by BRK

Life doesn't make a lot of sense, what with the normality of people that shouldn’t be normal at all, but it all starts to make more sense when Steve encounters someone who’s different in a way he never expected.

Added: Oct 2003 2,659 words 16,719 views 4.3 stars (4 votes)

Similarly Named Stories: You might be looking for: “The awakening” by muscl4life; or “The awakening” by Johnny M.


My life was pretty dull until I got to college. In fact, it’s hard to remember much before my first day of classes at NYU. It’s all kind of a blur: boring Midwest childhood, a red tricycle, Boy Scouts, band practice, meaningless fights with my sister. Funny, if I try to remember any particular event in detail, I can’t. It’s like trying to focus on the horizon.

My life since I got to school, however, is an open book, and I can remember almost any and every moment in vivid detail. I can remember the corny, self-conscious joy I felt buying my first NYU sweatshirt at the campus bookstore. I remember the weight of it in my hand—it was surprisingly heavy. The material was thicker than most of the sweatshirts I’d ever had before, and that in itself made me feel like I was making a transition. This sweatshirt, like everything else around me, was more substantial than anything I’d experienced before.

I remember walking into my first class—Latin 301, first period Tuesdays and Thursdays—pausing that extra second on the threshold, like you do when you’re entering a place and an environment that’s entirely new, as I gazed around at all the other students sitting around chatting with each other or calmly getting their notebooks and texts ready for class. I remember feeling suddenly self-conscious, picturing myself standing in the doorway like a dork. I even remember the sensation of my face reddening, feeling the warmth of embarrassment, my skin prickling a little under my too-warm sweatshirt. And my mortification only deepened as, standing there irresolutely, I began to sense the attention of some of my fellow classmates and the extent to which that attention was appreciative. I felt even more like a dork then, wondering if my classmates thought I’d been loitering in the doorway on purpose, as if to show off my genetics to the less fortunate. I saw some sharp looks of disdain from one or two guys who must have come to that very conclusion. I immediately hurried into the room, taking a seat near the back, hating the sensation of burning cheeks and churning guts as I slid down in my seat, making myself as inconspicuous as it’s possible for someone like me to be.

I’ve never gotten over the looks I get, and since I got to NYU I’ve felt them as keenly as a slap across the face. I don’t know which is worse: the humiliating gaze of frank admiration, or the sad puppy-dog look of pure envy, or the glower of instant hatred. I get them all every time I enter a room. It makes me want to hide out in my dorm.

I guess I should tell you what I’m talking about. For some reason or another—‘cause there’s no precedent for it in the family that I’ve been able to see—I ended up being really tall, like duck-under-the-doorjamb tall. Which is O.K., I guess. Thankfully I didn’t end up looking like some WWE refugee. From the books and websites I’ve seen a lot of guys as tall as me kind of look like Dr. Frankenstein’s early mistakes, but I lucked out. My roommate told me he thought I had “movie star looks,” whatever that means, but anyway it seems like I’m put together O.K., at least enough so as not to scare people. Some people say “handsome,” other people say “too pretty.” I dunno. I don’t see it when I look in the mirror. I just see this guy who attracts attention and doesn’t really want to.

I guess it helps that I put on muscle, like, incredibly easily. I can’t actually work out, because I just bulk up ‘way fast, and I don’t want to be that big. But I think the broad shoulders and the pecs help keep me out of scarecrow territory. At least I look more proportional than some of the beanpole guys I’ve seen on the courts. Yes, I play basketball. I don’t enjoy it much, but it’s good exercise.

I suppose I must have gone through my own beanpole phase, but I don’t remember it. I’ve looked at the old school pictures of me in my photo album and even in my junior high school pics you can see the beginnings of big, bumpy shoulders. I know I was too tall too early, and have never been able to escape being called Stretch by the kind of people who think that’s amusing (sigh), but I can’t seem to remember much about it, or when I started getting buff. It’s part of that whole pre-college haze.

There are a few other things too, which it’s kind of awkward to talk about, but which will probably come up later on. The tall thing and the buff thing is enough for now.

