Patron Saint

"To Patrick, patron saint of getting drunk and getting laid!"

The clink of our bottles could hardly be heard over the noise. The annual Delta Iota Kappa party for St. Patrick's Day was in full swing, music blaring and people dancing and drinking all around us. I raised an eyebrow at Mike's tipsy toast.

"I'm not Catholic, but somehow, I don't think that's what he's the patron saint of."

Mike made a dismissive "pfft" noise. "If not, he should be! I mean, look around, Greg, his liturgy might as well be 'chug! chug! chug!'"

"He's the patron saint of Ireland itself, actually," said Connor. "Although he technically was never canonized by a sitting pope, so the argument could be made about whether he's officially a saint at all."

We all stared at him. "What?" he asked, a little defensive. "Did you think the red hair was an accident? I'm Irish and Catholic, I'm basically required to know these things." His hair was more of a deep auburn than a true red, but this was hardly the time to quibble.

"I thought he was the patron saint of people who hated snakes," put in Angela as she wiped her mouth. She'd taken the opportunity of Mike's toast to down her entire beer in one go. "Didn't he wipe out all the snakes in Ireland?" She suppressed a burp, then added, "I hate snakes."

"That's a myth, actually," Connor replied. "There haven't been snakes in Ireland since the last ice age."

Angela looked over at Mike. "Will you take me to Ireland? Anywhere that hasn't seen a snake in thousands of years must be nice."

I snorted. "By that measure, Antarctica would work too."

"Ooh, penguins! Much better than snakes." Angela excitedly turned to Mike again. "Will you take me to Antarctica?"

He laughed. "I can probably manage Ireland. Antarctica might be tricky."

Setting her bottle down decisively, Angela made to stand up. "Sounds like you need some persuading. I've had enough to get pretty uninhibited, but not enough to get sleepy." She stood, only wavering a bit, and turned to leave.

Mike hastily put his drink down and rose too. "That's my cue!" As Angela made her slightly wobbly way toward the stairs, he turned back to Connor and me. "We usually go to her place, since her roommate generally stays with her boyfriend...but they just broke up, so we can't kick her out. You don't mind making other arrangements, do you Connor?"

Connor made a face. "You want me to just find somewhere else to sleep at the last minute so you can bang your girlfriend in our room?"

Mike grinned. "So glad you understand." His eyes fell on me. "Greg's a refined Southern gentleman, they're all about hospitality. He even has a spare bed. What do you say, Greg, are you willing to help out our future starving artist here? It'll be good practice for him to start asking for favors now." His grin only widened at Connor's scowl.

Angela's voice came to us, somehow piercing the general din of the party. "Mike, are we waiting for the next ice age, or what?"

"Gotta go I'm sure you'll figure something out bye!" Mike's parting words were called over his shoulder as he pursued Angela up the stairs.

"So glad I'm gay," I muttered to Connor. "Men are much easier to deal with."

He snorted. "I bet. Future starving artist," he growled. "Goddamn business majors." He paused, looking awkward. "So, do you actually have a spare bed? Suddenly I find myself without one."

I nodded. "Sure, Caleb transferred out last semester, remember? They never filled his slot, so the other bed in my room's still empty. You're welcome to it, though there aren't sheets or anything. I can probably find you a blanket and lend you a pillow, but that's about it."

His relieved smile lit up his face. "Thanks, man, I really appreciate it. Plan B was to sleep on the couch down here, and..." he trailed off, looking over towards the house's living room, where one of our Delta Iota Kappa brothers was, at that moment, throwing up all over the couch. "...that's not really an ideal setup."

I sighed. "Good old Andrew, classy as ever. Remind me to make him scrub every inch of that couch tomorrow."

"Wow, you kind of are a refined gentleman, aren't you? I can feel the polite disapproval radiating off you from here." Connor took a sip from his beer, then paused as though something had occurred to him. "Hey, if you're a refined Southern gentleman, how come you don't sound Southern?"

I rolled my eyes. "Having a sense of basic courtesy does not make me 'refined,' or at least it shouldn't. And if you must know, I was born in Virginia, but moved north when I was ten. All the other kids made fun of my accent, so I worked hard to suppress it growing up."

Connor sighed. "Kids can be dicks. You don't even want to know how many leprechaun jokes I had to deal with. Anyway, this is getting depressing, so how about another round? I'm empty." He stood up and reached for my mostly empty beer.

