That Loving Feeling

That Loving Feeling

It was dangerous to be, or to be thought to be, gay when I was at university in the late 1980s. The AIDS catastrophe was at its height and called a 'gay plague' amongst other things I won't repeat.

I found myself living and socialising with a group of sporty types. Most of them were into football, either soccer or rugby, in winter and cricket and/or tennis in summer. But of course exams would keep us busy in early summer and we would be away on the long vacation in late summer. My sport was running but I was accepted and we had all been thrown together living on the middle floor of a three story accommodation block called a 'Hall of Residence' on campus. These were in short supply and except in exceptional circumstances only first years could live in them and you just got the room you were assigned, no choice.

I'll never forget the night the guys picked on Tim Price. I'm still not sure why they did, he hadn't done anything to deserve it, it was probably just high spirits and bravado and an opportunity that presented itself. Tim was a quiet and fairly introverted student one year above us but we didn't know him. I'll use his name but I didn't know it at this point. I found out later, but for now he was just a random stranger in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I assumed Tim must have been visiting a student who lived on the floor above ours because he was coming down the stairs to our floor from above as we were coming up from ground level on our way home from an evening's drinking in the student union bar, which had the twin advantages of being both close to home and cheap. We reached the landing and Matt Watson noticed Tim coming down towards us.

"He's lost that loving feeling”

Rob Barnes followed Matt's gaze. “He's lost – no he hasn't.”

"Yes, he has.”

"He has not lost that...”

"He's lost it.”

"Come on – I hate it when he does that. Shit!”

Top Gun (the first one) fans may think this dialogue is remarkably similar to that between Maverick and Goose just before Maverick serenades the woman in the bar. That's because it's identical bar the pronouns. Matt and Rob were parodying it. The other rugby club lads (Brian Anderson and Mike Kennedy) were grinning with anticipation while the rest of us just looked puzzled.

As well as the four rugby boys I mentioned in our group were Dan Saunders, Charles Gray (Charlie), Richard Powell (definitely not Dick) and John Dawson who all preferred soccer. And me, of course, Jeremy Hughes, the runner as mentioned. Almost half the twenty guys who lived on our floor (our hall was quite small and intimate as these things go). The others had been out with other friends, on dates, or stayed in studying, but we all got along well.

So here we were, drunk and boisterous after closing time on a November Saturday night with nothing to do. And an opportunity for some “harmless” (but cruel) fun had just made the mistake of presenting itself. And the boys were ready to take advantage. If Tim had any sense he'd have heard the drunken group coming and remained on the top floor until it was safely out of the way. Luckily for us, he didn't have any sense.

Tim reached the landing going down shortly after we reached it going up. Tim remained standing on the last stair to let us past. But Mike took his arm. “Come with us a minute” he said. “We want to show you something. It'll be fun.” He wasn't taking no for an answer, and didn't, and Tim was more or less dragged through the door from the landing into the corridor that ran between our rooms. Halfway along the corridor he was forced down to the floor and lay on his back, one of the rugby lads holding each limb.

As the rest of us wondered what was about to happen to Tim, as it was obvious something was, Matt, who was holding Tim's left leg called out “Hey, Jeremy, we've always thought you're a bit of a wuss, you know? Always running on your own. Time to prove you're a team player, one of the boys. We need your help.”

I didn't want to stand out as different, certainly not as a 'wuss.' If these guys ever realised exactly how I was different I'd have some real problems, and I had to live amongst them for months to come. “What help?” I asked.

"We need to restore the young gentleman's loving feeling and he's wearing far too much clothing for that. Start by taking his shirt off.”

What can I say? I was under pressure. It was probably him or me. I was pretty drunk. Tim was very cute, an opinion I kept to myself of course. And if I didn't do it someone else would, so why take the risk? That's what I told myself anyway. Who wants to admit that schadenfreude is fun sometimes? And did I mention that Tim was cute? He might be even cuter shirtless. And didn't Matt say 'start' with his shirt? Promising!

Well, it wasn't too difficult getting his sweater and shirt off. He didn't struggle or resist, probably realised it was pointless. “Now his shoes and socks” instructed Matt, before I'd had much of a chance to admire the view. I removed them, wondering if the 'restoration' might involve tickling his feet. That could be fun. “And his trousers” came the next command.

At this Tim finally came to life. Perhaps stoicism gave way to panic. “No way!” he shouted. “You're not taking my trousers off!” He really shouldn't have shouted like that. Any noise in the corridor could easily be heard in the rooms and we all learned to ignore voices and 'not hear' them. But this shout got attention, doors opened and guys who lived on our floor started coming out of their rooms to see what was going on.

"It seems the young gentleman is shy” mused Matt. “He doesn't want to be seen in his underpants. Well, we can accommodate that. Remove them with his trousers instead of separately.”

"Wait!” said Craig Nichols, who had just come in from outside , urgently. He rushed into his room and we heard him shout “Alan, wait up!” out of his window. He came back out. “You owe me a favour, Matt. Keep him like that until I get my brother. I won't be a minute.” He rushed off towards the staircase.

