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The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
Chapter 15: This Little Light of Mine
Saturday, September 16, 1995
Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Note to readers: This is a long chapter with 4 scenes. If you just want the sex, scene 1 is the erotic setup, and scene 4 is the payoff. Scenes 2 & 3 are character and plot development.
Personal Note: This chapter marks the halfway point in this tale. For those who have been keeping up, the next 5 chapters pack some wallop plot-wise and sex-wise. Colton Langley will take aim at two of Matt’s friends, being thwarted once, but succeeding the next time. In chapter 20 we will say goodbye to a beloved character. For those who were disappointed that Locker Room Rendezvous ended with a sexual cliffhanger, chapter 16 will have a flashback to round out that encounter.
Thanks to all of you who have read each of the chapters!
I want to give special thanks to DevonCowboy, Cane23, and MarcLuciFer for their many comments! I feel like a chapter was a success if I see comments from all three! I want to also thank Ctny62, 62BayAreaSooner, Bidickulous, and Straycatndc for their comments. Those and other feedback fuel my writing, motivating me to stay up ’til past midnight most nights, writing and polishing the next chapters.
Assuming reader interest continues, I will post another note at the end of Chapter 20, the two-thirds mark.
Regards,
JC
***
Matt watched Todd roll a black fishnet stocking over his calf, up his creamy thigh, and clip it to a garter belt. Until now “garter belt” had been a term on the periphery of Matt’s vocabulary, vaguely linked to female guile, uninteresting at best, frightening at worst.
Eyeing the contraption as it emerged from Todd’s travel bag—a limp, tentacled thing riddled with hooks and snaps, Matt wished he had never beheld it. Had he been Catholic, he would have made the sign of the cross. He could not imagine that such a contrivance—even on a guy—would arouse him.
But it did, achingly so.
Matt and Todd were in the Embassy Suites for Paul’s membership interview. Jake and William had arrived a few minutes later. The others should be there soon.
Matt’s ordeal began, ordinarily enough, while he and William sat in the suite’s living area, watching Jake’s and Todd’s wardrobe changes. Correction: Matt watched Jake and Todd. William watched the muted TV (KOCO 5, the local ABC News affiliate. Covering the weather. Weather was almost always the top story in Oklahoma.) William still disagreed with holding this interview.
Jake stripped off the respectable jeans he had worn on his way to this room, shucked out of his underwear, and wriggled, commando-style, into cut-offs that rode low on his hips, high on his downy thighs. The cut-offs were a sexy upgrade to the hemmed shorts he had worn for Matt’s interview. The frayed fringes highlighted Jake’s fine blonde-and-brown hair that, unlike William’s, grew thicker and denser as it neared his sacred grotto.
That got Matt’s blood pumping, erection soon to follow.
Meanwhile, Todd stripped to his underwear, which wasn’t a showstopper on any level. No tantalizing bulge in the front, no muscled glutes in the rear. This was the same Todd who had worn the Mouse mask at Matt’s interview, whom Matt had thought too sweet and innocent to fuck. On the dick meter, plain black thong on a wispy twink barely registered.
Jake donned his blue high tops, began fussing with them, lacing them loosely, teasing out the tongues. Matt had fond memories of those high tops. He’d made Jake keep them on while he fucked him face-down, legs splayed.
Matt’s dick twitched, thickened and stretched a bit—although not enough that William might notice. This was the twelfth day since Matt’s locker room rendezvous with William. William’s hickey had mostly faded, but still required concealer. Matt derived a certain pride from his handiwork.
Todd fished the black, lacey garter belt from his bag, wrapped it around his waist, and hooked it in place. Six elastic straps (three per leg), hung like wind chimes, their metal snaps clacking against Todd’s thighs.
Matt’s dick flat-lined. It would require defibrillation to restore it to life.
Todd slipped into a men’s white dress shirt, fastened all but the top two buttons. The shirttails concealed his ass and groin. The garter’s insectoid straps hung loosely, like parachute cords.
Todd pulled a red necktie over his dark, curly hair, settling it around his neck like a leash.
Still no signs of life in Matt’s crotch.
Out came the fishnet stockings. Separate things, like calf-high socks, if socks could be sexy.
Starting with each foot, Todd unrolled the stocking, following the curve of the arch, the sharp angle of the heel, upward over the little tunalı escort speedbump of his stretched calf, petering out mid-thigh, where the stocking fastened to the garter’s hanging straps.
