I once taught a high school student who looked much older than his age. He was from Venezuela and he was “advanced” for his age. He was 17, a sophomore. He did not like school, and was just there for the ride. The only thing he was interested in was girls, typical.
After he wasn’t in my class anymore, the following year and beyond, when he would pass me in the halls, he started calling me by my first name. I just rolled with it, deciding it was easier, and understanding that he just needed to feel like he was more of an adult than his peers. Every now and again, we would find ourselves walking down the hall together making small talk about whatever. He spent a lot of time walking to and from the bathroom just to avoid being in class.
When he was a senior, he got a job up the street from campus at Starbucks. I often stopped there on the way home to get “fuel” for my commute. At Starbucks, of course, they always wrote your name on your cup, and then called your order by your name. He quickly came to know my order, of course, and would always write my name on the cup, and often not charge me. So, I would always be sure to put a good tip in the jar.
Every once in a while, he would stop my by room at the end of the day and ask for a ride up the road to Starbucks, since he knew I was heading there on the way to highway anyway. I always took him when he asked. As time went on, it was more like we were pals and the memory even of the previous teacher/student relationship faded — I think for both of us. We would just shoot the breeze, and never talked about anything of great consequence, but we were definitely “bros.” He was already 18, or possibly 19. He had been held back a year in the transfer from the South American school. At any rate, he was straight as an arrow, and loved to talk about girls. I was pretty sure he pulled in his fair share, as he was very good looking, fit, and had all of those features that one can imagine. And, no one could help but notice his bulge. He couldn’t hide it if he tried. He was just too big, and whatever he was wearing, it was always very evident. It was a situation similar to facing a woman who is all tits, and they are the only thing you can see or focus on, no matter how hard you try not to.
One day, as we walked up the corridor toward the parking lot, we both instinctively stopped at the bathroom to piss on the way out. He stood at the urinal immediately next to me, in spite of the fact that there was an entire row of empty ones. I chalked it up to him just being him. He opened his belt and his pants, lowering them to unhaul the entire package—he wasn’t getting that out through the zipper. When he flopped it out, it just hung there like an appendage. It looked heavy, and it was impossible not to look at. He was holding it with one hand and had his other hand up on the wall with his arm raised, seemingly supporting himself. As we pissed, as always, he was chatting me up like nothing was out of the ordinary. We finished, I zipped up, and he re-packed his luggage.
I remember as we walked out, I felt so sad, inadequate, and even embarrassed. Of course, I had no idea if he had seen what I was working with or not. I also believed he probably really didn’t care. We walked to the car, and I dropped him off, got my coffee, and headed home.
On graduation day, as was tradition, all of the guys had cigars to smoke right after the ceremony. He made a point of finding me to have a few puffs with me and take a picture. He said, “I have no idea how I don’t have your number, but you have to give it to me now because otherwise I can’t get in touch with you.”
It was funny, because, even to me it was strange that he didn’t have it some how—to coordinate a ride at the end of the day or whatever. So, of course, we exchanged numbers, and then it was summer vacation. I’d be back next year, but he would not. He did not have plans to go to college. School was just not his thing. He was going to pursue some kind of career in photography—shooting sporting events and the like.
I never did hear from him again, despite having exchanged numbers.
Then, a number of years later (maybe five), I walked into a really upscale clothing store on 5th Avenue, really just to browse, some guy who was dressed to the nines approached me, and said, “hey, Mike!” I looked at him, and it took me a minute, but then I realized who it was. We spent a few minutes catching up. He told me that he was working there designing the windows, but also working in men’s suits, helping with measurements and customizing. I was a little surprised, really. It didn’t seem like it fit his personality. Somehow, he had really changed. He looked like a model now, and did have quite a talent. Those windows were really well done. He told me, “you have to let me get you into a really nice suit, Mike!” I smiled, and laughed, and told him I would love that, but that I could not afford a handkerchief in that store. He laughed at that and told me not to worry, that I would get his employee discount. I knew at that point that I had to buy a suit from him, because he was working on commission, and because it was the right thing to do. I also knew that he would help me get into a really dapper suit.
So, he took me in back to a big fitting room. He had the tape measure and the pins, and all of that stuff.
He had me put on a sample suit just to get some initial measurements. Neither of us thought anything of me just changing out of whatever I had in into that suit in the fitting room. Whatever. I had on underwear.
Then, he got on his knees to measure the inseam. In an instant, his hand was all up in my junk. Like right in it. I was so surprised. I was looking down at him, and for the first time, I saw him in a very different way. I was worried I might get hard with his hand bumping into my junk like that.
After a few more rounds of changing and measuring, that’s exactly what happened to me. I was mortified. There I was, standing there in a store suit, with a hard-on, and a now 25-year-old former student on his knees in front of me measuring my inseam. I must have been red as a lobster.
He looked up at me like a puppy dog, with bashful eyes. I was frozen with panic, because I had no idea where this was going. He smiled at me and said, “it’s no big deal, Mike. It’s just a boner. There’s a lot of friction. It happens, man.”
I felt somewhat relieved, but he could sense I was still uncertain about it. He grabbed it through the pants and gave it a quick couple of tugs and just said to me, “what, do you think, that you are the first guy to get a hard-on while getting measured?”
I just chuckled, but then was confused as to why he tugged on me like that. Anyway, he finished up his measuring and then we got down to business about picking out a suit for me. I ended up spending about an hour or more in there, easily.
When we were all done, he said, “I’ll give you a call when it’s ready. It will be about two weeks. You can come back in, or if you want, I can bring it up to your place.”
I thought that sounded like a pretty good deal, and so I thanked him, and told him I’d see him soon…
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To be continued…
