A men's dorm room . . . a modified prom tuxedo . . . and we get to be a fly on the wall!
The February weekend sun had just dipped, abandoning Saturday afternoon to the uncertainties of Saturday evening, and Malcolm had just recognized the possibility that Victor wanted to take him to bed. Or rather, the possibility that he wanted him to come to bed: Victor himself was already there.
In that moment, he could not see why this possibility hadn’t previously occurred to him. Though not unduly conceited, Malcolm wasn’t the type to discount the idea that a man might find him attractive. There’d certainly been no particular cues suggesting that Victor did not find him sexually appealing; or that he was not attracted to men at all; or that his sexuality was remote—somnolent or focused elsewhere.
On the contrary, Victor had always exuded sexuality in his presence—despite the fact that Victor seemed oblivious to his own beauty . . . wearing his clothes, for example, as if unaware of how effectively they might present the shape of his crotch, the sharpness of his shoulders, or the shrine of his face. His erotic vitality had touched Malcolm from the start, but Malcolm’s instincts had told him not to take it personally. Victor was, he assumed on some level, a god of sexiness, generously if unwittingly sprinkling a bit of his libido-fostering warmth on those who crossed his path.
Now, looking at the nearly empty room, he saw a roomful of possibilities. This specifically was what made him feel more accessible to Victor—the sense of possibility that the man was suddenly projecting. The suggestion that perhaps Victor’s shorts could come off for him, that his body might welcome him.
And clearly it was not the mere fact that Victor was reclining on his bed, alone in his room with Malcolm, that had given rise to this sense of possibility. In a world of one-room dorm habitations, many a platonic study session, TV night, and chummy heart-to-heart near a bed qua chair or a bed qua desk had been shared between Malcolm and various men friends. No, being alone with a man who was on his bed, in his room, was nothing unusual, and did not automatically imply sex. There was something more than walls and furniture informing the atmosphere tonight.
Yes. As the lightscape of the dorm room shifted its center of gravity from the majestic orange of the setting sun to the comforting yellow of Victor’s bedside lamp, Malcolm’s instincts told him it could be time to take things personally.
"You don’t have to stand there, you know.” Victor was laughing at him, gently.
"I thought you might have things to do.” He’d dropped by to see if he could trade shifts with Victor at the radio station the following week. This had necessitated only two minutes of discussion, but Victor had kept him there with hospitable small talk.
"It’s Saturday night,” he said now. "I want to relax.” He stretched his muscles, fists clenched behind him on the pillow, yawning the sort of yawn that means arising rather than descending. Malcolm noted how the tension that rippled through him appeared to converge in his crotch, where an almost imperceptible spasm immediately dispersed it. He was aware that Victor’s bulge, in that instant, was a centimeter closer to him, as it levitated itself forward.
Victor patted the mattress beside him. He’d brought his double bed from home, sacrificing the standard-issue armchair to make way for it. There was plenty of room for him.
"Let’s talk,” he said.
While the room, it seemed, reverberated with this simple suggestion, Malcolm flashed back to the night they rode the subway together to a Halloween party. Victor had dressed as a superhero of his own invention, someone he’d drawn for a comics zine. Malcolm didn’t remember the name of the character, but he did distinctly remember that the outfit had consisted of cape, hand-painted sweatshirt, tights, speedo, and boots. The sweatshirt had been just long enough to give a tunic effect, concealing the black speedo that shadowed under the translucent tights. That is, it concealed them at times, depending on what position Victor was in.
They’d had a car to themselves; and, evidently free of inhibitions, Victor had experimented with a range of poses, asking Malcolm to verify when he was or wasn’t revealing his bulge. Malcolm had considered himself a mere observer—labeling the thrill Victor was giving him as accidental, unrecognized, and, from his point of view, inconsequential.
Malcolm had been content, in the aftermath of that evening, in the affirmation that it didn’t violate a man’s rights if you masturbated about him. That there wasn’t even a daily allowable limit.
In the present Saturday-twilight moment, he considered the possibility that Victor had had an agenda that Halloween—and called himself stupid for not having considered it sooner.
Malcolm walked around the foot of the bed to stand near him, near the expanse of mattress Victor had designated for him.
Victor waited for him to sit, then inquired with his eyebrows when he didn’t. Then his face relaxed again.
"Hi,” he said. It was the most open-ended, nonthreatening, and intriguing "hi” he’d ever faced.
"Hi,” he answered.
"When I said you didn’t have to stand there, I didn’t mean you should stand somewhere else.”
Victor studied him for a beat. "You’re funny.”
"I know.” He knew now, that is, now that Victor had brought it to his attention.
"And you should really sit down on the bed at this point in time.”
"Yeah.” He renewed the invitation by patting the mattress again.
