Good Red, Evil Red, and The Beast - by Coxswain

  Good Red, Evil Red, and The Beast-byCoxswain

  And how a bottom topped me

  "Mr. Oakley, can you run this message over to my assistant, Mr. Claridge? Could you go right now? I have to arrange for him to take my three o'clock English class; my plane leaves earlier than I thought."

  "Of course, Professor. Is he in the classroom now?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, I think he's in the gymnasium sauna." I took the note, put it in my pocket, and walked out. "Thank you, Red," the prof called after me.

  As I hurried out of the Arts & Sciences Building, I thought about Claridge. I had heard about him. Professional wrestler changed careers--went back to college at the age of 28 to get his degree, trying to become a professor of English. Of English! I grinned. Even worse, his specialty was Romantic Poetry. A pro wrestler turned pansy. What a hoot.

  I didn't like the limp-wristed poetry fags. Simpering, swishy, effeminate nerds were an insult to manhood. I majored in a respectable subject--physical education. No lisping, slouch-postured homos on football teams. No whiny girly-men on the basketball court.

  That's why Claridge was such a surprise. The dude made good money as a pro wrestler--couldn't miss his car in the parking lot: black Lamborghini Countach. Old-school Italian muscle-car. A cock & balls on wheels. Weird to see one in a parking lot with Fiats and Honda Civics. And with a student parking sticker.

  Why in hell would he give all that up to prance through the poetry books memorizing a bird that flieth and my love whose graceful hand brushes airily at my cheek? I felt a little sorry for him. Maybe something happened to him in the ring. Maybe a medicine ball hit him in the balls. Some opponent went outside the script and crushed his balls with a stomp. Castrated him.

  Without balls, how could anybody put up a good, fierce offense? He'd have to quit. With no testosterone pumping into his system, maybe he found himself preferring white wine to beer. Maybe he got out of wrestling before he found himself sniffing his opponent's crotch in a televised match.

  Poor guy.

  Then Evil Red appeared on my shoulder and whispered into my ear. Maybe de-balled Claridge has developed a taste for cock.

  Interesting thought. I had no small rep among a certain group on campus as owner of an unforgettable package. No shortage of invitations. Every time I went in a rest room, fags gave me come-hither looks.

  And since we all have to live on this world--poor bastards can't help what they are--from time to time I permitted some "indiscretions." Hey, my dick doesn't know if the cocksucker has an Adam's apple or not.

  The Edmond Hohenjenna Gymnasium was an old building. Dark bricks covered over with lacy ivy. The windows stood in stone casements, making it look like a castle, and it wasn't hard to imagine the broad, straight sidewalk leading up to the front door as a drawbridge leading to the castle gate. A romantic, knighthood kind of place.

  Evil Red again: Maybe Claridge has a hot mouth after all those years of screaming threats into the cameras, and maybe he's looking for a little romance. And you know you're horny--missed the morning jackoff because you were late to class. Maybe you can make up for it with a little sauna nookie.

  Hmmm. I stopped off in a men's room, took off my underwear, and proceeded on my way Commando.

  The sauna was an addition to the building, although it, too, was nearly 60 years old. The entrance to it was down a twisting hallway grown even more torturous as new additions and construction forced the hallway into new directions. It was so hard to find, in fact, that few people used it. Many didn't even know it existed.

  Finally at the sauna, I opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Claridge, formerly the Beast of Boston, sat on the wooden bench. We were alone. He was taller, I figured 6'4". Broad shoulders, mighty chest. He had lats like broad wings tapering down to a slim waist. Big pecs. Nipples like brown bottle-caps.

  Arms like oak branches stretched out on either side as he leaned back. Fuck, his arms are as big as my legs! And his legs were thick as my waist, solid iron, the muscles defined erotically under his skin--not an ounce of fat. Hard belly. A cast-iron plate. Wonder what it would feel like to stick my tongue in that belly-button.

  What That's faggot thinking! You are a masculine man! Guys lick your belly-button!

  And hair. Like icing on the cake, Claridge's physique was dusted with curly black hair over his chest and belly, and an erotic treasure trail funneled down from the Great Plains of his chest into a Mississippi River of black curls flowing around his belly-button down to the dark, mysterious delta covered with a white towel only a little bigger than a washcloth.

  Claridge had one hell of a build. A magazine-cover physique. Handsome face, too. Wavy black hair with a curl dangling over his forehead. Blue eyes. Strong jaw. Reminded me of Superman. Wonder how he got the name "Beast."

