u/didyoueatmyburrito

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

My mom had a dish towel over her shoulder and one hand flat on the counter. The conversation was over, and she was about to tell me to do something I didn't want to do. I knew the mannerisms subconsciously, and braced before I even realized it. 

"Two houses down," she said. "The grey one with the truck in the driveway."

"Yeah?"

"New neighbors. I like the mom," she said wryly, "We're gonna be friends. I told her you'd come over and say hi to her son. So go over and hang out or whatever."

I sighed as she continued doing whatever she was doing at the counter. "What am I going to do with him?"

"You'll figure it out." She wiped the counter in front of me even though I hadn't put anything on it. "You're about the same age. I'm sure he's fun. Go."

"Right now?" I said, exasperated already.

"Yes."

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, my angsty response to annoying things from mom.

I was the only male left in the house. My brother had finally moved out recently, and it was just me and her. So, when she volunteered someone to do something, it was always me now. And I wasn't a pill about it. I loved my mom.

"Can I at least text him first?"

"I don't have his number."

"Then how do I even know what to say."

"You say hi, I'm from down the street." She was already turning back to the sink. "His name is Clark."

····[]····

The grey one with the truck was two down and the storm door still had the sticker on the glass from the previous owners. I knocked, and a woman opened it a crack, and I said the whole thing about being from down the street, and she lit up like I'd delivered a package. She yelled up the stairs.

Clark came down and pushed the door the rest of the way open and stood inside the frame with the hall behind him half full of moving boxes, all of them labeled in marker.

He was taller than I was expecting. Not big, just long, and the t-shirt hung off him without touching much of anything on him. He had nerdy glasses, with the plastic frames that turn dark in the sun. His haircut was short on the sides, a couple years out of fashion at that point. He looked like he had just been chilling, gym shorts, dark green socks, no shoes.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey. I live a couple houses down." I pointed with my chin.

"Cool."

I stood on the porch with my hands in my pockets and worked out my exit strategy, feeling socially awkward enough already. I'd say my mom needed help with something, walk back, tell her he was nice, and never think about the grey house again.

"You want to come up?" he said.

I nodded out of polite instinct, cursing myself inside for coming over.

"Yeah, sure."

····[]····

His room was the front bedroom over the porch, one bed pushed under the window, a desk against the wall with a laptop closed on it, and a shelf of games that had apparently gotten unpacked as a priority before anything else.

I sat on the floor with my back against the side of the desk and my knees up. 

"You want some help unpacking?" I asked, hoping it would give us something to do.

"Nah, I'm already wiped. I'll do it later," he said as he dropped into the desk chair, swiveling it around to face me, so I was looking up at him from about hip height.

I scanned the shelf above his gaming consoles. He had two football games that were four years old, some strategy thing with a wizard on the box, and a bunch of stuff I had never played.

"You play any shooters?"

"Not really."

"Racing?"

"I have that one." He tapped the shelf without looking. "It's not great."

That's about where the conversation ran out of road. I asked what his old school was, he said it, I said I'd heard of it, and then neither of us said anything for long enough that I heard the refrigerator get plugged in and start up downstairs.

"You date any cute girls there?" I asked.

"One for a bit, but not really. There were some hotties though."

"I bet. Well I hope you do well at our school. Better than me at least."

"So you haven't...?"

"Not really."

Then his mom knocked twice and came in with a plate of stuff. I looked at the array of crackers, cheese cut into squares, grapes. I had to stop myself from saying something rude, about how that looked like a snack plate for eight-year-olds, but to be honest, I was hungry, and it was actually really nice. I smiled and grabbed a handful of the crackers. She set it on the desk between us and stood there with her hands together.

"Do you boys need anything? There's soda."

"We're good, Mom."

"I'm so glad you came down," she said to me.

"Thanks for having me."

She hovered another second and left the door open a few inches when she went. That plate meant I was there for another few minutes minimum. I didn't want to eat four crackers off a woman's snack plate and then say I had to go right after. I ate a grape and looked at the wizard box some more.

····[]····

"You want to see the racing one?" Clark said. "It's stupid but it's fine."

"Sure."

He swiveled back to the desk and opened the laptop, and the screen lit up with a video paused in fullscreen. The image was a guy, from the chest down, with hairy thighs, his shirt bunched up in his fist, holding his dick and swinging it side to side at the camera. It was some amateur porn thing, but the girl hadn't appeared yet. It was in some guy's bedroom, a hamper in the corner of the frame.

Clark slapped the lid down to about six inches open. The back of his neck reddened straight up to his ears.

I laughed. I had my elbows on my knees and I laughed hard enough that I had to put my hand over my mouth so his mom wouldn't come back up.

"Dude," I said. "Relax. Turns out we do have some common interests."

He didn't say anything. He had one hand still on the lid.

"I'm a porn freak," I said. "Genuinely. I have no limits. Weird shit, animated stuff, I've seen all of it. I don't even care that it's showing the guy that much. Just fast forward to when the girl shows up, and hope she's a freak." 

I stretched my legs out and crossed my ankles. "So who's in it. The girl. Tell me the girl, I bet I know her."

"There's no girl."

"There's always a girl. I know every porn star. I know the amateurs, too. I know the ones who started posting like a month ago."

He pushed the lid down another inch.

"Uhh," he said. "That was me."

····[]····

I sat there on the floor with a cracker in my hand.

"Wait, what? No. That was, like, a huge, manly dick."

"And?"

"That dude had muscles, and body hair."

"..."

He wasn't even arguing. He'd turned the chair halfway back toward me and he had one socked foot up on the frame under the seat, and he sat there with one eyebrow up, letting me talk myself out.

"Uhh," I said. "Ok."

He chuckled. Not defensively, not a bit. He laughed at me for not believing him, short and through his nose, and went back to eating a square of cheese off the plate.

I did not believe him, not even a little bit. A guy with those glasses and that haircut and a wizard box on his shelf does not have that much meat hanging between his legs. And the dude in the video, albeit I only got a glimpse and didn't see his face, looked way more mature than this dude.

But his amusement at my incredulity was what confused me. If he were lying, he would have pushed harder. He was content to just sit there and let me be wrong.

"So that was real?" I said.

He nodded.

"Prove it."

He shrugged with both shoulders. "I don't have any videos with my face in it."

I looked down at his shorts. I couldn't tell anything from the bulge I was looking at. He wasn't free-balling it. I narrowed my eyes, and stopped myself from saying the obvious way to prove it to me.

"At my old school this was basically a weekly thing," he said. "Me and my friends measured in one of their basements more than once. One time somebody filmed it. Now I'm prepping to be a content creator, for like a fan site or whatever."

"You're serious?"

"Why would that be a big deal?" He picked up a grape. "I don't really get why people are so scared of their nudes being online."

"Damn," I said, "And I thought I was the freak."

He chuckled. "You're just an amateur gooner."

"I guess I am."

"Nobody at my school does... that," I said. "As far as I know."

"Yeah, I figured."

Unprompted, he stood up out of the chair, faced me, and hooked both thumbs in the waistband of the gym shorts and pushed them down to the middle of his thighs, and his underwear went with them in one motion.

"You believe me now?"

It was indeed the thing I had seen on the screen. I just nodded, unable to take my eyes off it. 

It was soft, and it still hung down farther than I would have guessed from the quick glance of the video. It was thick and even all the way down, instead of tapering at all. It didn't sit against his skin. It just hung, slightly away from him. His balls hung low too, large and round, everything loose. His whole package was so far past what his nerdy glasses and his fancy socks had suggested, that I got up off the floor to look at it properly. I actually stood up so I could see it right.

"Ok," I said. "Ok, ok."

"Your turn."

It took me a second to register what he said. I snapped out of my daze and looked away from his cock to meet his gaze. He had raised a brow, a gentle challenge. 

I only hesitated another second before I shoved my shorts down and lifted my shirt to match his stance. And we stood there facing each other, a random dude I had just met, and we were close enough that I could have reached out and touched it.

"So I guess we're fast friends," I said.

"What?"

"Nothing." 

Regarding my dick, it's not bad, but next to his, it was nothing. It was like putting my forearm in front of a fence post.

"Mogged," I said.

"True," he said back.

And I was getting hard. Standing there in a stranger's bedroom, right over his mother's snack plate, from the pure competition of it, from being compared against. My dick filled up and started lifting on its own and there was nothing I could do about it. 

"Why are you hard?" he asked, after several seconds of just staring at each other's dicks.

"I don't know. It's just a reflex."

But he was thickening up too. I watched it happen, it got heavier and started to swing forward off him and it kept going.

"Yours is getting big," I said. "That thing is not real."

He wiggled it back and forth with his hips, making it slap against his thighs. 

He looked down at mine and stayed looking at it, no rush, and then he nodded once.

"It's a good one, though. Seriously. Thick at the base. Girls like that."

"Yeah," I said. "That's what they say."

He opened the laptop again and switched to a browser screen, porn already loaded. He hit play.

"How many guys have you compared with?" he said as he started stroking himself, looking at me rather than the screen.

"None."

"None?"

"None, obviously. None." I could hear how loud I was getting and I brought it down. "Never."

"Why not?"

I paused, not sure how to answer that. "Because it's gay?"

Despite my ambivalence, I reached for my hard dick and started stroking too. The porn helped my nerves. I had seen this video before. I knew this girl.

"My friends said that too." He reached down with his second hand and moved his balls off his thigh, and I watched him do it. "Right up until they had their shorts down."

We jerked next to each other for another minute, turned halfway toward each other, the laptop off to the side. My strokes got quicker, and so did his. Then it got sticky, and sloppy, precum smearing down my shaft so my hand made a wet noise on every pull. I watched the girl on the screen for a few seconds, then his dick, then the screen again. He kept looking at mine, and I kept looking at his.

"I want to see it cum," I said, suddenly, surprising myself.

I don't know where it came from. It arrived in my mouth before I even thought the words.

"Ok," he said. "Then you have to do it."

"What?"

He tipped his chin down to the thick meat in his hand. "You do it."

"I've never..."

"Don't be a pussy."

I sat down on the edge of the bed, swallowing through my suddenly dry throat. He came and stood in front of me, close, and leaned his weight back against the front edge of the desk with his palms behind him on the wood, shorts still at his thighs, and I took him in my hand and put my other on his hip to keep us steady.

He was hot in my hand, and heavy, and I couldn't close my fingers around him all the way, which is a thing I had never in my life had to think about. I started stroking, unsure of the rhythm, just generally knowing where is the good part of a dick to touch. I went slowly at first because I was working out the angle backwards, doing it toward myself instead of away, and then I got it and stroked him properly.

He started thrusting his hips gently almost immediately. "Focus more on the head."

I followed his direction, squeezing harder at the tip, and his stomach started reacting. He had some dense abs, and I was looking straight ahead as the muscles there pulled tight and stayed tight, forming little mounds. And his breathing changed, short and through his teeth. He didn't say anything the whole time. His hips pushed forward into my fist and the desk creaked behind him when he leaned harder on his hands.

"Yeah," he said. "Like that, keep going."

"Okay."

I kept stroking. I twisted a little at the top because that's what I like and his whole body jerked, so I did it again.

"Okay," he said, and I knew he was about to cum. 

He twisted out of my grip and faced his desk. I stood up in an instant and reached around him from behind, ignoring that my dick was pressing against his bare ass and hip as I grabbed his dick back out of his hands, stroking him rapidly along the whole length, squeezing tightly, feeling his tall body tense against me. He watched my hand moving in a blur, and I felt the intense pulse of his meat as his load shot out and hit the bare wood next to the laptop, three long white streaks, and then a couple more that just ran over my knuckles, and it built up into a pile sitting there on the desk, whitish clear.

I stared at the pile with my hand still on him, milking out his last drops, even though they were getting on my fingers.

He stayed braced against the desk and tipped his head back, closing his eyes, his chest heaving. I realized that I was still pressed up against him, and slowly pulled away as I let go of him. His dick hit the table with an audible thud, splashing some cum to the sides.

"That was better than my friends ever did it," he said.

"Bro."

"No, seriously." He said with an exhale after getting some air. "Did you see what you wanted to see?"

"I mean, no homo, but that was... intense."

He laughed at me. Still breathing hard, still not opening his eyes, he laughed right at me with his hand loosely holding himself, in a post-orgasm daze that I recognized from myself.

I sat back on the edge of his bed with my shorts around my thighs and my hand wet, and sticky.

"Dare you to lick it," he said.

My face scrunched. "No."

"Do it," he said, smiling at me, his intimidating dong facing me now, right at eye level again, somehow even more intimidating in its red, post-ejaculation state.

He pushed off the wood and took a step back to give me room, and he stood there with his hand moving on himself, slowly, watching.

I bent forward off the edge of the bed, still bare-assed and exposed. I put both hands flat on the desk on either side of the pile and got my face down over it, close enough to smell it, and I stopped there for a second with the wood cold under my palms. The familiar scent of cum, just slightly different. I thought about when I tried my own one time, and hated it, and never did it again. But he had been weirdly convincing, and I couldn't think of a reason not to do it at this point, in the name of trying new things, with the new kid.

So I did it. I stuck my tongue out and flattened it on the desk, dragged it through the cum. I tasted nothing at first, and then my tongue was met with the strange, organic sense of salt and bleach and the varnish of the desk underneath it, and I got a big glob of it directly onto my tongue, retracting my tongue to swallow it immediately.

"Holy shit," he said, quietly, above me. "I didn't think you'd actually do it."

I sat up and wiped my mouth on the back of my wrist and he was still standing there stroking himself, staying hard, or mostly hard, looking down at me like he was impressed.

"Now you," he said.

"Now me what?"

"Jerk off." He nodded at the desk. 

He leaned past me and swiped what was left of the pile of cum off the wood with two fingers, the thin part that had spread out, and I figured he was going to hand it to me. He didn't. He reached down and closed his wet hand around my dick.

"Wait," I said as the intensity of the first person to ever touch my dick struck me like lightning.

He looked up at my face, and I looked back at him, and whatever my eyes were doing, it wasn't telling him to stop. He didn't stop.

He dropped into the desk chair, sideways, and rolled in toward me, still holding on. I stood at the desk with my shorts still at my thighs, facing the wood, his knee against my leg, his arm reaching across into my lap. 

His mother was still somewhere downstairs, and her cheese plate was about nine inches from my bare ass.

His cum was still warm when he touched me. I have jerked off with everything. Lotion, conditioner, even the actual stuff you buy just for jerking off. This was slicker than any of it and it was his, and it had been in his body, and his fingers were long enough to close all the way around me with room to spare, and I felt all of that on the first stroke and nearly finished right there.

"Look at that," he said.

I didn't answer. I couldn't even look down at it. He found a rhythm faster than I would have found it myself, twisting at the top the same way I had done to him, copying me, and my knees kept trying to lock. He shifted in the chair and his knee pressed harder against my thigh and stayed there, and I could feel him breathing through his mouth onto my hip while his forearm flexed with every pull.

"You're gonna do it on the same spot," he said. "Right where mine was."

That did it. I braced both hands on the desk and pushed my hips into his fist. For the first time in my life, I made an uncontrollable vocal sound from an orgasm as I finished onto the wood, right onto the wet patch where his had been, and it kept coming, my whole stomach tensing up with it and my head down between my shoulders and this stupid noise coming out of me that I heard from somewhere outside my own body, a gentle screech that sounded like an alien. He kept stroking me the whole time, slower, squeezing out the last of it onto his own mess. I stayed hunched over his desk, breathing hard.

Then his Mom's voice rang from downstairs. I didn't even register what she had said, but the post-nut clarity seemed to hit us both in the same second.

