I was born and raised in a big city, and did my first university degree in another big city, so when I went away for grad school to a smallish liberal arts college in a similarly smallish town, there was more than a little bit of culture shock. The college was an oasis of progressivism and diversity in a rural sea of white, religious conservatives, and there was a time early on in my studies when I wasn’t sure if I could tough it out for the two years of my degree.

Let’s be clear on one thing: most of the people I met outside the school weren’t assholes. They were, in fact, extremely friendly and polite for the most part; I became a regular at a diner around the corner from where I lived, and got to know a handful of other regulars. I probably would have kept more to the student-oriented establishments, except that this place was close and the old woman who owned it was a fantastic cook. And the food was cheap and plentiful, not a small consideration for a cash-strapped grad student. It got to the point where people would hail me by name and wave when I entered, and made conversation about my life in The Big City (which they always referred to with a rueful head shake, as if they couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that such a handsome and friendly young man—as the women there flatteringly called me—could have been produced by a godless sink of depravity). There were not infrequent suggestions that I should meet this or that person’s daughter, to which I always pleaded busyness; though I noticed such suggestions disappeared when it became clear that (a) I did not attend any of the local churches, and (b) I was not “saved.”

So: nice people on the whole. As is the way of things, however, the few assholes there were tended to overshadow everyone else. It was them that made me question my decision to come to this god-fearing place. I learned very quickly not to wear shorts, as this was—as far as certain pickup-driving douchebags were concerned—a sure sign that I was a cocksucking deviant. The fact that I am a cocksucking deviant notwithstanding, it was still pretty terrifying, even though the douchebags in question only ever shouted from their moving trucks. Suffice to say, I never shared with my diner friends the real reason I wasn’t interested in their daughters, and was relieved when they stopped making the suggestion.

On campus things were much better, and I had a few one-night stands with cute guys I met there, but nothing serious—I was telling the truth when I pled busyness. I spent my days buried in reading and writing papers. The occasional fuck was a nice release, but to be honest, I was just as happy keeping to myself. There was a certain pleasure after a life of city living to being free of the noise and bustle and having the space, uninvaded by the multitude of urban distractions, to focus on books and writing.

It was during the summer between my first and second year that I met David.

It was a pleasant Saturday morning, and I was sitting in my small but comfortable kitchen nook with a book and a cup of coffee when I heard a knock at the door. I opened the door on two men, one in his early twenties and the other about ten years older, both of them clad in white button-down shirts and ties. My first thought was to groan inwardly, thinking Mormons; my second thought was that they were very good looking, especially the younger one—red hair and pale, freckled skin, with high cheekbones and a wide, lushly lipped mouth that parted in a friendly grin when I greeted them. His elder, dark-haired and grey-eyed, was slightly sterner. It was he who spoke.

“Good morning, friend,” he said, nodding at me. “Have you ever given much thought to the Bible?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said candidly, “I have.”

As a matter of fact, I had. I was in the midst of a masters degree in early modern literature, the largely proportion of which is deeply Christian in content. That previous year I had taken an intensive course on the Bible as Literature, and was intimately familiar with Christian philosophers from Augustine to Aquinas.

None of which my visitors knew, of course, and I suppressed a smile at their momentary consternation. I now suspect that they had heard tell of a friendly but godless young man in need of saving. Or perhaps they just plied their missionary trade in town, trying to pick off college students. Either way, it quickly became clear that they were not in fact Mormons but garden variety evangelicals.

The elder recovered. “So … you are a Christian?” he asked.

“No, I’m an atheist.”

His eyes narrowed. “But you have given thought to the Bible?”

I’m not sure what possessed me then—under normal circumstances I am polite but firm when people come to my door talking religion, thanking them for their concern for my soul, but ushering them away in short order. Perhaps all my study ached for a chance to be tried out on non-academics; or perhaps (and more likely) I was a bit lonely and horny. I could already imagine a wank session later in which I imagined the younger guy sucking off the older; a little longer in their presence would make the fantasy more vivid.

So instead of shooing them away, I opened my door a little wider and said, “Do you want to talk about it? I just put on some coffee.”