My freshman year was pretty uneventful. Once people got used to seeing me around, they got used to me, and I even made some good friends. My buddy Josh and I talk about everything, and the best part is that even though he’s gay, and I knew from Day One he was into me, he’s been more interested in being friends and hanging out and keeping it cool. Not that I haven’t thought about crossing the line with him—he’s pretty hot, to tell you the truth, and I’ve spent more than a couple pleasurable evenings alone thinking about him and his natural good looks and sculptor-built body, if you catch my meaning; but we both know we’re too good as friends to risk going there.

Besides, I’ve never actually been with another guy. I mean I’ve kissed other guys, and of course Josh and I French when we meet like all best buds do, but no much more than that. I’m too scared of them, and I guess they’re scared of me too. It’s the ordinary-looking guys who have it best, I think. I remember seeing the look of trepidation on this one guy’s face in the dining hall as he walked slowly toward me. I could tell he was trying to get up the nerve to sit with me, but at the last minute he panicked and shot past me to another table. He was pretty hot too. I guess that’s why I value friends like Josh so much. If it weren’t for them I’d probably be alone a lot more.

So anyway, freshman year was pretty blah. Sophomore year was another story. Summer vacation was very strange. I felt like a stranger in my own home. My parents and my sister were all enigmas to me, like I hadn’t known them all my life. I had trouble sleeping in my own bed; it felt weird. Not because it was too small—all beds are too small for me—but because it seemed like it wasn’t mine. It was as if I were an exchange student or something: I slept in this farmhouse, and helped with chores, and ate dinners with this family, and wandered around this Podunk cornhusker Nebraska town of like 12 people and a dog that I’d grown up in; and none of it seemed any more like home than the surface of the Moon. I was acquainted with it, and it sure looked familiar; but that was all.

I wrote letters to Josh, likewise holed up in upstate California, and oddly enough he described a similar feeling. College must have changed us a lot, he wrote, for us to feel like strangers in our own hometowns. I told him that that must be it. We’re “men” now, I joked, and I’m sure he must have laughed about that, because there’s nothing that Josh and I liked more than acting like kids together.

So going home was strange. Coming back has been even stranger.

I had a new roommate—in theory, at least, according to the housing office; but he didn’t show the first day back, and his berth remained empty that whole week. There’s something kind of forlorn about a naked dormitory mattress, sitting alone in the empty half of a dorm room, unwarmed by either sheets or occupant; and I used to lie at night staring at it, wondering about my phantom roommate. Cute? Ugly? Ugly seemed unlikely; for some reason NYU’s crop of students had turned out pretty comely last year on average, and this year looked even more so if anything. Ethnically and geographically diverse, sure, but at the plus end of the scale overall. I’d gotten used to seeing mainly above-average to good-looking, athletic to muscle-bound guys, without really even realizing it. College is like that, I guess. Friendly or surly? Friendly seemed likely too if he was like the others. I’m the soul of accommodation and I feel like the grumpiest guy here. Tall or short? Short was pretty rare here too. Gay or straight? Come to think of it, I didn’t know very many straight guys, even by random chance in study groups. Something like nine out of ten out of the guys I’d met were all gay?

Sometimes when you’re lying in the dark in a quiet, empty room (and things were as quiet as they get in Manhattan), you start thinking strange thoughts, disconnected from reality, as if you were letting your normally earth-bound consciousness float free. Like your mind is a spaceship, and somebody slowly eliminated the artificial gravity. I lay on my back now, hands behind my head, stocking feet firmly on the cold tile floor, and I started thinking about all of the things about my life and my friends that were decidedly way down the far slope of the bell curve. My own existence, I thought perversely, was starting to feel more and more unlikely.

I fell into a half-sleep of some kind. I felt like I was floating in an endless void. A sensation of vision started to sift through the nothingness around me, though my eyes were closed. I became aware of a dark room, and a man my age sitting at a desk, typing on a laptop. The only light came from the laptop’s display screen, and it lit his face eerily.