I got my shorts up. He got his up too. He grabbed a t-shirt off the floor and wiped the desk down in three quick passes, folded it in on itself, and threw it in the hamper by the closet. I shoved the laptop over to the far corner and put the snack plate back in the middle of the desk where his mom had set it.

The shirt had barely hit the hamper when the door pushed open and she came in with a second plate, yet more food for us.

"I made the good kind," she said.

"Thanks, Mom," Clark said with impressive nonchalance, like he barely noticed her enter the room.

"There's soda if you boys want."

"We're good."

I was standing at the shelf reading the back of the wizard box repeatedly, not ingesting a single word of it. She looked at both of us and just saw two dudes chillin, and she went back out and pulled the door shut.

····[]····

At the front door he pushed the storm door open for me with his forearm.

"Come over again," he said. Same voice as the racing game, same voice as the basement.

"I'll see you around," I said, not sure how I was going to feel about this event after I'd slept on it.

I walked the two houses in the dark and my mom said something from the couch about how nice his mom was, and I said mhm and went straight up to my room. My mouth still had the taste in it. I brushed my teeth for a long time, and I could still sense it. Maybe it was in my head.

I laid on my bed with the phone on my chest and it buzzed against my sternum. A number I didn't have. I never gave him my number. His mom got it from my mom I guess.

Clark: Some friends from my old school are staying over this weekend

Clark: You should come by

Me: How many friends

Clark: Three

I looked at that for a long time with the phone glowing up at the ceiling.

Me: What time

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

No one really gets how gay a group of straight guys can be. Like, gayer than gay guys, oddly enough. Before I got to college, I already knew I was carrying a hefty piece of meat between my legs, even if my reputation was clouded with ambiguity. It earned me a nickname in high school, after PE one day, when a kid grabbed an empty tennis ball tube and held it up next to my dick in the lockers, shocking those who looked with the aptness of the comparison. And he announced that my dick was the size of "a whole puppy dog." That turned into "Puppy Dick," which everybody refused to explain when asked, so while half the school decided I must be packing something tiny, it also gave me an opportunity to whip it out and prove them wrong a lot, leading to at least a partially positive reputation.

College was a reset, no reputation, no nickname. Nobody had seen anything yet. The showers on our floor were basically a communal space that first week of freshman year, if still a quiet, shared activity. The stalls had no doors, and we were all normal about it, sort of modest, wrapping our towels or getting dressed before we came out. Eight or nine of us had turned into shower buddies almost by accident, because we all had the same habit of showering at midnight before bed.

Then this one ballsy guy named Mark started talking about dick size one day, loudly, stall to stall, over the running water, asking questions to make the other guys laugh. In a room full of naked near-strangers, he somehow made comparing our dicks seem like a normal activity for us to do. 

Guys yelled numbers into the room, mostly "six" and a couple bolder claims, with one guy announcing "I'm four hard. It's not the size of the boat... or whatever." 

Some guys called each other liars. And eventually, upon hounding from Mark, one by one, the whole group of us stepped out of our stalls, towels over shoulders instead of around waists, under fluorescent lights that made everybody's skin look paler than it actually was, sort of glowing. 

I was drying my hair next to the third stall, my arms up, which meant I wasn't covering anything either. I braced and waited for the attention to be brought to my triple-meat-package. And everybody was doing the male instinct when they get naked in front of someone, reaching down and grabbing themselves and shaking it a couple times, resettling it, while their eyes traveled around the room.

Mark said it out loud first. He was the loudest guy on the floor by a wide margin, wide shoulders, chest hair barely coming in, patchy, and he had a bark to his voice that carried over the running water.

"Bro. Bro." He pointed with his whole hand. "Nobody's carrying meat like that soft. That's not fair. That's a soft dick? Really?"

The room turned toward me at once.

"Yeah," I said.

"That's nasty," Mark said, delighted. "Elephant trunk."

Down at the far end by the door was Taylor, another hall mate. He had finished showering before the escalation occurred, and he had put his clothes on. He was skinny, boyish, freckles running down the side of his neck into his collar, his hoodie pulled back on over nothing with the drawstrings uneven. He hadn't said a word. He also hadn't looked away from me.

Mark's problem was that he couldn't leave a thing alone once he'd started it. He got two steps toward the sinks and then wheeled back around, a glimmer in his eye.

"Okay, but soft doesn't count," he said. "Hard is the real number. Let's compare hard."

Somebody groaned, but nobody left. It was freshman week and backing out of anything in freshman week felt sort of wordlessly forbidden. We were in a state of fear of missing out. And every guy in that room knew it in his bones without anybody explaining it. So eight of us turned and faced the wall like we were being frisked, and the shower room got quiet except for the water running, and our shoulders started moving as we got ourselves hard. Guys were peeking a little left and right to see if the others were actually doing it too, and I saw a bunch of butts, a couple of them tensing, a couple phones out to help things along.

It took just a few seconds for the group of hormonal college freshmen to be ready. I faced the tile with my hand under the towel doing exactly what everybody else's hand was doing, and the whole time some animal part of me registered the comparisons from what I'd already seen soft.

We circled up as soon as we turned around, everybody shuffling in close enough to compare, and mine dwarfed these other dudes, easily. The real debate became who was in second place. I had the height on most of them too, so I stood over the ring of dicks, literally overshadowing their hotdogs with my massive dong. I felt the ego surge in my chest, an actual thrill. I couldn't believe I had never done this with another guy before. 

Mark pointed out qualities of some of the guys' dicks like an auctioneer, one comment per guy, few of them kind, all of them funny. 

"Meh... Respectable... Hmm, not bad... Okay, that's a little pinky, that's rough, man, I'm sorry, you should probably just be gay."

"Fuck you."

"I'm being supportive, buddy."

Then he got to me, and he chuckled.

"That is a forearm," a guy named Owen said. "Bro's got a forearm with a helmet on it. Like a baby's fist."

I stood there with my hands on my hips, letting my hard dick speak for itself.

"He's gonna hurt somebody with that thing," another guy said.

And, honestly, I was harder than I had ever been in my life.

A black guy named Deshawn held his own up next to mine for scale, letting it touch, and then quit halfway through his own joke about "BBC". He just let go and stepped back and said "yeah, no," and everybody screamed laughing. 

Somebody put a hand on my shoulder and turned me toward the lights so he could see it better, and I saw myself in the mirror. A bunch of guys, shorter than me, staring at my dick, looking like they wanted to hold it and feel its weight. I felt something.

Mark took a pic before I could weigh in on the idea, and I flinched for a second, then just shrugged it off.

I turned toward the door with my towel back over my shoulder, and Taylor was still standing there with his sleeves pulled down over his hands, and he was the only one in the room not laughing. I finally wrapped my towel around my waist and let the conversation drift to something else behind me as I left the room.

"Nice cock, bro," Taylor said, smirking for some reason.

He said it in such a specific, casual, ironic way that I didn't know what to say back. There was something different about him.

I just raised my eyebrows and nodded as I kept walking back to my dorm.

····[]····

The next couple weeks, my reputation settled a little better than it had in high school. One time, two guys from the hall knocked and said they were curious if it was real. 

"We saw a pic," one of them said. "It looks like AI."

"Lemme see it," I said, and they showed me. 

"No, yeah, that's the real thing," I said.

They looked at each other and chuckled, then looked back at me. 

"Prove it."

They sat down on my roommate's stripped mattress, no sheets on it because my roommate had transferred out before I even arrived on the first day, and I stood by the desk in gym shorts with the waistband hooked in both thumbs.

"You're not gonna be weird about this," I said.

"We are absolutely gonna be weird about this," one of them said.

I pushed the shorts down anyway.

····[]····

I had started getting laid a bit, which helped my reputation, but I found it abnormally boring in a way. It was like even though girls talk a lot about big dicks when they're horny, none of them really excited me. None of them worshiped me, at least not the girls I got with at the end of the night in a dark room in the back of a party. They just wanted to lie there, say a couple dirty things, and have me stick it inside her until I came. And only a couple girls could even take it inside past the head. So suffice it to say, my sex life itself wasn't exactly fulfilling in my first couple weeks at school. At best, I would just bounce my tall body and my little white ass super fast on top of a girl for a couple minutes before squirting it out.

Another mirror pic I took for exactly one girl I met at a party ended up being shared around the whole building less than a day later. This one had my face in it, and I found out when a guy I'd never met held his phone up in the dining hall line and said "is this you" with his mouth full, and my jaw dropped, a rush coming into my stomach. 

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"A friend who doesn't even go here. She said she heard it was from a guy who goes to this school."

"Jesus fucking christ."

I grabbed my food that I was too manic to eat now and sat down with some of the other guys in my hall, including Mark. When I asked if he heard about people talking about me, he had a lot to say about it and delivered it between bites.

"Ashley's roommate asked what your room number was," he said. "Like, unprompted. In the middle of a conversation about something else."

"Okay."

"Then Ashley asked about it too." He put another forkful in and chewed on it. "My girlfriend. Asked me. About your dick. She asked if it was real."

She wasn't really his girlfriend. They had sort of paired up a week prior upon move-in, but I don't think she really saw him the same way he saw her, if that makes sense.

He was still smiling when he said it, but the smile had thinned out a bit, and he stabbed the next bite harder than the food required. He kept the bit going for another minute and I watched what it cost him to keep it going.

····[]····

Soon after that, the touching started, which I had not been ready for.

It came in first as bets. A group of us were playing strip poker in one of the dorm rooms in my hall, and a guy lost a hand when he was already naked. I was in my underwear, and, out of absolutely nowhere, some random girl I didn't even know chimed in.

"Make him hold the big dick. For like, five seconds."

At this point everyone knew which dick she was talking about, as weird as that sounds. I didn't like the idea of doing something gay like that in front of a cute girl, but since she was the one who suggested it, I looked at him and shrugged. He shrugged back, and suddenly my dick was a useful tool for college gambling.

"Woah," he said as he lifted it from my thigh. "It's like, heavy."

I started to get hard during it, and had to tuck it away before it became a problem. That's what happens when you mix nudity and girls. It had nothing to do with a guy touching it, right?

Another time it was Owen, who had basically taken second place at the comparison night in the showers, a ranking he brought up every time someone mentioned my dick in public. He was slumped in my desk chair one afternoon doing absolutely nothing when he suddenly sat up and asked if he could hold it. He wanted "to see how much it weighs. No homo."

"No," I said.

"It's not gay if it's for science. You let that guy down the hall hold it."

"It's extremely gay and the answer's still no."

"C'mon," he said, and his voice elicited a certain pity from me. 

I sighed, and stood to walk over to where he was sitting, and pulled my shorts down to expose my meat to him. I watched him breathe in slowly through his nose as he reached out tentatively to touch it, then wrap his fingers around it, and then lift it, separating it from my balls.

"Yeah," he said with a nervous voice. "It's, got weight to it."

I felt myself start to stiffen up in his hand, but since it was just the two of us, I didn't stop it right away this time. He squeezed it, and I felt the blood flow into it, filling it. 

He held it against his flat palm, and lifted it a couple more times, before letting it drop, clearly bigger than when he had started it. He pulled his hand away, and neither of us said anything about the size change. I pulled my shorts back up, and went back to my computer. 

····[]····

That night, I still left my door about four inches ajar, with my desk lamp on.

I sat on my bed with my back against the wall, shorts pushed down to my knees, and I angled myself toward the lamp instead of away from it. The light put a shine on me that I approved of. I spat in my palm and started slowly, long pulls from the base, keeping my eyes on the laptop screen even though nothing was playing on it. Looking at the door would have ruined it. I was just a guy jerking off in his own room, with a door that happened to be accidentally open.

The hall stayed quiet for a while. Then a pair of shower sandals slapped past toward the bathrooms, and my grip tightened, and a bead of precum rolled over my knuckle. I still didn't look. I pictured what the gap actually showed from out there instead, the corner of the mattress, my bare legs, the whole heavy length of me standing up out of my fist in the lamplight, and I got harder picturing that view than I even got picturing girls. In my head I thought, if somebody stops, they stop.

The sandals came back the other direction and slowed, or at least in my head they slowed, and my hips lifted off the mattress, showing off for someone who might be behind me in the hallway. I stroked faster, breathing through my mouth, and when I felt it building I grabbed an old shirt off the floor and squirted into it, three long pulses that made my legs straighten out against the sheets, my head knocking back into the wall. I didn't muffle any of the sounds I made, since I was in a room by myself.

Afterward I lay there sweating with my shorts still at my knees, my dick softening against my thigh, listening for the sandals to come back.

····[]····

Taylor seemed like the only guy who never brought up my cock. And somehow he ended up closer to me than anyone else in the hall. I barely saw him at parties, but he was around a lot in the daytime. We walked to the gym together most afternoons, even though he didn't work out much. He'd peel off into the library next door while I lifted, trying to get "college swole," and he'd be waiting by the doors with his hood up when I came out. 

That was us, barely talking, getting closer anyway. And he was in my room a lot too. 

I was sitting on my own bed facing him in basketball shorts with nothing under them one day, mid-sentence about something related to classes, when I reached in and took it out and let it lie there soft on my thigh. I guess I just wanted it looked at, because by then I'd gotten used to it being looked at.

Taylor stopped talking.

He looked at it in my lap. He didn't move off the other bed and he didn't lean in and he didn't laugh or grab for it or start a bit that every other guy on three would have started right away. He just looked, long enough that I thickened up under his gaze without touching it at all, getting stiff while he sat there, six feet away, mouth closed, not moving.

He looked me in the eye for a second, and I raised my eyebrows, starting to smile. He smiled back and we started laughing. I put it away.

I felt kind of stupid for doing that. There was just something intriguing about him, and the only tool I had for social connection recently was my package.

"Sorry for flashing you my cock," I said as he stepped out.

"No," he said quickly, "Never apologize for... that thing."

We went back to what we were doing separately, and he had a reason to leave just a minute later. 

····[]····   

The common-floor suite got loud around ten on Saturday. Somebody had a speaker and a case of the warmest beer I've ever put in my mouth, real freshman shit, and by midnight the room was well past quality metrics anyway. The girls from the floors above and below us were there, people were sitting on the counter with their feet on the dishwasher, the TV was on with the sound off playing a sports highlight reel that nobody was watching.

I was on the arm of the couch in a t-shirt and shorts. It was the exact clothing that I felt sexiest in, and I would wear that combo together on weekends. 

"Yo," Mark yelled across the room. "Get over here. There's a question about it."

I went over, already knowing what he must've been talking about. And before anybody dared me, before Mark got the sentence out, I stood up in the middle of the floor and hooked my thumbs in my shorts and pushed them down to mid-thigh myself.

The people in my immediate vicinity turned and looked. There was a sound among the group of them, "Ohhhh."

Owen was sitting on the floor right in front of me, and he reached in and took hold of it, and I didn't move away. His hand was warm and soft and dry and he was holding it like a bat, wrong, and it stiffened in his fist quickly.

"Oh my God," a girl on the counter said. "Is that real?"

Mark came in from the side and took it out of Owen's hand and hefted it in his palm, testing the weight of it, up and down like a produce guy, and then somebody behind him wanted a turn, and then somebody after him. I put both hands on the back of the couch and stayed upright with my shorts at mid-thigh as they basically passed my dick around like a trophy after a win.

Girls in the doorway watched openly, phones up as the worship session began. I got fully hard, achingly so. Some of the guys pretended to be nonchalant, looking back and forth between me and the TV, which was still on mute, so they were doing a lot of intense staring at a bunt. I was hard in yet another guy's fist with a full room of eyes on me, more sexually excited than I had ever been in my life, and I stared up and away, trying to distract myself somewhat before the excitement became an actual problem.

