven.
He raised his head and stared at the green metal door. Nobody loved him. I can say that in cold blood. Nobody loves me. He wiped his eyes with a square of toilet paper. The fucking black Porsche!
-==(^)==-
The gardener back home was a bad-tempered black man who delighted in treating his boss's kid like shit. Once he found the kid was queer, he pushed the kid, even though he was 18 and should've had more self-respect, into such shameless acts the the poor kid was bound to be caught.
One day Ed's father saw him sucking the gardener's big, black cock. The Gates of Hell opened.
His father knocked him to the floor, giving him a black eye. "Obnoxious little shit, what possessed you to suck the gardener's nasty cock??"
Dazed, confused, barely conscious, Ed gasped the only thing that seemed to make sense: "Had--big cock..."
"Big cock! Why, you disgusting little faggot, you make me sick!" He tromped out of the room, leaving Ed crouched on the floor. Crying.
The "socially presentable" solution, three days later, was to send Ed off to the St. Nieve Academy, a military college deep in the woods of New England. "No queer is going to ruin my reputation in this neighborhood!"
His father fixed everything. Poured money on them, and Ed was accepted. He had a parting kiss: a black Porsche Boxster. "You'll need your own car now, fairy. They call a black Porsche 'the car for guys with little peters.' Perfect for you." He threw the keys at Ed and stormed back into the house, slamming doors.
Ed mournfully stuffed his belongings in the little car--as much as would fit--and drove away. He stopped at a gas station and bought a map.
He looked down at the car and sighed. His days as an acknowledged member of the family would last only to graduation from St. Nieve. After that he would be on his own.
For miles the black Porsche was a traffic hazard, weaving back and forth as if its windshield were covered with rain. Nobody loves me. His mother hadn't said a word in his defense. Nobody loves me. He hadn't heard from his older sister in years. Nobody loves me.
Fucking car! He stomped the accelerator and discovered the surprising acceleration, soon becoming a road hazard of another sort at 120mph for several miles until, sobbing again, he gave up the idea of closing the chapter against a tree. With my luck, I'd probably live.
The black Porsche was not a wimpy little fag. It was scary fast. Nothing is as it seems. My father--"Loving" Dad. Nothing is as it seems. He passed the city boundary. "Thanks for visiting East Hills, the friendly community!"
Friendly, my ass. Nothing is as it seems.
Finally driving with moderation, Connecticut far behind, Ed sorted through his memories. Am I really a faggot?
Ed had a few girlfriends in high school, but--he pursed his lips--when they discovered that he considered them girl Friends (and their virginities were safe), they looked for other men with whom their hymens were more in danger.
-==(^)==-</p>
The St. Nieve Academy was once a Revolutionary War fort in the wildest of the northern woods. Ed reached the place as the sun was setting.
He looked from side to side into the dark woods, wondering where the bloody battles took place centuries ago. Changing trade routes and population left St. Nieve behind, and it passed into obscurity, back to primeval wilderness, an ancient relic. As Ed passed under the ancient gate--Jeez, a drawbridge!--he read the plaque overhead: "1725."
A grim quasi-prison for the wayward sons of wealthy families, St. Nieve's certification as a college was lipstick on a pig. Ed was not being rewarded for anything. St. Nieve was not a welcome gift.
Rather poorly lit, the campus was a mass of trees and vegetation. Ed's car wound and screeched around curves on a tortuous road skirting groves and huge oaks. Far enough from the highway to mute the roar of passing trucks, St. Nieve Academy was a somber, silent place. My favorite color: gray rock.
Only slightly lighter than the moss, lichens, and thorny vines that covered them, the buildings of St. Nieve were the actual granite blocks of the ancient fort--crumbling stone castles with crenellated walls and slit-windows for sharpshooters with muskets. The tree-leaf canopy was such an umbrella over the place, even at midday, sunlight was only a dull glow. By 5:00 p.m. the place was nearly dark.
In a final act Ankara escort (http://ankaraceyiz.com/) of defiance, Ed pulled the little-peter car to the side of the road, pulled open his zipper, and commenced to jack off. A few spots of cum on the Porsche's carpet would be a final fuck-you to his father and a symbol of spite to the cursed car.
But he couldn't. No squeezes, no manipulations, no replays of his horniest fantasies gave him a hardon. After several frustrating minutes, he leaned back, panting, tears in his eyes.
