In Pursuit of the Professor William B. DeKlokas Story

[Araucaria]

In Pursuit of the Professor William B. DeKlokas Story


The editor at the newspaper where I work called me into his office.

“Hey, have I got a story for you!”

I always feel apprehensive whenever the old curmudgeon begins giving my assignment like this, since I can only guess what it might entail.

Mr. Backus, the editor, was a grizzled old man, I guess he must have been at least 80, with a bad cough from a three-pack a day cigarette habit, though he quit over 20 years ago. He had worked for one of the big city newspapers up north, Pittsburgh or Cleveland, I don’t remember where exactly. The old geezer retired and moved down to Florida, found himself “bored as fuck,” and immediately got hired on at the local paper down here. He declared that “I’m gonna work until I keel over, right in this chair!”

He began, “You went to Seacoast University back in the day, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, it was called Seacoast College back then,” I responded.

“Then you knew William B. DeKlokas?” My editor shifted in his chair, as he grabbed a thin folder and handed it to me.

“Well, yeah, I knew of him. I didn’t take any of his classes.”

The editor gave me a puzzled look. I guess given the legend of Mr. DeKlokas, most people outside the College didn’t realize that he was only one of dozens of instructors in the English Department. Besides, his courses would always fill up fast.

“It’s coming up on the 30th anniversary of his passing, and we’d like to do a spread on the Local Interest front page.” The editor held a pencil to his face, hands at both ends. “You can do this, can’t you?”

The remark sounded a bit patronizing, given my experience in the field. After all, I’m in my late 50s myself, and I’ve been a reporter my whole adult life. I merely nodded, lest I convey my annoyance by my verbal response.

As Mr. Backus started talking, going on about deadlines and such, I found myself staring at a black-and-white picture he kept on his desk. It was a photo of a baby-faced young man in his 20s, with a forelock of black hair sweeping over his forehead. I would guess the picture was taken in the early 1960s or so. He had a slight hint of impudence, almost a sneer, in that smooth-complexioned face.

I nearly jumped when I heard the editor say “You like that, huh?”

“Who is this?” I asked.

Mr. Backus said nothing, but grinned back at me like the Cheshire Cat.

“YOU?” I said, incredulously.

I picked up the picture, and held it up next to the face of the old man. Could they possibly be the same person? The boyish cuteness had probably left his face by the 1970s, but he did have the same eyes, the nose and chin were the same shape. I shook my head, my powers of recognition refusing to believe this young man, boy almost, was my elderly editor.

“Let me tell you something,” Mr. Backus declared. “Right about the time this picture was taken, I got the first big scoop of my career. A big source for a story I was working said they’d tell me all if I let them give me a blow job!!”

“Oh, wow, really! Was it a man or a woman?”

“A very good source!” Was all he said.

I stared at the picture, imagining the youthful reporter getting sucked off. Before I knew it I had popped a boner.

“Get up and lock the door!” My editor commanded.

I did as told, aware that my erection was fully visible in my pants as I walked to the door and returned to my seat.

Meanwhile Mr. Backus had moved his swivel chair to a filing cabinet in his office and opened the bottom drawer. After fumbling through the contents, he pulled a folder out, and wheeled back to his desk.

“Nobody knows these even exist,” he said, as he opened the folder.

Inside were several black and white glossy photos of the same young man naked. He had a beautiful body! I stared at the frontal pictures of the youthful reporter with the flaccid penis, and then the ones of his back with the beautiful ass. But then came the close-ups of his fully erect cock with a drop of pre-cum, so detailed that I could imagine placing my mouth over it and lapping it with my tongue. And finally there was the picture of that penis with the freshly ejaculated semen on the desk in front of it.

I caught myself rubbing myself through my pants.

“I know something that will make this REAL GOOD for you.” The old man produced a small baggie of white powder.

“Cocaine?” I said, shocked.

The editor gave me his Cheshire Cat grin, and carefully poured two lines of the white snow on the glass of the picture of his young self. Seeing my reluctance, he asked,

“What? You’ve never had cocaine?’

I nodded my head no.

“Well, just try it!” Mr. Backus said, as he held out a straw for me.

I did, and snorted the stuff up my nose. After feeling a little strange and disoriented for a few moments, suddenly I felt hit by a clarity and awareness I had never experienced before. I stared right at the young man protected by the glass from which I had just snorted, and then looked at all the nude pictures. I didn’t care— I just had to get off with that young man. Dropping my pants, I grabbed my cock and started jacking off. Rubbing my cock and then my balls over the glass picture, I imagined doing all sorts of vile things I was doing to and with that 20-something,

The editor stood by with a camera. “Can I take your picture?”