  He sat breathing in the steam from a nearby stove, and next to him on the bench was a leafy birch branch. Oh, god, the big fag likes to beat himself. A real fem.

  He looked up. "Mr. Oakley, what brings you here?"

  He knows me? I smiled. "Just call me 'Red.' "

  "Okay, Red it is."

  I had to make conversation: "I read the article you wrote for the 'College Brazenia.' I liked it. 'Seducing the Curious.' Interesting title for a story about romantic poetry." It was bullshit, but I can sling it when I have to.

  He leaned back further on the bench, stretching out his legs, and the small towel fell away from his hips. God. Could've knocked me over with a feather. Okay, let's be clear here. Bret "Beast of Boston" Claridge had a body to die for. Fucking him would be dream-intercourse. I wanted to do him so bad, my cock was whining.

  But I had to take my hat off to his cock! Huge! Thick pubic hair, not stiff and scraggly like mine. His was shiny black, curly, thick, and soft. For a brief, insane second, I wanted to pet it.

  The huge cock didn't look outrageous on him because he was tall and muscled--had to weigh 250-280 pounds. The Beast of Boston. Claridge's "normal-looking" cock was "to scale." In fact it had to be something like nine or ten inches. And that was soft.

  I was overwheled. The big fag is coming on to me. Showing me a little skin. Hoping to turn me on

  I almost snickered. This is too easy. I think I'll play with the big fool for a while.

  I placed a finger on my forehead as if trying to think. "I've got a message for you from Dr. Ensor. But what was it? Suddenly . . . suddenly I can't remember."

  He smiled:

  "For sweet Saint Marie and your order's sake.

  I loosen my pouch-thread,

  And therefrom piece of silver take;

  Here take this silver, it may ease thy care;

  We are God's stewards all, nothing is our own."

  I blinked. "Huh?"

  "From a poem by Thomas Chatterton. Let's just say I 'loosened my pouch-thread' to 'ease thy care.' Let's just say to jog your memory." He lowered his voice. "Or 'a pecker for your thoughts.' "

  He didn't want to hear my thoughts. In my head his tongue swiped up the shaft of my hard dick while that that giant, de-balled cock of his swung back and forth useless in the breeze. Damn, I'll bet that thing's a foot long when he gets hard.

  "Red."

  I looked up. Damn, I'd been staring again. He was grinning. "Want to see it hard?"

  What? That's my line. Why's he asking that? Confused, I sputtered, then grunted, "Yeah." No, wait, I mean NO.

  His callused thumb rubbed at the tip of his cockhead, then slid down to the magic spot just underneath. The big pendulum began to fill out, and I'm afraid my mouth fell open. Not since I was in the Army looking at field artillery cannons had I seen anything so lethal.

  Claridge's voice again:

  "In Virginia the sweltry sun did shine,

  And hot upon the meadows did caste his ray;

  The apple rose up palid green,

  And the pear did spread out fat and bend the leafy branch;

  'Tis now the pride of manhood we see,

  And soon we find ourselves reclined upon the ground"

  "Huh?"

  "My version of Chatterton again." He lowered his voice. "You like the "pride of manhood we see"?

  My mouth was dry. I gulped, then licked my lips. "Yeah." Wait a minute, idiot, this is getting out of hand! The big moron doesn't know his place! I cleared my throat. "Want to see mine?"

  His eyes twinkled. I knew it! "Sure. What're you packing?"

  Ordinarily, when I let a fag touch me, he was the one to walk over, kneel down, and pull open my pants. I had to allow a little leeway to my big conquest, though. He did have a million-dollar income, after all. I unbuckled my belt, pulled open my pants, and Ol' Thumper hopped out. I gave him a couple of morning-stretch strokes, then looked up.

  Fuck. In the meantime, Claridge's dong had swelled up like a Zeppelin. God, at least 12 inches! So fat it's like--I gulped--a beer can! Something else: Claridge was one of those guys with a pyramid cock--not only was it huge, it tapered from a pointed, almost sharp cockhead to the broad, beer-can base. It would get in easy but would ream out any hole it entered to stunning size. I'd be screaming by the time he pushed in the last inches of that!

  You'd be screaming? What in hell are you thinking You are going to fuck him! Isn't that the plan?

  I was turned on. On the threshold of what could be the biggest conquest of my career. Ol' Thumper was up, hard, and throbbing.

  But, fuck! About half as tall as Claridge's package. No, that's not right! I have eight inches. I sighed. Three-quarters as tall as his. As beer cans went, mine was a good Alka-Seltzer bottle.