Todd’s legs sported the merest dusting of hair, as if his body had appropriated all follicles for the mass of dark curls on his head. The few hairs that peeked through the stockings’ netting validated the bearer’s manhood—barely. More would have tipped the scale into farce, like Bing Crosby in drag in White Christmas.
Matt’s cock roared to life. He folded his hands in his lap to hide it.
Matt might have succeeded in concealing his arousal had Todd not added the black stiletto-heeled pumps. That was just cruel.
“Matty, baby,” Jake cooed. He was staring at Matt’s crotch. “What gave you that boner? Sight of my ass? Or Todd’s saloon slut getup?”
Matt felt a hot blush bloom on his cheeks.
Todd laughed, then looked over at Matt’s lap, searching for the boner.
“Never hide your candle,” Todd scolded playfully. “How’s that children’s song go? You know, the one about not hiding your candle under a bushel?”
Jake started singing, holding up a finger to signify a candle. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”
“That’s it!” Todd enthused. He held up his own finger candle, joined Jake in singing. “Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine…”
Jake and Todd continued singing, repeating the part about not hiding the light, pointing suggestively at Matt’s crotch.
The song reminded Matt of his childhood Sunday Schools, choruses of kids holding their finger candles aloft. There was a certain sacrilege hearing the song sung by two guys, one in fishnet stockings, the other wearing cutoff jeans that barely covered his ass cheeks. Never mind that Jake and Todd were conflating dicks and candles. Matt just hoped they wouldn’t sing the line “Let it shine ’til Jesus comes…”
William ignored the first three iterations of the song, eyes glued to the flickering TV. Finally, he turned to Matt. “Dahling, they’re not going to stop until you follow the song’s advice.”
Matt stood shyly. He unsnapped his shorts and pushed them and his boxer briefs down to his thighs, letting his boner spring free, certain that, had he not already sealed his eternal damnation, this would guarantee it. Hopefully, this would end the singing.
Todd and Jake smiled at sight of Matt’s cock.
“One more time!” Jake said. “Everyone sing! ‘This lit—'”
William held up a hand. “Dahlings, being Methodist, I was thankfully spared from learning this ditty. It explains so much about your denomination. If you insist on singing it, at least tweak the lyrics. They assume not only that all candles are little, but that little is a good thing. You, of all people, know better than that!”
Matt, Jake, and Todd snickered.
“Let’s review our candle sizes,” William said. “There are birthday candles, which, sadly, are little—and don’t do much to light the fire.” He held up a pinky finger by way of illustration.
“Tapers are next. Basically, long birthday candles. Same low-wattage light-wise. The only girth is at the base.”
“Then come pillar candles. Those have varying girths, and range in height from five to seven inches tall. This—” William pointed to Matt’s cock—”is no birthday candle or taper. This is a fine pillar of a candle, at the high end—excuse the pun—of the spectrum.”
Jake jumped in. “And it certainly lit my fire!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Todd petulantly.
Matt blushed again.
William smiled indulgently, motioned for Matt to pull his pants back up. That part of the lesson was over.
Matt gladly complied.
“The final candle type,” William said, “is not used in your acapella, ditty-singing churches. They are used by Catholics, Presbyterians, and Methodists. Civilized Christians. They are called ‘Paschal Candles.’ They pick up where pillar candles end, and range in height from eight to eleven inches. Beautiful. Nice for the occasional ceremony. Practically speaking, regular use would burn the house down.”
***
The last time Matt had worn one of these molded plastic masks, he’d been in elementary school. Still an innocent, leaving cookies for Santa, believing the only monsters were those that lurked under his bed.
He knew better now, as did his fellow members of the Gay Mafia. Hence the masks and other precautions during member interviews. It was why Josh wasn’t joining them tonight. He was on security detail, per the rules, providing them all with iron-clad alibis should this interview go south and Paul rat them out to the Dean.
Matt had spent hours combing through a bin of masks at the clubhouse. To claim one, he just had to write his name and the date on the inside. Permanent marker recommended. He’d seen the Pirate mask with Evan’s name. Its previous owner’s names dated tunceli escort back to ’86. Jake was the first guy to be the Clown. Matt guessed there would be a clamor for that mask once Jake graduated, especially if the blue high tops went with it.
William’s mask was the oldest, and was crammed with names, dating back to ’75.