“Sure, take all you like!” At that point I was so high I’m sure I would have agreed to sell my soul to the devil for an eternity in hell at this point.

I kept masturbating, looking through all the photos. ‘“I want your cock, bitch, let me suck that fucking cock of yours!” I saw the camera flashes going off, but I didn’t care at this point.

This went on for I don’t know how many minutes. All I know is that I had the hots for the boy in the picture like you wouldn’t believe, imagining myself sucking, touching, fucking, in this cocaine-induced frenzied reality.

Finally I felt I was ready to bust my nut. I aimed my cock at the glass-encased photo of the pretty young man and yelled, “Take my hot cum, punk! Yeah, let me shoot all my cum in your face!” I yelled, as I shot spurt after spurt of my semen all over that photo, while my old curmudgeon editor kept snapping pictures of me.

I collapsed back in the chair, spent, exhausted. I noticed that I was breathing heavy, and sweating.

“You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” My editor was looking right at me, grinning, but this time it was the grin of a man who had the upper hand. In the meantime I must have been coming off the high, because I started to feel a bit disoriented. I finally pulled my pants back up, but fell back in my chair.

Mr. Backus seemed to realize I needed some rest, and didn’t bother me for a while. Finally he walked up to me, and handed me the DeKlokas file. I took the folder and stood up.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Then get out of here!” If that sounds strong, that’s just what he always says to everybody when he’s done giving out the assignment.

I got up, unlocked the door, and walked out of his office. He was already gathering up his “secret” photos and putting them away. But I looked back and noticed that the glass-encased photo of his young self with my semen on it still laid flat on his desk.

 

[jaysizzles]

Interesting start...I'm intrigued and looking forward to more.

 

[Araucaria]

As it turned out, I already had my first source of information in my possession. I still have all the old Seacoast College yearbooks, from the late 50s until publication stopped in the mid-70s. My father was on the faculty of the college, and would bring home every new yearbook. As a young boy I enjoyed flipping through the pages, looking at all the pictures. I remember being intrigued by the group fraternity pictures, with all the handsome young men standing behind the Greek-lettered paddles.

Ah, here’s a picture of William B DeKlokas, facing a bust of Shakespeare. A middle-age man in the picture, not very attractive, with horn-rimmed glasses perched on a beak nose, and unkempt curly gray hair. His eyes were kind yet alert, intelligent.

I flipped through the pages of several yearbooks. I found random shots of Mr. DeKlokas on the sets of student plays, directing the actors on stage. I was struck by the picture of Mr. DeKlokas talking to a handsome blond actor on the set of Othello in the 1968 yearbook. I placed a bookmark here, to refer back to this later.

The next day, I contacted Mrs. Corinne Darcy, nee McFlintock, the woman in charge of the Seacoast University alumni newsletter, inquiring about printing an announcement, looking for people who were Mr. DeKlokas’ students, especially looking for interactions and personal anecdotes concerning the beloved instructor.

This seemed to be a dead lead, since for some time I got no response from the alumni association announcement.

Then I got a phone call at my desk at the paper.

“Hello, this is Jimmy Dickens, and I saw your notice for people who knew Professor DeKlokas…”

Oh, yes. That was the name the yearbook identified as the blond boy with the professor.

We talked a few minutes, and the caller gave every impression that he’d be a valuable source for my recollection story. I arranged to meet him for an interview.

I rang the doorbell on a ranch-style house typical of those built in the 1950s and 60s in this area. An older man, about 70 years of age answered the door. He was bald, and his gait was somewhat labored, but otherwise looked to be in reasonably good health. It took me a couple of moments for my mind to register the fact that he was the same person as the young blond man in the old yearbook photo with Prof. DeKlokas a half century before.

“Would you mind if we talk on the back patio?” He ushered me through the house. Pictures of Gay Pride marches and other pictures, at least one of which was clearly a photo of a Vietnam War protest, adorned the walls.

We emerged on a pleasant patio, lushly surrounded by tropical plants and a 3 ft tall reproduction of Michelangelo’s David. My host briefly caressed the statue’s ass as he passed by. The sound or running water trickled in a fountain on the side. Jimmy led me to a small table and chairs.

“So, you want the standard story of Professor DeKlokas, Seacoast College Shakespeare scholar extraordinaire?” I heard the challenge in his voice.

