Gay college boys who weigh 300 pounds don’t get laid. They spend their time watching porn, beating off and searching for sex of the pity variety.
While I spent my fat three and half years in Austin turning over rocks and looking for anyone breathing who would let me put it, Brian was having a bumper crop, fucking his way through a who’s who list of Austin’s beautiful boys. The closest I got to decent sex was the noise that slipped under Brian’s door—and sometimes through the walls, ceiling, floors and vents.
Someone’s into spanking.
One night, Brian brought home a particularly hot piece of ass. Kerry, this guy Brian had picked up God knows where, made a B-line to Brian’s bedroom, but before Brian disappeared, he just had to rub it in: “He’s a cheerleader.”
I hate Brian so much.
As the tell-tale noises began, I sparked up the bong, changed the channel to QVC and prepared for my normal weekend night alone. Pretty soon, I heard someone coming down the stairs. It was the cheerleader, clad only in a pair of white Calvins, complete with a hard-on. Through the cotton, I could make out every vein of his worth-cheering-for cock.
I don’t know if he and Brian were finished, just starting or were taking a breather, and I didn’t care.
“So you’re a cheerleader?” I asked.
“Yep,” he answered.
“That’s interesting. I bet you can’t do a toe-touch in here.”
“I bet I can try,” he countered.
And he did.
I had no control of the words that came out of my mouth and soon had him doing herkies, back-handsprings and the splits, all in his tighty-whites. The swelling in his pants disappeared, but it transferred to mine.
Brian the Selfish came downstairs and retrieved my precious, precious Kerry.
As a parting gift, he gave Brian several boxes of cheerleading goods. Apparently, Kerry worked for some cheerleading organization that held summer camps. In his car, he had box after box of grab-bags for campers. The bags contained coupons for tampons, free samples of mud masks, those razors with big handles for shaving your legs and a bunch of other shit high-school girls need.
I never saw Kerry again, but for the next three years, I shaved my face with a Lady Bic every chance I got.