So it's true. Little peter. I own a Little Peter Car. He smiled bitterly in the darkness, staring through the windshield at the lights of the main building. When I sign in at St. Nieve, they won't know their new cadet is impotent. Nothing is as it seems. He bowed his head. The black Porsche is right.
After parking, he looked back. The car blended into the background, almost invisible. Just like me.
But the car was a visible symbol: Owner Has Little Peter.
-==(^)==-</p>
Ed walked into the registrar's office, signed papers, gave credit card numbers, got his uniforms, and was handed a card with his room number. 9. Of course. It's like they knew I was coming.
He met his three roommates, three big, tattooed "dudes" with drug problems. Why am I always the smallest guy? They showed him how to wear the garish St. Nieve uniform. Styled after Revolutionary War uniforms, it reminded Ed of a circus ringmaster. God, am I glad this place is back in the woods. They taught him the protocols of the place: "Everybody is known as 'Mister.' No using first names." Weird!
As days went by and Ed drove from his barracks to the mess hall across campus and back, he became known, to his disgust, as "the guy with the black Porsche."
As a "fan" of those with something between their legs--the thing "handy to have on a picnic," Ed had a certain talent. At least I can give blowjobs, maybe score a fuck from time to time. Don't need a hardon to do that.
He began to wonder about his three roommates as partners. But after three attempts, he found himself with a fat lip twice and a bloody nose. What is wrong with me? Am I from another planet??
Driven by his natural human needs (no matter how "unnatural") Ed finally found success: Mr. Charles "Chucky" Sezche, one of St. Nieve Academy's baseball stars. Ed timidly approached the guy in the restroom--muttering softly that he admired Mr. Sezche's play, loved to watch him pitch, was a big fan, and (even softer) that he would like to "suck your cock."
Then Ed cringed, expecting a slug in the face.
But to his delight, the big jock turned around from the urinal, cock in hand, and offered it to him. Kneeling gratefully, Ed gave him the best blowjob he knew how, straining to make it a thrilling experience.
When he sat back on his heels, watching the big pitcher falling back against the wall in ecstasy, Ed swilled the cum around in his mouth. Nutty flavor. Good stuff And Ed felt a climax growing in his balls! He looked down: a hardon! He, too, fell backward, his cock spouting long pent-up passion, out of his mind with pleasure! My cock! Chucky got me my hardon back!
He and Sezche were "a thing" for a few months, and Ed was in heaven. Whenever he pleased Sezche, he got his own orgasm and a reminder that his cock still worked. He loved Sezche's sperm; it tasted like crushed almonds in saltwater. The healthy pitcher was everything Ed admired: tall, handsome, athletic, a winner in every way.
Other guys looked up to Mr. Sezche, women threw themselves at his feet (anything to become Mrs. Sezche)--and Ed gloated: Chucky lets me suck his cock every day.
He put a For Sale sign on the Porsche, a price almost giving it away. Fuck you, Little Peter Car.
-==(^)==-</p>
It didn't sell, though, and when Sezche's graduation drew near--with preparations to move on to a professional baseball career--he dumped Ed behind him like the foil wrapper from a condom.
Dabbing at his eyes yet again, Ed stood up, opened the stall door, and walked out. He knew of only one solution: find another cock to suck. I can't get it up without somebody to suck. He sneered. Nobody would guess that to look at me. Nothing is as it seems. He took the sign out of the Porsche's window and started cruising again.
Mr. Cruikshank was a jock, a football linebacker, who fit the turn-on parameters. When Ed spotted him in the locker room, Ed cursed to himself--Cruikshank had already pulled his underwear. Damn, too late. But he pressed ahead anyway. He sidled up to the big guy. "Can't miss your cock, Cruikshank. You've got a big one."
The big New Yorker slammed Ed against the lockers. "Fairy bastard! Get away from me!"
Ed attempted other come-ons. With no success. "How often is your boy friend plugging you, faggot?"
No longer. He smiled bitterly. Even with a fag, nothing is as it seems.
Mr. Ankara escort bayan (http://ankaraceyiz.com/) Eccles was another jock who fit the bill, a country bumpkin whose father had just discovered oil on the family farm. Mr. Eccles could not quite get used to the arrogance of wealth and wanted to be called "Jimmy." Seemed like a nice guy. Always eager to shake hands. Surely a more understanding sort.
