My Roomie Jerry
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My Roomie Jerry
Note: All characters in this story are 21 years of age or older. Trigger warning: if the use of the word “fag” offends you, please do not read this. It’s used because it’s the word which best describes the narrator’s self-image and establishes the relationship between the characters.
When I was nearing the end of my undergraduate years in college, I decided to find an apartment in town and move off-campus. I was sick of being ridiculously cramped, I was sick of the noise that kept me from sleeping all night, and I was sick of guys running up and down the shared hallway acting like idiots 24-hours a day. So I started looking around. I was really lucky. Within a few days, I found a place I could afford. It wasn’t huge, and it wasn’t fancy, but it was a whole lot better than the dorm I was living in. I had a small kitchen, one bathroom (with pretty modern fixtures), one big living room, and one bedroom with a nice large closet. I signed the lease, and moved in as fast as I could get my stuff packed up. And that didn’t take long. It was a furnished apartment, and I didn’t have much stuff of my own to worry about. A quick car-load or two and I was moved.
It was great for a month or so — until I started to realize that my money was running shorter than I’d planned on. I hadn’t factored in things like electric bills, water bills, and increased gas milage. And I wanted more money for food and entertainment than I realized was possible. So, I “bit the bullet” and decided to look for a roommate. I asked around to see if anybody I knew wanted to share a place with me, I put some flyers up in the dorms, I even posted an ad in the student paper. And that was what did the trick. One evening, I got a call from a guy named Jerry who lived in an upperclassmen dorm across campus. He was a senior, and — like me — sick of dormitory life. We met up the next day for lunch, and we clicked right away. He was about 6’2″ tall and a Forward on our basketball team. Dark hair cut short, and dark brown eyes fringed by huge lashes and oversized eyebrows. A big nose and huge feet. He had the ideal body for a b-baller: slender, but with sinewy muscles that had the potential to keep growing as he worked out and played more. Wide shoulders and a great wingspan, perfect for the game he loved. And thanks to the fact that he was wearing his jersey when we met, I could see that his body was covered with a generous amount of hair that made him look as masculine as fuck.
In other words, he didn’t look like me at all. I was only 5’8″ tall, with the skinny frame of the traditional nerd. My strawberry-blonde hair always needed a haircut, and it tended to flop down over my forehead and do it’s best to hide my bright blue eyes. I spent too much time studying to spend much time in the gym, so my body was thin and not built up at all. The glasses I wore didn’t help much either. Still, I was generally considered to be a good-looking guy. I can’t claim that every head would turn in my direction when I’d walk into a room, but at least a few here and there would swivel to follow me as I’d move.
Anyway, the day we met Jerry and I sat over lunch for about an hour, comparing lives and learning about each other. He came from a small town one state over, and had been recruited to our school with the promise of a basketball scholarship. But it turned out that he wasn’t developing as well as the scouts had hoped, and he’d realized out that basketball was going to get him through college, but wasn’t going to turn into a career later on. He was a biology major and figured he’d be able to navigate his way into a job with some lab or research company when the time came. Until then, he was spending almost enough time on his classes and lots of time with his girlfriend Shelly. They’d been together for about a year now, and he hoped that she was going to prove to be “the one.” He showed me her picture. All I saw was an average-looking girl who didn’t look all that sharp. But there’s no accounting for taste, right? Meanwhile, I was studying social work. I had an aunt who did that, and I knew that the hours were going to be awful, the stress high, and the pay miserable. But I still wanted to do it. Or at least, I wanted to try. My own experience had taught me that sometimes the only barrier between a lousy home and bad trouble can be the wisdom, energy, and concern provided by a case worker. Some good things had been “paid forward” to me, and I wanted to do the same for others. And if I couldn’t handle the stress, I figured I’d know that early enough on to side-shift into some other line of work if I had to. But I didn’t think I’d have to. I was pretty sure I was strong enough to face the challenges, and I knew that I wanted to fall asleep at night reflecting on the lives I had influenced rather than on the dollars accumulating in some back account somewhere.