The mask Matt had ultimately chosen was starting to chip along the edges. The first guy who’d worn it was “N. Covington” in ’81. Now Matt’s name was there.
Matt loved this connection with the gay ghosts of the club’s past, guys who had also fought to survive the school’s homophobia. Matt had picked his mask for its warrior quality, even though the soldier it depicted had fought for the wrong side. Matt was a Star Wars stormtrooper.
Matt doubted Paul was fooled as to his identity. He also hoped Paul would overlook any negative Star Wars connotations.
Paul sat facing his masked interviewers, blinking, bug-eyed behind his thick glasses. He was not making a good impression despite an updated hairstyle and newish clothes from a thrift store. Matt had hoped for better but could hardly claim surprise. Paul was a person whose oddities enveloped him like a forcefield, repelling even the best-intentioned people. His strengths were the opposite: hidden, like the elusive red mushrooms in the Super Mario game.
Matt tried focusing on this train wreck of an interview, but was distracted by Todd, who sat to his immediate left. Todd was masked as a Mouse but was playing the cat. So-called saloon slut in his garter belt, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, he was a dam in heat. He fretted with the cuffs of his dress shirt, stroked his red necktie seductively, feeding the flame of Matt’s desire. Matt’s cock wanted to douse Todd’s fire.
Earlier when Evan and Luke had arrived, Evan had asked Todd why he had such an elaborate costume when everyone else just wore masks.
“He’s trying to make sure the new guy doesn’t pick me,” Jake had said. “Jealous because I hold the club record. Chosen three times in a row because of my lucky high tops.”
Evan had disagreed. “Who says this Paul guy will even be admitted? Last time I checked, five of us must vote in favor. No offense, Matt. I know he’s your friend.”
Luke had chimed in, addressing Todd. “You’re fishing in the wrong pond if you want Paul to pick you.” He glanced at Evan, then corrected himself. “Assuming Paul gets admitted, I mean. He seems like a bottom is all I’m saying.”
“Who says I’m fishing in that pond?” Todd had asked.
Had Matt imagined it, or had everyone glanced at him?
Harley, Paul’s sponsor, was moderator, and was the only member not masked. Every group needed a Harley, someone with a middle child’s peacemaker personality, someone singularly focused on ironing out differences, helping the group achieve its goals. Everyone’s friend. Like Idabel.
It was Harley who had met Paul in the hotel lobby, led him to this third-floor suite, and explained the rules of “Truth or Bare”: The seven masked members would proceed in order, each asking Paul to pick “Truth or Bare”. If he chose “truth”, he had to honestly answer a question from that member. Choosing “bare” required removal of an article of clothing. Paul could never choose “truth” more than twice in a row. Then Paul would have a chance to pose the same choice to that questioner before the game moved on to the next masked member.
So, here they were, having finished the first round. Paul had been stubbornly determined to keep his clothes on. Of the eight times he had been offered the choice of “Truth or Bare”, he’d only chosen “bare” when required to do so by the rules: truth, truth, bare, truth, truth, bare, truth, and surprise…truth. What articles of clothing had he removed? His new three dollar shoes that didn’t stink.
When Paul had asked Matt “Truth or Bare”, Matt had chosen “bare” and quickly peeled off his shirt, trying to send a subtle signal to his friend. He should have remembered that Paul did not get subtlety.
Matt frowned behind his mask, willing Paul to lighten up. Not only was Paul giving the impression that he was uncomfortable with nudity, but answering questions wasn’t his strong suit. His voice was flat, emotionless. His answers were curt. He was in his default mode.
Matt had debated telling Paul about this game, coaching him, but had decided against doing so. Matt was not a cheater.
The only bright spot in the interview thus far had come when Kevin asked Paul who was his hero. Kevin was the least assuming member of the group, an old soul in a young body. His Devil mask did nothing to conceal his innate kindness.
“Alan Turing,” Paul had said, without hesitation. “He cracked the Nazi codes and helped the Allies win World War II. He built the first real computer, the Automated Computing Engine. Once the English didn’t need his help anymore, they convicted him of ‘homosexual acts.’ He committed suicide turgutlu escort two years later.”
Matt hoped this would help Paul’s case. At least his hero was a gay man.
What had Paul asked when it was his turn to pose a question? “Do you play chess?”
William’s curt “no” had dripped disdain, which was even more jarring coming from his Dorothy mask. Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Like Matt hadn’t seen that one coming.