Taylor came in late.

He stopped in the doorway in the same hoodie he wore a lot. I remember noting in that moment that it was probably his favorite hoodie. He had his sleeves shoved into the front pocket, and he didn't come closer, but he didn't leave. He just stood there and watched, smirking at me, while I lightly shrugged at him.

And, somehow, I got even harder because of it. There were several hands on me, literally moving up and down at this point, and a bunch of girls watching me bare-assed in public, but I noticed Taylor, the quiet friend of mine, standing in the doorway.

Whoever had me at that point was stroking it now instead of just holding it, their hands moving out of sync with each other, which was somehow even more stimulating. 

"It fits literally three hands on it. Fuck, maybe four," somebody said, and my knees started locking up.

"Wait," I said.

But nobody waited. The hands kept moving and my thighs went rigid inside my shorts and both my fists clamped down on the back of the couch, and I finished right there, standing up, out into the room. It squirted up into the air, landing on two guys' shoulders, and on the carpet in front of everybody. The noise went up immediately in the room, screaming, somebody's red cup tipping over sideways on the counter.

Mark dropped into a crouch and grabbed the spilled Solo cup, shoving it under the head of my dick as he grabbed my shaft, pointing it down into it fast enough to catch the last several pulses, holding it steady while I twitched lightly from the powerful orgasm. 

When I stopped squirting it out, he came up with it and held it over his head.

The room lost its mind.

"Somebody drink it," someone wheezed between laughs. He was bent over with his hands on his knees, hiccup-laughing, a strangely wet, clicking laugh. "Jeez, that's a lot of cum! Somebody has to drink it!"

Guys looked around, daring each other to do it, while heads shook "no" at each other.

Then Taylor crossed the room.

He took the cup out of Mark's hand, and looked me in the eye as he tipped it back into his mouth. I watched his throat undulate, drinking it down while looking straight at me. I was still standing there with my dick out, my shorts at my thighs, still rock hard, hands off the couch now, doing nothing.

He wiped his mouth with his hoodie sleeve and set the cup down on the counter.

The room came apart around us, people screaming, phones out, Mark howling about how Taylor was the MVP.

Neither of us looked away.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

Part 1

I woke up past ten, feeling a strange thrill, even if my body felt like shit. The sun was already all the way across my bed, and I had an ache low in my gut, behind my belly button, right where Charlie's pressure had climbed to the night before. 

Further down there was a burn, stretched and raw in my ass, and it flared when I got my weight onto my hip. I sat on the edge of the mattress and put my feet on the carpet, and the sitting itself hurt, a pressure exactly where he had been inside me, so I shifted onto one cheek and sat there breathing like an old man.

My shorts from last night were balled up in the corner of my closet where I had shoved them, still damp, and I could smell them from the bed. Oil and chlorine and piss.

I got hard immediately from thinking about it. Sitting there on the edge of my bed with my ass throbbing, my dick pushed straight up out of the leg of my boxers, and I sat with both hands on my knees and ran the whole night back in my head. The way his voice tickled my ears when he told me what he was going to do to my throat. And then when he did that to my ass as well. And when he pissed on me, cementing my feelings of inferiority to him, in such a strange, explicitly concrete way.

Guys are supposed to feel weird the morning after sex, right? That's the standard issue, at least as far as I had heard, the regret, the shame spiral. I sat there and my body hurt in six places, but I wanted to do it all again.

I dug out loose gym shorts, the gray ones with the drawstring blown out, because anything with a real waistband dug into me exactly where I couldn't take it. A plain white t-shirt. In the shower I ran the water hot and stood with my forehead on the tile and reached back with two soapy fingers and touched myself, tender and swollen and different than it had been the morning before, and I heard myself hiss into the tile and had to stop.

I dried off. I brushed my teeth. I stood at the top of the stairs in my bare feet listening to my mom's voice say something to my brother in the kitchen, and a spoon hitting a bowl, and then a lower voice that I recognized before I could make out a single word of it. He was down there too.

I went down.

Mom was at the counter with the coffee pot, still in her robe, going through the recycling from the party. Charlie was standing at the counter in yesterday's tank top eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. Dylan was at the table with his phone face-down, and there was an empty chair across from him, so I took it.

I lowered myself into it with both hands on the table edge, easing my weight down like the chair was hot. Then I sat very still.

"Morning," Mom said.

"Morning."

Dylan looked up. "Hey. Somebody threw a blanket on me last night."

I got busy with the cereal box. "That was me."

"Yeah?" He nodded. "Thanks, man. I was out cold. I don't even remember getting down there."

"You were snoring."

"I was destroyed." He picked his phone up and turned it over, but didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on me for an extra second, and then he moved on to something toward the kitchen about his car.

I poured cereal. In my head I wondered what Dylan knew, and my heart raced as I tried not to worry about it.

Charlie chewed. He was watching my mom stack cans.

Then he leaned back and reached past my shoulder for the milk, which was sitting on the table by my elbow, and the inside of his forearm dragged slowly across the back of my neck on the way.

I jerked. My knee slammed the underside of the table and the spoons rattled.

"Whoa," Mom said. "Are you okay?"

"This cereal's stale, Deb," Charlie said, taking the focus off me as his body still leaned against me, pouring milk into his bowl. "You've had this box since I was in high school."

"Then don't eat it."

He paused for a moment.

"I'm still eating it."

I sat there with both hands flat on the table and my dick pressing hard against the front of loose gym shorts, four feet from my mother, and the only thing between it and the room was a table edge. Dylan was directly across from me with a clear view of my face, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me again.

I looked down into my cereal, and ate it.

Cleanup was Mom's price for the party. She stayed inside with the dishwasher and sent the three of us out back where the yard still had cans in the grass and chairs on their sides and one of the folding tables collapsed on the grass.

Dylan handed me a trash bag and started walking the perimeter, flipping chairs upright with one hand. I held the bag open by myself for a while and got about eight cans into it before he came back across the yard with the second roll.

"Charlie." He tossed it. Charlie caught it against his chest. "Go hold for him. He's not gonna get through the whole side by himself."

So then it was the two of us working the fence line with a bag between us, Charlie holding the plastic open with both hands, me bending and dropping cans in. Every single time I reached in, my knuckles hit his knuckles on the rim of the bag. He didn't move his hands out of the way. He didn't grab at me either. He stood there holding it while I fed it, our chests a foot apart around a garbage bag, in full sun, with my brother forty feet away.

I bent to pick up a cup that had blown under the hedge, and the bending pulled at me, and I straightened up too fast with my jaw tight.

Dylan saw it from across the yard.

"Charlie," he called out. "Trade jobs with him. He's weirdly fragile today."

He said it with a certain lilt that made me pause. He was implying something, whether he really knew it all or not. My whole body went cold standing there in the sun.

Charlie didn't look up from the bag. He shifted his grip on the plastic and said, "He'll get there."

Dylan went back to the chairs, and Charlie held the bag open a little wider for me, and I put the cup in it, and his knuckles hit mine again.

We filled two more bags. He didn't say another word to me for a long stretch, and I could feel him watching me from where I stood.

The wet stuff from the pool went to the basement, towels and trunks that had been sitting in a pile by the back door overnight and were starting to turn.

"Take those down," Charlie said, dropping the last towel on the pile. "I got the umbrella."

I picked up the basket and held it against my stomach, which was useful, and went down the basement stairs first. He came behind me with the deck umbrella over his shoulder, and I could hear the pole knocking the wall on the turn.

At the bottom he leaned the umbrella into the corner. Then he took the basket out of my hands, both of us holding it for a second, and set it down on the dryer beside him, his eyes on my face the whole time.

My hands were empty.

The laundry nook is a folding counter and two machines and a bare bulb, and the concrete down there stays cold, even in August.

He reached a hand up and touched my chest, walking me backward into the counter with one hand flat on my sternum, and the front edge of it caught me across the ass, and I hissed from the lingering soreness from the night before. He put both hands down on the counter on either side of my hips and stepped his hips in between my knees so I had to open them for him, face to face.

"You sore?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Where."

"You know where."

He brought his mouth down almost onto mine and stopped there, not kissing me, close enough that I felt his lips move when he talked.

"Good. I'm keeping you like that. I'm gonna have you again tonight or tomorrow or whenever I decide, and I'm gonna go slower and longer, and you're gonna be walking funny for a week, and you're gonna sit at that table with your family and feel where I've been, inside you."

I heard myself groan lightly, staring into his eyes, and my hips came off the counter in a gentle, involuntary thrust. My gym shorts tented straight up between us and the fabric brushed the front of his shorts, and he pressed his thigh against mine so I could feel that he was hard too, heavy along the inside of his leg through cotton.

"Down," he said.

I got down. The concrete on my knees was cold enough to make my whole body flinch, and my shorts were tented up below me.

He turned and sat back on the counter himself, hands behind him, and lifted one bare foot and put it up on my shoulder. Then he slid it across and held it in front of my mouth.

I looked at it. I looked up at him.

"Lick," he said.

I put my mouth on the ball of his foot and pressed my tongue against the skin there, tasting salt and the yard and pool concrete. I ran my tongue up the arch and he let out a breath through his nose. I did it again, more slowly, working the side of it, and got my lips around his big toe and sucked it, and my own dick was aching in my shorts, untouched, drooling into the fabric.

His hand came into my hair. He held on, watching me do it, my tongue working between his toes while I looked up at him.

"That's it," he said. "Look at you down there."

Then he took the foot away and put it on the floor and leaned forward, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of my gym shorts, both hands, and started working them down over my hips. The elastic dragged over my dick and it slapped up against my stomach, and I lifted one knee to help him.

Just as his other hand reached for his own waistband, a creak from the top of the basement stairs. One step, the fourth one down, the one that has creaked my whole life.

Charlie's hands stopped.

Then he let go of my waistband, stood up off the counter, stepped back, and walked away from me toward the stairs, wiping his palms down the front of his shorts.

"Later," he said.

I stayed on my knees on the concrete with my shorts halfway down my thighs and my dick sticking straight out into the cold air of my own basement, listening to his feet go up all fourteen steps, unhurried as he greeted my Mom, asking her what she wanted him to do next.

····[]····

I pulled my shorts up and I stayed at the bottom of the stairs for a long time.

Footsteps crossed the kitchen over my head, and then my mom's voice came down muffled but close.

“Where did he disappear to?”

“Basement,” Charlie said. “I put him on laundry. Told him his body doesn't come back up till all the loads are running.”

“You're a good influence.”

“That's what I keep telling you, Deb.”

Then the faucet ran in the sink above me and their voices flattened out underneath it. The dryer ticked as it cooled. A pipe knocked somewhere over my head.

····[]····

Charlie left around four. He did the whole routine he had been doing in our house since I was eleven, the one-armed hug for my mom in the front hall, chin over her shoulder, asking about her sister in Ohio, promising to bring back the cooler he had borrowed.

"Later, buddy," he said to me on his way past, ruffling my hair like I was a little boy. He didn't look at me any longer than he looked at the coat rack.

Dylan walked him out.

I went into the living room and stood at the window with my hands jammed in my pockets, pretending like I wasn't watching anything.

They got to Charlie's car and they didn't get in it. They stood there. Charlie had one hand up on the roof, leaning, and he was laughing about something with his head tipped back, and Dylan was standing square to him with his arms folded, not laughing. Not angry either. Just standing there.

I couldn't hear it through the glass.

Dylan said something short. Four or five words, maybe. Charlie's laugh dried up in the middle of itself, and his hand came down off the roof, and he said something back that was shorter than that. Then he got in.

Dylan stood in the driveway with his arms still folded and watched the car all the way down the street and around the corner, and then he stood there a few seconds more after it was gone before he came back inside.

I sat down on the couch and picked up the remote before the screen door hit the frame.

····[]····

Dinner was ordinary. Dad had opinions about the grill grates and Dylan had different opinions about the grill grates and for a few minutes it felt like a very important conversation they were having, and I felt a little relief as no one was looking at me weirdly, feeling the soreness in my body and feeling like I had gotten away with something. Dylan passed me the potatoes without being asked. He told a story about a guy at his work who backed a truck into a dumpster. He laughed at my mom's joke about the dumpster. He didn't look at me once. I sat there with a burning ass on a hard kitchen chair.

At eleven I came out of the bathroom with my towel around my waist and Dylan was coming the other way down the hall with a glass of water.

He stopped when we were shoulder to shoulder. He didn't turn his head.

"That bathroom door in the basement has never latched right," he said flatly. "I keep meaning to fix it."

Then he kept walking, and his door shut behind him.

In bed I lay flat on my back in the dark, which was the only position that didn't hurt, or hurt the least, and my phone lit up my face.

Charlie: You walking normal yet

Me: No

Charlie: Good

I put the phone face-down on my chest and lay there in the dark knowing he wasn't done with me. I fell asleep, sore and hard, hearing that creak of the basement bathroom door in my head.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

Part 1

I woke up past ten, feeling a strange thrill, even if my body felt like shit. The sun was already all the way across my bed, and I had an ache low in my gut, behind my belly button, right where Charlie's pressure had climbed to the night before. 

Further down there was a burn, stretched and raw in my ass, and it flared when I got my weight onto my hip. I sat on the edge of the mattress and put my feet on the carpet, and the sitting itself hurt, a pressure exactly where he had been inside me, so I shifted onto one cheek and sat there breathing like an old man.

My shorts from last night were balled up in the corner of my closet where I had shoved them, still damp, and I could smell them from the bed. Oil and chlorine and piss.

I got hard immediately from thinking about it. Sitting there on the edge of my bed with my ass throbbing, my dick pushed straight up out of the leg of my boxers, and I sat with both hands on my knees and ran the whole night back in my head. The way his voice tickled my ears when he told me what he was going to do to my throat. And then when he did that to my ass as well. And when he pissed on me, cementing my feelings of inferiority to him, in such a strange, explicitly concrete way.

Guys are supposed to feel weird the morning after sex, right? That's the standard issue, at least as far as I had heard, the regret, the shame spiral. I sat there and my body hurt in six places, but I wanted to do it all again.

I dug out loose gym shorts, the gray ones with the drawstring blown out, because anything with a real waistband dug into me exactly where I couldn't take it. A plain white t-shirt. In the shower I ran the water hot and stood with my forehead on the tile and reached back with two soapy fingers and touched myself, tender and swollen and different than it had been the morning before, and I heard myself hiss into the tile and had to stop.

I dried off. I brushed my teeth. I stood at the top of the stairs in my bare feet listening to my mom's voice say something to my brother in the kitchen, and a spoon hitting a bowl, and then a lower voice that I recognized before I could make out a single word of it. He was down there too.

I went down.

Mom was at the counter with the coffee pot, still in her robe, going through the recycling from the party. Charlie was standing at the counter in yesterday's tank top eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. Dylan was at the table with his phone face-down, and there was an empty chair across from him, so I took it.

I lowered myself into it with both hands on the table edge, easing my weight down like the chair was hot. Then I sat very still.

"Morning," Mom said.

"Morning."

Dylan looked up. "Hey. Somebody threw a blanket on me last night."

I got busy with the cereal box. "That was me."

"Yeah?" He nodded. "Thanks, man. I was out cold. I don't even remember getting down there."

"You were snoring."

"I was destroyed." He picked his phone up and turned it over, but didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on me for an extra second, and then he moved on to something toward the kitchen about his car.

I poured cereal. In my head I wondered what Dylan knew, and my heart raced as I tried not to worry about it.

Charlie chewed. He was watching my mom stack cans.

Then he leaned back and reached past my shoulder for the milk, which was sitting on the table by my elbow, and the inside of his forearm dragged slowly across the back of my neck on the way.

