One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 01


K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.

The persistent beeping of an alarm threads its way into my consciousness. Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes to an unfamiliar light and unfamiliar surroundings. Where am I? In a moment my brain orients itself.

The small travel clock on the dresser, which I only use here, reads six-thirty a.m. Despite the whirring of the portable fan in front of the open window, the room is warm and stuffy. Buildings this far north are constructed to retain heat, and during a summer hot spell they perform that function all too well.

I’m in a sparsely furnished dormitory single on the campus of the University of Wisconsin, Stevens Point, about to begin a week of teaching violin for the twentieth year at the American Suzuki Institute. I put my hands behind my head and stare up at the tiles of the false ceiling, trying to energize myself for the day and the week to come.

The Suzuki method asks child and parent to collaborate in the experience of learning to play a musical instrument, helped by the teacher. Suzuki Institutes are workshops, where kids and their parents come for four or five days of intensive instruction–family music camp.

Faculty members at institutes work very hard, teaching five or six hours a day, frequently performing at night. To say that a Suzuki Institute is not a gay-friendly place is an understatement. The focus is overwhelmingly on the family. Sure, there are gay faculty. But they are mostly women, men I’ve already slept with and satisfied my curiosity about, or men about whom I have absolutely no curiosity.

Lying naked under the sheet and thin blanket, I remember that it wasn’t always like that. One summer at Stevens Point, when I was twenty-eight years old, unexpected and marvelous things happened. Despite the little voice inside nagging me to get up, memories begin to flow into my mind. For a few moments I let myself be carried away by the tide.


It was the fourth year I taught at Stevens Point. The American Suzuki Institute was no longer the mammoth event that it had been in the early eighties, when Shinichi Suzuki himself, the originator of the method, paid several visits here. There was something mystical about this old, frail Japanese man, sort of a musical Dalai Lama, descending on this modest college town in Central Wisconsin and transforming it with his vision.

Suzuki was dead now, and Stevens Point no longer had his particular aura. But it was still one of the largest summer workshops devoted to the Suzuki method in the United States, and to be on the faculty carried considerable prestige, or so I thought.

I was pretty exhausted by the time I got to the Institute, which was always held late in the summer, the first two weeks of August. I’d already taught at several other institutes across the United States that summer. Still, I welcomed the activity, since it saved me from having to think about the disarray of my life. I had broken up that spring with a longtime lover back in my hometown of Chicago. It had been a messy divorce, climaxing with shouted curses, slammed doors, and possessions pitched out of the third-story window of the apartment we had shared. My ex-lover had pulled this last stunt just as one of my most refined Asian mothers was pulling into the parking lot with her young daughter for their weekly violin lesson.

When the summer was over I’d have to think about whether to keep the place that was now solely mine. One reason for my frantic teaching schedule was the need to bolster my financial state, now that the two of us were no longer sharing expenses, or anything else.

I certainly wasn’t going to catch up on sleep at the Institute. Like that of all of the Stevens Point faculty, my schedule was heavy and demanding. My first class was at eight in the morning and I taught until four o’clock every day of the week. This particular summer I had one teacher training class, adults who wanted to learn how to teach the violin using the Suzuki Method. I’d be doing a lot of lecturing and explaining, not to mention reading papers. It was too much like teaching college to be my favorite activity, though it paid well. The large group classes also took a lot of energy, particularly ones with students between eleven and thirteen years old, sullen pre-adolescents thinking they were too old to be here and daring you to teach them something they didn’t know. Staying focused and positive in such a situation could be an ordeal.

I much preferred the small master classes of three or four students where I could work with each one individually. Occasionally you encountered a child with exceptional ability–Stevens Point was big and well-known beylikdüzü escort enough that the best Suzuki teachers from many regions of the United States sent their students here. I’d had six- and seven-year olds playing Bach Concertos with impeccable intonation and musicianship–really amazing kids.

It didn’t look like I’d have any such students in my classes this year, but nevertheless, I decided that I was certainly going to enjoy my ten o’clock class, consisting of four girls, aged between eight and ten. One in particular seemed to connect with me. Her name was Molly Wagner and she was a petite, pretty girl with a beautiful playing position and bow hold — qualities which predisposed me to like any student. She had the notes to all three movements of the Vivaldi Concerto down, her father assured me.

All children who took classes at Stevens Point had to have a parent accompany them to all of their classes. Molly was unusual in that the parent was her father–overwhelmingly in Suzukiland it was mothers who did the lion’s share of helping a child practice and learn. There were fathers around, but they mostly served as assistants to their wives, carrying instruments, driving vans and RVs, watching younger siblings. So Molly’s father attracted my attention from the very first day of class. He also caught my eye because he was an exceptionally attractive man in his mid-forties, tall, lean and tanned, with curly dark hair beginning to be peppered with gray and a similarly colored, neatly trimmed beard. Mr. Wagner’s eyes were easily his most striking feature–a vivid blue. He smiled easily and obviously doted on his daughter.