“I’ll take the story you tell me, standard or otherwise,” I said, as I sat down and took out my note pad, pen, and voice recorder. When I focused on my interviewee, I saw his blue eyes focused on me, continuing the challenge, holding his hands in front of him, fingers extended, touching at the tips. Clearly he had a point of view he wanted to get across, and he wanted to disabuse me of whatever notions he imagined that I held.

“Do you mind if I record this conversation?” I asked.

“I have no objections,” came the reply, as Jimmy waved dismissively, with a hint of imperiousness in his voice.

I started the recording, stating the interviewee’s name, date, and location of the interview. I took a glance at my questions, but Jimmy Dickens immediately took over the interview.

“I had sex with Mr. DeKlokas.” Jimmy focused on me, studying my reaction. “Surprised?”

“No.” Being a reporter for many years, declarations and allegations of sexual encounters don’t shock me anymore. “I take it that you think it’s important that I know that…”

I flipped the yearbook to the page of the young, handsome Jimmy with Mr. DeKlokas.

“I blew him the night this picture was taken,” Jimmy said. “I was helping moving some things around on stage after rehearsal, and it turned out it was just me and him at the end. We were just sitting there. And I suddenly asked ‘do you want a blow job?’ He just giggled, like a nervous schoolgirl. But he didn’t stop me when I put my hand on his crotch. And he didn’t stop me when I undid his pants, and put his dick in my mouth. I was a bratty 18 year old, and I was sucking off my professor, in his 40s. I knew he was married and all, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of gay men married in those days. I just kept at until he came in my mouth.”

“Was that the end of it?” I asked.

“It was for that night. But we dd get together quite a few times over the next couple of years.” Jimmy paused a moment. “Man, he was like a little boy who knew he was doing something bad, like he knew he was gonna get punished for it. But when we were actually having sex, he attacked me like a starving man at a feast. He’d caress me, and call me his gallant young prince!”

“Did you love him?” I inquired.

Jimmy threw up one hand. “Hah! I was just some young punk having fun! I knew what effect it had on Prof. DeKlokas, and it worked quite nicely, in more ways than one, I might add.”

My interviewee had a big smile on his face, so I followed up.

“In what ways?”

“Well, for one thing, he always gave me a major role in all the plays they put on. And I always got A’s in all his classes. And he made sure I was enrolled, even when classes were filled.”

I asked “How did this affect his marriage?”

“Oh, Honey DeKlokas?” Responded Jimmy. “She had to know something. I’m sure Billy married her to keep his cover.”

“Billy?”

“That’s what I called him when we were alone,” answered Jimmy. “Anyway, if Honey knew anything, or had a problem, she never let on. Why, Billy would invite me over for dinner, and she was always the gracious hostess, always friendly and chatty.”

“So, where did you end up after Seacoast?”

“Montreal.”

Jimmy must have read my puzzled look.

“To avoid the draft, of course! I had some personal problems, and had to drop out. That’s when the draft board came after me.”

It seems that Jimmy left the country, went to Montreal, learned French, and spent two decades up there.

“Why’d you come back?”

“You know Jimmy Carter, God bless him, issued the blanket pardon. But I didn’t come back. Not until 1988. It seemed my Dad had become ill by that time, and Mom couldn’t handle him. I didn’t really want to come back, it being at the end of the Reagan years and all, but they needed me, and they had been making some serious efforts to patch things up.”

 

[Araucaria]

When I got home, I tried to relax and unwind from the day. The Jimmy Dickens interview turned out to be very fruitful. But all that was work, and I didn’t want to think about that right now. I flipped through the suburban weekly that they throw on my lawn, in my swale once a week. I don’t normally do it, but for some reason I decided to pick up this issue. This time they had the pictures of some elderly society ladies at a luncheon. I casually read the captions, and one name jumped out at me. So Honey DeKlokas is still alive! I was a little surprised at this. I would certainly have to interview her. I tried to relax mentally, but my mind went elsewhere.

I thought back on myself as an 18 year old Freshmen at Seacoast College. Back in 1976 the first ripples of the Stonewall tsunami had yet to reach Florida. The place was a sort of paradise for growing redneck boys, with their fishing, boating, sports teams and ballfields, go karts, and BB guns and air rifles. At the same time it was hell for closeted gay boys like.me. You might ask why I didn’t come out, but at that time and place, the closet was the only option.