I jerked. My knee slammed the underside of the table and the spoons rattled.

"Whoa," Mom said. "Are you okay?"

"This cereal's stale, Deb," Charlie said, taking the focus off me as his body still leaned against me, pouring milk into his bowl. "You've had this box since I was in high school."

"Then don't eat it."

He paused for a moment.

"I'm still eating it."

I sat there with both hands flat on the table and my dick pressing hard against the front of loose gym shorts, four feet from my mother, and the only thing between it and the room was a table edge. Dylan was directly across from me with a clear view of my face, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me again.

I looked down into my cereal, and ate it.

Cleanup was Mom's price for the party. She stayed inside with the dishwasher and sent the three of us out back where the yard still had cans in the grass and chairs on their sides and one of the folding tables collapsed on the grass.

Dylan handed me a trash bag and started walking the perimeter, flipping chairs upright with one hand. I held the bag open by myself for a while and got about eight cans into it before he came back across the yard with the second roll.

"Charlie." He tossed it. Charlie caught it against his chest. "Go hold for him. He's not gonna get through the whole side by himself."

So then it was the two of us working the fence line with a bag between us, Charlie holding the plastic open with both hands, me bending and dropping cans in. Every single time I reached in, my knuckles hit his knuckles on the rim of the bag. He didn't move his hands out of the way. He didn't grab at me either. He stood there holding it while I fed it, our chests a foot apart around a garbage bag, in full sun, with my brother forty feet away.

I bent to pick up a cup that had blown under the hedge, and the bending pulled at me, and I straightened up too fast with my jaw tight.

Dylan saw it from across the yard.

"Charlie," he called out. "Trade jobs with him. He's weirdly fragile today."

He said it with a certain lilt that made me pause. He was implying something, whether he really knew it all or not. My whole body went cold standing there in the sun.

Charlie didn't look up from the bag. He shifted his grip on the plastic and said, "He'll get there."

Dylan went back to the chairs, and Charlie held the bag open a little wider for me, and I put the cup in it, and his knuckles hit mine again.

We filled two more bags. He didn't say another word to me for a long stretch, and I could feel him watching me from where I stood.

The wet stuff from the pool went to the basement, towels and trunks that had been sitting in a pile by the back door overnight and were starting to turn.

"Take those down," Charlie said, dropping the last towel on the pile. "I got the umbrella."

I picked up the basket and held it against my stomach, which was useful, and went down the basement stairs first. He came behind me with the deck umbrella over his shoulder, and I could hear the pole knocking the wall on the turn.

At the bottom he leaned the umbrella into the corner. Then he took the basket out of my hands, both of us holding it for a second, and set it down on the dryer beside him, his eyes on my face the whole time.

My hands were empty.

The laundry nook is a folding counter and two machines and a bare bulb, and the concrete down there stays cold, even in August.

He reached a hand up and touched my chest, walking me backward into the counter with one hand flat on my sternum, and the front edge of it caught me across the ass, and I hissed from the lingering soreness from the night before. He put both hands down on the counter on either side of my hips and stepped his hips in between my knees so I had to open them for him, face to face.

"You sore?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Where."

"You know where."

He brought his mouth down almost onto mine and stopped there, not kissing me, close enough that I felt his lips move when he talked.

"Good. I'm keeping you like that. I'm gonna have you again tonight or tomorrow or whenever I decide, and I'm gonna go slower and longer, and you're gonna be walking funny for a week, and you're gonna sit at that table with your family and feel where I've been, inside you."

I heard myself groan lightly, staring into his eyes, and my hips came off the counter in a gentle, involuntary thrust. My gym shorts tented straight up between us and the fabric brushed the front of his shorts, and he pressed his thigh against mine so I could feel that he was hard too, heavy along the inside of his leg through cotton.

"Down," he said.

I got down. The concrete on my knees was cold enough to make my whole body flinch, and my shorts were tented up below me.

He turned and sat back on the counter himself, hands behind him, and lifted one bare foot and put it up on my shoulder. Then he slid it across and held it in front of my mouth.

I looked at it. I looked up at him.

"Lick," he said.

I put my mouth on the ball of his foot and pressed my tongue against the skin there, tasting salt and the yard and pool concrete. I ran my tongue up the arch and he let out a breath through his nose. I did it again, more slowly, working the side of it, and got my lips around his big toe and sucked it, and my own dick was aching in my shorts, untouched, drooling into the fabric.

His hand came into my hair. He held on, watching me do it, my tongue working between his toes while I looked up at him.

"That's it," he said. "Look at you down there."

Then he took the foot away and put it on the floor and leaned forward, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of my gym shorts, both hands, and started working them down over my hips. The elastic dragged over my dick and it slapped up against my stomach, and I lifted one knee to help him.

Just as his other hand reached for his own waistband, a creak from the top of the basement stairs. One step, the fourth one down, the one that has creaked my whole life.

Charlie's hands stopped.

Then he let go of my waistband, stood up off the counter, stepped back, and walked away from me toward the stairs, wiping his palms down the front of his shorts.

"Later," he said.

I stayed on my knees on the concrete with my shorts halfway down my thighs and my dick sticking straight out into the cold air of my own basement, listening to his feet go up all fourteen steps, unhurried as he greeted my Mom, asking her what she wanted him to do next.

····[]····

I pulled my shorts up and I stayed at the bottom of the stairs for a long time.

Footsteps crossed the kitchen over my head, and then my mom's voice came down muffled but close.

“Where did he disappear to?”

“Basement,” Charlie said. “I put him on laundry. Told him his body doesn't come back up till all the loads are running.”

“You're a good influence.”

“That's what I keep telling you, Deb.”

Then the faucet ran in the sink above me and their voices flattened out underneath it. The dryer ticked as it cooled. A pipe knocked somewhere over my head.

····[]····

Charlie left around four. He did the whole routine he had been doing in our house since I was eleven, the one-armed hug for my mom in the front hall, chin over her shoulder, asking about her sister in Ohio, promising to bring back the cooler he had borrowed.

"Later, buddy," he said to me on his way past, ruffling my hair like I was a little boy. He didn't look at me any longer than he looked at the coat rack.

Dylan walked him out.

I went into the living room and stood at the window with my hands jammed in my pockets, pretending like I wasn't watching anything.

They got to Charlie's car and they didn't get in it. They stood there. Charlie had one hand up on the roof, leaning, and he was laughing about something with his head tipped back, and Dylan was standing square to him with his arms folded, not laughing. Not angry either. Just standing there.

I couldn't hear it through the glass.

Dylan said something short. Four or five words, maybe. Charlie's laugh dried up in the middle of itself, and his hand came down off the roof, and he said something back that was shorter than that. Then he got in.

Dylan stood in the driveway with his arms still folded and watched the car all the way down the street and around the corner, and then he stood there a few seconds more after it was gone before he came back inside.

I sat down on the couch and picked up the remote before the screen door hit the frame.

····[]····

Dinner was ordinary. Dad had opinions about the grill grates and Dylan had different opinions about the grill grates and for a few minutes it felt like a very important conversation they were having, and I felt a little relief as no one was looking at me weirdly, feeling the soreness in my body and feeling like I had gotten away with something. Dylan passed me the potatoes without being asked. He told a story about a guy at his work who backed a truck into a dumpster. He laughed at my mom's joke about the dumpster. He didn't look at me once. I sat there with a burning ass on a hard kitchen chair.

At eleven I came out of the bathroom with my towel around my waist and Dylan was coming the other way down the hall with a glass of water.

He stopped when we were shoulder to shoulder. He didn't turn his head.

"That bathroom door in the basement has never latched right," he said flatly. "I keep meaning to fix it."

Then he kept walking, and his door shut behind him.

In bed I lay flat on my back in the dark, which was the only position that didn't hurt, or hurt the least, and my phone lit up my face.

Charlie: You walking normal yet

Me: No

Charlie: Good

I put the phone face-down on my chest and lay there in the dark knowing he wasn't done with me. I fell asleep, sore and hard, hearing that creak of the basement bathroom door in my head.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I always thought guys' dicks were just something everyone notices and doesn't talk about. You notice who's bigger than you in a locker room, if you catch a peek, and you naturally look down at other guys' crotches when you first see them, just like you notice someone's height, and who fills out a shirt better than the average guy. It's comparison, that's normal, every guy does it. I had a decent enough run with girls to back up that I was straight, two girls so far that I had done more than kissed, including some under shirt action and some fingering.

The pool party was my mom's idea, which meant the grill was coming out (for someone else to cook on) and the fancy cooler was going to be used, and my dad would wear his old, seasoned shirt that he only wore during the summer. The party was a celebration of my brother, Dylan finishing college, so he would be bringing his buddies. I always missed him after he left for school, and the whole Summer since he had moved back had been awesome, and I liked his friends too. 

By the afternoon my brother had filled the backyard with his friends, guys twenty-two and twenty-three who had all been coming through our back gate since I was eleven, even sometimes without my brother after he left for college. Charlie was one of them. He had been eating dinner at our kitchen table since I could remember. He knew where everything was in the house. My mom had hugged him in the driveway and asked about his mother.

The whole yard smelled like chlorine and grease and sunscreen. I stayed on the deck, mostly.

I had a soda that had turned lukewarm in my hand. Down in the shallow end Charlie and Dylan were wrestling like they were still kids. Charlie is not a small guy. He lifts, and talks about lifting, and teaches other people to lift. Dylan got both hands on his shoulders and put him under the water without any strain at all, and Charlie came up spitting and swearing, and Dylan stood there in chest-deep water with his arms out to the sides, laughing.

Charlie never looked like he was trying hard at anything. His shoulders came out of the water wet and tan from being outside a lot all summer. Water ran off his chest hair in strings. He had a thick chest,  like his body had been built for moving heavy things. He would've made easy work out of throwing me around, and I thought about that as I watched him wrestling my brother. The water at the shallow end came up to the bottom of his ribs when it came up to Dylan's chest.

I looked at his shoulders. I looked at the border where his tan lines scattered a bit, above the bicep. I drank the warm soda.

"Yo," Charlie called across the water, a big smile across his face. "You gonna get in or you just gonna play with your pussy all day?"

"Somebody's gotta play with it," I said with a shrug, making them howl.

He shook his head and leapt forward to shove my brother's head under water again mid-sentence.

Dylan came up yelling incoherently. I laughed and looked at my phone and then looked back at the water almost immediately.

····[]····

The bench on the deck sits low. I had my elbows on my knees and my soda down between my feet, and from there the coping around the pool was maybe ten feet in front of me and just about level with my chin.

Charlie came over to the near edge and put both hands flat on the concrete and pushed. He didn't use the ladder, he didn't kick, he pressed his whole body up out of the water on his arms, and his triceps stood up in two hard slabs, and then he got a knee under himself and stood.

He was directly in front of me. Standing on the coping, dripping, and his hips were exactly at my eye level.

His trunks were navy, and they were new, I think. And they were soaked through and stuck to him from the waistband down. The fabric was darkened by the water, and thin. It held the whole shape of his package against his thigh, the full heavy length of it lying to the left, the head completely visible. I could even tell he was circumcised. The size was a bit of a shocker, well beyond mine or that of any of my friends that I had seen, especially since he was soft, fresh out of the pool. There was a wet weight to the pouch under it. Water ran down off the hem and off his knees and ticked onto the concrete. He was wringing water out of the front of his hair with one hand and his chin was up.

My whole face heated up in the shade as I found myself unable to look away, betraying my assumed habit of a quick glance at the crotch. I had gone beyond information gathering, and moved out of my control into staring, ogling, gawking. 

Then his chin came down. He looked at me looking. His eyes went from my face, to his own crotch, confirming what had enthralled me, then back to me, smirking, holding my eye contact.

····[]····

I broke first, embarrassed and snapping out of it. I went into the cooler by my foot, and I put both hands in it and started moving cans around like I was looking for something important, ice water up to my wrists. I got one out, put it back, got the same one out again.

He didn't move off. He walked over to me and reached over my shoulder as I pretended I didn't notice his package right next to my face. He grabbed the towel off the deck rail which was right behind me, and dried his face, then his chest, then his arms, and I could hear all of it happening above and behind me and I kept my head down in the cooler, my mind racing.

"Grab me one," he said, over my head.

I handed a soda straight up without turning around. His fingers came down and took it out of my hand and his knuckles were cold and wet from the pool.

"Thanks, buddy."

Then he walked past me, close enough that his leg brushed the outside of my arm, and the water still coming off his trunks flicked across the side of my neck. Two or three drops of it. I felt every one and I stayed hunched over the cooler with my ears ringing.

For the rest of the afternoon I basically decided that nothing at all had occurred. I felt more comfortable in denial than in facing any reason for why any of that had happened. He was looking at the grill behind me. He was looking at Dylan. He had water in his eyes and he was blinking it out and I read the whole thing wrong, and anyway everybody's eyes go everywhere at a pool. I ate a burger. I talked to my aunt about her car. I did not look at the shallow end again, and not looking at the shallow end honestly took up most of my concentration for the rest of the day.

····[]····

That night Dylan opened the garage and half the same crew came back, plus a few people from his work and a couple of girls they knew. Somebody put a speaker on top of the deep freezer. My parents took the hint and went upstairs early.

I was hanging out with them even though it wasn't really my crowd. The entire time, I subconsciously followed where Charlie was with my mind. He was by the garage door talking to Dylan's coworker. Then he was at the fridge. Then he was leaning against the wall by the stairs with a soda against his hip, and I knew that even with my back turned. I wasn't looking at him. I just always knew.

A girl named Steph got stuck talking to me by the counter. She had a crush on Dylan, everybody knew that, and apparently I was the closest available version of him. 

"What're you studying?" she asked.

"AP Econ," I said flatly.

Her mouth fell open, then closed.

"Yeah," I said.

She nodded, then she said something else awkwardly, and turned away to find Dylan without really bothering to finish out whatever conversation was failing to develop between us.

····[]····

I had nothing to do, and I hadn't even seen my brother in a while, but I suddenly had to piss. The upstairs bathroom had two people waiting outside it, so I took the basement stairs. Not everyone knew about the downstairs, so it's usually a safe bet.

Dylan was down there, face-down on the couch with one arm hanging off it, and his phone on the carpet where he'd dropped it. He'd been socializing since the middle of the afternoon, so it made sense that he was tuckered out early, and needed to disappear into the basement where it was quieter than his room on the first floor. I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and laid it over him before stepping past him.

The basement bathroom is actually pretty big, but with a door that swings inward and never latches right. I did what I came down to do, and then I stood at the sink with the water running and washed my hands a bit longer than I needed to, killing time before I went back upstairs to obsess over Charlie some more and what he might be thinking or not thinking about me. The water felt good and I wasn't in a hurry to go back up and be part of anything.

I had my back to the doorway. The door was open behind me, all the way open against the wall.

Then I saw him arrive in the mirror.

His broad body filled the whole frame of it, shoulders taking up the width of the door, still in the tank top he'd changed into after the pool, both hands empty. He didn't say anything. He didn't knock on the frame or make a joke. He looked at me in the glass, and I looked at him in the glass.

I could have turned around. My hands stayed under the water anyway.

He crossed the two steps it took to get to me.

His hand came around and pressed flat on my hip, and he pushed, and my hipbone hit the front edge of the counter. I was facing the sink and I planned to keep facing the sink. His chest came up against my back and he was still warm from being outside, and he was wider than me at every point where we touched.

"Keep washing your hands," he said, quietly, right over my shoulder.

I kept washing my hands.

His other arm came up over my other shoulder from behind, and two of his fingers pressed against my bottom lip. I felt a twinge of shock and anticipation rush down my spine, and my cock stiffened rapidly as my heart started to race. 