Stevens Point had a small YMCA where you could get a guest membership for the week of Institute. I always plunked down the few dollars in order to have access to their pool. The University pool was available free to Institute participants for a couple of hours every day, but I was interested in swimming laps for exercise, not in fighting my way through hordes of screaming kids and their water toys. There was always the danger, too, that a mother in one of your classes would waylay you and insist on an impromptu conference then and there about her budding young Mozart.

I much preferred the laid back clientele that frequented the town Y. You hardly ever had to swim circles with more than one or two other folks in a lane. Having to pay a guest fee kept most of the Institute Suzuki families away, and the Institute faculty, with one or two exceptions, was remarkably immune to the fitness craze.

It had been a while since I’d exercised and I was eager to get back in the pool. So I stashed my violin back in my dorm room as soon as my last class ended, and headed down the street to the modest yellow brick building just off campus. When I entered the men’s locker room I saw one of my colleagues had had the same idea. Jack Gormley, a cello teacher at the Institute, was standing in front of one of the other day lockers in my aisle, stripping off his clothes. He boomed a cheerful hello in his deep bass voice.

Over the years Jack and I had become acquaintances, then friends, after we had cautiously figured out that we had a bit more in common besides a love of music and teaching youngsters. Not that I ever slept with him–Jack was in the umpteenth year of a happy monogamous partnership back in Madison. But he was something better than a hot trick–he was someone I could talk to here at Stevens Point. His intelligence and goofy sense of humor had kept me entertained, and sane.

“So how’d your first day go?” he asked.

What I also respected about Jack was that he was a damn good teacher. I had watched him at work here when I was a trainee, and had marveled at how such an easygoing man could effortlessly keep a room full of unruly pre-adolescents on task and productive.

“Not bad,” I answered. “I’ll tell you though, I can sure use this swim.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Naked, Jack rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out a pair of fire-engine red Speedos. Sizing him up discreetly as he pulled them on, I thought that not too many forty-plus men could get away with such a choice of swimwear. I had to admit Jack’s lean, six-foot body looked pretty good in them, though. He’d also made sure I’d caught a glimpse of his long, floppy dick that teasingly bent just a little to one side. Not for the first time I grudgingly admired the man’s skill at simultaneously flirting and keeping a safe distance.

“I’ll tell you, though,” he added, picking up his goggles and towel, “The scenery is pretty good today.”


Jack winked. “You’ll see what I mean when you get to the pool. Have a good swim.”

He adana escort slammed his locker shut and headed for the pool entrance. I wouldn’t see him again that afternoon. Jack swam much faster than me and was always gone when I got out. I quickly changed and got to poolside. My friend was already in one of the expert lanes, swimming with long, sure strokes. I went to one reserved for swimmers of average speed. A young man was sitting at the end, legs in the water. He looked up as I approached.

“All right if we swim sides until someone else comes?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, holding my gaze a bit longer than I thought was necessary. I saw his eyes drop quickly before he turned away and lowered his goggles. My interest perked up. He was younger than me, probably in his early twenties, with blue eyes and blond hair cut very short, military style. His shoulders and back were fair, broad and muscular, tapering down to a shapely butt, packed into a black bikini that made Jack’s Speedos seem demure in comparison.

So this was the scenery Jack had been talking about. Not bad. I slipped into the water and began my laps, intrigued by the vibes I

sensed coming from the boy–nothing like this had ever happened at the Y before. He was too old to be a Suzuki student at the Institute, and I didn’t recognize him as a new faculty member. Maybe he was a UWSP student here for the summer, or a townie. I didn’t know, but I wanted to find out.

For the moment I put lustful thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on getting my exercise. Before I knew it forty-five minutes had passed and I lifted myself out, panting. My companion in the lane, though, stroked doggedly on.

I went back into the locker room, which was now deserted. I stripped, got my stuff and stepped into the shower, turning on the spray and cleaning myself at a leisurely pace. I tried to make my mind a blank and not think about the young man finishing his swim, since my cock began to get hard every time I pictured that toned body in those tight black trunks.

My lane companion did not appear. I began to wonder if he had slipped out without showering, avoiding an encounter. Finally I gave up, got out and began to dry myself off, disappointed.

At that moment I heard the door from the pool open. Seconds later the young man passed quickly by the shower entrance, rubbing his head with a towel. He barely raised his head in response to my greeting. It was getting late and I was hungry after my workout. Maybe this was a lost cause. Besides, I was dried off and couldn’t linger without making my own motives obvious. I got out and headed toward my locker.

I had barely got it open and started putting my things in my gym bag when I sensed someone watching me. I turned and there he was, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt that set off his trim, athletic body. Our eyes met and his expression hit me with almost tangible force. I’d seen that look on a man’s face many times.

I kept my voice casual. “You didn’t shower.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, it’s late and I need to be getting back.”

I nodded. “Well, I hope you had a good workout.”

“It was okay.” He seemed in no hurry to leave. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing anything either. Someone had to make a move. I draped my towel over my shoulders and turned toward him, subtly thrusting my hips and slightly aroused dick at him.

“Had a pretty good swim myself,” I said. “Gave me energy for–other things, you know?”