"Sure, thanks."

Soon enough he returned bearing replacement drinks. As he reached the table, though, one of the dancers staggered into him. Connor managed to hold onto the bottles, but their contents spewed out all over me. I jerked back with a curse, far too late. Cold beer plastered my shirt to my chest and splattered much of the rest of my clothes.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Connor set the bottles down and seized a napkin from the tabletop, as if that could help the situation. He tried dabbing at my chest, but the tiny napkin was wholly insufficient to the task--not to mention too late. His efforts largely resulted in spreading the beer down my front, turning my shirt semitransparent and making it stick to every curve of my torso. When Connor realized he was basically just running his hands up and down my body for no reason, he jerked back, looking even more embarrassed, and started cleaning up the relatively small quantity that had sprayed the table and floor. Somehow, nearly all of it landed on me, which made the rest of the cleanup simple.

"Not your fault. Relax." Looking down at the state of myself, I sighed. "Looks like I'll be calling it a night early. It wouldn't be the first time I've slept during a party in this house. I need to get cleaned up or I'll be sticky for days. Come on, we might as well get you set up in my room while we're at it." I headed for the stairs, ignoring the catcalls about wet t-shirt contests, with Connor trailing behind.

"I'm so sorry about this, that asshole came out of nowhere--"

"I said it's fine, Connor. Calm down, it's no big deal." I pulled the fabric of my shirt away from my skin, trying to reduce the sticky clamminess. Leading Connor down the hall to my room--and doing my best not to think about the noises coming from Connor and Mike's room next door--I showed him inside.

Despite our vaunted Greek status, the rooms in our fraternity house were basically the same as those in the more standard dorms: ten by twelve, two twin beds, two desks, two dressers, the usual. It was snug for two but almost reasonable for me alone, which was nice. I hadn't spread much into Caleb's former space, the second bed and desk bare and empty, though I kept things neat enough that it wasn't a huge contrast.

Inside, I peeled my increasingly sticky shirt off and tossed it into my laundry hamper with relief. "I have an extra blanket somewhere..." I'd just put it away as the weather started to warm up, and a moment of rummaging in the room's little closet was all it took. "Aha, there it is. No clean pillowcase, I'm afraid." I snagged one of the two pillows off my bed and handed it to Connor with the folded blanket. "Best I can do."

A muffled groan coming through the wall made us both twitch. "It's great, thanks man," Connor said. "I really appreciate you helping me out, especially after your beer bath."

I snorted. "Don't say things like that, if Andrew heard you he might actually try it. Speaking of bathing, though, I'm going to grab a shower. Make yourself at home." I could feel the residual beer seeping into uncomfortable nooks and crannies, and I wanted it gone. I removed my shoes and socks--somehow beer had gotten in those, too, just great--and without really thinking about it, dropped my jeans and boxers before throwing the whole pile, sans shoes, into the hamper with my beer-soaked shirt.

I grabbed my towel from the hook inside the closet door, slung it around my waist, picked up my shower kit, turned around...and froze at the sight of Connor looking pointedly out the window, his cheeks rather pink. Whoops. I was so used to having the room to myself that the issue of modesty hadn't occurred to me. I was a bit surprised at his reaction, but they say redheads blush more easily.

Deciding that mentioning it would just make things worse, I headed for the bathroom down the hall. I passed a couple clearly headed for the same goal as Mike and Angela, tried not to feel smug about how they both looked me up and down appreciatively, and got into the shower. Adding water seemed to somehow make things more sticky, not less; maybe it was spreading it around? It took a good twenty minutes of thorough scrubbing until I felt properly clean.

"That's it," I muttered to myself as I dried off. "The next party is all spill-proof sippy cups for toddlers. We'll make a theme of it." I went through the rest of my nightly ablutions, then headed back. On my way back to my room, I had to shake my head at the steady thumping sound coming from next door, as of a bed frame knocking against the wall. Still? I'd have to compliment Mike on his stamina in the morning.

The room was dark when I entered, and for a moment I thought Connor had returned to the party still raging downstairs. The light from the hallway, however, illuminated the spare bed. Connor lay atop it, with the pillow I'd lent him crushed around his head to cover his ears. The borrowed blanket was pulled up to his chest, not quite concealing the patch of russet hair between his pecs. To my surprise, his clothes were in a pile beside the bed. Apparently he'd decided to call it a night as well.