  "Nice cock, man." His voice was low and deep. I could almost hear the laughter in it. Hey, fuck you, man, you're the one coming on to me here! I was pissed. No homosexual laughs at me! I don't give a fuck how well he's built! Claridge, you big fairy, you just lost out on a chance to suck on my big cock!

  "Well, I have to be on my way to class," I said, stuffing Ol' Thumper back inside. I fetched Dr. Ensor's note out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  Claridge smiled up at me. "We'll have to get together again," he said in a sultry voice.

  "The sun was gleaming in the middle of day,

  Dead still the air, and above the pure blue,

  When from the sea arose in drear array

  A heap of clouds of sable, sullen hue,

  Which full into the woodland drew,

  Hiding the sun's festive face,

  And the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.

  "More from Chatterton. A sad goodbye."

  Yeah, stepped on your own dick, didn't you? Sorry you let the moment pass? Begging me for another chance? "Yeah, goodbye." I paused. "You want to hang out sometime?" I'm not an asshole. I'll give him another chance.

  The electric-bass voice again: "Meet me this evening at the Corral. We'll have a couple of beers."

  Beers. Poor fucker. Still trying to convince everybody he's still a real male. I wondered when his voice would get higher. As it was, his voice was so deep it shook the room like a mega-bass booster in the trunk of a car.

  In class later that day (thankfully a good, safe PE class, free of wine-drinkers, poetry recitations, and dumb fucks who could screw up a good, developing blowjob), I overheard a couple of guys mention Claridge. Talking about his car.

  I butted in: "Hey, I hear he got an injury to his balls, and now he's gay. Is that right?"

  "Claridge is gay? Jesus Christ, that's unbelievable!"

  "Hey, that's what I heard."

  The other guy sneered at me. "No, man, that is utter bullshit. I used to work for a TV production company that handled the pro wrestling circuit when it came to town. Bret Claridge is the biggest top since the Empire State Building. Two ex-wives and a fucking platoon of guys following him around to suck his cock."

  "What"

  "Yes! He is such a sex-addict . . . you know why he came back to college?" I was all ears. "So he could lay a few college students! He was sick of wrestling groupies!"

  "But, but romantic poetry"

  "Yes! He wanted no sex-offender suspicions, so he signed up for the most innocent major he could find. Who would worry about a guy who reads poetry?"

  My blood ran cold. I couldn't concentrate on anything for the rest of the day. Fuck. I may have just dodged the buzz-saw.

  So you're not going to the Corral for a drink?

  Hell, no!

  Evil Red was pissed. You promised!

  The hell I did--

  --but Evil Red cut me off. Did he not, indeed, come on to you? Did he not, indeed, ask to see your cock? Didn't you see the desire in his eyes? He wants you!

  Really?

  Think about it! Big as he is, he could've raped you in that sauna before your books hit the floor. But what did he do? Leaned back, spread out, legs wide like a whore. Showed you his cock. Is that what tops do?

  At sundown, my Toyota pulled into the diagonal parking in front of the Corral. Right beside a black Lamborghini.

  Evil Red and Good Red sat on my shoulders. Tonight you're going to get a blowjob from the richest student on campus. I gloated. No, the poor bastard has lost his manhood! You can't make his life even more miserable. Treat him like a man, make him think you respect him!

  The Corral was a CW-themed bar built out of an old lumber warehouse. Next to a Catholic parish high school, it had a history of neighborhood complaints, police raids, and pastoral denunciations. An old wood building built in the early '40s, before the days of professional interior wiring, it looked like an ancient pony express stop--and had no air conditioning other than whining window units in several holes knocked in the walls.

  A classic saloon, the Corral was simply a large, dark room paneled in pine planks. The latest owners had created "atmosphere" with kerosene-style electric lighting fixtures and a couple piles of sawdust on the wood floor. Everything in the place was some shade of brown.

  As I walked in, a tired trio played tunes from the stage--guitar, bass, and fiddle. The Corral catered to a college crowd. Students gathered at the bar. A few shuffled around the dance floor.

  And there he was.

  Sitting at the back of a circular booth, leaning back, arms out wide on the backrest. His legs splayed out under the table--just like I first saw him in the sauna. Except that incredible cock was not visible.

  Good Red: Go over and say hello. Make him think you don't see him as a fairy fag.

  Evil Red: You see that? He licked his lips! That's a signal!

  Again, I was Commando under my shorts, a pair of nylon exercise trunks with hardly any legs left. Sure enough, as I got closer, Claridge smiled in recognition. "I see you're circumcised."

  Fuck, what a brazen bastard!

