Part 10

This continues the account of the five days and nights that studly 18 year old Mikey spends together with Mike, the 24-year old uncle he idolizes, and Mike's fascinating and beautiful 22-year old fiancée Alice. The beginning of their story is told in "Cross-Country with My Uncle," and continued by "Alice, My Uncle, and Me," day 1 and day 2, and Day 3, parts 1 and 2, and "My Uncle's Bachelor Party," parts 1 and 2, wherein Jeff, Mike's old college roommate and lover, is introduced. This is part of Day 4.

Jeff and I arrived at Alice's house, and let ourselves in. We had anywhere up to three hours to kill before the wine dealer's delivery would arrive. I said to Jeff, "Hey, guy, pick up the story where you left off on campus, how you met Mike and how you guys like, got together."

Jeff said, "Sure, Mikey. But it's a kind of long story, so let's get comfortable," and he flopped onto the big king-sized bed, and rolled onto his stomach.

I sat down on the bed beside him, and I thought I'd pick up where I'd left off too. As Jeff resumed his narration, I idly stroked his big, broad shoulders.

Jeff started:

"Until I arrived, I didn't even know who my roommate would be. At Stanford, the coaches decide who's going to room with whom in the first year, and there had been somebody who had at the last minute not shown up, so all I got was a call from the coach's office the day before I left telling me that I had been switched from one room to another. When my taxi dropped me off at the dorm, I was issued my key, I went upstairs, and I saw a label on the door, "Mike Burlington, Jeff Jackson," and I walked in. Nobody was there, but Mike had already moved in. I only had a couple of suitcases of stuff to unpack, and it was a couple of hours until the first team meeting.

"So after I'd settled in, I kinda looked through Mike's stuff. He'd brought about half a dozen books with him, just a few inches on a bookshelf, and even today I remember what an impression these few volumes made on me. There was a handsome translation of Vitruvius, inscribed by his father; volume one of the Bury edition of The Rise and Fall; a small edition of The Prince; a Java manual; a well-thumbed cheap edition of the Phaedrus; Gensler's classic Symbolic Logic; and two things that deeply surprised me: Michel Foucault's The Use of Pleasure, and, in the original German, Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. Not even 12 inches of books, but boy, did they impress me. I had to figger this Burlington guy, whoever he was, was not the typical freshman jock. He had to be someone pretty interesting. I mean, reading Goethe for pleasure in German. That is, if you can judge a kid by his books, which I'm sure you can't. All I'd brought with me was a small collection of 'graphic novels,' ? comix if you will ? and a German dictionary.

"He had brought about 30 CD's too. I wasn't surprised at The Cure, Blues Traveler, The White Album, a Stones catalog album, and a bunch of Indie groups I'd never heard of. And I was gratified to see Ten Strait Hits. I wasn't particularly surprised to see Mozart's Gran Partida and Purcell's Trumpet Voluntary, but what really pleased me ? hell, it charmed me! I gave a little whoop to myself ? was Widor's Symphonie gothique. It's not every 18-year old kid who has a taste for French organ music! During my stay in the Suisse-Romand I'd become addicted, but I knew it wasn't a widely shared teen craze, to say the least! But even so, there are ten Saint-Saens fan for every Widor fancier. So again, I figgered, hey this kid could be interesting."

(As Jeff was saying this, I was thinking, "Hey, I love Widor too! Even more than Cesar Franck and Louis Vierne." But I didn't want to interrupt Jeff's narrative.)

"I snooped in his closet too. He had an axe case and a trumpet case. As for me, I loved music, but I never played anything. There was a bunch of brand-new designer clothes, too, most of it with the tags still on them. And there was some fancy electronics gear. Hell, his fuckin' clock radio was one of those Bose things. So I figgered that this kid might be interesting, but he could well be a really stuck-up rich kid who'd just be a pain in the butt.

"Well, of course, I couldn't have been wronger if I'd tried. It was Mike's mom who'd bought all that designer stuff (and most of it he never wore, sticking with jeans and shorts most of the time); and Mike couldn't have been more sweet natured and generous of spirit. In fact, one thing that I had noticed was that this kid (whom I hadn't met yet) might be book-smart, but I sniggered to myself that he couldn't be too smart after all. At first glance, the room seemed symmetrical: each side of the room was identical, or almost. But because of the placement of the main stairs on the floor, however, the closet on the side he'd picked was easily two feet shorter than on other side. Of course, you and I both know that it was just Mike's way to pick the worse side for himself, leaving the better one for his as yet unknown roommate. He was the most considerate kid you could imagine, artvin escort the most generous."

As Jeff said this, I pulled up the bottom of his shirt, and pushed it up to his shoulders, exposing Jeff's remarkably well-muscled, smooth back, and I systematically stroked it in fairly large circles. It was deeply satisfying to me just to touch his skin.

Jeff continued:

"And on his desk he had two pictures. One was of his mom and pop, and the other was of this cute 12-year old blond kid, who I assumed was his brother. Of course it was you. You may or may not know this, but all through our years together he kept a picture of his parents and you on his desk, yours replaced each year as you grew and changed."