I opened my mouth to ask him about it but stopped dead as the rhythmic thumping, unfortunately louder in here than in the hallway, was abruptly accompanied by a new sound. The door, forgotten, swung shut behind me.

Thump. Thump. "Oh, Mike! Yes!" Thump. Thump. "Yes!" Thump. "YES!"

"Seriously?" I asked.

I couldn't see Connor's expression in the darkness--I hadn't turned the light on, caught off guard by the audio assault--but his discomfort was clear in his voice. "They've been at it for a while now. I banged on the wall, yelled to keep it down--"

"Oh God, why would you do that?" I blurted. "Have you not met Angela before?"

"Yeah, I knew it was a mistake as soon as I did it. Needless to say, they've been twice as loud since then."

Thump. Thump. "God, yes, give it to me, Mike!" Thump. Thump.

"They're going to dent the drywall," I sighed. "Mike is so paying for that." Accustomed to navigating my room in the dark, I put away my towel and shower stuff and climbed into bed to the beat of Mike trying to drive his bed through the shared wall. It felt odd with only one pillow when I was used to two, but I'd manage.

Thump. Thump. "You feel so good! Yeah!" Thump. Thump.

"They're probably not even still fucking for real," Connor said. "Just making the sound effects to mess with us."

"Most likely," I agreed. It seemed like something Angela would do.

"Is this what you meant by men being easier to deal with?"

I chuckled. "Kind of, although gay guys can be drama queens way worse than Angela if they put their minds to it. I try to avoid dating those." I paused. "Well, not more than once, anyway. It's true that the crazy ones are extra fun in bed. Not worth the hassle the rest of the time though."

He snorted. "So much for Greg the gentleman. Love 'em and leave 'em, is that it?"

"Nobody said anything about love. I just follow the example of your beloved St. Patrick, patron saint of getting laid."

That surprised a burst of laughter from Connor, actually drowning out Mike and Angela's obscene audio drama for a moment. His laughter died quickly, though, and there was an odd quality to his voice when he next spoke. "I can't imagine it."

"Imagine what?"

"Having sex with a guy. Isn't it, I don't know, weird? How does that even work?"

"To my great satisfaction, usually."

"You're not as funny as you think you are."

"All refined Southern gentlemen take tongue-in-cheek lessons, it's part of the required curriculum."

"Oh yeah? Your tongue very talented, is it?" Was this conversation going where I thought it was going? I would have said no way, but...things had taken a turn somehow. Connor's previous joking tone was becoming more intent. Focused, like his goal was in sight.

"No complaints so far." My own voice came out rather lower than I'd intended.

During the ensuing pause in conversation, I realized that the Angela and Mike pornography show had stopped at some point. Even the party downstairs seemed distant and muffled. The room was very quiet all of a sudden, with only our breathing audible. Except no, there was another sound, something very soft, but steady and rhythmic, like a smooth rustling noise that repeated over and over.

It was the sound of skin sliding against skin, back and forth. A very familiar sound, one every adolescent male learns intimately. My eyes had had time to adjust to the darkness of the room, but I'd been staring up at the ceiling as we bantered. Turning my head slowly, hardly believing what I was nevertheless expecting to see, I was soon able to make out Connor's silhouette on the bed across from mine. I couldn't see the details, but the slow vertical motion at the level of his hips was unmistakable. I felt an answering throb at the level of my own hips, and I had to work to control my breathing.

"What's it like?" he asked, voice soft. "Being with a guy, I mean. Being inside one. Having one inside you." He was really serious, wasn't he?

"Having sex with a guy is probably pretty similar to being with a girl," I replied, trying to keep my voice calm. I had to be careful, I didn't want to scare him now. "At least if you're the top."

"What if you aren't?" Connor asked. "Doesn't taking it up the ass hurt?"

I snorted. "Only if you're bad at it. As with many of the best things in life, preparation is key. And getting ready can be almost as good as the main event. I love bottoming, personally. Getting fucked by a guy who knows what he's doing can be incredible."

"What if he doesn't know what he's doing?" Connor's voice held a different note now, a sort of nervous desperation. The whisk, whisk sound of his steady stroking had gotten faster.

