Tonight, I Want to be Gay

In the shadows of Yale University, there is whole other place called New Haven. This is where I live and work, but sometimes, it's hard to escape the fact you live in a college town. Sometimes, you wish you didn't, for when town meets gown, the encounter is often hot as hell but complicated.

One night while on my way to the York Street Café, a young guy caught my eye. He walked slowly as if breaking in a new pair of shoes, and I figured this Yalie had recently been shopping at J. Press.

Descending the stairs and watching a girl watch her boyfriend watch me from the window of the trendy Bangkok Garden Thai restaurant that overlooks the bar's entrance, I heard someone whisper: "Tonight, I want to be gay."

Turning around and walking back toward the bar, I said, "I can arrange that."

Without making eye contact, the floppy haired Yalie spun around and walked directly in front of me, pausing just long enough to whisper: "Tonight, I want to be gay."

"Then we should go drinking and dancing," I called after him as his beer breath wafted around me.

Not breaking his stride, he looked over his shoulder and said: "Meet me at the corner of Park and Crown."

A few minutes later, I pulled up to the intersection of Park and Crown Streets, and I did not have to wait long before my curious student ran out from the shadows, jumped into my truck, and ordered: "Just drive away!"

Accelerating rapidly, the truck jerked forward as I replied, "I can do that."

I pulled onto the highway as he placed his hand on my knee: "Tonight, I want to see what gay guys - like you - do."

Shifting into fifth, I replied, "Well, it's the least I can do."

A few exits later, he was sitting on my couch looking like a college boy clone but with a wanton glare in his eyes. He looked at me and said: "Show me what it's like to be gay."

I picked up his hand and placed it on my thickening cock and replied: "This is what it feels like."

Staring at his hand, he pulled my zipper open, fished out my thickening cock with his fingers, and began stroking it. It grew increasingly hard in his hand, and as he lowered his lips, he paused just long enough to say: "Let's never talk about this; I want to be a senator someday."

Watching the back of his head buck up and down in my lap, I thought it better not to respond.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled his lips but not his eyes from my cock and pleaded: "Show me what it's like to be gay."

Taking him by the hand, I led him through the hallway, saying "Let's take it to the bedroom."

Tossing his Yale blue shorts to my bedroom floor, he fell on his back, raised his knees to his ears, and declared: "I want to do it like you gay guys do."

Lining my cock up with his pink puckered hole, I smiled and said, "I'll see what I can do."

Before my head could touch his asshole, he pressed a flattened palm to my chest, looked me in the eye, and said: "Don't ever talk about this; I might be President some day."

Promptly plunging forward, I pushed my cock into him, and he yelped as I leaned forward and mused over his name while pressing my lips to his pale cold cheek.

He groaned as I tunneled deeper and deeper into him, and eventually, his groaning grew to a guttural panting, and he stabbed at the air with his words: "Tonight - I - want - to - be - gay . . . "

I quickened my thrusts causing my thighs to slap against his ass, and as the slapping echo filled the room, I said to myself: "Are you sure? For you may feel a little queer, after you've had a beer, but you'll never know what it feels like to blow a load just to know you're alive. You'll never know the tension that fills you until you - you - you forget the words - words - words for the prayer to keep it from killing you. You'll pop Viagra just to - fill - fill - fill the First Lady's vagina, but every night, when you drive - drive - drive past the rest area, you'll stop and think about trade - trade - trading your wedding ring for a cock ring, but by then, it'll be too late. You'll already be - be - be a dead President, for your virtue is virtual, and in reality, I am fuck - fuck - fucking you up the a - a - a - a - assssssssss . . ."

We drove silently along York Street, until he pointed to the side of the road and said: "This is fine."

Jumping out of the truck before I could bring it to a full strop, he yelled: "This did not happen, and I do not know you!" Then, he slammed the door and ran into the shadows of the campus.

Without a word in response, I drove away and thought: But I know you.