Victor reclined farther back on his pillow, with his hands under his head and his elbows pointing out at the world contentedly. His chest looked deliciously exposed in this posture, though his T-shirt was perfectly opaque. "What were you planning on doing tonight?” he asked casually.
Malcolm’s groin ached. He wasn’t sure what would happen next—or at least how—so he simply gave a literal answer to the question. "I hadn’t decided. I thought I might go to the movies.”
"Oh,” Victor replied, neutrally. Then his eyes perked up. "Hey, do you want to see my prom tuxedo?”
It was a peculiar offer, but he was open to just about any offer from Victor. "Sure . . . if you want to show it to me.”
Victor hopped off the bed, gesturing in passing to tell him he could stay put. "I had it altered recently, since I figured I’d never be attending another high-school prom. No one’s seen it yet.”
The tux was satin, in classic black, and he eyed it with reverence.
"You had them take out the back of the pants?”
Where once there had been fabric at the garment’s rear and crotch, there was nothing. The pants had been converted into a highly formal set of assless chaps.
"Yeah,” Victor giggled. The pants—and the way Victor was looking at them as he held it high for display—were adding a crazy buzz to Malcolm’s hard-on. This time, he was definitely aware of clothing as presentation. "What do you think?” Victor asked.
Malcolm smiled boldly, forcing himself to remain seated, his lap apparently full of the tension he’d earlier dissipated. "I think it has possibilities,” he said quietly.
Victor blushed, but sparkled. "You think so?”
Malcolm’s gaze took in the tiny bathroom that made this otherwise bare-bones dorm room a prize in each annual lottery. Victor’s eyes followed his, and the underlying train of thought.
When Victor emerged a minute later, Malcolm quickly retracted his hands from his pants. He caught a glimpse of the open-faced sandwich of denim shorts and yellowed jockstrap on the tile floor in the background.
"Hi,” Victor said shyly.
It seemed an ironic twist that their pursuit of eros now made Victor abandon his bed, after it had been such a measured dance for him to coax Malcolm onto it. But he was sure they’d return to it soon.
Victor spun for him as he stood up, confirming that he’d removed, not changed, his underwear. That, of course, was the whole point of Victor’s altered pants. His bare goods, the whole point, he announced in his mind, while relishing the man’s bright, creamy emphaticness.
Victor purred when Malcolm crept behind him and began stroking those warm bottom cheeks. He wiggled into Malcolm’s palm. "I thought you wanted to go to the movies,” he teased.
"You are the movies.”
Malcolm’s cock was pulsating drunkenly, and he wondered if Victor’s cock was equally tipsy, tingling boyishly in a giddy broth of spiked nectar.
He kissed Victor’s neck, continuing to fondle him. "I’m loving the prom tux.”
Victor moaned. He widened his stance slightly, and Malcolm’s hand reached under the tight balls to explore the man’s wet cock slit. A moment later he tasted Victor’s precum, his prodigal forefinger home at his lips.
The force of their joint desire overwhelmed Malcolm: he slapped the man’s ass exuberantly, then fell to his knees, kissing feverishly down the globes . . . smelling the sweetness of his flesh, nibbling where its athletic firmness flared indulgently into softer topography.
Victor pivoted and bent, resting his head on the piece of bed that Malcolm’s buns had briefly occupied. Victor’s buttocks-framed fuckhole was in Malcolm’s face, gaping at him with conspiratorial intimacy.
Having undone Victor’s belt for better access, Malcolm painted an inaugural, invisible stripe of pleasure along the gash with his tongue. Then he clutched Victor’s hairy, sturdy thighs and gorged himself on cock—listening to the cadence of Victor’s whimpered ohs, and interrupting the feasting now and again to smack his lips on the man’s jiggling derriere.
When Victor was close, Malcolm withdrew his face from the cock and inserted two fingers into the fuckhole. His other hand found the man’s left tit, and Victor came like hell.
In the bed, Victor held Malcolm with a vise grip while he ground into him, scraping his own rear lewdly up and down the mattress to the rhythm of Malcolm’s fucking, like an animal rubbing its fur sensuously against a tree. By squeezing his abs, Victor engineered pressure right to where he needed it. He touched the base of his own shaft as Malcolm screwed him, smearing his fingers with his own cum.
The efficiency of Victor’s ravening lust made him spurt again like a helpless wet-dreamer.
* * *
"Were you waiting to sleep with me all along?”
Victor reflected. "I don’t know. Does it matter?”
"No. Not in the way you mean.”
Victor smiled brightly. "What way do I mean it?”
Malcolm laughed. "I don’t know.”
Yes, thought Malcolm, Victor was his favorite kind of man: a man who made love by making him think.