Whatever the fuck was happening, he didn't force it. He put light pressure on his fingers, and my mouth opened on its own, and he probed past my teeth. They tasted like soda and like the outside of a cold can. He got them down onto my tongue and I closed my lips around them and he made a sound in his chest, one short breath out through his nose.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought."

I got hard so fast it hurt across the front of my shorts. His hand on my hip slid maybe two inches toward my stomach and stopped there, holding me against the counter edge, and I could feel every one of his fingers separately.

He looked past my head at the mirror. Then he reached back with the hand that had been in my mouth, wet fingers and all, past my ear to the switch inside the door, and flipped it.

The mirror went black. There was a strip of bluish grey light coming down the stairs from the kitchen and that was all, and the door was still standing wide open behind us, and up at the top of the stairs I could hear the speakers, and someone laughing in the garage. Twenty feet away Dylan was breathing loud on the couch, the slow wet snore he does when he's sleeping deeply that I knew by heart.

Charlie put his mouth against my ear.

"You were staring at my dick in front of your whole family," he said. "Like a girl."

My knees went out from under me for a second and I caught myself on the counter.

"Say it."

"I was staring."

"At what."

"At you."

"At my dick," he said, flatly, and then he put his hand back over my mouth so I couldn't answer.

He kept me there against the sink, pressing his bulge into my ass.

"I'm gonna park my cock in your throat and hold it there. I'm gonna feel you clench on it every time you try to breathe, and I'm not pulling out till your body is begging for it."

I made a noise into his palm, as my legs folded. My knees hit the cabinet door under the sink and it banged, and I got both hands onto the edge of the counter and locked my elbows, and I almost came just from my throbbing boner rubbing against the fabric of my shorts. My stomach pulled tight and my whole body seized up over the basin, all just from his body against mine, his hand on my mouth and his hips against my ass, his breath on my ear, his words in my head, my world turning upside down.

"Jesus," he said. "Look at you."

He took me by the shoulder and turned me around, and then both of his hands pressed down and I sank onto my knees on the bath mat in front of him. He reached back with one heel and pushed the door. It swung most of the way closed and drifted an inch back open, because that door has never latched right in my life, and he left it like that.

He pulled the waistband of his shorts down and hooked it under his balls. What I had gawked at through wet navy fabric that afternoon had been the soft version. Hard, it stood up at an angle away from his body, thick and cut, the fat head already shining at the tip, and it looked heavier than anything that had ever been pointed at me. I was still hard too, straining against the front of my shorts, untouched.

He put the head against my lips and I opened my mouth.

He held my skull in both hands and pushed in, slowly at first, farther than I thought I could take, and when it reached the back of my throat I gagged, my whole back seizing, and he groaned quietly through his teeth and pulled back and pushed in again. My eyes watered and I kept them up on his face the whole time. I couldn't talk with my mouth stuffed, so I begged with my eyes instead, even if he wasn't looking. I felt my body shivering with fear and hormonal overstimulation, and he gave it to me, deeper, his balls swinging up against my chin, spit stringing down onto the mat. He ran the whole show. All I did was kneel there and accept it as best as I could.

Then he pulled out of my mouth and held my jaw in one hand.

"I gotta piss," he said. "You want it?"

I didn't actually know what he was offering. I knew I wanted it anyway. I nodded inside his grip.

He pulled the tank top off over his head with one hand and dropped it. He pinched the shoulder of my shirt and tugged, and I yanked it off over my head. Then he steered me backward across the bathroom with a palm flat on top of my head, slowly, one shuffled knee-step at a time, until we were both inside the shower stall, him standing, me kneeling under him on the cold tile, sitting back on my heels.

He aimed at the middle of my chest and released a stream of liquid across me. It came out hot, hotter than I expected, splashing off my collarbone and running down my stomach and soaking into the front of my shorts. Then he raised his aim and the stream crossed my throat, my chin. I shut my eyes and it hit my face, warm, running off my nose and over my lips, and I opened my mouth. Some of it pooled on my tongue, warm and bitter and his, and I swallowed it.

"Fuck," he whispered, up above me, to nobody.

He shook the last drops off onto my thigh, stepped out of the stall, and squatted at the cabinet under the sink. He didn't have to search. He held up a bottle of baby oil that had probably lived down there for ten years.

He worked my soaked shorts and underwear down off my ass and left them bunched at my knees. Then he stood over me, fed his dick back into my mouth, and bent forward over my back. The bottle clicked. Oil dribbled cold down my ass, and his finger circled my hole, pressed, and pushed into me, the first time anything had ever been inside me there. It burned but in the moment it was good, and I moaned around the meat pressing slowly into my throat.

He hooked the finger inside me and used it like a handle to pull me onto him. His other hand pulled my head down his shaft to the same rhythm, and he fucked my throat roughly on it, the finger dragging inside me with every stroke, and the noises pouring out of me were wet, gargled, high-pitched and boyish and embarrassing. He was making his own noises too, low grunts coming from over my head, getting shorter.

Then everything pulled out of me at once, his finger, his dick, and he turned me around by the hips without a word. I caught myself on my palms, slipping momentarily on the tile before finding my balance. His hand pressed down between my shoulder blades until my face rested against the shower floor, ass up in the air, knees spread as far as the shorts around them allowed. The bottle clicked again behind me.

The head of him pressed against my oiled hole and he leaned his weight in slowly, and the stretch burned and kept burning until his hips met my ass. My whole body was basically numb, except it felt like all my organs were in different places than normal, and he stayed there for one breath, both of us shaking. Then he started pressing forward. The pressure climbed up through my guts, a blunt ache behind my belly button, deeper than his finger had ever reached, and the muscle he was buried in fluttered around him, and he settled in with a low grunt, his hip bones grinding flat against my ass. My knees slid wider on the wet tile until the shorts bunched around them stopped me. I could feel my own heartbeat where he had me stretched open. And I could feel his.

"Breathe," he said.

I hadn't been. I let it out shakily and my body unclenched around him, and he groaned through his teeth and rolled his hips in one slow circle, stirring himself inside me without pulling back at all, his thumbs pressing into my ass and spreading me so he could watch himself planted there. My dick twitched under my stomach, hard and dripping onto the tile, and nothing had touched it.

"You feel that?" he said, bent low over my back, his chest hair brushing my spine. "That's all of it."

I tried to say yes and it came out as one long "ehhh" sound against the floor. So I answered with my body instead, rocking backward into his lap, one inch of motion, all I had from that position, and then I did it again so he knew the first one wasn't an accident.

Both his hands closed on my hips as he started to bang me, roughly and loudly, no working up to it, his hips clapping off my ass cheeks in flat wet smacks that bounced around all that tile. I moaned way too loudly. Dylan was twenty feet away, hopefully still sleeping on the couch, and the door didn't latch and I moaned way too loudly anyway, into the floor, into my own forearm when I tried to muffle it, and the arm didn't help. Upstairs the speaker thumped louder.

My dick swung rigid as steel and dripping underneath me the whole time and neither of us touched it, and it didn't matter. Somewhere in the middle of the pounding my whole body clenched and I squirted onto the shower floor in pulses, no hand on it at all, and my ass clamped down around him and he groaned louder than he had all night.

That finished him. He grunted faster and faster, fingers digging into my hips, dragging me back to meet him, and then he slammed deep and held there and finished in my ass. I felt it throb. Actual pulses, his dick jumping inside me, each one a little weaker than the last.

He pulled out of my sore ass slowly and I stayed down, cheek on the tile, and felt him leak out of me, a warm trickle crossing my taint and sliding down the inside of my thigh. He stood over me catching his breath.

"You're not telling anyone about this," he said.

"No," I said. "No one."

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I always thought guys' dicks were just something everyone notices and doesn't talk about. You notice who's bigger than you in a locker room, if you catch a peek, and you naturally look down at other guys' crotches when you first see them, just like you notice someone's height, and who fills out a shirt better than the average guy. It's comparison, that's normal, every guy does it. I had a decent enough run with girls to back up that I was straight, two girls so far that I had done more than kissed, including some under shirt action and some fingering.

The pool party was my mom's idea, which meant the grill was coming out (for someone else to cook on) and the fancy cooler was going to be used, and my dad would wear his old, seasoned shirt that he only wore during the summer. The party was a celebration of my brother, Dylan finishing college, so he would be bringing his buddies. I always missed him after he left for school, and the whole Summer since he had moved back had been awesome, and I liked his friends too. 

By the afternoon my brother had filled the backyard with his friends, guys twenty-two and twenty-three who had all been coming through our back gate since I was eleven, even sometimes without my brother after he left for college. Charlie was one of them. He had been eating dinner at our kitchen table since I could remember. He knew where everything was in the house. My mom had hugged him in the driveway and asked about his mother.

The whole yard smelled like chlorine and grease and sunscreen. I stayed on the deck, mostly.

I had a soda that had turned lukewarm in my hand. Down in the shallow end Charlie and Dylan were wrestling like they were still kids. Charlie is not a small guy. He lifts, and talks about lifting, and teaches other people to lift. Dylan got both hands on his shoulders and put him under the water without any strain at all, and Charlie came up spitting and swearing, and Dylan stood there in chest-deep water with his arms out to the sides, laughing.

Charlie never looked like he was trying hard at anything. His shoulders came out of the water wet and tan from being outside a lot all summer. Water ran off his chest hair in strings. He had a thick chest,  like his body had been built for moving heavy things. He would've made easy work out of throwing me around, and I thought about that as I watched him wrestling my brother. The water at the shallow end came up to the bottom of his ribs when it came up to Dylan's chest.

I looked at his shoulders. I looked at the border where his tan lines scattered a bit, above the bicep. I drank the warm soda.

"Yo," Charlie called across the water, a big smile across his face. "You gonna get in or you just gonna play with your pussy all day?"

"Somebody's gotta play with it," I said with a shrug, making them howl.

He shook his head and leapt forward to shove my brother's head under water again mid-sentence.

Dylan came up yelling incoherently. I laughed and looked at my phone and then looked back at the water almost immediately.

····[]····

The bench on the deck sits low. I had my elbows on my knees and my soda down between my feet, and from there the coping around the pool was maybe ten feet in front of me and just about level with my chin.

Charlie came over to the near edge and put both hands flat on the concrete and pushed. He didn't use the ladder, he didn't kick, he pressed his whole body up out of the water on his arms, and his triceps stood up in two hard slabs, and then he got a knee under himself and stood.

He was directly in front of me. Standing on the coping, dripping, and his hips were exactly at my eye level.

His trunks were navy, and they were new, I think. And they were soaked through and stuck to him from the waistband down. The fabric was darkened by the water, and thin. It held the whole shape of his package against his thigh, the full heavy length of it lying to the left, the head completely visible. I could even tell he was circumcised. The size was a bit of a shocker, well beyond mine or that of any of my friends that I had seen, especially since he was soft, fresh out of the pool. There was a wet weight to the pouch under it. Water ran down off the hem and off his knees and ticked onto the concrete. He was wringing water out of the front of his hair with one hand and his chin was up.

My whole face heated up in the shade as I found myself unable to look away, betraying my assumed habit of a quick glance at the crotch. I had gone beyond information gathering, and moved out of my control into staring, ogling, gawking. 

Then his chin came down. He looked at me looking. His eyes went from my face, to his own crotch, confirming what had enthralled me, then back to me, smirking, holding my eye contact.

····[]····

I broke first, embarrassed and snapping out of it. I went into the cooler by my foot, and I put both hands in it and started moving cans around like I was looking for something important, ice water up to my wrists. I got one out, put it back, got the same one out again.

He didn't move off. He walked over to me and reached over my shoulder as I pretended I didn't notice his package right next to my face. He grabbed the towel off the deck rail which was right behind me, and dried his face, then his chest, then his arms, and I could hear all of it happening above and behind me and I kept my head down in the cooler, my mind racing.

"Grab me one," he said, over my head.

I handed a soda straight up without turning around. His fingers came down and took it out of my hand and his knuckles were cold and wet from the pool.

"Thanks, buddy."

Then he walked past me, close enough that his leg brushed the outside of my arm, and the water still coming off his trunks flicked across the side of my neck. Two or three drops of it. I felt every one and I stayed hunched over the cooler with my ears ringing.

For the rest of the afternoon I basically decided that nothing at all had occurred. I felt more comfortable in denial than in facing any reason for why any of that had happened. He was looking at the grill behind me. He was looking at Dylan. He had water in his eyes and he was blinking it out and I read the whole thing wrong, and anyway everybody's eyes go everywhere at a pool. I ate a burger. I talked to my aunt about her car. I did not look at the shallow end again, and not looking at the shallow end honestly took up most of my concentration for the rest of the day.

····[]····

That night Dylan opened the garage and half the same crew came back, plus a few people from his work and a couple of girls they knew. Somebody put a speaker on top of the deep freezer. My parents took the hint and went upstairs early.

I was hanging out with them even though it wasn't really my crowd. The entire time, I subconsciously followed where Charlie was with my mind. He was by the garage door talking to Dylan's coworker. Then he was at the fridge. Then he was leaning against the wall by the stairs with a soda against his hip, and I knew that even with my back turned. I wasn't looking at him. I just always knew.

A girl named Steph got stuck talking to me by the counter. She had a crush on Dylan, everybody knew that, and apparently I was the closest available version of him. 

"What're you studying?" she asked.

"AP Econ," I said flatly.

Her mouth fell open, then closed.

"Yeah," I said.

She nodded, then she said something else awkwardly, and turned away to find Dylan without really bothering to finish out whatever conversation was failing to develop between us.

····[]····

I had nothing to do, and I hadn't even seen my brother in a while, but I suddenly had to piss. The upstairs bathroom had two people waiting outside it, so I took the basement stairs. Not everyone knew about the downstairs, so it's usually a safe bet.

Dylan was down there, face-down on the couch with one arm hanging off it, and his phone on the carpet where he'd dropped it. He'd been socializing since the middle of the afternoon, so it made sense that he was tuckered out early, and needed to disappear into the basement where it was quieter than his room on the first floor. I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and laid it over him before stepping past him.

The basement bathroom is actually pretty big, but with a door that swings inward and never latches right. I did what I came down to do, and then I stood at the sink with the water running and washed my hands a bit longer than I needed to, killing time before I went back upstairs to obsess over Charlie some more and what he might be thinking or not thinking about me. The water felt good and I wasn't in a hurry to go back up and be part of anything.

I had my back to the doorway. The door was open behind me, all the way open against the wall.

Then I saw him arrive in the mirror.

His broad body filled the whole frame of it, shoulders taking up the width of the door, still in the tank top he'd changed into after the pool, both hands empty. He didn't say anything. He didn't knock on the frame or make a joke. He looked at me in the glass, and I looked at him in the glass.

I could have turned around. My hands stayed under the water anyway.

He crossed the two steps it took to get to me.

His hand came around and pressed flat on my hip, and he pushed, and my hipbone hit the front edge of the counter. I was facing the sink and I planned to keep facing the sink. His chest came up against my back and he was still warm from being outside, and he was wider than me at every point where we touched.

"Keep washing your hands," he said, quietly, right over my shoulder.

I kept washing my hands.

His other arm came up over my other shoulder from behind, and two of his fingers pressed against my bottom lip. I felt a twinge of shock and anticipation rush down my spine, and my cock stiffened rapidly as my heart started to race. 

Whatever the fuck was happening, he didn't force it. He put light pressure on his fingers, and my mouth opened on its own, and he probed past my teeth. They tasted like soda and like the outside of a cold can. He got them down onto my tongue and I closed my lips around them and he made a sound in his chest, one short breath out through his nose.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought."