The blond nodded. Then without a word he walked away. I stood, disappointed and a little annoyed. Moments passed and I didn’t hear any other sound. Curious, I began to walk through the locker room again, keeping my towel with me.

Adjacent to the showers were the men’s room facilities. I walked in and caught sight of him poised in front of the urinal furthest from the entrance. He looked up with a start. His jeans were pushed down, baring his pale, firm butt. In the shadow of the urinal I saw that the cock he was holding was jutting straight out.

I let my hand drop to my own cock. His eyes went to my crotch. He licked his lips but made no other move. I wanted to walk up to this skittish cruiser, grab his goods and force the issue. Instead I kept my cool, and slowly walked toward the stalls opposite the row of urinals. I chose the one directly behind him, shut the door and latched it, then sat on the toilet, peering through the crack between the stall and the door. He was still standing at the urinal, and could see me if he turned and looked.

Sure enough, moments later I saw his anxious eyes trying to scope me out. I played with myself, nodding my head slowly, encouragingly. My afyon escort heart leaped as he moved toward my stall. A moment later his jean-clad legs and battered Nikes came into view underneath the door.

I raised my hand and released the latch. The door swung open toward me. The blond boy stood just beyond my reach. He wore no underwear, and I saw that his cock was springing up now in full erection out of a sparse, reddish-blond bush, his pink, compact balls underneath.

With the prize so near I threw caution to the wind. I grasped one of his thighs and propelled him forward, tumbling off the toilet seat in my eagerness. My knees hit the cold tiled floor. I caught a whiff of pool chlorine mixed with his scent as I grabbed his buttocks and swallowed him whole. I began to suck him, quick and hard. My own cock rose stiff between my legs.

The boy stood still, blocking the stall door partially open. He kept his hands passively at his sides, pretending that he wasn’t really a part of this scene. Soon I heard his breathing quicken and deepen. I cast a glance upward and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth open. I clutched his ball sack as I stepped up my pace, sliding back and forth on his shaft, flicking my tongue over his rounded smooth head.

A faint moan began to rise from the blond boy’s throat. Then, to my surprise, I felt one of his hands touch my hair–the first hint of reciprocation. This spurred me on to even more passionate efforts. In another moment I heard muttered words. “Oh fuck. Do it man. Quick. Quick!”

I couldn’t speak but made inarticulate noises, trying to indicate my assent. In a few more seconds the blond’s breathing deepened into harsh, rasping gasps. Both his hands clamped around my head as he began to fuck my face with hard thrusts. I felt a first blast of fluid hit the back of my throat, then his thick, hot juice filled my mouth.

His hands shoved my face into his crotch, forcing his cock all the way down my throat as I swallowed, trying not to choke. I was desperate to breathe but just as determined to get every drop.

Finally I broke his grip and let go, taking in air in great gulps, tears running out of my eyes, the salty bitter taste of his cum in my mouth. I looked at his cock, the head still purple with excitement, the shaft, glistening with a mixture of his semen and my saliva, beginning to relax and curve downward. It was a beautiful sight. I leaned forward and covered the head and shaft with soft kisses, then moved upward and began to kiss his lower abdomen. His skin there was silky soft, milk white and threaded with pale blue veins.

Suddenly something struck my left temple. It took me a moment to realize that he had cuffed me with one of his hands. “What–what did you do that for?” I demanded, more startled than hurt.

“Don’t kiss me like that,” he hissed. “I’m not queer.”

I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t help myself. A derisive little snort escaped my lips.

“Wow. You just shot your load down a man’s throat. That ain’t exactly straight, is it?”

This time the palm of his hand caught my cheek with stunning force. I cried out in pain as the other side of my head slammed against the stall.

“Shut up!” the boy said. He raised his arm, as if to hit me again.

I realized I had no easy escape route. I shrank back, dazed and now plenty scared. “Hey, take it easy. Let’s just talk this over–” I lifted my own arm, trying to ward off further blows. The blond boy looked at me with revulsion, as if I were a roach or some other loathsome vermin.

“Get the fuck away from me or I’ll call the police.” He backed away and quickly buttoned up his jeans. “Fucking faggot,” he said. He spit at my feet, then was gone, slamming the stall door shut with a crash. A moment later I heard the door to the locker room squeak open and shut, then footsteps fading down the corridor outside.

I sat rigid for a minute longer until I was sure he wasn’t returning, then sagged on the toilet seat, weak with relief. It took a while longer for my heart to stop racing. At last I drew a few deep breaths, then said to the empty air, “You’re welcome.” I took a piece of toilet paper and blew my nose. I got up on shaky legs, hitched my towel around my waist, and headed toward the sink to clean myself up. I scooped up cold water in handfuls, eager to wash the taste of him out of me as quickly as I could.

I went back to my locker, still reeling from the assault. I hurried to get dressed, looking over my shoulder, afraid the boy would come back for another round, maybe with a friend. It wasn’t until I’d left the YMCA and saw that the street outside was empty that I finally began to relax. As I walked back toward the University my head throbbed. I gingerly touched my right temple, feeling a sizable bruise starting. All in all, my first-ever sexual encounter in Stevens Point had been a disaster. I could only hope that would be the end of it.


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