Like Amanda (and others here, no doubt), I have been intrigued by Catholic sexual guilt from my first friendships with Catholics (in my teens), although my agnostic upbringing was harder in some ways: no ritual of confession and no chance to expiate sin or wrongdoing except by apologizing and making amends to anyone I might have harmed.
Instead of being raised religious, I was raised academic. The earliest home I remember clearly was an actual college dormitory where my family had an apartment. (My mother was official "dorm mother" to a large building full of young men.) My father was an instructor, who was then promoted to professor.
I've always known that colleges/universities are places where young adult students and older adult teachers meet for the purpose of teaching/learning, and that sexual attraction on either side can not only mess up the process but ruin lives and careers.
The earliest universities were associated with churches, and in many ways they are still parallel to religious institutions. I can imagine being consecrated as a child to Athene, goddess of knowledge, by ancient Greek parents, and then choosing to make my own vow as an adult.
Of course, universities are hotbeds of student/student attraction, and that seems much less harmful than student/teacher exploitation. Frat-boy antics and sexual initiation on campus are the stuff of low comedy. However, it's not all good, dirty fun. In real life, no one can earn the kind of grades that are needed to get into grad school and/or launch a career if they are drinking, drugging and fucking every weekend. In fantasy, yes. In real life, no. Students who think of post-secondary education as an escape from the responsibilities of adult life are likely to get a hard awakening.
Sexual tension is ever-present in universities, and it is always threatening to wreck the concentration of those who need the clearest minds.
So my guilty-pleasure erotica tends to take place in the Ivory Tower. Here are two samples.
Confession #1 is a little piece I wrote several years ago, a cougar's confession.
You sit in the front row, and your eyes study me while I try to seduce you into the world of literature. I can smell your cologne or aftershave – is it for me? I notice the clean chestnut hair that falls across your forehead and the unexpected grin that lifts the corners of your sullen mouth when I touch your sense of humor. Do you know how much you resemble a young Byronic hero?
If we had been born in the same generation, I would gladly have gone for a ride with you, beyond the lights of town and beyond my usual limits. I would have freed my breasts into the custody of your sweaty hands and your hot, demanding mouth. I would have spread myself out like a book and dared you to dive into the juiciest part to find the climax. What a story we could have created, student of mine. But now, we only have a semester together, and I am honour-bound to follow the rules. As long as my words can kindle the light in your eyes, it will keep me warm enough.
The following is a shortened version of a story of mine that appeared in two anthologies in different forms: in I Kissed a Boy from Ravenous Romance, about seemingly heterosexual males in their first sexual encounters with other males, and in Bottoms Up, a spanking anthology from Cleis Press. Needless to say, this is not strictly autobiographical. :)
The first thing you need to know about me is that I always thought of myself as a normal guy before the day it happened. Well, relatively normal--maybe a little queer but not exactly kinky. I wasn’t the only one in our art class who had noticed that Lorne was blessed with talent as well as good looks.
I don’t know why I sound like I’m apologizing to you. I don’t really worry about the opinions of straight-laced, philistine types. You’re not one of the Muggles, are you? I didn’t think so. I might as well just tell you the story from the beginning.
That day, Lorne was studying his canvas the way any other man would study a drunk who had just insulted him in a bar. Even from a distance, anyone could see that he had a problem. He had tried to sketch a raging goddess, but the pencil outline on the white background didn't match the vision in his head.
He worked in front of his front-room window, as usual, so that he could add colours to the canvas by natural light. He didn’t know that I was studying his long nose, his intense dark eyes, his messy brown hair and his sculpted body from the short distance between our two apartments in University Row.
He stood up to stretch, and I admired the way his loose cotton yoga pants skimmed over his tight ass and hinted at the shape of his legs. "Beautiful, man," I muttered.
He paced the floor. His vision of the goddess probably laughed at him in his mind's-eye, billowing out of the mouth of a volcano in bursts of flame and clouds of smoke, flaunting her shape-shifting, unsubstantial nature, then posing as a voluptuous tawny-skinned woman.
He knew what he needed: a human model. He could see the beauty in male and female bodies equally, and the goddess in his mind had a masculine aspect. Lorne wanted someone, anyone, to pose for him.
I ran over to his building and pressed his buzzer.
"Who is it?" he asked suspiciously.