So, we moved in together. It was pretty easy except for one thing: like I said, my apartment had only one bedroom. And that bedroom ankara travesti had only one double bed. I sure wasn’t about to give it up, so Jerry had a simple choice: he could camp out on the short and lumpy couch in the living room, he could lay out a sleeping bag on the floor somewhere, or he could share the bed with me. He didn’t hesitate. Travelling on overnight basketball trips all through high school and college had meant that he’d shared lots of hotel and motel beds with lots of different teammates. So it was no big deal when he walked over to the apartment with me after lunch, took a quick look round, and saw there was only one bed. He just said, “Yeah, looks okay. I like being off-campus and closer to downtown. And the walk’s not bad. When can I move in?”
The move took place the next weekend. He packed up during the week, and arrived Friday night with his things stuffed into a mismatched assortment of suitcases, canvas carriers, and grocery-store plastic bags. As he unpacked and stowed his stuff away, I made us some sandwiches, flipped on the TV, opened a couple of cans of beer, and settled down in the living room.
Over the next few weeks, beers, TV, and watching lots of basketball games became a regular pastime. At least, on the nights that Jerry didn’t think we needed to hook up with Shelly. Or maybe I should say, on the nights when he didn’t hook both of us up with Shelly and her friend.
Double-dating? Well, sorta. You see, we had one other thing in common: we both attended this large box church on the edge of campus, and we both took it seriously. Jerry especially. Well, seriously enough anyway that we both attended most weeks (though we had never met there before we became roomies), and seriously enough that he was dating a “good girl” from the church who he “respected.” She liked the idea of “reducing temptation” by “not being alone with him.” So, when she went out with Jerry, she’d drag a friend of hers along whenever she could. That meant that Jerry would try to drag somebody along with him to keep the friend busy while he focused on Shelly. And now that we were roomies, well… I became the easiest person to drag along.
When a “date” would end, we’d drive them back to campus, then head to our apartment to drink some more and rehash the night. More often than not, Jerry would fall asleep on the couch and I’d have to wake him up to half-carry him into the bedroom (in other words, let him lean on me as he stumbled half-asleep from one room to the other). He’d shuck off his clothes, drop them on the floor, stretch out on his side of the bed, and be asleep again within a minute or so. Sometimes under the covers — sometimes on top of them.
Which gave me the perfect chance to stare at him. At his long, well-muscled jock body. The body with the hairy chest that had a treasure-trail running down to his stomach and into his sweat-stained jock. The body that I lusted after.
You see, I’m a fag. I know that’s not a “nice word,” and I know it doesn’t describe most gay men, but it’s what I identify as. I’m a cum-sucking cock-loving fag. Always have been. But I learned early on that it was best to keep that little secret to myself. You might say that I spent my life up till then in the closet. I would say that I spent it as an undercover spy pretending to bat for one team while I hung out with testosterone junkies whose pastimes I got to be part of and whose bodies I got to ogle. And when it came to Jerry, ogle I did. When he’d fall onto our bed, I’d leave the living room light on so that it would pour some light through our bedroom door and onto his sleeping frame. I’d stare at him as he lay there, memorizing every curve of his body, every motion of his chest and gut as the breath would move in and out of him. The heft of his thighs. The exact shape of his belly-button (an innie, by the way!). The way he’d cover his eyes with his forearm as he slept. The way his cock would swell inside his jock as he’d ride the pleasure of his dreams. I knew it all. And I must admit that some nights I reached out and touched him here and there. Lightly. The curve of his shoulder. The forest of hair on his legs. The warmth of his stomach as I’d wrap one arm lightly around him and imagine that — at least for that moment — we were not just roomies, not just friends, but lovers.
But I was careful in my nighttime explorations, and he was a sound sleeper. So all was well. Within a couple of months, we’d fallen into a predictable pattern. Our lives were filled with classes, basketball practice (for Jerry) or hours in the library (for me), TV-and-beer, or nights with “the girls.”
Then one Friday night, things changed. Though not at first. As we did so many nights, we drove over to the student center to pick up “the girls.” They were, of course, waiting for us. Well, Shelly was waiting for Jerry. Her spotty-faced friend was beside her, hoping that I’d pay more attention to her tonight. Which wasn’t going to happen. I mean, I’d be friendly and polite and shit — but more ankara travestileri than that? No. Would I finally feel her up in the back seat when Jerry and Shelly started going at it in the front seat? No. Not gonna happen. Just unspoken yearning on her part and awkward silence on mine. We both deserved pity. But we knew we had to do what “wing men” are supposed to do. We were the back-up singers to their handsy duet. The “Jerry Fondles Shelly” show.