But when Ed told "Jimmy" what services he could provide, Jimmy thought about it, then walked away. Without a word. Thought he'd be easy-going. Nothing is as...
In more desperate ploys, Ed stepped up beside people he didn't know at the urinals and accosted strangers in the showers. Restrooms, locker room, or showers were places where men could appraise each other's equipment without fear of discovery, denunciations, and ridicule.
The last refuges of male nudity, locker rooms and showers were the last places male hunters--who once roamed naked through the New England wilderness armed only with sharpened wood spears--could get together in groups of stripped-down, penis-swinging males.
But even in those last mass-groupings of naked men, Ed could not score. He often sat in the black Porsche fighting back tears, wishing he had the guts to floor it down the hill, across the pier, and into the lake.
Besides fighting depression and driving around miserably soft-cocked in the black curse, Ed had more problems.
He made a point of drinking as much Coca-Cola as possible at lunch, anything to prepare for the after-lunch class. Computers 251 was a real torture session--right after lunch, in a fourth-floor classroom, sunny side of the building, it was like listening to a droning chant in a sauna bath and trying to stay awake.
To fall asleep in a class at St. Nieve was an offense that in earlier years merited a caning. Even "busybody, limp-wristed, spoiled-brat laws" that forbad corporal punishment in schools couldn't save an offender at St. Nieve from a humiliating public scolding and weeks of detention, extra duty, and insults.
So every class with Professor Cozzin was mortal combat. Indeed, blood was often spilled--Ed bit his lip so often and so hard that drops of blood occasionally spattered onto his textbook. He pinched himself so often to keep from falling asleep, his arms were spotted with bruises, earning him sidelong glances and suspicions of being a druggie.
One of the oldest teachers at St. Nieve, at 63 and close to retirement, Professor Cozzin reminded most students of a slender Santa Claus. He had a friendly face and kind eyes.
The problem was that he knew the subject, computer science, but cared little about it--he had not grown up with computers, and to him they were just fads.
Worse, he'd taught the same class again and again for a long time. Years of repetition and a naturally singsong voice turned his classroom presentations into torture sessions. A platoon of men with full stomachs, sharing the heat from the sunlight streaming through the windows and their own body heat soon drifted off, eyes half-shut, in dreams of a sauna bath listening to soft, relaxing sounds of ocean surf. Cozzin's classes were always roomfuls of zombies.
Staying truly awake was barely possible and then only for the truly determined. "And so you see, class, repetitions of the same phrase can be done with the so-called 'for loop.'" Even the scratch of his chalk on the blackboard was sleep-inducing:
for i=1 to x)
printf("Hello");</p>
"You see," the voice droned on, "'for i equals 1 to x,' in this case five, will repeat the 'printf' phrase--'Hello'--five times..."
Ed kept snapping awake, jogged back to consciousness as his head dropped to his chest.
In spite of the sleep-deprivation torture, Ed liked Professor Cozzin. He did not have the Santa Claus pot-belly but neither was he skinny like most other professors.
About six feet tall, his physique was hard to judge, really. The three-piece suit and baggy tweed trousers allowed only approximations of his build, and the flowing black professor's gown he wore in St. Nieve's tribute to English Public Schools made Professor Cozzin shapeless from the neck down.
Almost as a rite of passage, Ed was finally caught sleeping in class, and after the usual insults and teasing, he was assigned hours in detention class in the library.
In one detention period, Professor Cozzin was the monitor, and because detention was less formal, he had shrugged off his black robe and laid it over the back of a chair. He also removed his coat.
Underneath all the tweed, he was a little more broad-shouldered than Ed had thought. Not bad for a man his age. Nothing is what it seems. Ed turned back to his homework.
The heat in the room was unbearable, and Professor Cozzin unbuttoned his vest and removed it. Interesting. So his torso was not as fat as had been thought. Removing layers Escort Ankara (http://ankaraceyiz.com/) of wool revealed the professor to be very healthy, in fact. Not a weightlifter, but certainly not as gaunt as many of the other teachers.
After an hour or so, Professor Cozzin left the room, and Ed thought no more about him. Still later, Ed took the hall pass and walked to the nearby restroom. As he stepped inside, he saw a faculty member at one of the urinals. Wow, looks like Cozzin. Without looking at him, Ed stepped up to the next urinal.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tampaya."