I got hard so fast it hurt across the front of my shorts. His hand on my hip slid maybe two inches toward my stomach and stopped there, holding me against the counter edge, and I could feel every one of his fingers separately.

He looked past my head at the mirror. Then he reached back with the hand that had been in my mouth, wet fingers and all, past my ear to the switch inside the door, and flipped it.

The mirror went black. There was a strip of bluish grey light coming down the stairs from the kitchen and that was all, and the door was still standing wide open behind us, and up at the top of the stairs I could hear the speakers, and someone laughing in the garage. Twenty feet away Dylan was breathing loud on the couch, the slow wet snore he does when he's sleeping deeply that I knew by heart.

Charlie put his mouth against my ear.

"You were staring at my dick in front of your whole family," he said. "Like a girl."

My knees went out from under me for a second and I caught myself on the counter.

"Say it."

"I was staring."

"At what."

"At you."

"At my dick," he said, flatly, and then he put his hand back over my mouth so I couldn't answer.

He kept me there against the sink, pressing his bulge into my ass.

"I'm gonna park my cock in your throat and hold it there. I'm gonna feel you clench on it every time you try to breathe, and I'm not pulling out till your body is begging for it."

I made a noise into his palm, as my legs folded. My knees hit the cabinet door under the sink and it banged, and I got both hands onto the edge of the counter and locked my elbows, and I almost came just from my throbbing boner rubbing against the fabric of my shorts. My stomach pulled tight and my whole body seized up over the basin, all just from his body against mine, his hand on my mouth and his hips against my ass, his breath on my ear, his words in my head, my world turning upside down.

"Jesus," he said. "Look at you."

He took me by the shoulder and turned me around, and then both of his hands pressed down and I sank onto my knees on the bath mat in front of him. He reached back with one heel and pushed the door. It swung most of the way closed and drifted an inch back open, because that door has never latched right in my life, and he left it like that.

He pulled the waistband of his shorts down and hooked it under his balls. What I had gawked at through wet navy fabric that afternoon had been the soft version. Hard, it stood up at an angle away from his body, thick and cut, the fat head already shining at the tip, and it looked heavier than anything that had ever been pointed at me. I was still hard too, straining against the front of my shorts, untouched.

He put the head against my lips and I opened my mouth.

He held my skull in both hands and pushed in, slowly at first, farther than I thought I could take, and when it reached the back of my throat I gagged, my whole back seizing, and he groaned quietly through his teeth and pulled back and pushed in again. My eyes watered and I kept them up on his face the whole time. I couldn't talk with my mouth stuffed, so I begged with my eyes instead, even if he wasn't looking. I felt my body shivering with fear and hormonal overstimulation, and he gave it to me, deeper, his balls swinging up against my chin, spit stringing down onto the mat. He ran the whole show. All I did was kneel there and accept it as best as I could.

Then he pulled out of my mouth and held my jaw in one hand.

"I gotta piss," he said. "You want it?"

I didn't actually know what he was offering. I knew I wanted it anyway. I nodded inside his grip.

He pulled the tank top off over his head with one hand and dropped it. He pinched the shoulder of my shirt and tugged, and I yanked it off over my head. Then he steered me backward across the bathroom with a palm flat on top of my head, slowly, one shuffled knee-step at a time, until we were both inside the shower stall, him standing, me kneeling under him on the cold tile, sitting back on my heels.

He aimed at the middle of my chest and released a stream of liquid across me. It came out hot, hotter than I expected, splashing off my collarbone and running down my stomach and soaking into the front of my shorts. Then he raised his aim and the stream crossed my throat, my chin. I shut my eyes and it hit my face, warm, running off my nose and over my lips, and I opened my mouth. Some of it pooled on my tongue, warm and bitter and his, and I swallowed it.

"Fuck," he whispered, up above me, to nobody.

He shook the last drops off onto my thigh, stepped out of the stall, and squatted at the cabinet under the sink. He didn't have to search. He held up a bottle of baby oil that had probably lived down there for ten years.

He worked my soaked shorts and underwear down off my ass and left them bunched at my knees. Then he stood over me, fed his dick back into my mouth, and bent forward over my back. The bottle clicked. Oil dribbled cold down my ass, and his finger circled my hole, pressed, and pushed into me, the first time anything had ever been inside me there. It burned but in the moment it was good, and I moaned around the meat pressing slowly into my throat.

He hooked the finger inside me and used it like a handle to pull me onto him. His other hand pulled my head down his shaft to the same rhythm, and he fucked my throat roughly on it, the finger dragging inside me with every stroke, and the noises pouring out of me were wet, gargled, high-pitched and boyish and embarrassing. He was making his own noises too, low grunts coming from over my head, getting shorter.

Then everything pulled out of me at once, his finger, his dick, and he turned me around by the hips without a word. I caught myself on my palms, slipping momentarily on the tile before finding my balance. His hand pressed down between my shoulder blades until my face rested against the shower floor, ass up in the air, knees spread as far as the shorts around them allowed. The bottle clicked again behind me.

The head of him pressed against my oiled hole and he leaned his weight in slowly, and the stretch burned and kept burning until his hips met my ass. My whole body was basically numb, except it felt like all my organs were in different places than normal, and he stayed there for one breath, both of us shaking. Then he started pressing forward. The pressure climbed up through my guts, a blunt ache behind my belly button, deeper than his finger had ever reached, and the muscle he was buried in fluttered around him, and he settled in with a low grunt, his hip bones grinding flat against my ass. My knees slid wider on the wet tile until the shorts bunched around them stopped me. I could feel my own heartbeat where he had me stretched open. And I could feel his.

"Breathe," he said.

I hadn't been. I let it out shakily and my body unclenched around him, and he groaned through his teeth and rolled his hips in one slow circle, stirring himself inside me without pulling back at all, his thumbs pressing into my ass and spreading me so he could watch himself planted there. My dick twitched under my stomach, hard and dripping onto the tile, and nothing had touched it.

"You feel that?" he said, bent low over my back, his chest hair brushing my spine. "That's all of it."

I tried to say yes and it came out as one long "ehhh" sound against the floor. So I answered with my body instead, rocking backward into his lap, one inch of motion, all I had from that position, and then I did it again so he knew the first one wasn't an accident.

Both his hands closed on my hips as he started to bang me, roughly and loudly, no working up to it, his hips clapping off my ass cheeks in flat wet smacks that bounced around all that tile. I moaned way too loudly. Dylan was twenty feet away, hopefully still sleeping on the couch, and the door didn't latch and I moaned way too loudly anyway, into the floor, into my own forearm when I tried to muffle it, and the arm didn't help. Upstairs the speaker thumped louder.

My dick swung rigid as steel and dripping underneath me the whole time and neither of us touched it, and it didn't matter. Somewhere in the middle of the pounding my whole body clenched and I squirted onto the shower floor in pulses, no hand on it at all, and my ass clamped down around him and he groaned louder than he had all night.

That finished him. He grunted faster and faster, fingers digging into my hips, dragging me back to meet him, and then he slammed deep and held there and finished in my ass. I felt it throb. Actual pulses, his dick jumping inside me, each one a little weaker than the last.

He pulled out of my sore ass slowly and I stayed down, cheek on the tile, and felt him leak out of me, a warm trickle crossing my taint and sliding down the inside of my thigh. He stood over me catching his breath.

"You're not telling anyone about this," he said.

"No," I said. "No one."

Because I love my Reddit readers so much, I am dropping a double post today. So warning, it's long. Enjoy!

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I have compared myself to every guy I have ever stood next to at a urinal or in a locker room, for as long as I can remember. It's not even on purpose. It's like an instinct. When I went to my friends' water polo games in high school, and then later when I joined the swim team, I naturally looked down at the guys' speedos every time we passed, just a quick glance at each one. I didn't necessarily feel anything from it. It was just a natural focal point, like ants emitting pheromones when they pass each other. From middle school gym class through the senior year swim team, there was a running number in the back of my head that updated itself without my permission, comparing them together and to myself, and it all stopped when I became friends with the most hung dude I had ever met, Finn.

Before Finn, my social life was basically two people. Alex sat on the steps behind the gym most afternoons with a vape. He had a little scruff along his jaw that he kept trimmed to exactly the same length every week, and he had been out as bi since he was fifteen, and nothing in our town ever impressed him. He was an alternative guy, and even though we only hung out on occasion, he was kind of the only person I could be fully open with. Because he didn't care enough to judge. 

Then there was David from my English class, a nice enough guy who laughed at the stuff I said under my breath during grammar units and kept saying we should hang out sometime. I always said yeah, sometime. But we never hung out that much.

I met Finn in second week of semester, AP Bio Lab.

They actually paired us alphabetically, and he was new, which is how I ended up on a stool next to a guy I'd never met before who took up about a stool and a half, with his big, muscular body expanding outside the standard range of an assigned student space.

Finn was somewhere over six-three and built like a model, or an Olympian. But he acted a little shy, for whatever reason. That actually made him more approachable to me. He had a lab manual open flat on the bench and he kept his finger under the line he was reading. He read the protocol, then he read it again, then he mumbled it back to himself under his breath before he touched anything. It was kind of endearing to see him struggle, however slightly, and it made me want to help him out a bit.

"Two microliters," I said, looking at an error on his notes. "It's two. Not twenty."

"Thanks," he said nervously, without even bothering to introduce himself.

The micropipette vanished in his hand. It's a skinny plastic thing, about the size of a pen, and in his fist it looked like a toothpick, his thumb tight on the plunger and the tendons in his forearm shifting every time he dialed the volume. I found myself looking for a tanline up his dense arms, and my eyes stopped halfway up his biceps where his sleeve ended. He would set the tip against the tube wall and hold his breath, and this enormous guy who could have picked me up with one hand was scared of putting the wrong number into a plastic tube.

I did not do a lot of pipetting that period. I wrote down the numbers he called out and I watched his hands.

Neither of us talked to anyone else. The rest of the room was loud, girls in the back trading section notes, two guys arguing about their experiment going wrong. We were the two quiet ones. He asked me what the buffer was for and I told him, and he said "okay" and wrote it down. That was the most we talked to each other that whole first class together.

At the end he said, "You wanna be lab partners for real? Like the whole semester?"

"Yeah," I said, a little too quickly. "Sure."

Finn was different than other guys. I was rinsing pipette tips into the sink at the end of lab, hot water running over my thumbs, and I worked it out standing right there. It was a man-crush. Everybody gets those sometimes, you meet somebody who seems cool and also accessible and suddenly your whole week is arranged around whether he texts back. That was all I thought it was. I felt a little pang in my stomach when we talked, but there were going to be more chances to get over that.

····[]····

The second lab he showed up with his manual already flagged with sticky notes, and he slid it across the bench so I could check his dilution math before we touched anything. It was right. I told him it was right and he nodded tentatively, like he didn't fully trust either of us yet.

We talked while the samples ran. There's a lot of dead time in a bio lab, waiting on the centrifuge, waiting on the water bath. He asked what part of town I lived in. I asked why he'd transferred in, and he said his dad's job moved, said it flatly, no story attached, and then asked what my "deal" was. I told him about the swim team. He told me he had an older sister at State who called him every Sunday whether he wanted it or not, and that he liked it. He had a semi-girlfriend from his old school, they were on-again-off-again. He laughed once that period at something dumb I said about the teacher, one short huff through his nose, and I spent the rest of the class trying to get another one out of him.

After that things sort of snowballed. He found me before class the next day and we walked all the way across campus together to the lab. Over the next couple days I started to explain the readings to him in the hallway before class because he took it in better if it was spoken out loud, and he paid me back in food, granola bar, bananas, half a sandwich one time, pressed into my hand without discussion. We traded numbers over gel electrophoresis. By the end of the first week he was texting me about nothing, just to say hi, a photo of a random dog that showed up outside his house, a question about the homework he already knew the answer to.

Me: You know that one already

Finn: Yeah. Checking you knew it

At some point, we stopped just being lab partners and started being friends. He just began assuming I'd be available to chat, and I made sure I was.

····[]····

Finn played on a club ultimate frisbee team. It wasn't a real school sport, but it was a real club and it had practices after last period on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and he brought me along the second week without asking whether I could play.

I could not play. I am five seven and I ran a mile once, in middle school, and I almost threw up. I survived the practice by standing near the sideline holding things that people handed me, which turned out to be water bottles and notebooks. I passed the time watching Finn become a different person than the guy I had gotten to know.

The simple minded dog lover who mumbled to himself at the lab bench went absolutely feral out there. He laid out flat, full horizontal, for a disc that was already past him and came up with what I'm pretty sure was grass in his teeth. He spit it out intimidatingly and didn't even say anything about it. He did not talk while he played, except shouting to his teammates. He just kept ending up wherever the disc was, knocking dudes out of the way with his oversized body and sharp elbows.

"Nice one," I said when he came off, handing him his water.

"It was okay," he huffed, and he tilted his head back to drink three quarters of the bottle in one long swig, his throat working intensely, before he handed it back to me.

Then there was a brief attempt at debate club. Finn signed us both up without asking me first, explaining that he wanted to get better at talking in front of people. He got to the podium at the one practice round we went to, put both hands flat on it, and produced maybe thirty words in ninety seconds. His ears reddened down to the lobes.

"That was terrible," he said as we walked home afterward.

"That was terrible," I agreed.

We never went again.

Lunch turned into a standing arrangement without either of us proposing it. We stopped texting about where to meet and just showed up at the same table near the windows. Sometimes his frisbee guys sat with us. I got good at timing it so they didn't. I'd float that we should get in line early before it got insane, or take our trays out to the courtyard where it was quieter, and Finn always said sure, he wasn't picky, and I'd sit down across from him with the whole cafeteria roaring twenty feet away and it stayed quiet at our table.

Movie night was at Finn's house, in a nice den you get to through the kitchen at his house, with a big worn couch and an oversized TV. He had only been at our school a month or so and somehow already had a whole group of buddies, guys I only knew by their face even after going to the same school for years. There was Danny and a few other guys from the frisbee team, and he invited all of them over, but I noticed I was the only one he'd texted directly instead of through the group chat. His mom set out a tray of pizza rolls and chips, told us to yell if we needed anything, and disappeared upstairs. Danny and the others grabbed the good spots on the couch before I got there, so I ended up wedged in beside Finn with about a foot of cushion between the armrest and his hip, his thigh against mine from hip to knee and his shoulder pressing into my shoulder every time he laughed.

Partway through he put his arm up along the back of the couch, almost touching my neck.

I did not move after that, for like two hours. Not to scratch my face, not to shift my leg when my foot fell asleep, nothing. The movie was some heist thing and I could not follow a single plot point from it.

I tried not to read too much into it. Finn was pretty touchy with everyone. I had watched him do a standing wrestle charge on Danny, and I had watched him sling an arm over guys he'd barely met at the frisbee field. But I could breathe easy next to him better than I could next to anyone else I knew, and I'd only known him for a month.

····[]····

Danny lived four houses down from Finn and started to treat Finn's driveway like his own. He talked constantly. He talked over the morning announcements, he talked at the vending machines, and he had noticed, out loud and more than once, that Finn and I were always together.

"Do you two share a phone plan," he said, walking home from school with us. "Genuine question."

Finn said nothing. I said, "We're bio lab partners."

"You have bio," Danny said. "For six hours a day..."

At Finn's driveway he started to come inside with us, hands already moving as he told an animated story about some guy on the frisbee team who'd bought a karaoke machine.

But Finn said, "I gotta shower, man," and Danny looked annoyed and then peeled off toward his own house. I took the porch steps two at a time behind Finn, before Danny changed his mind and followed us.