Which is how I ended up spending over an hour with a pair of evangelicals in my kitchen arguing scripture over coffee. David was the younger guy’s name; Edward, the elder, did most of the talking. He was intense, speaking in a low, measured voice, snapping off Bible verses with the professional tones of a voice actor. I found myself mildly aroused at his unwavering gaze, but I also glanced over at David from time to time. I’m not sure if he was really following the argument—his eyes looked slightly dreamy, and a slight smile creased his lips. I became suddenly aware that I was dressed in a tight white tee shirt and boxers, under a ratty old robe I’d had for years. Their crisply pressed shirts and dress pants, and ties knotted just so, made me feel vaguely naked.

I liked it. I wondered if David did too, based on that look on his face.

Edward was one of those Bible-thumpers who had basically memorized the entire book and could literally quote it chapter and verse, but didn’t know much beyond the text. It was almost too easy to draw him into logical traps, and make him take refuge in the basic fundamentalist defense that, if it’s in the Bible, it’s true.

“A wise philosopher once said that anyone who thinks the story of Adam and Eve is literally true should have no end of laughter,” I told him in one typical exchange.

“That’s just liberal claptrap!” he sputtered.

“No,” I said evenly, “that’s St. Augustine.”

As the argument went on, I enjoyed myself more and more, but Edward grew increasingly irate—especially at the moments I made David laugh. Finally, tight-lipped, he snapped his Bible shut and stood.

“It’s obvious,” he grated out between his teeth, “that you are not serious about this at all. This is about your soul.”

I stood too, suddenly angry. “My soul is just fine,” I said as calmly as I could. “Not that it would matter to you people one way or another. Someone like me is always going to be damned, as far as you’re concerned.”

David looked back and forth between us, confused, but Edward’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, that’s on you. I won’t waste more time with you. David, come along.”

He swept out of my kitchen and out the front door, slamming it behind him. David hesitated for a moment, still confused; finally, hearing Edward bark at him from outside, he mouthed an apology and darted after him.

I was shaking slightly. I had all but outed myself to a religious bigot who, if he did grasp my meaning, would likely feel no compunction about telling all and sundry about the liberal elite sodomite who’d had the temerity to challenge his knowledge of scripture. I wondered if I would feel welcome at the diner again. I wondered of the louts in the pickups would do more than just shout at me.

Angry with myself, I showered and collected my notebooks and left to go bury myself at the library.

By the time the sun was going down that night, I’d calmed down. I spent some of my scant cash on a bottle of gin and sat by the window in my kitchen nook, enjoying the soft summer evening air and letting the liquor suffuse me with a mellow buzz. Instead of dwelling on my argument with Edward, I found myself thinking instead of David—his slightly dreamy expression, his pale, freckled skin and short-cropped ginger hair, and most of all his wide smile and slightly bee-stung lips. What a waste of talent, I thought—those lips were meant to be kissed. Better yet, those lips would look lovely sliding over my hard cock. I smiled and sipped my gin and tonic, feeling my cock stir and harden at the thought. Yes, perhaps this morning’s encounter could have two happy endings—one, running intellectual circles around that religious bigot, and two, pleasuring myself to the thought of despoiling his ginger acolyte.

A tentative knock at the door jerked me out of my reverie. I stood, carefully adjusting my half-hard cock in my pants so it wouldn’t be obvious, and went to answer the door.

I should have been surprised to see the object of my fantasizing standing there, but somehow I wasn’t—somehow, in that moment, I knew what he wanted, and that this might end up being more than an idle fantasy. A lot more.

He was dressed more casually than, but still managed to exude an aura of upright, scrubbed church boy. He wore a short-sleeved button-down cream shirt, tucked into jeans that—seriously!—had a crease down the front as if they’d been ironed.

“Hi,” he said shyly.

“Hello,” I replied. “What brings you back to the heathen’s house?”

His smile faltered. “I’m sorry about that. Sorry about… well, about Edward. He wasn’t very nice there at the end.”

I shrugged. “I’m a big boy. I can deal with having my feathers ruffled.”

“I don’t think Edward can,” said David gravely. “It’s not often he meets someone who knows more than him.”

I didn’t answer for a moment, but just stood there and regarded him. He blushed.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said finally.

“What question?”

“What brings you back here?”

He coughed, embarrassed, his blush deepening. “I… I felt bad about this morning. I wanted to come over and apologize.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything. Or say anything.”

