Hector

Wow, seems like forever since I've posted anything. Life was pretty busy and then along came the novel coronavirus and got even crazier.

I haven't been able to contact my long-suffering editor, LarryInSeattle -- well before the virus hit. I hope he's well. It took a while to find a replacement.

Say hello to HotandHollow. Needless to say, any errors you find are mine alone.

As usual I'm having trouble with categories. The sex depicted is between two guys, one of whom is bi. So, "Gay Male". As the story progresses, I imagine there will be MF, MFM, hell maybe FMF sex. If you're gay and not interested in sexual depictions including a woman, I'll give you a heads up in the intro.

I hope you enjoy. Please post helpful comments even if negative.

*

I don't expect you to believe me. We've all been taught to beware the unreliable narrator. That's cool. I get it. I lie all the time. Now, before you get all judgey-judgey on me — so do you. Everyone does. I try to keep the lies that hurt to a minimum, but I lie.

I'm not lying about this: I wasn't thinking about anything other than a particularly vexing physics problem. I was staring, true, but I was staring into space, not at him. I mean, come on, I was spinning my pencil around my index finger. It was a classic what-am-I-missing-that-will-solve-this-bitch-of-a-problem posture.

Okay, it's also true that my other hand was squeezing my cock through my shorts, but what nineteen-year-old doesn't play with his dick most of the time? Alright, it is also true I might have been thinking about scenarios not directly related to the particularly vexing physics problem, but these hypothetical scenarios did not involve Hector.

I knew Hector. It was a small school. He was in my physics class. I had noticed him as I looked for a quiet place to study. I'd found an open table and spread out my stuff. It wasn't hard to find an open table. It was a Friday night. I was surprised to see Hector. He was not a nerd. He was an excellent forward, the only freshman on the varsity team. He was also irritatingly intelligent. I prefer my jocks dumb, easy to categorize — to look down on. Not Hector. Professor Myer had yet to ask him a question he hadn't handled as easily as he handled a soccer ball.

I knew Hector but we didn't hang. I didn't do study groups. Anyway, I was staring into space and not at Hector, and while I might have been distracted by random thoughts of hard, spurting cocks, I was not staring at Hector, and I was not squeezing my dick thinking about

his

hard, spurting cock.

Not that he wasn't hot. No, Hector was hot, but he wasn't my type, to the extent a nineteen-year-old nerd has a type. I had only recently, as in the last year, realized that I was bi. I'd dated in high school. A fellow nerd with thick hair, smallish boobs with a ready smile and wicked, if under-stated, wit. We'd had sex in typical nerd fashion. We read about, then found porn depicting sex we thought we might be interested in trying, and then studied them.

Cindy was an amazing kisser. The first time we had intercourse was not as dreadful as we had come to believe to be inevitable. I discovered I liked to eat her out. Everything was pretty okay.

One problem: I had found myself as interested in the hard, spurting cocks in the videos as I was in the boobs and pussies. The nerd approach wouldn't work for this one. I could read all I wanted about how to tell your girlfriend that while you were eating her pussy, you dreamed it was being simultaneously fucked by a hard, spurting cock, that happened to slip out of her pussy and into your mouth.

But none of what I read offered much beyond the old pablum about 'being honest.' That was harder than any physics problem I had yet encountered. We didn't go to the same college after high school. She met someone. I did not meet anyone, and, as with most high school romances, we broke up over Christmas break, still friends. I pushed for some break-up sex but she and Ron had signed some kind of mutual assurance of monogamy so they could fuck without a condom. I reminded her that

we

had fucked without condoms and

I

hadn't dated anyone else. No go.

I went back for the spring semester of my freshman year unfettered. Fat lot of good that did me. I wasn't ready to ask anyone out, especially a dude. But I was leaning more toward

trying

a dude next time. I was curious if — while having regular sex with a bro — I would start dreaming of pussy? To be honest, I was finding that being bi was not as Woody Allen had allegedly quipped, a way to double your chances of getting a date. I had yet to solve what I thought of as the Cindy quandary, how and when to tell a girl you were dating that you were also interested in guys.