Which always cut off before it got to Act III. After all, we were all “good kids.” We went to church together. Shelly knew she had to save herself for marriage.
Jerry’s problem was that Shelly drew the line for “saving herself” so far from fucking and cunnilingus that he went home every night with blue balls and had to bend forward a bit as he walked. Poor deprived cocksman. No more of that! Hands off now, baby!
Tonight ended just like every other “group date” did. After we drove around town for a while and wasted our time and money at the bowling alley, we jumped back in the car and drove to “the park.” The one down at the bottom of the hill. The one with lots of trees and a picnic table in the center of the paths through the trees that surrounded it. The one that belonged to families during the day, to “good kids and nice people” in the early evening, and to perverts after 10 p.m.
Sure enough, promptly at 9:45, Shelly started making “well, it’s time to go now!” noises, and we all piled back in the car for the trip back to their dorm. Jerry pulled the car up to the sidewalk in front of Briston Hall and jumped out, leaving the car running. As Miss Tag-along and I politely told each other what a nice time we’d had, and how we hoped to see each other again soon (most likely in 24 hours or so), Jerry walked his girl to the door of the dorm. They stepped off the path and I could see their shadows against one of the trees on the side. He was doing his best to milk one last kiss and grope out of the evening — but it was only a minute later when Shelly stepped back into the light and waved at the car. She was saying goodnight. She was also telling her friend that she could get out now. One more door opened, one more body stumped up the path, and the two of them retreated back inside the protective walls of their virginal nunnery.
As Jerry slid back behind the steering wheel, I could feel his tension filling the small inside space of the car.
“I’m still hungry,” he said. Not a complaint, exactly — and not exactly a whine. More like a demand. More like he was saying, “I need more, and you’re coming with me to get it.” I was fine with that. Happy. Better to be alone with him than to play nicey-nice with the women. Guy time. Much better. Hell yes, the bitches are gone. Much better now.
“Donny’s Dogs doesn’t close till 11. Let’s go get a couple of hotdogs. We can take them back to the park, hang out there, and shoot the bull for a while.”
No problem here.
Donny had the best dogs in town. Foot-longs. With great solid buns that could hold all the toppings you could pile in them. Relish, mustard, onions, sauerkraut, peppers, chili, cheese, whatever you wanted. Even ketchup if you were a sicko. Only a few cars were parked around the place when we pulled up, so it didn’t take long. The perky little waitress took our order “to go,” and about 5 minutes later brought us the long white paper tubes, warm to the hands from the steaming dogs inside.
Ten more minutes, and we were back in the park. I guess Jerry thought it was okay to be there “late” when the ladies weren’t with us. There were two or three other cars in the lot now, but they looked empty and we didn’t see anybody around as we parked under a streetlight, grabbed our dogs, and headed back down the path we had walked the other direction on just a little while ago. Back to the same table we’d sat at earlier. We even chose the same sides — him with his back to the woods, me backed up to the exposed open section of the clearing. We opened our paper tubes, and I was just starting to take my first bite when he spoke again:
“I need to talk to you about something. I’m doing you the favor of doing it without the girls around.”
My hand started to shake. I knew what was coming.
“I know you’ve been touching me at night. I wake up sometimes and feel your hands on me. I need to know what it’s about.”
I gulped down the bite of dog in my mouth. “I’m sorry. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s sick. But I can’t help myself. It’s just — well, okay, yeah — it’s just that I lay there beside you and look at you as you breathe. I can’t stop myself from touching your shoulder. Putting my arm around you. Pressing up against your back. It’s not because I think you want it. I know you don’t. I know you’re completely straight, which is all that gives me the strength to stop before I do something more — and why I haven’t talked to you about it. But I can’t help myself. You excite me. I can’t stop myself. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.”
“I travesti ankara guess I’ve always suspected that you were a fag, but just didn’t want to admit it. You never talk about women. I’ve never even seen you touch a girl. Not the way any other guy would. So be honest with me. What’s this game you’ve been playing? What do you really want?”