“I know… I just wanted to apologize for Edward.”

“Apology not accepted.”

He looked stricken. “Why not?”

I smiled coldly. “I know the whole basis of your faith is that one man took on the sins of all the others, but I’m not down with that. You can’t apologize for your friend. Only he can do that.” I let some warmth creep into my smile. “But you I have no argument with. Not yet, anyway… want to come in?” I opened the door invitingly.

He stammered out a yes, and walked past me into my small, book-strewn living room. I motioned for him to sit on my couch, and went to fix myself a fresh drink. When I offered one to him, he looked for a moment as though he’d decline, but then nodded hurriedly, as if he was afraid he’d lose his nerve otherwise.

I sat in the old armchair that had been living in the flat when I moved in and handed him his glass, already beaded with perspiration. He took a sip, winced, and then a longer pull. I looked at him as he swallowed the so-cheap-it’s-hardly-gin, recognizing in his grimace and the way he sat someone marshaling their courage.

Oh well, I thought. I suppose I could just be straightforward. Worst case scenario, he storms out of here.

“So,” I said casually before he could speak, “how long have you known you’re gay?”

His eyes grew wide. “I’m not! I mean, that is—I think I might—I don’t know what you think you—look, it’s—”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, and he winced at my blasphemy. “Calm down. Take a deep breath. And think very carefully before you answer this question: why did you come back tonight?”

He fiddled with his drink, not meeting my eyes. He took another sip. Still not looking at me, he mumbled, “I wanted to talk to you again.”

“Why?”

He finally looked up. “I was very impressed with everything you said this morning. I’ve never seen anyone out-argue Edward.

I pursed my lips. “That can be arranged. If you like, I can recommend some reading, and we can talk about it.”

He smiled, delighted. “I’d like that a lot!”

I paused and let the silence sit for a moment, taking a sip of my drink. “Is that the only reason you came back?”

“I—that is, I was thinking—” he stammered, finally falling silent, and meeting my gaze. “No.”

And? I gestured silently. He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know what you meant when you said that someone like you is always going to be damned. I asked Edward. He said it meant you’re—that is, that you—”

“Prefer men,” I finished for him. “I’m gay, yes.” He blushed deeply again, and I raised my glass in a toast. “And so are you.”

His eyes feel, ashamed. “Yes,” he said in a small voice. “I’m a sinner.”

“We’re all sinners,” I said softly. “That’s what makes life fun.”

He choked out a laugh, a tear running down his pale cheek.

After a moment, I said, “So, I’ll ask again: why did you come back tonight?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “OK, let me put it this way: what were you hoping was going to happen?”

“I was hoping… I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I thought maybe we could talk. You could tell me what it’s like.”

“What it’s like?” I asked. “You mean… what it’s like to be with a man?”

“What it’s like to… to be with a man. Without shame,” he whispered.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “The first thing is to get past this idea that it’s shameful to feel pleasure, especially physical pleasure. I know that won’t be an easy one for you, but you can get there. The next thing is to understand that our bodies are nothing to be ashamed of. I assume you masturbate?”

He nodded, unable to speak.

“What do you think about?”

“I…” He hesitated, then looked up and met my eyes. “I pretend it’s someone else’s penis. That I’m… pleasuring someone else.”

“Have you ever touched someone else’s cock?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

His eyes widened. While we’d been speaking, I’d glanced down and noticed that his jeans had grown a bulge. My own cock had started hardening. I stood and, not taking my eyes from his face, slowly unbuckled my belt. His eyes were fastened on my hands as I unbuttoned and then unzipped my pants, peeling them down to reveal the outline of my cock against my boxer briefs. I grasped the elastic of my underwear and slowly, slowly, slid it down, letting my half-hard cock flop out.

Instinctively, David raised his hand, then checked himself. “Go ahead,” I said softly. “Touch me.” He tentatively trailed his fingertips along my cock, then, as if he was picking up a burning brand, wrapped his hand around it. In response, my cock stiffened; David’s eyelid’s fluttered, and he whimpered.

“It’s so big,” he said. “It’s so beautiful.” He started to stroke me, slowly at first, but as my cock hardened his grip became firmer.

“Mmmm,” I moaned. “That’s good.”

