Dirty Little Virgin

Harlan LaRochelle was an attractive young man with a plan of his own. He didn't want to go to Morehouse College in Atlanta like his father and two older brothers. He'd applied to Morehouse to appease them, but then he'd secretly applied to a large university in Washington, DC.
A few months later, his father smiled and patted his back when he'd been accepted to Morehouse; his mother hugged him and cooked his favorite dinner. But when Harlan announced during that same dinner that he was going to the large university in Washington instead, his father dropped his fork so fast he chipped a dinner plate. His mother clutched her napkin and gave him a look.
Harlan looked his father in the eye without blinking. "I'm going to college in Washington, DC," he said. "I've been accepted already. They have an excellent journalism program there."
All this was true. They did have an excellent journalism department at the Washington school. But the real reason he didn't want to go to Morehouse College was because the thought of spending four more years without knowing what it was like to kiss another man caused his stomach to turn and his knees to twitch. He needed distance from his prominent Atlanta family. And he needed to explore his sexuality as much as he needed to study. He was a smart young man with soft brown skin, a nice firm, round ass, and square, firm chest muscles. He already knew that women were attracted to him, but he wanted to find out if men were interested in him, too.
A few months after that, when the shouting and mean stares finally subsided, he kissed both parents good-bye at the end of August, started his black SUV, and drove north to DC.
The first few weeks he concentrated on getting settled in the dorms and focusing on his schoolwork. His roommate was a tall, thin techie type who spent most of his time with his face glued to a computer screen. Harlan liked most of his classes, and he made a few casual friends. And everywhere he went he saw good- looking young men. When he passed them by on his way to class, his penis jumped, and he had to stare down at his shoes so he wouldn't get a full erection. But he wasn't sure what to do or how to approach any of them. There didn't seem to be a book of rules anywhere for being gay.
And then one Saturday afternoon in mid- September everything changed. He was on his way back to his room when he accidentally bumped into a guy wearing shiny red running shorts and an over-sized black sweatshirt in the dormitory lobby. The guy had long, wavy, dark blond hair, was average height, and hadn't shaved in about two days. His pale blue eyes were the color of Harlan's birth stone, aquamarine. Harlan had been looking for his keys in his backpack and hadn't seen him coming. He'd bumped his elbow and had knocked all his books to the floor.
The guy smiled and said it wasn't a big deal, but Harlan went down on his knees to pick up all his books anyway. And when he was on the floor, he couldn't help noticing the guy's legs. They were covered with a soft layer of dark blond hair and you could actually see his thigh muscles pop and flex above his knees. His red shorts gathered near his crotch and made his dick round out. Evidently, he wasn't wearing underwear that day. You could see his thick cock to the right of the center seam; the outline of the head formed a visible ring. This was the thick, dangerous, meaty fuck rod Harlan had been reading about in trashy porn magazines since he'd turned thirteen. It was the kind of dick that made those unattractive older gay men who read pretentious gay literature instead of graphic gay erotica and spoke with quasi-British accents, bite the erasers on their number two pencils. And more than that, it was also the nice, sweet, gentle penis Harlan had been dreaming about all his life.