"No problem, and no rush” Matt called after him. “Take your time, we'll wait.” Matt was enjoying himself and was happy to make it last. And he knew that fear of something is often worse than the reality so it was good to give Tim time to think about what was going to happen.

After a minute or two Craig returned, accompanied by someone who looked very much like him and turned out to be his older brother Alan and three other guys. “I'm right, aren't I?” asked Craig. “This is the one who refused to work with you?”

"Me and Phil” agreed Alan, pointing to one of his friends. “Thanks for remembering. Tim Price. He wouldn't join our group for the KT220 module group assignment, wanted to be in a 'better' one. Now we get to see what's so special about him. It's a stroke of luck we came back when we did!”

"Not really. These guys were in the bar and it closes at the same time for everyone” Craig pointed out. “Still, I thought you'd enjoy seeing this. Jeremy was about to do the big reveal, right Matt?”

"Right!” agreed Matt. “Go on Jeremy, go for it!”

"No, don't, please” begged Tim as I approached him again. The presence of his contemporaries seemed to terrify him most. My hands were shaking with excitement.

"What's wrong, Jeremy?” asked Matt, laughing. “Your hands are shaking. Not chicken are you?”

I decided that was the best excuse available. I couldn't have them guessing the truth. “I'm doing it aren't I?” I said indignantly. “Even though it's your idea. But yeah, maybe a bit. He obviously doesn't want it and maybe he can make trouble.”

"I'll do it!” said Alan eagerly. “Really, I'd like to, so if this guy doesn't want to you may as well let me. I don't think he can say anything since non-residents aren't supposed to be here after 10 pm but I'll take the chance just to see his face when the loser he's too good for rips his keks off!”

"Okay, whatever” said Matt impatiently. “I need to get my restoration kit from my room. Jeremy can take over holding this leg. Are you at least brave enough for that?”

"I think so” I said dryly as I knelt down and took hold of Tim's ankle. Holding someone's ankle may be technically an assault but not a sexual one and I had an excuse for watching whatever might happen from very close range. Thank goodness I was wearing a long and loose coat from outside; no matter how excited I got no bulge would become visible.

Matt went into his room and came back carrying a small plastic carrier bag. He looked at Alan askance. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

"You want me to do it now?” asked Alan.

"No, I thought about four o'clock on February 12^th. Jeez! Yes, of course now. No wonder he didn't want you affecting his grade!”

Stung by this sarcastic insult in front of his younger brother Alan knelt on Tim's right and got to work undoing his trousers. Tim didn't protest; he probably didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of ignoring it. “How come you get all the fun?” asked Phil, in a jocular tone.

"You want to help?” asked Alan. “Okay, get the other side then.” Phil knelt on Tim's left. They each gripped one side of his trousers, with their fingers inside his underwear. “Count of three” said Alan. “Three, two, one, GO!” They yanked downwards and the last of Tim's clothing slid rapidly down his legs. Rob and I briefly let go of his legs so Alan and Phil could pull his pants right off him and then grabbed them again before he could try to kick anyone.

Tim lay on his back spread-eagled, helpless and stark naked in front of about twenty straight (in a group that size I was probably the only fraud) college boys (a couple of residents had remained in their rooms, a couple more went back in disgust, most didn't, one or two of those had friends visiting) and the reaction was just what you'd expect. Cheers, jeering, laughter and lots of ribald, insulting comments.

Unfortunately for Tim, and disappointingly for me, he turned out to be more risible than anyone expected, for he was not well endowed. I focused instead on his cute face, cuter still now it was blushing. I did feel sorry for him but forced a grin on my face for camouflage.

"Oh dear oh dear” laughed Matt. “He really has lost that loving feeling. I bet he doesn't keep girlfriends long. Let's try to restore the feeling and see what it looks like then.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a two inch wide soft bristled paint brush. “Meet Mrs Brush” he said, kneeling where Alan had been. “All the boys love Mrs brush.”

It seemed that Tim did, too, because when Matt started using the brush to gently tease and stimulate his sex organs it didn't take long before they started to respond.

Soon enough Alan was sneering “Look, little Timmy's got a little hard-on for the boys. He must like showing that little thing off.”

"No” said Matt. “It's Mrs Brush he likes. Look.” He lifted the brush a tiny bit so it was just above Tim's penis, not quite touching it. Tim, perhaps unconsciously, lifted his body to resume contact with the brush. “See what I mean” laughed Matt, and continued the stimulation.

I wondered how long this would go on for but after a couple more minutes Matt put the brush down and produced a much smaller one, designed for painting pictures instead of walls, and a small bottle of cooking oil.

"Meet Mrs Brush's daughter, Miss Brush” taunted Matt. “She's going to give Mr Muscle a bath.” He dipped the brush in the bottle and started smearing copious amounts of oil all over Tim's shaft. The continued stimulation was starting to have an effect and Tim began to 'leak.' “I see you're trying to help” commented Matt “but there's really no need. We've got all the lube we need.”

Now he produced a roll of waterproof tape and cut off a piece about two inches by one, which he placed on Tim's member, sticky side up. “Meet Mrs Bottle” he said. “You'll really like her.”