“Matthew," I answered. "I'm returning your book."
“Come in.” He pressed the button to let me into the building.
I scampered down the hallway to his apartment door. “Hi,” I said. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“I’m working on a piece for the spring prize.” He enjoyed inspiring guilt in others. “You could help.” He accepted the art book I had borrowed.
“Sure! What can I do for you?” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
“Have you ever done drag?”
I remembered my father’s reaction to my interest in my mom’s clothes when I was a curious little kid. “Well, sort of, I mean in drama class, but not, you know –“ I took a deep breath. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to paint the Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes. In oils. She’s a passionate bitch with a lot of power and charisma. When she’s pissed off, she bursts into flame. I need to get her facial expression and body language.”
I swallowed hard. “D-do you want me to sit or stand?”
He studied my pale, thin, flexible body under my faded T-shirt and ripped jeans. “Try crouching behind the big plant there as if you’re in a tropical rain forest. I’ll get something to wrap around you.” He went into his bedroom, and emerged holding a sheer orange curtain with pleats at one end.
I had already kicked off my shoes. I pulled a potted plant with huge leaves to the middle of the room and knelt behind it as though I were trying to hide from a predator.
He groaned. “You’re supposed to be a force of nature, Matt.” He stood behind me, and the smell of his cologne went straight to my crotch. He didn’t help the situation at all when he wrapped the curtain around my arms and shoulders.
He stood back to study the effect. “This won’t work. You have to take off all your clothes, guy. I need to see your bone structure.”
I was mortified by my growing boner. “Okay,” I mumbled, pulling my T-shirt over my head. I unzipped my jeans and stretched out one leg. I hoped that clever maneuvering would serve as camouflage.
“Oh for Christ sake, man, stand up and take your clothes off. Nobody’s here but us.” I thought that Lorne could easily see the face of a wrathful goddess by looking in a mirror.
He grabbed me by the elbow, looked down and saw what I was trying to hide. I thought I would faint.
He grinned. “Kinda sensitive, aren’t you, Matt?” To my surprise, he stroked my cock, making it jump. “This could work. Tension and desire, that’s what we need here.”
He pulled me to my feet and helped me out of my jeans and jockey shorts. My hardon was rock-hard and tomato-red, sticking straight out from my body.
He licked his lips. “You still have to model for me.” He picked up the curtain, and casually rubbed it over my bare chest, my ticklish belly, my hard cock and my red balls.
I glanced at Lorne’s crotch, and saw that he was sensitive too. I tried to wrap my arms around him, and he reached behind me. Smack!
I knew that his hand had left a lasting impression on one of my lower cheeks. “Show me the look of a fire-goddess, baby,” he said. “You promised.”
My cock seemed to be reaching for the heavens. “Lorne, I want --.”
“I know, baby, and you’ll get it, but I want something too.” Lorne rhythmically jerked my cock through its covering of orange rayon. “Come in here.”
He led the way into his bedroom, and I followed, still feeling the electric zing that ran from my ass to my painfully-bouncing cock. He pushed me toward the red velvet bedspread on his inviting bed, and I fell gratefully backwards on it.
Lorne rummaged in his closet and came out with a long black wig from the drugstore, part of a Vampirella costume. He pulled it onto my head and inserted four hairpins to hold it in place. “There.”
I looked up at him.
“My beauty,” he sneered. “You came here to seduce me, but I am the master of my domain. I decide what happens here.”
Holding me in place with one hand, Lorne used the other to slap my ass. “How do you like this?”
I yelled. I heard “Uh! Oh! Ow!” coming from my own mouth.
“How does this make you feel?” he demanded, watching my face. I tried to slide out of his merciless grip.
He suddenly ran a slow, gentle hand over my hot buttcheeks. Then he wrapped a fist around my cock. “What a big clit, lady,” he snickered. “Do you want to be fucked?”
I’m not even sure why he asked. He had already coated his longest finger in vaseline, and he slid it effortlessly into my back passage. I heard my own smothered scream as my dick erupted in ecstasy, shooting jism all over the orange fabric that covered it. Like a pulsing firehose, my burning cock shot load after load through the soaked curtain and onto the bedspread.
He watched me, grinning like a maniac. “Now that’s the look, Matt. That’s just the look I want. Do you think you could do that again?”