I seemed to be lying on a nearby bed. I tried to ask him who he was, but nothing came out. He became aware of me, though, and immediately rose and came toward me. To my surprise he started shedding his clothes, and I realized I was naked as well—and, astonishingly, completely tumescent. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was ordinary-looking, not so finely honed as my friends and classmates seemed to be, though he was trim and, interestingly, a touch hairy here and there. He smelled a little musky, like Josh always did after a workout.

He climbed on top of me and started kissing me, gently at first, guiding my right hand to his one erect cock. I felt a tad sorry for him. I guessed from the feel of it that it was only eight inches or so, well below the eleven-inch average I’d read about in some men’s magazine, and certainly considerably below my own admittedly freakish dimensions; yet as I gently stroked it, it felt like a good size—it was thick, and it was actually just the right size and shape to fit in my hand.

He moved down my torso, caressing my nipples and eight-pack abs with his tongue, and before I knew it he was giving me head—my first blow job (not counting myself of course). He seemed accomplished at the art, and moved from one to the other at just the moment he’d driven me to the edge. My heart was pounding wildly in my chest, and my mind was saturated with tsunami waves of a sensation that the word “pleasure” doesn’t begin to describe. Then, when I got to the point where I couldn’t stand it a second longer he stopped and sat back with a huge grin on his face. I felt the room’s cool air on my wet, quivering monster erections, and I felt like the world was suspended in that moment.

I heard, and sensed, that he’d retrieved something from the bedstand. Lube. He was lubing up his cock. Now he lifted my long legs and placed them over his shoulder, taking the time to gently lubricate my anus with his fingertips. After a few minutes massaging my virgin hole he slowly began to press his impossibly hard cock into me, slowly, gently, inch by inch, pausing after each push to let me adjust.

Eventually he was all the way in, his pubic hairs pressed against mine. He paused a moment, then he lifted my cocks toward his mouth. As he began thrusting he also resumed his rotating blowjob, gently rubbing them all together at the base with both hands.

I was beyond pleasure, beyond satiation. I don’t know how long I lasted—seconds, minutes, hours—but I know there came a point when my ecstasy swelled up and burst like a water balloon, and my cocks exploded in his mouth and all over his face, and he howled and pulled out and came all over my abs and cocks. I was barely aware of that, though, because my senses were completely overloading.

I blacked out somehow, and when I came to, I was back in my own bed in my darkened dorm room, still dressed, undrenched in come (though totally boned). I felt flush, though, and my heart was still racing. I felt oddly like I’d survived a fall from a great height. My mind’s artificial gravity was back on; leaving me to freak out about what had just happened, or seemed to happen.

I lay without moving for an hour or so, slowly mastering wildly straining emotions. In that time my breathing and heartbeat stabilized, thought my erections stubbornly refused to go down. I was lazily contemplating doing something about them when I heard keys jangle in the lock!

My heart pounding again, I sat up, waiting. The door was pushed open, banging into the other, unoccupied bed, and the silhouette of a big hunky guy backed into the room, hauling a big trunk and carrying a couple of suitcases as well. He flicked on the light as he turned to face the room—and jumped, startled, when he saw me.

I stood up, forgetting for two seconds my large and obvious erections, and extended my right hand. “Hi, I’m Steve,” I said.

“Mike,” he answered, clasping my right hand in one of his. Slowly, he set down his burdens, freeing up his other three hands, staring up at me the whole time. I gazed back down at him, taking in his exceptional beauty (even for here), his mesmerizing ice blue eyes, his rich black hair, his perfect shoulders and perfectly muscled arms, his perfect legs and above-average sneaker-clad feet, and the obvious bulge in his jeans. Then, suddenly, he closed the distance between up and enfolded me in a desperate, crushing hug. “I’m so glad to finally be here,” he mumbled into my chest. “You don’t know what it’s been like.”

I slowly wrapped my long, strong arms around him and stroked his broad back. “It’s O.K.,” I murmured. “It’s O.K. You have a friend now.”

I wanted to tell him that none of this was real anyway, our world was some kind of distortion or fabrication, but I had to be sure myself, absolutely sure, before I told anyone. For now, the hug was enough. For him, and for me. We held each other for a long, long time.

Similarly Named Stories: You might be looking for: “The awakening” by muscl4life; or “The awakening” by Johnny M.


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