····[]····

Alex was on the steps behind the gym one afternoon, vaping little puffy clouds, and I sat down next to him and got through three separate stories about Finn before he put his hand up.

"That's like, three stories about this guy," he said.

"So what?"

"You talk about him a lot." He hit the vape and squinted at the parking lot. "And you've brought up his forearms twice, I think."

"They're frisbee stories."

"One of them was about a pipette."

I picked at the concrete between the steps with my fingertips.

"Also, why'd you blow off David again," he said. "He asked about you."

David had finally stopped saying "sometime" and asked me to hang out, twice, actual plans, and both times I'd had something to do. One time was just hanging out with Finn doing nothing in his room.

"I was busy."

Alex just looked at me.

So I admitted what he wanted me to, because otherwise he was going to keep looking at me like he was. 

"It's a crush," I said. "Obviously it's a crush. I'm aware."

"Okay."

"But I'm not gay. It's a man-crush." I was fully aware of how I sounded. "And he has a girl from his old school. It's on and off but it's a girl and it's from his old school."

Alex sat there with his elbows on his knees while I got all the way through it, and he did not believe one syllable, and he was decent enough not to say so.

"Sure," he said.

····[]····

Finn had a bunch of stuff figured out already, and I admired that. He worked out in his own room, no gym membership, no protein powder, no routine or advice from other people. Pushups off the floor between his bed and the closet, a small set of heavy dumbbells, and resistance bands he anchored in the door hinges. He wore basketball shorts and boxer briefs that actually had support to them, nothing showing off, gray and normal, the waistband pulled up so he didn't look like a fuckboy. He did not seem to want to show off to other guys, which I found strange for a guy as physically peaked as he was.

He was doing pushups one day, when he updated me about the girl.

"We're taking it slow," he said, on the way down. "I don't like to move too fast. I'd rather know somebody first."

He said it into the carpet. I was on his desk chair with my feet up on the bedframe and I took that note internally. In my head I thought, I want to be exactly this guy. I watched his back tense under his shirt while I thought it, the two slabs of muscle beside his spine sliding out and in.

He kept going. He got past thirty and stopped counting out loud.

"How often do you jerk off?" I said.

I heard it leave my mouth before I even thought to second guess asking that question. He didn't stop the pushups.

"Couple times a week I guess," he said, down, up. "Depends. You?"

"About the same," I lied, unable to admit my twice daily habit.

"Yeah."

We moved on to the next thing to talk about. That was the first time we talked about anything close to sexual, and part of me wanted to ask more, but I held myself back. He kept doing pushups and I sat there three feet from him, starting to get hard, just watching him breathe.

····[]····

His parents drove up to see his sister at State one weekend, so it was just us in the house Friday night, and Finn had his shirt off, chillin on a warm night. He was up on his high bed on his stomach with his phone, feet hanging off the end. I had the desk chair again, feet on the bedframe, spinning myself a quarter turn each way.

We talked about nothing, this and that, for an hour. He talked about his old town, and a kid in our grade who'd gotten suspended, whether the old librarian lady was old enough to remember before the drinking age was twenty-one.

Then the conversation moved onto bodies, which didn't feel weird, late at night with two guys in a room. We talked about height. He said he'd stopped growing at sixteen and I said I'd stopped at fourteen and that was a joke for a minute. We agreed I had one more late growth spurt hopefully coming my way, and then talked about hand size, and he put his palm flat against mine over the edge of the loft rail and mine only came up to his second knuckle, and he laughed at that, actually laughed, and I felt it through our hands, up my arm.

"My ex said something to me," he said.

I internally noted that he called her his "ex", and hid my smile as I tried to remain nonchalant.

"About what."

"About like." He rolled onto his side. "Nothing. She said something about me being big. Down there. Whatever."

"Oh."

I spun the chair a quarter turn. My mouth ran ahead of my brain, again.

"How big is it?"

"I mean, compared to the other guys I've seen, it's normal, except when it gets hard."

"Yeah, I think hard is all that counts."

"Yeah."

"So... How big?"

"I don't know like, in inches," Finn said. "I can show you."

I did not move. He did not move either. Neither of us did anything for four or five full seconds. The last ten percent of this was mine to move or not.

"Okay," I said.

He swung down off the bed. He landed on the carpet in front of me and hooked both thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down with the boxer briefs, one motion, to mid-thigh.

It was soft and it was already bigger in girth and length than mine gets at its maximum size. That was the first thing, sitting there thick and heavy over his balls, slightly touching his left leg, with a real weight to it.

"It's big," I said, unable to take my eyes off of it.

"It's not, like, up yet," he said, and took hold of it.

I made my face try to look less enthusiastic. I aimed for looking scientific as I watched him take hold of it. My heart was racing, and I have no idea if I succeeded at seeming normal. He gripped the base and worked his fist over the shaft slowly, up and back and up, standing right in front of the chair facing me, with the ceiling light on and his dick and balls right at my eye level with me. He lifted his shirt, and his abs were tensing as he tried to work himself toward arousal, the muscle there tightening and letting go with each pull, a flat vein running down over his hip and disappearing under his arm. 

The meat sausage filled out in stages. It got heavier and longer and more and more red, the end of it was getting closer to me with each passing second as his hand hypnotically moved up and down the length of the thing. He kept his fist moving, and it kept coming.

The head came out from his grip. Then more of it. He had a whole hand on it and there was still a hand's worth left over past his thumb, and when it went completely rigid it stood up and out from him at an angle and gave a small bounce on its own when he took his fist off.

When he took his hand off of it, it looked even bigger, and thicker.

"That's as big as it gets," he said, like he wasn't totally sure that was a good thing to admit.

I was rock hard in my sweatpants and had been since roughly the words "down there". My heart was racing so loud I thought I might pass out. He gave it two more pulls with his hand, which I don't think he needed to, and then he tucked himself back into the briefs and pulled the shorts up, and he had to arrange it to get it to lie down under there. It made a shape anyway.

"So like eight inches?" he said.

It took me a second to be able to speak again, after trying to swallow with a dry mouth.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You'd need a ruler."

"You'd need a ruler," I agreed.

He climbed back up into the loft.

That became a joke for a bit. Within ten minutes we had decided it didn't count without a ruler, that measuring it against a hand was not a standard unit, and that anybody could claim eight inches. We talked about various forms of male inadequacy for several hours before I finally had to go home.

Then in the morning as we walked to class together, his mouth full of a banana he was eating, he said, "It might be a grower situation." and I said we hadn't controlled for temperature, and he pointed his half banana at me like I'd made a good point.

"It was warm last night," he said.

"It was."

By that afternoon it was going in the lab notebook. We met in bio, so anything we did had to be documented, and on the walk to English on Monday we worked out that we needed a control group, and Finn said with a totally straight face that the control group would be me, and I said absolutely not, and he shrugged like his hands were tied.

"It's the scientific method, man. Peer review... of dicks."

Danny caught the tail end of our conversation.

"Okay, hold on, what," he said. "What are we peer reviewing."

"Nothing," I said.

"What're you guys up to?" 

He looked at Finn, then at me, then back at Finn, and seemed to put it together in his head.

"Ok wait. Show me too."

Finn didn't laugh. He didn't deflect or hedge or turn it into a bigger joke to get out from under it. He looked up from his phone about halfway and said, "I don't whip it out for just anybody, man."

Then he went back to his phone. Danny said something after that. I have no idea what it was. I suddenly felt like the most special boy in the world. 

He only whips it out for me. And I'm going to see it again.

Chapter 2: Vibrating Massager

I thought about nothing but Finn's oversized cock for the next day. His parents were still visiting his sister up at State, and we walked to his house after school and went straight to the den.

I sat in the big recliner as he dropped onto the old, worn couch. It looked bigger when it wasn't covered with all the dudes' bodies from movie night. The middle cushion sank about two inches lower than the ends, in front of a TV that was probably too big for the room, but I liked the way it looked on the wall.

I looked at the side table that separated our seating positions. It was covered in random sundries and junk. There were a couple remotes, a stack of coasters, a hair tie, a plastic thing with a handle on it that had been sitting there since I started coming over and that I hadn't looked at directly before tonight. I couldn't really tell what it was, some strangely shaped toy.

I had been thinking about his dick basically constantly since he showed it to me the day before. Not in a way I would have said out loud. But I'd seen it soft and I'd seen it hard and I had the whole progression now in my head, and the rhythmic way he stroked it to its full, mesmerizing size. And on top of that he was the same guy who said he took it slow with girls, who I'd never heard tell a single hookup story, not even like, a fake one. He'd whipped it out in my face in the middle of a conversation, just upon a suggestion. And then he'd told Danny he doesn't whip it out for just anybody.

I think I subconsciously just wanted to sit closer to him, and I slipped off the chair onto the couch opposite him. We put on some show about people renovating a lake house and neither of us watched it really. Finn kicked his shoes off and turned sideways, and his legs came up over my end of the couch, one shin across my thighs and his heel hooked over the far cushion. It was like when he put his arm on the back of the couch behind my head, with four other dudes in the room, except it was just us.

His basketball shorts had ridden up on the leg that was across me. There was a farmer's tan on his thigh that stopped in a hard line partway down, dark above it from being outside a lot, pale below.

"You ever notice the guy on this show never wears a shirt," I said.

"He wears a shirt sometimes."

"Look how he takes it off randomly, one shot to the next he's just guns out again. Like especially in the demo parts."

"Probably 'cause of the dust."

"That's not why."

"They're all in a network agreement to take their shirts off," Finn said. "It's in the contract, you need ladies to watch these shows too."

I said something back and he said something back until we ran out of steam. The lake house people kept talking about load-bearing walls and neither of us said anything for a while, which had become normal for us.

I looked away from his leg and then I looked back at it.

I don't know how we got onto it, except that it was the same territory as the pushups conversation in his room.

"When was your first time," he said. "Jerking off, I mean."

"Twelve."

"Same. Thirteen maybe." He had his hands laced behind his head. "I didn't know what was happening the first time. I thought I discovered the coolest thing in the world that I needed to tell all my friends about."

"Everybody thinks that."

"I looked it up after. On the family computer." He huffed. "That's probably still in a search history somewhere."

"Your FBI agent knows," I said with a laugh.

"So how often now," he said.

"Few times a week." It was the same lie I'd used in his room, and I stuck with it.

"I've been more like every day lately." He flexed his foot against the far cushion. "I do it dry, mostly."

"Dry? That's insane."

"What do you use."

"Lotion, like a normal person." I hesitated. "Or spit, or conditioner in the shower. Or..."

"Lotion's for guys with no calluses," he said, implying that I had soft, non-working-man hands. I rolled my eyes, enjoying the ribbing.

"What do you watch," I said.

"Depends." He shrugged with his shoulders against the armrest. "Nothing crazy. Sometimes nothing, just thinking about stuff. Or instagram for random thirst traps."

I kept my words plain.

"Porn," I said, "Normal stuff, whatever comes up."

But the actual answer had gotten complicated in the last twenty-four hours, and in the three times I'd pleasured myself in that interval, each time had involved a lot of imagining Finn holding his big dick in front of my face.

"My friends back home used to jerk it together sometimes," he said. "Sleepovers, somebody's basement. One of them would put porn on the TV and it'd turn into a rowdy group sesh."

"Did you ever?"

"Honestly, not really," He said. "I'd grab food from upstairs and wait until it was over. It was more of a Danny type of crowd, honestly."

"Pussy," I said, a shit-eating grin forming on my face as I looked at him.

He rolled his eyes, smiling.

"I would've," he said. "Just wasn't my cup of tea."

"Would you ever?"

"Probably."

"I would."

He lifted his head off the armrest and raised an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, it seems fun to me." I said it with a shrug and kept my eyes on the lake house people. "I've never had friends that wanted to do that though."

"Huh," he said, and let his head drop back.

Then he shifted his hips to get comfortable and I looked down at his shorts, and there was a full outline running up under the fabric toward his hip, and at the exact second I saw it he pushed himself up on an elbow and looked at my lap.

"Dude."

"Dude, look at yourself."

"I'm not the one with a tent in his sweatpants."

"You have a whole CIRCUS tent of cock right there," I said. "There's an elephant trunk and everything."

He chuckled, looking down. "Guess we talked about jerking off enough then."

He pointed at my sweats and I pointed at his shorts and neither of us covered up. I didn't put a pillow on my lap and he didn't roll onto his stomach. We sat there in the blue TV light arguing about which one of us had caused the mutual boner situation.

There was a magazine on the floor by the couch, some fishing catalog his dad got. I rolled it into a tube.

"Don't," he said.

I jabbed him in his bulge with it, and he didn't even try to move his hips out of the way. He barked out a laugh and swatted at the magazine and I got him again, right on the crest of his oversized manhood, and his whole leg came up off my thighs.

"You're gonna break it," he said.

"It's a magazine."

"You're gonna break it."

He twisted around and grabbed for the side table without looking, sweeping his hand across it, groping randomly for an object to return my attack, and he came up with the long plastic thing. He swung it down at my crotch and it connected right on my dick through the sweats, and his thumb hit a switch on the handle on the way down.

The thing shuddered to life in his hand with a low, buzzing whine.

We both stopped. He held it up between us like it had bitten him.

"What the hell is that."

"It's my mom's," Finn said. "I think it's a back massager."

"Turn it off."

"I'm gonna."

He didn't turn it off.

He looked at it and he looked at me, and he pressed the head of it down onto my dick through the sweatpants, grinning, waiting for me to jump and shove him off, which is exactly what the bit would have called for, except I was frozen in place.

I laughed for about half a second, and then the laugh cut off in the middle of my breath. My hand went down and grabbed the edge of the cushion by my hip and squeezed it as I stared down at the thing touching my dick. It was vibrating roughly, giving me a strange sensation of sexual thrill as he held it firmly against me. The buzz went straight through the fabric and up the underside of my dick, all along the shaft, and my hips came up off the couch about an inch on their own.

Finn's grin held.

"Oh my god," I said. "That actually feels good."

He kept it there. Not for the half second the prank needed. He pressed it harder and moved it up toward the head and my mouth fell open. My thighs pulled together around the handle.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yeah."

"I wanna try it," he said.

He took it off me and put it on himself through the shorts, and his abs pulled in tight and he went, "Oh, fuck," in this high voice, and then we both laughed at his voice.

I had known him about six weeks by then and I had heard him be quiet plenty of times, but this was different. He had his bottom lip pulled in under his teeth and his eyes on his own lap, and his breathing turned shallow, and he didn't say one word for probably a minute. He rolled the massager head along the outline of himself through the fabric, up to where the head made a bulge near his hip, then back down.

Then he leaned over and put it on me again, as if to say, okay, back to you.

I got up onto the middle cushion, right next to him, so he didn't have to reach. Our bodies were touching from shoulder to thigh. He worked it on me for ten or fifteen seconds, moving it up and down my rock hard dick-print as it throbbed against my sweats. He looked up at my face intermittently as he did it, straight on, no embarrassment about staring at me, the same face he made reading a gel under the light in fourth period.

Then he took it back to himself, as I watched a pre-cum stain appear at the head of his dick.

Soon he was back on me again. I tried to stay quiet as I gripped the couch with both hands, clamping my jaw shut, and I lost the fight anyway, letting out a short grunt through my nose.

"You're gonna cum," he said, declaratively, with a hint of a smile on his focused face.

"That one did something," I agreed.

There was a dark patch spreading on the front of my sweats where the head of me was, and I saw him look right at it.

"You're leaking," he said.

"Yeah."

"It'd work better with less in the way." He said it to my lap, not to me, not looking up. "The fabric's eating most of it."

"Probably."