Ed blinked--no one ever spoke while pissing. "Afternoon," he muttered.
Nothing happened, but Ed was nervous. As the professor turned to leave, though, Ed couldn't resist one quick glance. My god. Goose-bumps prickled over the back of his neck.
He remained standing at the urinal as he heard water splashing in the basin behind him. That can't have been right. That wasn't his dick.
Later, when the professor was gone, and Ed washed his own hands at the basin, he rewound the sight: Old men don't have big cocks like that!
But it was a monster. Big as his arm.
Maybe it was his arm!
All the way down there?
But he was turning away. Maybe the angle, the perspective made it look like his cock.
An old man doesn't have a big cock. Even if he once did, he no longer has the energy or the blood pressure to inflate it.
Ed walked out of the restroom, his head buzzing. Professor Cozzin has a 10-inch cock as wide as his computer mouse!
He does not have a cock bigger than 98% of the population, especially at his age!
Yes, he does!
Back in the detention room, Ed found himself with a hardon. Damn!! and the two arguments in his head went on--You've got a hardon for the professor and his big dick!
Ridiculous! It's warm, I'm relaxed, and I'm comfortable in this upholstered chair. What's unusual about getting a relaxation stiffy?
Impotent asshole, you are under the curse of the black Porsche--and you are hot for a wrinkled old man!
At the end of the class, the students moved hurriedly to get away from the shameful room, but as Ed passed the teacher's desk, the white-bearded man beckoned him closer. "Mr. Tampaya, would you remain for a moment?"
He gulped. Now what?
When the last students had gone, the old man stood up from the desk. "I perceive that you, Mr. Tampaya, are one of the few students we get at St. Nieve who has a predilection for the artistic."
What?? "Oh, I don't know--yeah, maybe."
"Yes, maybe."
"Yes, maybe. Yes, maybe I do." Ed happened "by coincidence" to glance down at the professor's lap. My god, is that a tent?
No, it's just a bunching-up of thick wool cloth.
No, look at that! It's a cock. Ed blinked. He dresses left.
Ed followed the professor out of the room, into the main library, and into the racks of books. Down an aisle almost to the wall, Professor Cozzin pulled down a very old volume and carried it to a study carrel.
The book had a cover of old, time-ravaged leather, but it had once been a magnificent work of art: "Male Illustrations."
Carefully opening the huge volume, the professor turned the pages to line drawings of the nude male. The erotic pictures progressed from one angle to another, ever more lascivious until finally showing an incredibly stimulating painting of Icarus, his wax wings melting away near the sun, falling headfirst to earth completely naked, his arms and legs flailing--along with a phallus so magnificent, the book was on the academy's proscribed list.
Although the illustration could have been a careful depiction of the effects of gravity and centrifugal motion, Ed swallowed hard, suddenly wishing for an open window and some fresh air.
At that moment Ed spotted the professor adjusting himself, swiveling that big cock in the confines of his wool trousers. That's not what he's doing! He's adjusting the cloth; maybe has a wedgie or something.
But Ed was horny. His thoughts recalled Chucky Sezche, and his butt-hole itched. Staring at the erotic painting, he daydreamed of Chucky in hotter moods, plowing his dong into Ed, grunting obscenities to him, "Fucking cum-slut, you'd have my kid if you could!"
Ed sighed. His cock had swelled fully hard again--Fuck you, Porsche--and he, too, had to reach down to adjust himself out of an uncomfortable prick-twist.
When he looked up, his eyes locked straight into those of Santa Claus. "You appear to me, Mr. Tampaya, to be one possessed with exotic"--he paused--"appetites."
"But--but you're older than my father!"
Ed's knees were weak. The whole fucking world was crashing down around him. Professor Cozzin, MA, PhD, stood before him with his zipper pulled down, his fly open, and his obscene, old-man penis stuck out, sagging heavily but swelling, growing as Ed stared in horror.
"No, you're an old man!"
"Mr. Tampaya, you strike me as a young man with a particular penchant"--Cozzin smiled, more chills up Ed's back. "You are aroused only when you're defiled, sickened. When you hate yourself."
Dedicated to tampabayed
*
"Sorry, Eddie. That's just the way it is. Buck up, you'll get over it." He smiled like a poker player, no humor. "You'll find another cock to suck."