“Is it?” he asked, nervously.

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

His stroking became more confident as it went, but I thought it might be time for stage two. I grasped him by the shoulders and stood him up. He was about two inches shorter than me, and he raised his face to me instinctively. I kissed him, gently, letting him feel my lips against his. When I slid my tongue out and touched his lips, his mouth opened. He let go of my cock and grabbed me by the back of the head, kissing me clumsily but with deep and pent-up desire.

My conscience stabbed me, and I broke the kiss. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” I whispered in his ear.  In response, he hugged me desperately.

“I want this,” he gasped. “Oh God help me, I want this.”

“Okay,” I said. I dropped out of his embrace to my knees, undoing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his legs. He wore white briefs (of course!), the y-fronts distended with his erection. Holy shit—he was big! I grasped his hard shaft through the material of his underwear and was rewarded by hearing him moan and feeling his legs quiver. There was a wet spot where the head of his cock strained against his briefs, and I leaned forward and mouthed at it with my lips. Again, he moaned, more urgently, and I slowly pulled the elastic of his underwear down, carefully to let it catch on the head of his cock. I pulled it down along with the underwear until it sprang free, slapping against his taut belly.

“Wow,” I murmured in spite of myself. Choirboy had a beautiful cock! Thick and veined and at least eight inches long, it curved ever so slightly to my left. I looked up at him.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked.

He looked down at me with heavy-lidded eyes, his hands starting to work at the buttons of his shirt.

“Please,” was all he said.

“Good,” I smirked up at him. “This is a cock designed for pleasure.”

He whimpered.

I stripped off his jeans and made him sit again. He fumbled with his shirt, getting his wristwatch caught on his sleeve as he feverishly tried to cast it aside. I took a moment to drink him in. Choirboy, apparently, worked out: the same pale, freckled skin as on his face, but pulled taut over a sharply defined chest and flat stomach. Not quite washboard abs, but a shallow valley ran from his sternum to his navel. Almost entirely hairless, but for a spray of ginger pubes at the base of his impressive cock.

Kneeling between his legs, I leaned forward and tasted the precum that had beaded at the head. He gasped. Cupping his scrotum in my hand, I lightly ran the tip of my tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, swirling around the head before running back down again to the base. He moaned again, louder, urgently, his breath coming in quick gasps. I kissed the shaft, wetting my thumb in his precum and lightly teasing the skin just beneath the head. Again he whimpered, saying something incoherent as one of his hands ran through my hair. I licked down the shaft again, my tongue finding his scrotum and teasing the delicate skin there. He squirmed.

Time to show him what I could do. I licked up his cock again, and when I came to the head I slid my mouth over him. He cried out as I swallowed him, his hand pressing into the top of my head, pushing my mouth down on his cock. I obliged, taking him deep. For a moment I paused as the head pressed against the top of my throat, but I managed past my gag reflex and swallowed him whole. My nose pressed into his pubes as his entire body stiffened in ecstasy. Some part of my mind registered that he smelled of soap—he must have bathed before coming over, a realization that would have made me laugh if his cock wasn’t deep in my throat, or if I didn’t feel, in that moment, his cock twitch and swell. I had the presence of mind of pull back until the head of his cock rested on my tongue just as he came.

He came explosively, as if he’d been saving this load for years… which, metaphorically, I suppose he had. He cried out as his cock pulsed in my mouth, expelling one, two, three, four bursts of thick, salty cum, all of which I greedily swallowed. In all my sexual career, I had never given someone their first blowjob; this was deeply satisfying. And delicious.

I held his still-hard cock in my mouth for a few moments, sucking him languorously and then nuzzling the shaft before finally, reluctantly, taking my face away from his crotch. I straightened up and looked at him. He lay back on the couch, his eyes glazed, still breathing hard.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. A sudden seizure of guilt? Anger, shame? I steeled myself for the possibility that he would shove me aside and throw his clothes on, running out into the night sobbing.

Instead, as his eyes refocused and found mine, he said, “That was the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me. Can I do that for you?”

I smiled. “Yes,” I replied. “But why don’t we go into my bedroom?”

