Loveseat

Justin and I watched gay porn in his room at the seminary with the sound off. He had a 'sleep machine' that played a mix of ocean and woodland sounds that he would turn up while we watched guys, she-males, and some folk we weren't sure what to call go at it. "If anyone stops by, they'll think it's a boring nature show," he said.

And in a way, it was a nature show. He had a crazy aunt back in Mississippi who spent her whole life wanting to be something else and in her search for fulfillment had checked out every kind of porn known to man. Or known to us, anyway. When she was finished, she would send him her latest collection along with a batch of homemade cookies, a musty blanket of immense sentimental value and a slew of newspaper clippings.

Justin and I would eat the cookies and glance at the strange stories ("Local Doberman Takes Truck for A Drive") while the porn played. We'd sit close under the blanket and rub each other's cock while wondering at the scenes.

"Is that a girl wearing a dildo or a guy with tits?"

"I can't decide."

"Which would you rather it be?"

"I can't decide that either."

Justin was kind of an asshole. A former lifeguard, he was strong and confident, but he was raised by his widowed mom and crazy aunt, so he had elements of drama queen in him too. He rarely shut up, except when he was drinking. Thinking seemed to bore him. I spent the first month at seminary hating him and groaning whenever he raised his hand in class. But then one Saturday I saw him in short-shorts loading something heavy into his trunk and haven't thought the same way about him since.

His thighs were thick and strong. The short-shorts were a bit much—they set many an eye rolling around the seminary—but they let me feast on his legs, so I didn't complain.

I wasn't used to staring at guys. And although he was fit, he wasn't a stud. He was more in the loud, brash mold that made me think he could make a fortune in real estate and then blow it all in Vegas on booze and hookers.

"You look at my legs like you never saw a pair before."

"I know."

"Any particular reason?"

"Yeah."

"Care to tell me what it is?"

"Afraid to."

"Hey, I told you I was gay. I'm hard to offend."

"Well, here's the thing. I really want to suck your cock but there's a problem."

He dropped the suitcase into his trunk where it landed with an echoing thud.

"And what might that be?"

"I, um, never sucked a cock before."

That's how the movies came up. He thought I might like to see what I was getting into and if I freaked out, well, my secret would be safe with him.

At first, I just sat close to him on the love seat in his room, getting used to his smell and heft, his presence.

"Cleavage mesmerizes me," I said.

"Course it does," he said. He fast-forwarded the DVD several times, stopping it for a few seconds on a scene.

"Don't seem to be any titties in this movie. Want me to change it out?"

"No, no, just let it play. I kinda like this."

He leaned closer to me. "I hoped you would say that."

We ate cookies and talked about whatever, not even listening to ourselves, much less each other.

But later, after an especially long pause, I said, "Um, did I say—while we were out by your car—that I, um, wanted—"

"Allow me to practice my pastoral counseling skills," Justin said. He turned toward me and adopted a pretentious priest voice. "Did you *want* to leave me with the impression that you wanted to—what's the Latin for this?—suck my huge fucking dick."

"I never said huge fucking dick!"

"Trust me, you will."

My eyes bulged with a piteous mix of hope and fear. "Really?"

"Or," he said, reverting to his pompous priest voice, "was that but a passing remark, like something said over lunch and forgotten before dessert? Something conscience binds me to forget."

"You talk too much, Justin. Show me your dick before I jump out the window."

After a few weeks, I would pass him a note in Moral Theology class saying, "Meet me downstairs and I'll suck you off."

It was the oldest bathroom in the seminary, on the ground floor with an opening onto a courtyard. Most of the space there was used for storage and electrical equipment. The bathroom had three urinals and two narrow stalls. I would wait in one, sitting—pants up—on the throne.

Moments later, he would bop in whistling. He made a game of talking as if alone, singing a silly song, or talking some thought clear in his head.

He opened the stall without looking, just fishing his cock out. "I've got you...under my skin," he sang, doing a bad Sinatra.

I said nothing, just leaned forward and took his cock in my mouth.

This wasn't a love session, or a lazy afternoon fuck. This was a pure quick-suck and get back to class before anyone missed us.

He pulled out before he came because he knew I liked it. He spewed all over my face, then smeared the cum around with his cock. I would lick that off too, happily.

He would whistle, stuffing his cock back into his pants and turning away. He would get back to class first and then flash me a sly grin when I came in later. For the rest of class when our eyes met, he would flick a finger along his chin or by his ear, as if signaling that I'd left a spot of cum there.

Of course, I hadn't. I had a firm rule to look in the mirror after he left the bathroom. I loved to see his load smeared all over my face. My cock surged in my pants at the sight. I would lick off all I could and wipe the rest clean with a damp hand towel. I would walk underneath the chapel on my way back to class—it gave me a naughty rush to walk under that sacred space after having sucked a cock in the bathroom and then admiring my face full of cum in a mirror after.

Sometimes we made out in the choir loft, kissing and stroking each other's cocks. The wooden benches were ancient and made terrible noises that echoed around the massive, otherwise empty chamber. That turned us both on. We had dinky rooms—a twin bed, sink and desk—and spent a lot of time in them, but there was a special thrill in stroking a guy's cock in 'church' and making him cum. That salty smell overwhelmed the incense.

One night on the loveseat I asked Justin, "Are we, um, a couple?"

"Couple dicksuckers, maybe."

"Actually, I seem to do all the sucking."

"That a complaint?"

"Hell no. All I think about anymore is kneeling to suck your cock. It's life's perfect moment."

He put a hand to the side of my face and directed it down between his legs.

While I sucked his cock he said, "I've turned you into such a good little cocksucker, I can't wait to share you with my buddies."

I stopped sucking. His dick slid out of my mouth. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "if you *want* to be a 'couple,' well, you have to be the kind of little slut I'd be proud to call my own."

"Slut? Mmmm, I love the sound of that."

He poked his cock back into my mouth.

"When I cum all over your face and send you back to your room without washing it off, I want you to have sweet dreams. After tomorrow, you'll never need to dream again."