"Chucky! Don't leave me!"
When Ed heard the restroom door close behind his ex-lover, he pulled the stall door shut, put his head down on his knees, and cried. For one shining, glorious, but short time, he had been in safe haven.
He raised his head and stared at the green metal door. Nobody loved him. I can say that in cold blood. Nobody loves me. He wiped his eyes with a square of toilet paper. The fucking black Porsche!
-==(^)==-
The gardener back home was a bad-tempered black man who delighted in treating his boss's kid like shit. Once he found the kid was queer, he pushed the kid, even though he was 18 and should've had more self-respect, into such shameless acts the the poor kid was bound to be caught.
One day Ed's father saw him sucking the gardener's big, black cock. The Gates of Hell opened.
His father knocked him to the floor, giving him a black eye. "Obnoxious little shit, what possessed you to suck the gardener's nasty cock??"
Dazed, confused, barely conscious, Ed gasped the only thing that seemed to make sense: "Had--big cock..."
"Big cock! Why, you disgusting little faggot, you make me sick!" He tromped out of the room, leaving Ed crouched on the floor. Crying.
The "socially presentable" solution, three days later, was to send Ed off to the St. Nieve Academy, a military college deep in the woods of New England. "No queer is going to ruin my reputation in this neighborhood!"
His father fixed everything. Poured money on them, and Ed was accepted. He had a parting kiss: a black Porsche Boxster. "You'll need your own car now, fairy. They call a black Porsche 'the car for guys with little peters.' Perfect for you." He threw the keys at Ed and stormed back into the house, slamming doors.
Ed mournfully stuffed his belongings in the little car--as much as would fit--and drove away. He stopped at a gas station and bought a map.
He looked down at the car and sighed. His days as an acknowledged member of the family would last only to graduation from St. Nieve. After that he would be on his own.
For miles the black Porsche was a traffic hazard, weaving back and forth as if its windshield were covered with rain. Nobody loves me. His mother hadn't said a word in his defense. Nobody loves me. He hadn't heard from his older sister in years. Nobody loves me.
Fucking car! He stomped the accelerator and discovered the surprising acceleration, soon becoming a road hazard of another sort at 120mph for several miles until, sobbing again, he gave up the idea of closing the chapter against a tree. With my luck, I'd probably live.
The black Porsche was not a wimpy little fag. It was scary fast. Nothing is as it seems. My father--"Loving" Dad. Nothing is as it seems. He passed the city boundary. "Thanks for visiting East Hills, the friendly community!"
Friendly, my ass. Nothing is as it seems.
Finally driving with moderation, Connecticut far behind, Ed sorted through his memories. Am I really a faggot?
Ed had a few girlfriends in high school, but--he pursed his lips--when they discovered that he considered them girl Friends (and their virginities were safe), they looked for other men with whom their hymens were more in danger.
-==(^)==-</p>
The St. Nieve Academy was once a Revolutionary War fort in the wildest of the northern woods. Ed reached the place as the sun was setting.
He looked from side to side into the dark woods, wondering where the bloody battles took place centuries ago. Changing trade routes and population left St. Nieve behind, and it passed into obscurity, back to primeval wilderness, an ancient relic. As Ed passed under the ancient gate--Jeez, a drawbridge!--he read the plaque overhead: "1725."
A grim quasi-prison for the wayward sons of wealthy families, St. Nieve's certification as a college was lipstick on a pig. Ed was not being rewarded for anything. St. Nieve was not a welcome gift.
Rather poorly lit, the campus was a mass of trees and vegetation. Ed's car wound and screeched around curves on a tortuous road skirting groves and huge oaks. Far enough from the highway to mute the roar of passing trucks, St. Nieve Academy was a somber, silent place. My favorite color: gray rock.
Only slightly lighter than the moss, lichens, and thorny vines that covered them, the buildings of St. Nieve were the actual granite blocks of the ancient fort--crumbling stone castles with crenellated walls and slit-windows for sharpshooters with muskets. The tree-leaf canopy was such an umbrella over the place, even at midday, sunlight was only a dull glow. By 5:00 p.m. the place was nearly dark.
In a final act Ankara escort (http://ankaraceyiz.com/) of defiance, Ed pulled the little-peter car to the side of the road, pulled open his zipper, and commenced to jack off. A few spots of cum on the Porsche's carpet would be a final fuck-you to his father and a symbol of spite to the cursed car.
