Everyone called him John, but his real name was Juan. It reminded me of how the Pittsburg Pirates called baseball great Roberto Clemente "Bobbie" instead of Roberto to make him more palatable to white fans. The only difference is that Juan wanted everyone to call him John instead of Juan to make himself less Latin. He wasn't black like Clemente, but had the beautiful brown skin and short stature of his Carib ancestors. His family had escaped the Dominican Republic during the political unrest of the 1960s and he grew up in a big-city barrio, becoming a teen runaway when his family disowned him for being gay.
I am less clear about how he ended up at our small college the summer before my senior year began. From what I gleaned his story went something like this: ever since he could walk John wanted to dance. He worked out, practiced his moves, street danced and even got into a high school for performing arts before the conflict with his family led him to drop out. There the story gets murky. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but it's hard to imagine he ended up on the streets. He was too flash for that. It's more likely someone in the gay community took him in. He never said, but it may have been the guy with whom he shared an apartment. John said they were not lovers, but when his roomie got a job at the university John moved with him. Compared to the metropolis our sleepy college town bored John. At nineteen he craved the kind of excitement he had left behind in the big city.
His other secret was that John danced. He danced at the one gay club in town. He performed in all-male revues, sometimes in bars but most often in private parties for women. Bachelorette parties. Women's business conferences. Employer parties. Women's social clubs. Dial-a-male-stripper. He told me how the ladies stuck bills and hotel room keys in his g-string. When I asked if he ever went to their rooms he said no, but I could see the attraction. A ripped dancer's body combined with a full bouncing bulge in a g-string had a magnetic effect. His smooth, dark-skinned Carib body and coal black eyes fueled his exotic appeal.
He showed me some of the g-strings he kept in his locker at work. We worked in a big dormitory building that was empty for the summer. Like many ancient dorms it had a handful of classrooms the university rented out as meeting space. My work-study job was at the reception desk there behind a tiny sliding glass window. His job was custodial—cleaning the classrooms afternoons and evenings so they were ready the next day. Even though the place was empty I had to wait until he finished his work and clocked out before I could lock up the building and go. Unmolested for hours, I sat and did homework. Sometimes he sat with me waiting for a meeting to finish, chatting his little gay head off. No one else was around. A few times he modeled his g-strings for me. He loved showing off his body and his big bulge always showed in his jeans.
One day while he waited for a classroom to empty he asked me to help him study for his GED and sat close when I did, leaning or pressing against me outright. It didn't take long to realize it was an excuse to create body contact. I didn't stop him so it became a daily occurrence as did shoulder rubs. He bent over the desk while I massaged his shoulders and back. Then one night after rubbing his shoulders he gave me an irritated look.
"You don't know nothing about the real world," he said.
"What?" I said.
He stood leaning against the desk right next to me where I sat. God he smelled good.
"You don't know nothing about the real world."
It wasn't true. My world looked boring to him, but he didn't know I had banged a few guys. I understood instantly he was irritated because I had done nothing about his overtures.
"You mean this world?" I said, sliding my hand up the inside of his thigh and over his tight butt.
His eyes and mouth went wide. The look of irritation vanished.
I looked in his huge black Caribbean eyes, caressing the insides of his thighs and pressing fingers and thumb between his butt cheeks where I knew his hungry little boy pussy ached. He let out a little gasp and bent over the desk. My hand moved forward and cupped his big bulge through denim. His cock grew rock hard under my hand. He sighed and hummed his pleasure. I kept feeling his thighs, butt and bulge from behind, wondering how far he would go.
"You like this world?" I whispered.
"Yes," he sighed, his eyes half closed.
After several minutes of this I decided to up the ante. I moved my hand from his hard rod to his zipper and started to pull it down.
"Not here," he said, stopping my hand.
He stood and walked to the room behind reception without saying anything. It had originally been quarters for a doorkeeper in ancient times when buildings had such things. Now it did duty as a cluttered supply room, but retained a full bath. A small block of lockers had been installed for workers like us to stow coats, books and other personal items. That's where he kept the g-strings he modeled for me when he wanted my opinion or to show off or both.
"Hey," he said.
I turned. He stood in the door leaning against the jamb wearing only a white g-string. It looked brilliant against his smooth brown skin. He watched my eyes run up and down him. His thick bone fought the containment of the g-string. It was so tight nothing was left to the imagination. A sly little smile crossed his face. He raised a finger and beckoned me. When I didn't move right away he did a little dance in the doorway that made his bulge bounce. Then he turned and wiggled his bare ass at me before disappearing in the back.
I bolted out of my chair, set out a sign saying 'back in 15 minutes,' closed and locked the window, made sure the door into reception was locked and ducked into the back room, shutting and locking the door behind me. He was admiring himself in front of the big full length mirror on the wall next to the lockers. Our eyes met in the mirror as he watched me walk up from behind and wrap arms around him. He continued watching while my hands caressed his pecs, six pack and cum gutters. My fingertips played with the strings of his thong, tracing them and the warm brown skin under them. We both watched in the mirror as my hands ran down over his sculpted thighs then up their sides and over his butt. I pulled him to me. He moved his bare ass against my pelvis, teasing me. My cock grew hard.
I towered over him. He was 5'5 and maybe a buck thirty, but I was 6'2 and 185. When he turned to kiss me I bent down and pressed my lips to his, thrusting both hands into his g-string, stripping it off him, pulling those strings down over his butt. It fell around his ankles. He moaned in my mouth when my finger found and began exploring then rimming his eager hole. He broke the kiss and stepped away from me.
"Take your clothes off," he said, opening his locker and putting away the g-string.
I stripped down to underwear in record time. He looked at the bone tenting my jockey's and smiled. I watched as he pressed a warm hand to my chest then slid it slowly down the front of me.
"I've seen you swim with at the pool," he said. "Everyone knows you have a big one."