When Jeff told me that, it warmed my heart. Of course I had kept a picture of him on my desk too, and one in my wallet, too. And I took every chance I could to tell my friends about Mike and show off his picture. They all had met him and knew I wasn't lying about what a wonderful guy he was.

Jeff continued his story. "So in about an hour I showed up at the first team meeting. It was a get-to-know-one-another thing. I scanned the room wondering which one was this Burlington guy. We were all wearing name tags, but I didn't spot anybody sporting that name. I do remember, however, in the crowd of good-looking, athletic kids, one guy who caught my eye across the room, who was particularly striking-looking, who moved with unusual grace, blond, with deep, deep blue eyes and a persistent smile. And after several of the coaches introduced themselves and gave their usual speeches, they eventually asked us new guys to stand up in turn, and one of the coaches read out a potted biography of each one, and that's how I finally found out that the blond beauty was in fact Mike Burlington.

"And that he was a second baseman -- for a short-stop like me, by far the most important teammate. It's not too much to say that the way the short and second baseman work together is the most critical element in baseball defense.

"From the team meeting we immediately changed and hit the field for a practice, and instead of a lot of drills, we had an intersquad game, just for fun. Believe me, bringing together so many kids from all over, we were really a fucked up mess. But there was something almost miraculous about the way Mike and I worked together, right from the first. It takes a lot of drills and practice for an infield to come together as a team, to make plays work halfway smoothly. But with Mike and me, we never needed to say a word, it was just something unexplainable, ineffable. He was always at just the right spot at the right time; and he could fire the ball over my way and somehow I'd just be in position. It wasn't something we had to work at, to practice, it just happened. As I said, it was, like unexplainable. But we both knew that something very special was happening when we were on the field together. It was as if we were looking at the field of play with the same eyes. And it started before we hardly even knew each other's name.

"I admired his defensive play enormously. And of course I could tell just from his grin that he liked my action too. And when I got in a lucky swat and whacked a fastball right out of the park he was there at the plate to high-five me with a real wide smile. It was the first time we'd ever touched. We hadn't even shaken hands before."

I tugged at Jeff's shirt, and he held his arms up over his head to facilitate my pulling it off, and I straddled Jeff's middle, and I begin a more orderly massage. It was even more satisfying to me to be in more extensive contact with him, such that my bare legs lay alongside his hips.

Jeff went on: "My hit was the game winner, and despite our multiple errors our team was thrilled, whooping and shouting as we filed into the locker room. My locker was on the same row as Mike's and as we undressed I noted what a really great body Mike had. Big shoulders, beautifully balanced musculature, rippling abs, all that golden hair on his belly and chest and his big arms and legs, that big fat cock, those swinging balls. (By the way, Son, it's amazing how much you remind me of an 18-year old Mike.)

"Billy Pelham, the captain of the team, and huge star in right field, strode into the locker room, whacked a bat against a locker a couple of times and said, 'Lissen up, you new guys. We have an old and honored tradition on this baseball club. It has two parts and they are both important. You don't even want to think of breaking either one. The first part is that nobody, get that, NOBODY who is not on the varsity will ever beat off in the shower here. Ever. Any time, whether you are alone, or otherwise. If you ever try it and you're found out, believe you you'll be very sorry, and we're not kidding here. The other part is that if you do win a spot on the varsity, you will be issued an invitation, which you will accept, to be initiated. And thereafter, you will not only be permitted to jack off in the team shower, escort artvin you will have the solemn responsibility to do so on every occasion. (Way it works is that the tradition permits guys with a hot date within three hours to take a pass, but otherwise, the tradition is absolutely honored. Iron clad.) Now we know that we cannot stop guys from getting boners; but any fancy stuff, like excessive soaping up, or standing so that a the shower is focused on a boner, that's the sort of trick that can get you in big trouble. I don't need to tell you what happens when a guy tries to break this rule, but I can tell you that nobody who's tried it has made the varsity here in as long as anybody can remember.'"

Jeff went on: "All of us new guys had been on ball teams for years, and we had never heard of anything like this, but it was obvious that Pelham wasn't hoaxing us. As we filed into the gang showers, it was, like, a very strange experience. The varsity guys were remarkably, amazingly, unselfconscious. Habituated from months, if not years of following the tradition, quite as a matter of course as soon as they'd gotten wet, they soaped up and got hard and whacked off."

But of course it wasn't as simple as that. As it happened Mike and I were showering side by side when Billy Pelham himself came in and took the spot right next to us. Pelham was fucking awesome. He was six-four, perfectly built, and frankly gorgeous. His torso was a fucking amazing thing, with chiseled musculature: big, defined pecs, incredibly cut abs ? eight-packed, I'd guess you'd say ? and his arms and legs were perfect. Big round biceps, imposing quads, ropy forearms and his calves were really defined. Big veins popped up along his arms, and one along each side of his lower belly, framing his perfect abs. His fine blond hair was full and longish, cascading over his forehead, so that his golden eyebrows were almost obscured. His deep-set eyes were china blue. His features were a rare combination of feral and refined. It wasn't just us who were impressed by Pelham. He was a part time model already, and he'd been featured in an A