But he couldn't. No squeezes, no manipulations, no replays of his horniest fantasies gave him a hardon. After several frustrating minutes, he leaned back, panting, tears in his eyes.
So it's true. Little peter. I own a Little Peter Car. He smiled bitterly in the darkness, staring through the windshield at the lights of the main building. When I sign in at St. Nieve, they won't know their new cadet is impotent. Nothing is as it seems. He bowed his head. The black Porsche is right.
After parking, he looked back. The car blended into the background, almost invisible. Just like me.
But the car was a visible symbol: Owner Has Little Peter.
-==(^)==-</p>
Ed walked into the registrar's office, signed papers, gave credit card numbers, got his uniforms, and was handed a card with his room number. 9. Of course. It's like they knew I was coming.
He met his three roommates, three big, tattooed "dudes" with drug problems. Why am I always the smallest guy? They showed him how to wear the garish St. Nieve uniform. Styled after Revolutionary War uniforms, it reminded Ed of a circus ringmaster. God, am I glad this place is back in the woods. They taught him the protocols of the place: "Everybody is known as 'Mister.' No using first names." Weird!
As days went by and Ed drove from his barracks to the mess hall across campus and back, he became known, to his disgust, as "the guy with the black Porsche."
As a "fan" of those with something between their legs--the thing "handy to have on a picnic," Ed had a certain talent. At least I can give blowjobs, maybe score a fuck from time to time. Don't need a hardon to do that.
He began to wonder about his three roommates as partners. But after three attempts, he found himself with a fat lip twice and a bloody nose. What is wrong with me? Am I from another planet??
Driven by his natural human needs (no matter how "unnatural") Ed finally found success: Mr. Charles "Chucky" Sezche, one of St. Nieve Academy's baseball stars. Ed timidly approached the guy in the restroom--muttering softly that he admired Mr. Sezche's play, loved to watch him pitch, was a big fan, and (even softer) that he would like to "suck your cock."
Then Ed cringed, expecting a slug in the face.
But to his delight, the big jock turned around from the urinal, cock in hand, and offered it to him. Kneeling gratefully, Ed gave him the best blowjob he knew how, straining to make it a thrilling experience.
When he sat back on his heels, watching the big pitcher falling back against the wall in ecstasy, Ed swilled the cum around in his mouth. Nutty flavor. Good stuff And Ed felt a climax growing in his balls! He looked down: a hardon! He, too, fell backward, his cock spouting long pent-up passion, out of his mind with pleasure! My cock! Chucky got me my hardon back!
He and Sezche were "a thing" for a few months, and Ed was in heaven. Whenever he pleased Sezche, he got his own orgasm and a reminder that his cock still worked. He loved Sezche's sperm; it tasted like crushed almonds in saltwater. The healthy pitcher was everything Ed admired: tall, handsome, athletic, a winner in every way.
Other guys looked up to Mr. Sezche, women threw themselves at his feet (anything to become Mrs. Sezche)--and Ed gloated: Chucky lets me suck his cock every day.
He put a For Sale sign on the Porsche, a price almost giving it away. Fuck you, Little Peter Car.
-==(^)==-</p>
It didn't sell, though, and when Sezche's graduation drew near--with preparations to move on to a professional baseball career--he dumped Ed behind him like the foil wrapper from a condom.
Dabbing at his eyes yet again, Ed stood up, opened the stall door, and walked out. He knew of only one solution: find another cock to suck. I can't get it up without somebody to suck. He sneered. Nobody would guess that to look at me. Nothing is as it seems. He took the sign out of the Porsche's window and started cruising again.
Mr. Cruikshank was a jock, a football linebacker, who fit the turn-on parameters. When Ed spotted him in the locker room, Ed cursed to himself--Cruikshank had already pulled his underwear. Damn, too late. But he pressed ahead anyway. He sidled up to the big guy. "Can't miss your cock, Cruikshank. You've got a big one."
The big New Yorker slammed Ed against the lockers. "Fairy bastard! Get away from me!"
Ed attempted other come-ons. With no success. "How often is your boy friend plugging you, faggot?"
No longer. He smiled bitterly. Even with a fag, nothing is as it seems.