He was clumsy but earnest, and the lingering taste of his fresh cum on my lips was sublime. I stripped naked in my bedroom while he wonderingly ran his hands over my chest, my shoulders, my hips, my cock. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

“So are you,” I said, and lay down on my futon. He crouched between my legs, looking at my cock with something like awe. I do admit I have a nice one, though not nearly as big or impressive as his, so it was the first time in a long time someone had been so nakedly worshipful as he touched and stroked my shaft.

“What should I do?” he asked shyly.

“Take your time,” I said. “Explore.”

And he did, running his fingertips and then his tongue over every millimeter of my cock. He sucked me, tentatively at first, but then with increasingly ardor until he gagged. He’d been at it for a half hour—a deliriously delicious half hour, I should add—when he asked, “Why don’t you finish?”

I smiled. “I will, don’t worry. I guess I’m just… more inured than you.” I looked at him, crouched there, his own magnificent cock standing up like an exclamation point from his little cloud of pubic hair, and I asked, “Do you want to fuck me?”

He started. “Really?”

“Oh god, yes,” I said, suddenly wanting nothing else. I rolled over and retrieved a tube of lube from my nightstand. I sat up. Squirting some on my hand, I rubbed it into his cock. He moaned as I stroked him. “Go slow at first,” I whispered. “You’re pretty damn big.”

I rolled over on my belly and raised my ass in the air for him. “Fuck me,” I said over my shoulder.

He noodled forward on his knees. I felt his hard cock against my ass as he tried to position himself. He lifted my hips. I reached back and, finding his cock, guided him to my sphincter. He pressed against me, stretching me open. I gritted my teeth as the head of his cock popped through my hole. “Slow,” I said again. He obliged, and I felt his girth slide into me.

“Are you OK?” he asked worriedly, just as the pain turned into something else.

“Oh,” I gasped. “Yes. Holy shit. Yes.”

He slid into me up to the hilt, and then slowly back as I mewled in ecstasy. “Fuck me,” I whimpered. “Fuck me with that beautiful cock.”

He picked up the pace slowly. I hadn’t had a cock as big as his before, and so the edge of pain was always there, but then so was the exquisite feeling of that massive tool plowing my tender ass. When he wouldn’t fuck me hard, I pushed back on him, driving my ass down until I was totally impaled. “Fuck me!” I said again, “Fuck me hard!”

I could feel him starting to get close, so I paused and made him slide out of me and rolled over on my back. “Fuck me!” I said, spreading my legs and pressing my ass against the head of his cock. As he slid again inside me, I reached up and pulled his face down to mine, kissing him deeply, He kissed me back, as if he was dying of thirst.

Again I could feel him getting close, so I rolled him over on his back and straddled his hips. “You’re so hard!” he marveled at my cock bouncing as I rode him.

“Stroke me!” I said, and he wrapped his fist around my cock.

He was getting close to the edge, but then as soon as he started stroking me in sync with his fucking, so was I. “Oh my God,” he whimpered. “I’m going to finish!”

“Me too,” I gasped, and as his legs went rigid and his cock swelled and pulsed deep in my ass, I exploded in his hand and all over his chest and belly. Panting, I slumped forward on him, feeling my cum sticky and slick between us.

“One thing, choirboy,” I gasped in his ear. “It isn’t ‘finish,’ it’s ‘cum’.” I slid my hand between us and came up with a fingerful of my seed. “Like it?” I asked, placing my finger at his lips. He hesitated for a second, but then took my finger in his mouth. He sucked it hungrily.

“Can I have more?” he whispered.

“The night is young,” I said.

***

There was more to come that night (pun intended) and in the coming days David was a frequent nocturnal visitor at my place. The expected paroxysms of guilt of course happened, though I did my best to talk him through them—and always, such moments were followed by fuck sessions of greater passion and intensity than I had ever experienced. I taught him a lot; it wasn’t long before I did “finish” in his mouth, and he came to love getting fucked as much as I did.

We were never “together.” That couldn’t have happened. And one day he just stopped visiting. I made discreet inquiries and discovered that he had left town—just up and left. That he never attempted to contact me was both hurtful and worrisome, but I think I understood. I suspect David needed a new life, a new start, and however much I might have helped him come to that realization, I was still part of the old life.

At least, I hoped that was how things were.

Still… I would always have the memory of the day two missionaries came to my door, but I was the one to make a convert.