So, anyway, yes, I was staring and thinking about cock, with flashes of pussy, and how to calculate the magnetic flux through a given portion of a sphere, but not at Hector or Hector's cock.

He must have thought I was though because when my mind re-engaged with the present, he was staring at me. I jumped a little, blushed, looked down at my book, and let go of my dick. After a minute, I peeked from under my eyelashes, which is usually as obvious as just looking. He was still looking at me. Apparently, my peeking skills were no better than most.

As I peeked, he scooted down in his chair. His movement caused me to look down, a natural reaction, one bred from millennia of self-selection — if sudden movements didn't cause your great-to-the-tenth-power grandfather to look up, he didn't pass on his genes. His shifting in his chair very naturally resulted in me looking down. When I did, he grabbed his cock.

I almost fell out of my chair. I jerked my eyes back to my physics text and tried both to focus on it and convince myself I had been mistaken. There was no way Hector had been staring at me and even less of a chance he'd grabbed his dick when I looked over at him. No way. I tried reading the problem, tried to recall where exactly in my calculations I had lost my way. It didn't work. In the split second I had, in fact, been staring at Hector, someone had stolen my physics textbook and substituted a version written in ancient Sanskrit.

I glanced up and froze in place, unable to look away. His cock was sticking part way out of the leg of his shorts. My mouth dried up. My heart thudded in my ears. Unable to make sense of what I was seeing, I continued to stare.

Hector started stroking his cock. That was enough to break through the stasis engulfing my brain. I shoved my shit into my backpack and fled. I tried to tell myself I was simply leaving to give myself the space and time to consider the implications of Hector's behavior, to examine the possibility, if not likelihood, that I was entirely mistaken, and that Hector had done nothing that required consideration. I hadn't been staring at him.

Wasn't it feasible I was misinterpreting his look of concentration for a stare? Besides, who hasn't had a dick slip when free balling in baggy gym shorts? Maybe he'd had an itch or needed to rearrange the gang? He wasn't stroking his cock in front of me. I was misinterpreting. I tried to tell myself I was leaving to find a quiet spot to think. But I wasn't. I was fleeing, just one heartbeat per minute short of panicking.

***

Two of my four roommates had gone home for the weekend and the third was spending the weekend at his girlfriend's. All the dorm rooms were quads. Each of us had a small bedroom. There were two bathrooms, each situated between two of the bedrooms. The kitchen and generous living room/den/dining room rounded out the quad. I had the place to myself. I could have stayed home to study; there were no distractions. In a theoretical sense, there were no distractions. With the place to myself I wouldn't be confined to my room to watch porn. I had complete freedom to watch whatever I wanted on the big TV in the common room. I was less distracted when at least one of my roommates was around. Even then, I preferred the library. Libraries were places to research and study. Your home was a place to chill.

I didn't chill that day. I moved from couch to chair to bar stool, searching for a spot in the room where my brain would quit yelling at me. I had pared the possible explanations down to two. One, I had totally misunderstood what had happened. Two, I hadn't misunderstood at all, and Hector had been coming on to me.

My response, whichever possibility was correct, had been pathetic. The more I shifted my physical location, the more settled I became in the latter conclusion. If possibility number two was correct, Hector had been coming on to me, my response had been beyond pathetic. I had not had sexual contact with another person for over six months. After half a year, a hot guy comes on to me, and I run for my mommy? No other conclusion was tenable except — I was a major fucking dork. The reality, and ain't reality a total bitch, was that I was a major non-fucking dork. Regardless, of Hector's intention, I was a major fucking dork. End of story.

For the thousandth time, and that was just this week, I considered app-driven sex. Why not? Because I had chosen a small college in a small town that's why. Being small was one of the primary reasons I had chosen to come here. A disadvantage I had not appreciated, was that it was an hour-and-a-half away from both San Antonio and Austin. And besides, I didn't have the money for a weekend out on the town.

There would probably be guys on Grindr, Scruff or Jack'd but I wasn't ready to out myself. Anonymity in such a circumscribed world would be impossible. The old-school option, one of the local bars might work, assuming my fake ID passed inspection. None of them were gay bars, but still. The problem, as you might have guessed, was me. I had had pussy — I wanted to try cock. I wanted to try cock, but I was not ready to be labeled 'bi' or, as was likely, 'gay' if satisfying my cock craving led to being outed.