Mr. Ankara escort bayan (http://ankaraceyiz.com/) Eccles was another jock who fit the bill, a country bumpkin whose father had just discovered oil on the family farm. Mr. Eccles could not quite get used to the arrogance of wealth and wanted to be called "Jimmy." Seemed like a nice guy. Always eager to shake hands. Surely a more understanding sort.
But when Ed told "Jimmy" what services he could provide, Jimmy thought about it, then walked away. Without a word. Thought he'd be easy-going. Nothing is as...
In more desperate ploys, Ed stepped up beside people he didn't know at the urinals and accosted strangers in the showers. Restrooms, locker room, or showers were places where men could appraise each other's equipment without fear of discovery, denunciations, and ridicule.
The last refuges of male nudity, locker rooms and showers were the last places male hunters--who once roamed naked through the New England wilderness armed only with sharpened wood spears--could get together in groups of stripped-down, penis-swinging males.
But even in those last mass-groupings of naked men, Ed could not score. He often sat in the black Porsche fighting back tears, wishing he had the guts to floor it down the hill, across the pier, and into the lake.
Besides fighting depression and driving around miserably soft-cocked in the black curse, Ed had more problems.
He made a point of drinking as much Coca-Cola as possible at lunch, anything to prepare for the after-lunch class. Computers 251 was a real torture session--right after lunch, in a fourth-floor classroom, sunny side of the building, it was like listening to a droning chant in a sauna bath and trying to stay awake.
To fall asleep in a class at St. Nieve was an offense that in earlier years merited a caning. Even "busybody, limp-wristed, spoiled-brat laws" that forbad corporal punishment in schools couldn't save an offender at St. Nieve from a humiliating public scolding and weeks of detention, extra duty, and insults.
So every class with Professor Cozzin was mortal combat. Indeed, blood was often spilled--Ed bit his lip so often and so hard that drops of blood occasionally spattered onto his textbook. He pinched himself so often to keep from falling asleep, his arms were spotted with bruises, earning him sidelong glances and suspicions of being a druggie.
One of the oldest teachers at St. Nieve, at 63 and close to retirement, Professor Cozzin reminded most students of a slender Santa Claus. He had a friendly face and kind eyes.
The problem was that he knew the subject, computer science, but cared little about it--he had not grown up with computers, and to him they were just fads.
Worse, he'd taught the same class again and again for a long time. Years of repetition and a naturally singsong voice turned his classroom presentations into torture sessions. A platoon of men with full stomachs, sharing the heat from the sunlight streaming through the windows and their own body heat soon drifted off, eyes half-shut, in dreams of a sauna bath listening to soft, relaxing sounds of ocean surf. Cozzin's classes were always roomfuls of zombies.
Staying truly awake was barely possible and then only for the truly determined. "And so you see, class, repetitions of the same phrase can be done with the so-called 'for loop.'" Even the scratch of his chalk on the blackboard was sleep-inducing:
for i=1 to x)
printf("Hello");</p>
"You see," the voice droned on, "'for i equals 1 to x,' in this case five, will repeat the 'printf' phrase--'Hello'--five times..."
Ed kept snapping awake, jogged back to consciousness as his head dropped to his chest.
In spite of the sleep-deprivation torture, Ed liked Professor Cozzin. He did not have the Santa Claus pot-belly but neither was he skinny like most other professors.
About six feet tall, his physique was hard to judge, really. The three-piece suit and baggy tweed trousers allowed only approximations of his build, and the flowing black professor's gown he wore in St. Nieve's tribute to English Public Schools made Professor Cozzin shapeless from the neck down.
Almost as a rite of passage, Ed was finally caught sleeping in class, and after the usual insults and teasing, he was assigned hours in detention class in the library.
In one detention period, Professor Cozzin was the monitor, and because detention was less formal, he had shrugged off his black robe and laid it over the back of a chair. He also removed his coat.
Underneath all the tweed, he was a little more broad-shouldered than Ed had thought. Not bad for a man his age. Nothing is what it seems. Ed turned back to his homework.
The heat in the room was unbearable, and Professor Cozzin unbuttoned his vest and removed it. Interesting. So his torso was not as fat as had been thought. Removing layers Escort Ankara (http://ankaraceyiz.com/) of wool revealed the professor to be very healthy, in fact. Not a weightlifter, but certainly not as gaunt as many of the other teachers.