Seacoast College was my default choice of schools. I really didn’t want to go to the same college my father taught at, but none of the other college options really grabbed my attention. In truth I was adrift, waiting for that current to finally come along, and take me toward being the person I really was. Until that happened, my life was on hold. I simply had none of the boldness or courage of Jimmy Dickens, who several years before initiated a sexual relationship with Mr. DeKlokas.

Living in the closet in.a ubiquitously homophobic environment is much like being a spy in an enemy country. In a sea of thousands of people you know you can’t trust, you have to watch everything you say, everything you do, lest you give yourself away. As far as reading the signs of possible fellow spies, it is very difficult— realizing that they also have to guard against blowing their cover. And there I was, like the Bob Seger song said, “Working on mysteries without any clues.”

So every morning I rode to classes with my father, and rode home with him every afternoon. I definitely knew that I didn’t want to be doing this, or to be around all the faculty and staff, being known as my father’s son. I knew this wasn’t the life for me, but there was no other option. Fortunately, my father almost never said anything on those car rides. I certainly didn’t have anything to say to him, after 18 years of the shit that happened between us.

So I was extremely horny and forced to live in the closet, and no prospect of any sexual outlet, living with a father I didn’t like and who was abusive to me in the past. What’s a boy to do?

I started playing this “game” with my Old Man. It started simply where I would “flash” him. But it was always in a way where he wouldn’t see me, so there was really no danger of him catching me.

But I felt compelled to take more risk. I started playing “peekaboo dick” with him. He was sitting at the table, grading papers or something. I stood next to him, a little behind him, and exposed the head of my penis above the waistline of my pants. He kept on working, not turning around to look at me. Which is odd, since I never stand next to him like that. My heart was beating fast, with the enormity— and the excitement— of what I was doing.

Finally, my Father looked at me. He turned his head to the side and a little behind, staring at my peekaboo dick head. He said nothing, but stared at it for a couple of minutes.

“What are you doing?” He finally said.

He finally turned his attention back to what he was doing, and I eventually withdrew.

But I wasn’t done. I felt compelled to make something more happen, though I didn’t know what.

At bedtime I put on my pajamas, but I didn’t go to bed. I went back up to the front of the house. I couldn’t quite bring myself to go right in front of my Dad, so I went to the kitchen, and stood facing a corner, with my full erection out of the fly. It took several minutes, but my Father must have realized I was up to something, so he came and stood next to me, looking at my exposed penis.

“Do you have something to show me?”

I turned to my Old Man, going out into the light of the dining room. “May I ask a few questions?” I said, timidly.

I don’t remember what I asked, but he sort of fell in the role of doctor. He reached out and touched the head, gently lifting it this way and that, lifting and bending it to look at my penis all over. Man, that felt good!

We engaged in whatever questions or talk I might have uttered. And then my Father did something really great. He put his four fingers and thumb on my shaft, and slowly moved them back and forth, back and forth. Damn, this feels really good!

My Dad must have seen how much I enjoyed it, because he said “This is what queers do,” as he slowed the motion, and then lifted his hand.

Then he continued to play doctor, feeling my testicles one by one in their scrotum. I certainly enjoyed his tactile stimulation.

My father continued to stand next to me. I desperately wanted to feel him touch me some more So I figured out a way to make it work. I took my hand, put it on his wrist, and placed his hand on the head of my penis. He left it there for a few moments, then lifted it up. Moments later I placed his hand of my shaft, and he made his slow jacking motion for several seconds. Then I placed his hand on my testicles, and so on.

This went on quite a long time. I was enjoying my Dad’s touch, and he continued to be willing to play this game with me, though I had to keep placing his hand on me to get him to continue feeling me up like this.

Then something happened. I had placed my Dad’s hand on the shaft of my penis, and as he fondled me, he caused a clear, tiny drop of pre-cum to leak out of the piss slit. A little drop of love for my Father, telling him what I never would or could say to him, letting him know, “Good job, Dad!”

But my Father didn’t see it that way.

Put your penis away! He said.

He said it softly, several times.

After several minutes I realized the game was over. I pulled my penis and my little drop of pre-cum back in my pajamas and went to bed.

The whole episode was very arousing, but my Father didn’t make me come. I didn’t take care of myself that night, perhaps because I had to process it. The next day my father drove us to the college as usual. During the day I kept ruminating on what happened the night before. I remember sitting across from a guy that I liked but didn’t know well, wondering, what would he think if he knew what me and my Father did last night?

And I don’t think I took care of myself the next night, either.