I had been presented the perfect opportunity and blown it.

Or maybe he was just stretching, and you'd avoid accidentally outing yourself,

one of the several voices in my head chimed in. The meme of the devil and an angel on either shoulder wasn't all that creative. In my case, my mind rarely painted such simple, black and white options. My head had way more than two ways of fucking with itself. After a couple of hours of random roaming, both mental and physical, I went to bed. I couldn't even settle down enough to jerk off, but I did sleep.

I woke resolved to quit being an utter spaz. I wasn't even close to finishing my physics homework and I still had midterms to at least pretend to start thinking about studying for. I showered, got dressed, had half a bagel with hummus, brushed my teeth, decided there wasn't much I could do about my hair, grabbed my stuff, and headed to the library. I intended to open it and close it. I threw a protein bar in my backpack; I wouldn't even break for lunch. The library was only open until 4:00 on Saturdays, and I intended to make use of every hour.

The library was across campus, which, given that the campus was only two short blocks long, didn't take long to cover. My resolve was weakening by the time I reached the edge of the campus. I had not attained the age at which one feels compelled to compulsively check the weather. Meaning in my case, I

never

checked the weather. If the rest of the day was as perfect as the morning, it would be a crime to spend it in a library. We had arrived at one of those perfect times of the year. Most days were sunny, warm enough to make you sweat if you did more than stroll but not hot enough to make your brain sizzle inside your skull. It appeared today was going to be a prime example of the perfect early spring day in Hill Country. I told myself the weather was irrelevant; I was spending the day in the library.

The student manning the front desk didn't have the energy to look up from her phone as I waved my ID in front of the scanner to open the door. I made for the corner where I always studied. I was halfway there when I stopped.

What if Hector was there?

I asked myself.

Relax, brah, you fucking pussy. You've never seen him back there before. What are you going to do? Transfer to avoid seeing him ever again. There are barely eight hundred students here; you are going to see him again. Jesus, get a grip.

I told myself to shut the hell up and resumed walking. There was no one else in the central study area. I went to the far end of the stacks and hung a right. In the corner of the library, near one of the fire exits, four study tables were lined up along the wall, each with two chairs facing each other across the tables. Unlike me, they seem unperturbed by last night's incident. This was my favorite place to study.

It was low traffic, but best of all, there were no windows seducing me to escape the tedium and go outside for a run or a bike ride or even a nap under one the shade trees. I sat down, retrieved my laptop, physics book, and my notepad. The requisite rummaging for a pencil at the bottom of my pack followed. Pencil found; I was ready to go.

I flipped to the chapter we were working on, and opened the problem set on the class web page. As I started to read the problem, the solution was obvious. I was both elated, there's nothing better than one of those 'ah, moments', and irritated I hadn't stumbled upon how simple the problem actually was. I checked my idea on the scratch pad before I uploaded it, but I knew I was right. Between laying down my pencil and turning to the keyboard, I paused for a couple of arm pumps and a soft 'yes'. As I was typing, I heard the scrape of a chair and my fingers froze.

No way. I glanced up. Yes way. Hector, smirking, sat down. He could have sat facing the same direction as me, but no, he sat down facing me. I realized I was staring when his smirk grew into a full-grown smile. I managed to peel my eyes away and finish entering a summary of how I'd solved the problem along with the numerical answer. Next problem, physics problem not social problem.

It was easy enough that I was able to race through it so quickly that it kept my mind off Hector. I finished entering my answer for that one before my resolve melted away and I looked back up. He had his physics book out, but it wasn't open. His smile had receded somewhat. Without looking away, he pushed his chair back and stood.

When he began to walk toward me, my heart did some kind of crazy backflip with a full twist and landed astride my trachea, cutting off my air. He walked by so close his hip brushed the side of the table. He was still looking at me. I wasn't so much looking back as I was transfixed. I had no ability to not follow him with my eyes. He stopped for a moment, hip against the table and then pivoted to his left and walked into the stacks. With his back to me, I was free of his gaze. This was the moment when, if this was a vampire movie, I would have the opportunity to throw off his spell and save myself.