"Then he needs a good teacher," I answered, rising from my bed. My blanket caught around my erection briefly but slid off as I stood, sending a little thrill across my skin. My sudden motion made Connor freeze, his breath catching. I stepped toward him, crossing the short gap between the two beds. "Would you like to learn?"

"I...Greg, I don't know..." The barely suppressed excitement in his voice did not match the reluctance of his words. I took another step closer.

"We don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to...but it kind of seems like you do want to. Am I wrong?"

"No," he said, voice very quiet. "You aren't."

"Lesson the first," I said, my own voice quiet but firm. "Stop stroking yourself so much, or you'll finish before we get to the good stuff later."

There came a rustle of movement as Connor extracted his hands from under the blanket. "If I shouldn't touch myself," he asked, "where can I put my hands?" His voice was definitely trending toward eagerness now, with less uncertainty remaining by the moment.

"That one's easy," I replied. "You should touch me instead." I got the impression of motion in the darkness, and wished I could turn the light on, but I was worried that would spook him. This might be the sort of thing that would be easier for him to bear in the dark, despite the logistical issues.

Finally, I felt the barest touch against my thigh, tentative in the extreme. Part of it was the darkness, probably, but his hesitation was obvious. I reached down, gently placed my hand over his, and drew it up my leg to my hip. He didn't speak, but his breathing was getting a bit ragged. Maybe mine was too, a bit.

With his right hand in place, the left found my other hip. Tentatively, they started to explore, gaining confidence as they slid up my abs and over my ribs. Tingling pleasure trailed in their wake, a warm echo. Connor shifted in the bed, abruptly sitting up. His feet hit the floor on either side of mine, and his head was at the level of my stomach. I could feel his breath.

His hands wandered down and back, investigating the musculature of my lower back before taking a double handful of my ass. A gentle squeeze, then back to my torso, lightly tracing the lines of my abs.

"You have such a beautiful body," he sighed. "Earlier, when your shirt was all wet, and I could see it all... I'd meant to help clean up the beer, but then once I started touching you, I kind of couldn't stop."

"You're not so bad yourself," I murmured. I slid my hands slowly down his toned arms, feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. Connor shivered when I curled my fingers around the muscular curve of his shoulders and slid them up the sides of his neck to cup his face.

"Lesson the second," I whispered, bending down. "A lot of guys like to kiss just as much as girls do." With my hands providing a proprioceptive guide in the darkness, I lowered my mouth to his. I went slowly, giving him plenty of time to stop me if he wanted, but his arms coiled around me and pulled me down to him.

The first meeting of lips was a bit clumsier than it would have been if we could see, but we quickly found our fit. His lips were warm, surprisingly soft, and I could taste the beer from earlier when his tongue reached for mine. This, it seemed, was something he was familiar with, as his kiss quickly became more confident than his tentative first touches had been.

With Connor warming up to this whole idea, I decided to push things forward a bit. Without breaking the kiss, I slid down onto his lap, straddling him and twining my arms around his neck. His instinctive reaction was to pull me in, hands on my waist--but he froze for a moment as my erection bumped into his.

"Lesson the third," I murmured against his mouth, "frottage makes for excellent foreplay." I slid my fingers through the patch of short, coarse hair on his chest, then followed the narrow line of hair that bisected his abs and blended into a close-trimmed bush. He gasped as I wrapped my hand around his shaft and rubbed it against my own. Squeezing them together, I stroked gently up and down, letting them slide and flex against each other. Mine was slimmer with a minor upward curve compared to his thicker, straighter shaft, but a slight roll of my hips made it easy to slide every inch of them together.

He groaned softly, his forehead falling against my shoulder. "Fuck that feels good. How does that feel so good?"

"We're just getting started," I replied. "Your turn." Taking his hand from my waist, I brought it down between us and tangled our fingers together around our cocks. A slow, squeezing stroke had us both groaning this time. A drop of precum--no telling whether it was his or mine--made the squeezing slide even better.

I ground my hips down against his, pressing us together, and we toppled backward onto the bed with me atop him. That only made it easier to grind down on him, our cocks sliding against each other as skin met skin down the full length of our bodies. I was a few inches taller than him, and he was broader in the chest and shoulders, but our hips fit together just fine.