Mrs Bottle turned out to be the cut-off top part of a large plastic cooking oil bottle. Or in other words a short plastic tube maybe an inch long and the same in diameter. This had been cut all the way up one side so it could be opened up to increase the diameter as necessary. Matt got his brush and smeared more oil around the inside of this.

Holding 'Mrs Bottle' wide open Matt carefully guided it over the head of Tim's penis and about halfway down the shaft. Then he allowed it to close up, with the gap where it didn't quite close over the tape he'd put there earlier. He took the tape protruding above and below and stuck it to the outside of 'Mrs Bottle' and gently and carefully slid the contraption back and forth along the shaft to ensure it could move freely, adding more oil as he did so. “Gentlemen, I give you the patented Matthew Watson Nerd Milker” he announced proudly.

"Oh my God” said someone in a stunned tone. “I think he's going to toss him off with that thing. It's bad enough being naked, just imagine shooting a load in front of everyone!”

I'm probably very slow on the uptake, especially after a few drinks, but it was only at that moment that I understood what was intended. And when I realised what 'Mrs Bottle' was for it nearly became a remote action Jeremy milker. If not for the drinks I think it would have. I resolved to make one for myself, to use privately, not in front of a load of laughing, jeering students.

"We've restored his loving feeling, now we need to relive it” said Matt. “One can operate the Nerd Milker directly” - he gripped it with his thumb and finger and slid it up and down to demonstrate - “or by remote control.” He pulled a set of fire tongs from his bag and used them to grip the thing and move it.

Matt looked at Alan. “Shall I do the honours or would you like to?” he asked.

Alan thought for a moment. He looked up and saw Craig grinning and giving a thumbs-up. Then he noticed one of his friends standing in a limp wristed 'teapot' pose and blowing him a kiss and considered his reputation. “I think I'll let you do it and just watch” he said.

“Suit yourself” said Matt. He started sliding the 'milker' up and down slowly. Tim started to 'leak' more copiously. “I see he likes it” commented Matt. “All the nerdy boys love Mrs Bottle. I've tried her on a few and I always get a satisfied customer. I bet this is the first thing to touch you except your right hand isn't it?” he asked Tim.

"Mind your own business” muttered Tim. His face was bright red and you could probably fry an egg on it. I hadn't been watching his face much.

"That's a yes then.” Matt continued what he was doing, slower than before if anything. Tim involuntarily made a noise somewhere between a gasp, a grunt and a groan out of sheer frustration. “Time to put you out of your misery I think” said Matt. He gripped the plastic with the fire tongs, held Tim's penis pointing almost vertically upwards and started sliding it rapidly up and down his shaft.

It didn't take long before Tim started breathing hard. Soon I felt his leg muscles tightening under my hands then “Oh!” Tim sounded almost surprised as his sperm spurted out of him into the air and rained back onto his stomach. The audience, who had been watching fairly quietly, burst into laughter and applause. I reflected that only someone like Matt Watson, sporty and aggressively heterosexual, always chasing after women, would have dared do that. I knew I'd never risk doing it, or even suggesting it; far too risky.

"That's all folks,” said Matt, “Show's over. Who's got a carrier bag?”

"I think there's some in the kitchenette” said Charlie. “I'll go and look.”

"Right. Bring me a couple of sheets of kitchen roll would you? You'd better get him some as well” added Matt, pointing at Tim's stomach. Charlie soon returned with a Safeway bag and several sheets of kitchen paper. Matt gathered up all of Tim's clothing and put it in the bag. “Let him go now” he told us and Tim was released and given some paper. He cleaned himself and stood up, clasping his hands in front of him in totally pointless modesty.

"You can go now.” Matt addressed Tim. “Time to streak the campus, I think. We'll give you your stuff and a thirty second start and then Alan and his friends will come after you. You can stop to get dressed if you want but you really don't want these boys to catch you so it might be better not to.

Tim grabbed the bag and sprinted out of the door. Thirty seconds later Alan and friends followed. We went to the front windows in various rooms to watch them come out, look around, see nothing and run off in what they guessed was the most likely direction.

Well, as The Jam put it a few years before, “That's Entertainment!”

We all went off to our respective rooms. I locked my door and checked there was plenty of toilet paper on the roll by my bed before getting undressed. I wouldn't be sleeping just yet.

Postscript

Alan and friends never did catch Tim and later I found out why. Instead of getting out as fast as possible, as everyone expected, he'd turned round as soon as the door closed and run up the stairs. He'd then got dressed in the top floor bathroom and sought sanctuary with his friend until he judged it safe to leave. Clever boy.

But Tim did catch up with me. I was walking down the stairs in the main block when he was coming up. He saw me coming and waited on the landing, in a bizarre repeat of previous events. I didn't notice him until he grabbed my shirt front and slammed me into the wall. “I want a word with you, you little poof!” he snarled. “I saw the way you were looking at me the other night in your Hall.” He waited for the shock, then blind panic and dismay to show in my face, and then he smiled and winked seductively. “Why don't you come to my place later and we'll do something about it?”

Well, got to go now. Tim just got home from work and he might not like me telling this story, even though his name isn't Tim and mine isn't Jeremy.

The End