What had Paul asked Todd? Chess again. Another no.
That was when William had interrupted game play. “Let’s make this easy, shall we? Anyone besides Paul who plays chess, please raise your hand.” No one did. Yeah, train wreck.
Matt wished Adam were there. If Colton Langley hadn’t outed Adam to the Dean, Adam would almost certainly be in the Gay Mafia by now. Sweet, gentle Adam would vote for Paul’s membership.
Matt had mailed Adam the pictures Molly had taken of kids lined up to sign Adam’s card. Adam had written a short reply. Eight lines in flowing cursive, thanking Matt, asking about Matt’s soccer games, about his classes. Matt had re-read the letter until he had it memorized.
The second round began. Paul removed a sock for his obligatory “bare”, then gave a monosyllabic answer to Todd’s “truth” question.
It was Matt’s turn. Paul, predictably, chose “truth.”
“What’s the worst name anyone has ever called you?” Matt asked. He knew the answer. The others needed to hear it.
Paul stared down at his bare left foot, mumbled.
“Please speak up,” Matt said.
“R2D2.” Paul pushed his glasses up his nose. “Like the Star Wars character.”
“That’s not what the name is about, is it?” Matt asked.
Paul shook his head. “Your turn is up. One question is all you get. It’s Devil’s turn now.” (Since Paul presumably did not know the members’ names, he had been instructed to refer to them by their mask characters: Dorothy, Mouse, Stormtrooper, Devil, Princess, Pirate, and Clown.)
“My turn will be up when you’ve answered my questions,” Matt said. “What does R2D2 stand for?”
Paul’s eyes glistened with anger. “Retarded Robot Dick Diddler. Two ‘R’s, Two ‘D’s. R2D2. Get it?”
Matt looked to see if his fellow members got it. They had, or so they thought. Little did they know.
“Who calls you R2D2?” Matt asked.
Paul clenched his jaw, pursed his lips, suppressing the answer. He glared at Matt.
“Answer the question, dahling,” William said.
Paul spat the answer. “Everyone calls me that. Everyone.”
Matt could have stopped there. Paul’s answer was technically correct, but also glossed over the truth, a sick, horrible truth that Paul, understandably, avoided.
Matt knew a thing or two about avoiding ugly truths. He had not divulged his rape during his own membership interview, so he could hardly fault Paul. Matt, though, unlike Paul, had answered questions with enough detail that the members got a sense of who he was as a person. He had been likeable, relatable.
That could not be said of Paul. But here was the thing, a chicken-egg sort of thing: what if Paul’s secret was the catalyst that made him so bottled up? So defensive as to be unlikeable? Matt believed that was the case. He was certain that airing that secret could be key to turning this interview around and getting Paul admitted to the group.
But Paul didn’t trust these strangers to hear it.
Did Matt have the right to discount Paul’s wishes? Twelve days earlier, there had been a moment in the locker room with William where Matt held Colton’s promise ring in his hands, where Matt could have easily yanked it off the chain around William’s neck, freeing William from its curse. Matt had declined to do so. Now he faced a similar quandary with Paul.
The difference between the two situations involved the issue of choice. William had chosen to wear Colton’s ring around his neck, chose every day to keep it there. Paul had never chosen this nickname, never asked anyone to use it. It had been forced on him against his will—a gang rape of a young soul.
“Does your mother call you R2D2?” Matt asked.
“You know she does. You know the answers to all these questions.”
“And your dad? Does he call you that name?”
Paul looked at Harley, appealing for the moderator to step in. “His turn is up. It is Devil’s turn now.”
Harley, ever the peacemaker, did what peacemakers do: he equivocated. He did not want to make this call.
“What do you think?” Harley asked William, the Godmother of their Gay Mafia.
William shrugged. He had warned Matt this would be a train wreck. “It’s Devil’s turn. Let’s move this along.”
Matt felt defiance boiling up within him. One didn’t easily become striker on a soccer team. The striker was the guy deepest in the enemy lines, the guy whose job it was to score a goal, damn the consequences. The referee could call a foul after the fact.
Matt, the striker, did what strikers do.
“Devil yields his question to me,” Matt declared. “Don’t you?” he asked Kevin. Yielding time was a parliamentary trick Matt had learned in SGA, which was ironic considering it had been William who had encouraged him to run for office and now Matt was using parliamentary procedure to defy William’s decision.
Kevin nodded meekly, yielded his question.
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