  Hey, why else did you wear those shorts?

  Claridge had me off-balance, though. "Yeah, uh, I ought to throw these shorts out. Too tight."

  He went on: "And wear underwear."

  Shit, he just doesn't let up!

  Evil Red: Part of the game. He's just making sure you're in a sexy mood. See how he's offering himself to you?

  "Sit down, Red, let me buy you a drink."

  Good Red: You see? He just wants to be friends, hoping you won't betray him like others who know his terrible secret.

  I sat in the booth, sliding over nearer him--but not too close. We weren't like a couple, after all. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The bartender looked over. "Two more here!" I spotted the watch on his wrist. Rolex.

  Good Red: The poor man. Already his empty scrotum is causing him to lose control. Soon he'll be an alcoholic. How pitiful.

  Evil Red: Now's your chance. If you can somehow show him a little skin in this place, he'll be on his knees under the table before you can set your glass down.

  The situation was weird. A typical fag trying to get into my pants would end up saying something obvious like, "Let me see how big you're hung." But Claridge was either the world's dumbest fairy or--That's it! He's rich, not used to doing his own work. I took a slug from my drink. Good stuff. Irish whiskey. I knew he's not a beer man. At least it's not some cheap cabernet.

  I took another drink, then looked at him. The more faggoty he grows, the more subservient he'll be, but right now I've got him fresh. Almost virgin, you might say. But apparently he was so new at this, he didn't even know the pick-up words. Shit, do I have to do this myself

  Hey, the end justifies the means.

  Claridge was spouting more poetry--"...What a grand thing, to be loved! What a grander thing still, to love!" You see? He's saying he wants to do it! Claridge smiled down at me. "Victor Hugo."

  I decided to go for it. I placed my hand on his thigh. "Would you like to see how big I'm hung?"

  "Say what?"

  Oops, shit, what a dimwit! "(Ahem!) Let me see how big you're hung."

  That big smile again. With his hand under the table, unzipping, he looked at me: "Love comforteth like sunshine after rain . . . William Shakespeare."

  He shifted himself in the booth, and there it was. What a cock! I had to give him his due. Hung better than any gorilla I ever saw, and he had a hardon. Fuck, did he have a dong! It stuck up above the edge of the table. Any passerby could see it.

  What in hell are you thinking You are the top here! This poor bastard is a newly neutered queer. He can't perform. Don't you see? He's begging you for it! Showing you skin to turn you on!

  Still, I had to admire. His cockshaft was a tawny column sculptured with huge veins and smaller ripples. Never been so close to anything like that in my whole life! Ohmigod! I spotted a large bubble of clear, syrupy liquid oozing out of it. Claridge's bass-viol voice pulled me back to reality: "One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love . . . Sophocles."

  I looked in his eyes. "Are you in love?"

  His voice was a deep purr. "I'd like to be."

  You see? He's begging! I looked down at his gigantic hardon. "Looks like you're ready for love."

  "Would you like to touch it?" Again the bass purr.

  It was not according to top/bottom protocol, but I reached out. My god! My own cock burgeoned up like I was grabbing it!. Waves of pleasure surged through me, but for god's sake I was holding another man's dong! No doubt about it, Claridge's sexual hunger was so strong, it oozed out through his skin: Spanish Fly soaking through the palm of my hand!

  Good Red: The poor guy! Feeling his manhood slipping away, he's desperate for any last scraps of sexuality he can enjoy.

  Evil Red: Make him suck your cock! Make him suck your cock!

  Claridge leaned closer. "Want to suck it? Go ahead, nobody can see."

  What did he say Do I want to suck it?

  No, no, he said I want to suck it. Let him go ahead. Nobody can see.

  I took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "Okay."

  For a long time we faced each other. My heart pounded in my ears. Nobody moved. Didn't he understand me?

  Finally, with a questioning expression, Claridge put his big hand behind my neck! Is he pulling my head down into his lap? What? What the hell Ohmigod, no he wants me to--

  --GLMMMPH! Claridge's cock crammed into my mouth, forcing my jaws apart like I was swallowing a walrus! What the fuck I don't suck cock! The big meat moved to the back of my throat, and I tasted a dribble--Fuck, his precum!.

  I tried to back off, to move his cock out of my mouth, but he held me in like an iron grip. I didn't feel his hand on the back of my neck, but somehow I was forced into his crotch. Breathing harder No! No way am I getting turned on by this!and out of sheer desperation, I reached up and grasped the big cockshaft with both hands, anything to get some leverage, to pull myself up somehow.

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