After an hour or so, Professor Cozzin left the room, and Ed thought no more about him. Still later, Ed took the hall pass and walked to the nearby restroom. As he stepped inside, he saw a faculty member at one of the urinals. Wow, looks like Cozzin. Without looking at him, Ed stepped up to the next urinal.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tampaya."
Ed blinked--no one ever spoke while pissing. "Afternoon," he muttered.
Nothing happened, but Ed was nervous. As the professor turned to leave, though, Ed couldn't resist one quick glance. My god. Goose-bumps prickled over the back of his neck.
He remained standing at the urinal as he heard water splashing in the basin behind him. That can't have been right. That wasn't his dick.
Later, when the professor was gone, and Ed washed his own hands at the basin, he rewound the sight: Old men don't have big cocks like that!
But it was a monster. Big as his arm.
Maybe it was his arm!
All the way down there?
But he was turning away. Maybe the angle, the perspective made it look like his cock.
An old man doesn't have a big cock. Even if he once did, he no longer has the energy or the blood pressure to inflate it.
Ed walked out of the restroom, his head buzzing. Professor Cozzin has a 10-inch cock as wide as his computer mouse!
He does not have a cock bigger than 98% of the population, especially at his age!
Yes, he does!
Back in the detention room, Ed found himself with a hardon. Damn!! and the two arguments in his head went on--You've got a hardon for the professor and his big dick!
Ridiculous! It's warm, I'm relaxed, and I'm comfortable in this upholstered chair. What's unusual about getting a relaxation stiffy?
Impotent asshole, you are under the curse of the black Porsche--and you are hot for a wrinkled old man!
At the end of the class, the students moved hurriedly to get away from the shameful room, but as Ed passed the teacher's desk, the white-bearded man beckoned him closer. "Mr. Tampaya, would you remain for a moment?"
He gulped. Now what?
When the last students had gone, the old man stood up from the desk. "I perceive that you, Mr. Tampaya, are one of the few students we get at St. Nieve who has a predilection for the artistic."
What?? "Oh, I don't know--yeah, maybe."
"Yes, maybe."
"Yes, maybe. Yes, maybe I do." Ed happened "by coincidence" to glance down at the professor's lap. My god, is that a tent?
No, it's just a bunching-up of thick wool cloth.
No, look at that! It's a cock. Ed blinked. He dresses left.
Ed followed the professor out of the room, into the main library, and into the racks of books. Down an aisle almost to the wall, Professor Cozzin pulled down a very old volume and carried it to a study carrel.
The book had a cover of old, time-ravaged leather, but it had once been a magnificent work of art: "Male Illustrations."
Carefully opening the huge volume, the professor turned the pages to line drawings of the nude male. The erotic pictures progressed from one angle to another, ever more lascivious until finally showing an incredibly stimulating painting of Icarus, his wax wings melting away near the sun, falling headfirst to earth completely naked, his arms and legs flailing--along with a phallus so magnificent, the book was on the academy's proscribed list.
Although the illustration could have been a careful depiction of the effects of gravity and centrifugal motion, Ed swallowed hard, suddenly wishing for an open window and some fresh air.
At that moment Ed spotted the professor adjusting himself, swiveling that big cock in the confines of his wool trousers. That's not what he's doing! He's adjusting the cloth; maybe has a wedgie or something.
But Ed was horny. His thoughts recalled Chucky Sezche, and his butt-hole itched. Staring at the erotic painting, he daydreamed of Chucky in hotter moods, plowing his dong into Ed, grunting obscenities to him, "Fucking cum-slut, you'd have my kid if you could!"
Ed sighed. His cock had swelled fully hard again--Fuck you, Porsche--and he, too, had to reach down to adjust himself out of an uncomfortable prick-twist.
When he looked up, his eyes locked straight into those of Santa Claus. "You appear to me, Mr. Tampaya, to be one possessed with exotic"--he paused--"appetites."
"But--but you're older than my father!"
Ed's knees were weak. The whole fucking world was crashing down around him. Professor Cozzin, MA, PhD, stood before him with his zipper pulled down, his fly open, and his obscene, old-man penis stuck out, sagging heavily but swelling, growing as Ed stared in horror.
"No, you're an old man!"
"Mr. Tampaya, you strike me as a young man with a particular penchant"--Cozzin smiled, more chills up Ed's back. "You are aroused only when you're defiled, sickened. When you hate yourself."