I walked home from Donnie's house, running his words of praise over in my mind: "That was nice, fagboy. You did good." He'd really meant it, I thought, and I smiled. I could still taste his sperm in my mouth. I laughed to my self giddily, looking up at the night sky. I was a happy faggot!
Lying in bed later, I replayed the evening. I loved especially the image of his ballsack hanging inches above my face, and the crack of his ass just behind it. I had wanted to kiss his ass then, but just wasn't bold enough. Maybe another time. But would there be one? He had said that I was a good cocksucker. Surely, he would allow me another chance to pleasure him. I masturbated twice with the image of Donnie's haughty, smirking face in my mind's eye, before falling into a deep sleep.
I didn't see Donnie for several days, though I scoured the areas of campus that he frequented. I didn't waste my time at home. The day after being with Donnie, I went to a sex store, a porn place. There I perused a shelf displaying cocks made of silicone. I chose one that best resembled Donnie's. It had a nice, big head and veins running its length, though they were not nearly as beautiful and intricate as his.
At home I honed my skills. I always stripped naked and knelt for these practice sessions. I watched women on web pornsites giving head, and I got many good ideas from them. I felt a kinship with women in general, and when I passed one on the street, I thought - 'she loves cock, too'.
One day, at the food court of the town shopping mall, I wrote a simple declaration on a piece of paper, folded it, and left it on one of the tables. I then went to a nearby table and waited. Once or twice it was ignored, but then a middle-aged woman carrying shopping bags sat there with a cup of coffee. She scanned the room and sipped from her cup. At one point, she picked up the paper and unfolded it. She read the words there:
I am a cocksucking faggot.
She got up abruptly, leaving her coffee. The look on her face as she read gave me a wicked kind of thrill. 'That's right, lady' I thought, 'There are men out there who like nothing better than to get down on their knees and get a mouthful of cock'.
Two days later, I did see Donnie. He was leaving a classroom, and he noticed me standing nearby. He walked past me.
"Tomorrow at ten." he said, not stopping.
I watched him walk away. The day was cool, and he wore a black leather coat with a black and blue checkered scarf. As he proceeded down the hall, a pretty young woman approached him, and he put his arm around her shoulder. Men like that, I thought as they walked away together, ones with that animal magnetism, would have doors opened for them throughout all their lives. As for me, I would simply follow behind, hoping for a crumb of their attention.
On the appointed night, I arrived ten minutes early. I walked around the block, not wanting to seem that I was loitering. When I rang the doorbell, the same young woman answered.
"Hey, come on in. Donnie's waiting upstairs."
She extended a hand. "My name's Birch."
"Conrad. I'm Conrad." I said.
She was barefoot and wore well-worn bluejeans. Through the 'fashionable' holes in the leg fabric, I saw smooth, tanned skin. Above lively green eyes speckled with bits of bronze, her ash blonde hair, cut short, was cutely disheveled.
"Well, let's go see Donnie." she said, and headed up the stairs. Her escorting me upstairs threw me a bit. We arrived at his door, and she knocked.
"Yoo, hoo! Let us in, big shot." Birch said loudly. There was movement beyond the door.
"He likes to keep us on tenterhooks, whatever the fuck that means." she said, turning to me. "I mean, just what is a tenter..."
The door opened, and we looked into the room to see Donnie, in underpants and tee shirt, walking towards the bed.
"Well, get your asses in here." he said, flopping down. The air smelled of pot. The bedclothes were strewn about on top of the bed. The room wasn't a total mess, but one could see that Donnie didn't put a high premium on housekeeping. As I entered and looked around, I wondered iff there were some of his worn underwear thrown into a corner somewhere. The thought aroused me.
"Hi, Donnie." I said, feeling very happy to be in his room once again.
"Hey there, fagboy. Have a seat, both of you. Relax." he said. "How about a drink?"
"Put me down for one." Birch said as she sat on the edge of the bed. She rested a hand on Donnie's leg.
Birch turned to me as I settled into the armchair.
"So, Conrad. I can't go calling you fagboy." she said, and began rubbing Donnie's thigh.
"I guess it's alright to call me fagboy, if you like."
"Okay. I'll consider it an option. You don't mind it? Being called that?"
"I like it when Donnie does. He gave me the name. And, well... it's what I am." I said, feeling embarrassed saying this to a cute young woman.
Donnie got up from the bed and prepared our drinks. When he stood, I could plainly see that he was becoming erect, and my mouth began to water. Birch seemed to notice my looking at him.
"So, you like dick, right?" she said, breaking up a marijuana bud and loading the pipe on the table.
"I've had girlfriends." I said defensively. It was hard to admit to myself that I really wasn't the normal guy I once believed I was.
""But what you really like is cock. At least that's what Donnie tells me." she said, then fired up the bowl.
Hearing that Donnie had talked about me, describing me as a cocksucker, aroused me, and I found all I wanted to do was drop all pretense of being straight, of being normal, and own up to being a born faggot, and, so I was beginning to discover, loving it.
"That's right." I said, leaning forward to take the pipe from her, "I'm a cocksucker. I love dick."
"Me too." Birch enthused, taking the paper cup of bourbon from Donnie. He brought one over to me, as well.