Long pause. Really long pause. I swallowed hard. “The truth? I wanna be friends. Really — GOOD friends. I wanna make you feel good. I wanna give you a buddy you can enjoy yourself with. I know it won’t be more than that. Just — you know — let you enjoy yourself a little. Give you a way to drain your excitement after we drop Shelly off.” Another ridiculously long pause. Then: “I wanna give you some holes to make use of when you’re in the mood.”
He stared at me. “Well, I’m sure not a fag. And I’m sure not gonna be. But… (and here he paused himself)… having some holes to pump anytime I want sounds like not a bad idea. Just so long as you know it’s just dumping cum in a hole and nothing else, right?”
I thought I was gonna pass out. “Understood. Yeah, completely. Understood.” I was so excited I was shaking. I couldn’t believe he was going this way — couldn’t believe he was willing to feed me jizz. Couldn’t believe he’d even let me TOUCH his cock. So fucking excited. Just what I wanted…
His body relaxed, and I could see him starting to grin. “Well, no time like the present to start. Nobody around. Plenty of space on the ground over here for some knees, plenty of space between my legs for a fag.”
I was on the wet, muddy ground between his legs like a shot. I could feel the earth getting my pants wet as I snuggled in between his thighs and got ready for the meal he was offering. He looked down at me, and a smirk played around his lips. Slowly he reached into his lap and started to unzip his pants with his right hand. As the zipper went down, his almost-fully-hard cock, still trapped in his worn jockstrap, was pushed out through the gap in his pants.
“Take it out of my jock, fag. Make it feel good.”
I used both of my hands to pull apart the opening in his shorts, which allowed the cocksnout to poke out of the gap in his pants on its own. His dick was skinny, marked by freckles, about 7 1/2 or 8 inches long, pulsating and red. The dickhead was like an apple bobbing on his slender stalk, already moist with a few drops of cock-dew. I grabbed the shaft with my right hand and pulled the fat apple toward my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and started to greedily lap away the moisture on the slit. I wanted to extract his seed, taste his nectar, slurp on his fat purple knob. He was still smiling down at me as he picked his hotdog back up and took another bite, filling his mouth with hog meat as I filled my mouth with his prick. The stalk was like a handle in my hand. My own personal joystick to play with. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and started popping his dickhead in and out of the cavern of my mouth. My lips went loose, then tightened, as I started to apply suction to his knob. The “popping” sound as it pulled out or slipped back into me was music to my ears.
Grinning like a hyena, he used one finger to scrape some of the mustard and other toppings from what remained of his hotdog. At a moment when his cock-apple was out of my mouth for a second, he used his other hand to push back against my forehead, keeping me away from his meat while he slathered it with the mess of mustard and condiments.
“Eat it, fag. Swallow my weiner.”
I went crazy on his cock. I lapped and licked and gobbled. His smile grew even wider. He pulled what remained of his hotdog out of it’s bun and shoved the meat into his own mouth. He took the messy broken bun and used it as a boat for his cock. With a maniacal smile on his face, he held my head in position so I could see his cockmeat in the soggy bun, dripping with mustard and relish and onions and more. He shook his fuck-sandwich from side to side, then grabbed my face hard, saying: “EAT IT, BITCH. EAT YOUR DINNER!”
I felt insane. I crammed it all into my mouth at once. The bun was crushed — some went in my mouth, much went into my lap or fell on the wet ground. His cock rammed into my mouth and I could feel the fat knob pressing against and then forcing it’s way into the top of my throat. It was an enormous plug of cock, choking me, taking away the air. Like a plumber’s rod shoved into a clogged drain, his cock was reaming me out. It was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed. He was the animal I’d been waiting for.
As I was pushed down into the mud, as his cock rodded my neck, I could hear his laughter in the background. His cock was harder than ever, filling me up, making me his fagdump and pressing me down into the earth. I wrapped my arms around his knees and held on tight, addicted to the ride he was giving me. His hips rose and fell as my throat was used, and I hugged his legs for all I was worth, encouraging him to plunge deeper and deeper. His denim-covered legs surrounding me, his hips powering him as he ground his crotch against my face. My mind was exploding at the knowledge that my roommate’s dick was feeding me. Fucking me. Fueling me. I wanted to feel his cock exploding inside me. Needed it. Needed his milk.
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