When he turned around, I was still staring. And I didn't turn away when he pulled the front of his shorts out and down with his left hand.

He wasn't hard, not totally. He wasn't circumcised either. Most of the Latinos in high school hadn't been. It was another thing that set them apart. I was never a jock but phy ed was a graduation requirement. In Texas, not showering after gym class was not a viable option, so I had had glimpses of cocks before, outside of porn. This wasn't a glimpse. He was standing, four feet from me, cock and balls out. I could feel his eyes boring into my skull as I stared at his cock.

It started to grow longer and thicker. I was vaguely aware that something similar was beginning to happen in my own shorts, but my mind was fully occupied with staring at his cock. I don't recall any rational thoughts accompanying this. I don't recall sitting there and thinking any of this. I hadn't been saying to myself,

well, he's got an uncut cock, oh my, look at it grow and what thick black pubes.

There was nothing like that going on in my head. I just sat there and took it in, no analysis. I'm not even sure I can claim there was any appreciation going on in my brain. No,

nice dick

, or anything like that. It was like a Zen moment or something. It simply was.

As I took in his cock with my eyes, it stopped growing, stopped getting thicker and began to bounce, almost imperceptibly, it bounced in time with his heartbeat. It stood taller with each bounce. I don't know how long it took but before it stopped climbing. It was well past forty-five degrees; the future engineer in me estimates it was approximately sixty degrees from a horizontal plane running parallel to the floor. I wasn't thinking about that either. At that point appreciation set in.

Holy shit that's a nice dick,

I gasped silently. I tore my eyes away and looked at his face. The smile was gone, replaced by an almost serious look.

When my eyes met his, he took a half-step back, away from me.

Once more, the chance to break the spell was offered. And rejected. I stood up and stepped across the narrow aisle and into the stacks. Now he smiled. He didn't move. He made me come to him. Taking hold of his cock with his right hand, he gave one slow, tight, stroke upward. His foreskin slid forward and over the crown, bunched in this fist with a drop of precum glistening. He twisted his wrist, rolling his hand over the top of the head, capturing the dew on his finger. When he slid his fist back, his cock was marginally slicker, a little shiner in the dim light. He didn't stroke it again. He held the base, thumb and forefinger encircling his cock and balls — a living cock ring.

He shook his dick at me. It wasn't aggressive, more of 'hey, wake up dude, I'm waiting' than a 'suck my cock, bitch' gesture.

I reached out, thankful to see my hand wasn't shaking, and wrapped my hand around his cock. I was holding another dude's cock, his wood, boner, hardon, in my hand. Stunned is the best word to describe what I felt, holding his cock. How could it feel so different from my own? A hardon was a hardon, wasn't it? I decided later the difference was when I was holding my own cock there was nothing special about it. I held it all the time. Why would I pay any attention to the contrast between the hardness of it and the delicacy of the skin? Why would I notice the underside of the shaft had a soft valley? Why would the fact of feeling my cock throb in time to my own heartbeat be of any interest?

The answer of course is not one of those facets of hardon-hood was of interest when it came to my own cock. Not so, Hector's. I squeezed, amazed at how hard a cock could become. I slowly moved my hand forward, no longer squeezing hard since my hand wasn't slick, and was amazed at the softness of the skin. Satin and steel. I squeezed the head. I knew it would be soft enough to squeeze; I knew when I released the pressure it would swell in my hand. Nonetheless, the response of Hector's cockhead was as amazing to me as the first time I saw a skyscraper on a trip to New York when I was six.

His foreskin was something I, having been deprived of mine by an archaic religious ritual, had no experience with. It was so thin, almost transparent, with a large ropy vein coursing over the top. I slid it over the head of his cock. I slid it back, exposing all the head. The flare of his crown was more dramatic than mine. I slid my hand to the base. He was still holding his cock and balls with his right hand. My hand touched his. The head of his cock and a bit of the shaft emerged from the shelter of my fist. I thought I was probably a little longer, but he clearly won in the girth department.

As I moved my hand forward again, a drop of precum appeared. I wanted to drop to my knees and suck his cock right there in the middle of the library.