"So."

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pushed my sweats and my underwear down to my thighs, lifting my shirt up as my dick came up flat against my stomach and then immediately smacked back down against my leg. It was the first time he'd seen mine. He didn't say anything about the size, which was dwarfed by his monster dong, and I appreciated that more than I could have explained.

He put the plastic straight onto the underside of my shaft, no cotton in between, and I said "oh" out loud like an idiot, and my whole stomach hollowed out and my legs straightened all the way out on the floor.

"Too much?"

"No."

"Okay."

He rode it up to the head and my hips chased it as several strings of pre-cum formed a small web of pleasure on my body.

Then he pushed his shorts and briefs down over his thighs with his free hand and pulled himself out, all of that monster meat out in the fresh air again, and there it was for the second time in a week, hard already, pointing up along his stomach, a thick blue vein along the top and the head shining. A real man's dick, and it was something worth looking at. Sitting on the couch made it look even bigger somehow, resting up on his abs with his shorts stretched under it.

I could feel the heat off his thigh against mine, and I could smell his musky balls again.

"Bro," I said.

"I know."

"That's not a normal amount of cock."

There was a pause.

"We should do it at the same time," he said.

He grabbed my hips with one hand, and pulled me over to him with his strong arm, making me feel small, but also taken care of in a strange way. He leaned forward off the cushion to do it, turning my whole lower body until our hips lined up facing each other.

Our faces came close together, close enough that I felt his breath on my cheek when he exhaled. Both of us had our legs pointed straight out on the floor, tightening up like a boy's legs do when approaching sexual excitement, our upper bodies turned in toward each other, both of us staring down at the same spot.

Then he shoved us together, holding our dicks tightly, and closed his hand around the two of us at once, and his fingers didn't come close to meeting. Both our dicks were wet and leaky, and mine basically got tucked in under his, feeling the warmth of his body radiating into mine immediately. His ran longer past my head by a lot, and it was thicker in the middle by more than I wanted to admit while I was looking directly at it.

That comparison number I had been keeping since middle school stopped updating right there, shattering into a thousand pieces in my head.

He put the massager onto the two of us at once, near the heads of our dicks, while the sensitive undersides vibrated forcefully against each other. I had never felt so intimate and so pleasurable in my life.

My vision actually blurred for a second. His grip tightened and he began to run his hand slowly up and down our shafts, keeping a vice grip on our meats, his strength holding us right in the hot spot of pleasure. I could feel his pulse through the side of my shaft, or mine through his, and the buzz ran through both of us at the same time so I couldn't tell what was happening to him and what was happening to me.

"Okay," Finn said. I felt his breath on my lips when he said it.

"Yeah."

He worked his fist up and down a little more, an inch or two, holding us together, and kept the massager pressed right where our heads touched. He had the whole operation in his hands, both of us, the stroke, the speed, and I just sat there against him and breathed.

I felt the throbs from his cock, all the way to the base, and they suddenly sped up into rapid bursts. I didn't even realize what was happening until a wet warmth landed across my stomach and shirt, his hand clamping down and his abs seizing as a strangled, high-pitched noise came out, boyish and embarrassing. He squirted more ropes across my stomach and over my hand and down onto his own knuckles in long pulses, way more than I thought a guy could produce, his hip lifting off the cushion each time.

Then he started laughing. Mid-orgasm. Still pumping and cracking up at the same time, and I lost it too, both of us wheezing while it was still coming out of him. It was just kind of funny to see another guy cum.

"Sorry," he got out. "Sorry. Sorry."

"You got me... my shirt."

"I know. Sorry."

But he never took the massager or his hand off me, even as he let his dick fall down onto his thigh, cum dripping off of both of us onto the couch below. Through the whole thing, through his shaking, through him laughing so hard he had to put his head back against the couch, he kept it right on me and kept his fist around the base of both of our dicks, and he kept working it in that short stroke, oversensitive and twitching in his own hand, and about twenty seconds later I finished into his fingers and up onto the arm of the couch as my leg vibrated and my heel drummed on the carpet, and he held it there through all of it until I grabbed his wrist and pulled it off me.

"Ok, I'm done," I said with an exhale.

He clicked the switch. The buzzing stopped and the room got loud with the lake house people again.

He quickly wiped our jizz off the massager, and set it back on the side table exactly where it had been, next to the hair tie. We both stopped to breathe for a second, before he stood up, his bare ass briefly in my face as he turned toward the kitchen. He came back a moment later with a fistful of paper towels and handed me half of them.

"She uses that on her shoulders," he said.

"Don't."

"Her neck and her shoulders."

"I'm never looking at it the same again."

We cleaned ourselves up in stages, no real hurry to any of it. I scrubbed at my shirt with the paper towels until it was obvious the shirt was a lost cause, and Finn pulled his shorts back up and dropped onto the couch in the same sideways sprawl as before. When I sat back down on the middle cushion his legs came up over my lap again, shin across my thighs, heel hooked over the armrest. I rested my hand on his ankle because there was nowhere else to put it, and he didn't move it off.

The lake house people were picking out countertops now. We watched them do that for a while.

"Can I ask you something," I said. "How far have you actually gone? With girls."

He thought about it for longer than I would have expected.

"Made out a lot. Some stuff over clothes, once under." He scratched his chest. "That's about it."

"That's it? Dude. Girls throw themselves at you."

"I don't like pushing it," he said. "Even when a girl's really into it, I'd rather move slower than she wants than faster. It's always been like that with me. I don't know why."

"Even when they're horny for you."

"Especially then." He kept his eyes on the TV when he said it. "It feels wrong to rush somebody. Even if she's the one rushing."

I was confused, and I just picked at the seam on his sock with my fingers. It was my turn and we both knew it.

"I've done nothing," I said. "Like, nothing nothing. Never had a girlfriend, never hooked up. I've never even kissed anybody. Not with tongue anyway. I'm basically a kissless virgin, man."

Finn turned his head and looked at the side table. At the massager, sitting there next to the hair tie, back in its spot.

Then he looked at me.

"Not anymore," he said.

The laugh came out of me so hard it hurt my stomach. He was cracking up too, his legs bouncing on my thighs with it, and I shoved his shin and he pushed his heel harder into the armrest and kept his legs right where they were. Every time we almost stopped, one of us pictured it again and we started over.

When it finally burned out we sat there breathing, watching the show.

"You know what I like about you," I said. "You're so cool and casual about everything. Everything's just fine with you. You're my favorite person, man."

He smiled at that, a real one.

"Same to you," he said.

That was the whole exchange. We stayed on the couch through the end of that episode and most of another one, his legs across me, my hand back on his ankle, his arm coming up along the back of the couch behind my head at some point without either of us commenting on it. The lake house got a new dock. The shirtless guy stayed shirtless.

Somewhere in the middle of the second episode I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Just once, quick, my lips on the stubble at his jaw, and then I pulled back and looked at him to see what I had done.

He just smiled.

····[]····

When I finally had to go, I walked home with my shirt covered in jizz stains, feeling weirdly thrilled, relaxed. I kept thinking about when he didn't stop the massager on me after he was already done. He was shaking and laughing and he kept it on me until I finished too.

He's a good friend. He made sure I finished.

Finn: You left your calc book here

Me: Bring it tomorrow

Finn: Also we still never measured

Me: We don't really have to

Because I love my Reddit readers so much, I am dropping a double post today. So warning, it's long. Enjoy!

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I have compared myself to every guy I have ever stood next to at a urinal or in a locker room, for as long as I can remember. It's not even on purpose. It's like an instinct. When I went to my friends' water polo games in high school, and then later when I joined the swim team, I naturally looked down at the guys' speedos every time we passed, just a quick glance at each one. I didn't necessarily feel anything from it. It was just a natural focal point, like ants emitting pheromones when they pass each other. From middle school gym class through the senior year swim team, there was a running number in the back of my head that updated itself without my permission, comparing them together and to myself, and it all stopped when I became friends with the most hung dude I had ever met, Finn.

Before Finn, my social life was basically two people. Alex sat on the steps behind the gym most afternoons with a vape. He had a little scruff along his jaw that he kept trimmed to exactly the same length every week, and he had been out as bi since he was fifteen, and nothing in our town ever impressed him. He was an alternative guy, and even though we only hung out on occasion, he was kind of the only person I could be fully open with. Because he didn't care enough to judge. 

Then there was David from my English class, a nice enough guy who laughed at the stuff I said under my breath during grammar units and kept saying we should hang out sometime. I always said yeah, sometime. But we never hung out that much.

I met Finn in second week of semester, AP Bio Lab.

They actually paired us alphabetically, and he was new, which is how I ended up on a stool next to a guy I'd never met before who took up about a stool and a half, with his big, muscular body expanding outside the standard range of an assigned student space.

Finn was somewhere over six-three and built like a model, or an Olympian. But he acted a little shy, for whatever reason. That actually made him more approachable to me. He had a lab manual open flat on the bench and he kept his finger under the line he was reading. He read the protocol, then he read it again, then he mumbled it back to himself under his breath before he touched anything. It was kind of endearing to see him struggle, however slightly, and it made me want to help him out a bit.

"Two microliters," I said, looking at an error on his notes. "It's two. Not twenty."

"Thanks," he said nervously, without even bothering to introduce himself.

The micropipette vanished in his hand. It's a skinny plastic thing, about the size of a pen, and in his fist it looked like a toothpick, his thumb tight on the plunger and the tendons in his forearm shifting every time he dialed the volume. I found myself looking for a tanline up his dense arms, and my eyes stopped halfway up his biceps where his sleeve ended. He would set the tip against the tube wall and hold his breath, and this enormous guy who could have picked me up with one hand was scared of putting the wrong number into a plastic tube.

I did not do a lot of pipetting that period. I wrote down the numbers he called out and I watched his hands.

Neither of us talked to anyone else. The rest of the room was loud, girls in the back trading section notes, two guys arguing about their experiment going wrong. We were the two quiet ones. He asked me what the buffer was for and I told him, and he said "okay" and wrote it down. That was the most we talked to each other that whole first class together.

At the end he said, "You wanna be lab partners for real? Like the whole semester?"

"Yeah," I said, a little too quickly. "Sure."

Finn was different than other guys. I was rinsing pipette tips into the sink at the end of lab, hot water running over my thumbs, and I worked it out standing right there. It was a man-crush. Everybody gets those sometimes, you meet somebody who seems cool and also accessible and suddenly your whole week is arranged around whether he texts back. That was all I thought it was. I felt a little pang in my stomach when we talked, but there were going to be more chances to get over that.

····[]····

The second lab he showed up with his manual already flagged with sticky notes, and he slid it across the bench so I could check his dilution math before we touched anything. It was right. I told him it was right and he nodded tentatively, like he didn't fully trust either of us yet.

We talked while the samples ran. There's a lot of dead time in a bio lab, waiting on the centrifuge, waiting on the water bath. He asked what part of town I lived in. I asked why he'd transferred in, and he said his dad's job moved, said it flatly, no story attached, and then asked what my "deal" was. I told him about the swim team. He told me he had an older sister at State who called him every Sunday whether he wanted it or not, and that he liked it. He had a semi-girlfriend from his old school, they were on-again-off-again. He laughed once that period at something dumb I said about the teacher, one short huff through his nose, and I spent the rest of the class trying to get another one out of him.

After that things sort of snowballed. He found me before class the next day and we walked all the way across campus together to the lab. Over the next couple days I started to explain the readings to him in the hallway before class because he took it in better if it was spoken out loud, and he paid me back in food, granola bar, bananas, half a sandwich one time, pressed into my hand without discussion. We traded numbers over gel electrophoresis. By the end of the first week he was texting me about nothing, just to say hi, a photo of a random dog that showed up outside his house, a question about the homework he already knew the answer to.

Me: You know that one already

Finn: Yeah. Checking you knew it

At some point, we stopped just being lab partners and started being friends. He just began assuming I'd be available to chat, and I made sure I was.

····[]····

Finn played on a club ultimate frisbee team. It wasn't a real school sport, but it was a real club and it had practices after last period on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and he brought me along the second week without asking whether I could play.

I could not play. I am five seven and I ran a mile once, in middle school, and I almost threw up. I survived the practice by standing near the sideline holding things that people handed me, which turned out to be water bottles and notebooks. I passed the time watching Finn become a different person than the guy I had gotten to know.

The simple minded dog lover who mumbled to himself at the lab bench went absolutely feral out there. He laid out flat, full horizontal, for a disc that was already past him and came up with what I'm pretty sure was grass in his teeth. He spit it out intimidatingly and didn't even say anything about it. He did not talk while he played, except shouting to his teammates. He just kept ending up wherever the disc was, knocking dudes out of the way with his oversized body and sharp elbows.

"Nice one," I said when he came off, handing him his water.

"It was okay," he huffed, and he tilted his head back to drink three quarters of the bottle in one long swig, his throat working intensely, before he handed it back to me.

Then there was a brief attempt at debate club. Finn signed us both up without asking me first, explaining that he wanted to get better at talking in front of people. He got to the podium at the one practice round we went to, put both hands flat on it, and produced maybe thirty words in ninety seconds. His ears reddened down to the lobes.

"That was terrible," he said as we walked home afterward.

"That was terrible," I agreed.

We never went again.

Lunch turned into a standing arrangement without either of us proposing it. We stopped texting about where to meet and just showed up at the same table near the windows. Sometimes his frisbee guys sat with us. I got good at timing it so they didn't. I'd float that we should get in line early before it got insane, or take our trays out to the courtyard where it was quieter, and Finn always said sure, he wasn't picky, and I'd sit down across from him with the whole cafeteria roaring twenty feet away and it stayed quiet at our table.

Movie night was at Finn's house, in a nice den you get to through the kitchen at his house, with a big worn couch and an oversized TV. He had only been at our school a month or so and somehow already had a whole group of buddies, guys I only knew by their face even after going to the same school for years. There was Danny and a few other guys from the frisbee team, and he invited all of them over, but I noticed I was the only one he'd texted directly instead of through the group chat. His mom set out a tray of pizza rolls and chips, told us to yell if we needed anything, and disappeared upstairs. Danny and the others grabbed the good spots on the couch before I got there, so I ended up wedged in beside Finn with about a foot of cushion between the armrest and his hip, his thigh against mine from hip to knee and his shoulder pressing into my shoulder every time he laughed.

Partway through he put his arm up along the back of the couch, almost touching my neck.

I did not move after that, for like two hours. Not to scratch my face, not to shift my leg when my foot fell asleep, nothing. The movie was some heist thing and I could not follow a single plot point from it.

I tried not to read too much into it. Finn was pretty touchy with everyone. I had watched him do a standing wrestle charge on Danny, and I had watched him sling an arm over guys he'd barely met at the frisbee field. But I could breathe easy next to him better than I could next to anyone else I knew, and I'd only known him for a month.

····[]····

Danny lived four houses down from Finn and started to treat Finn's driveway like his own. He talked constantly. He talked over the morning announcements, he talked at the vending machines, and he had noticed, out loud and more than once, that Finn and I were always together.

"Do you two share a phone plan," he said, walking home from school with us. "Genuine question."

Finn said nothing. I said, "We're bio lab partners."

"You have bio," Danny said. "For six hours a day..."

At Finn's driveway he started to come inside with us, hands already moving as he told an animated story about some guy on the frisbee team who'd bought a karaoke machine.

But Finn said, "I gotta shower, man," and Danny looked annoyed and then peeled off toward his own house. I took the porch steps two at a time behind Finn, before Danny changed his mind and followed us.

····[]····

Alex was on the steps behind the gym one afternoon, vaping little puffy clouds, and I sat down next to him and got through three separate stories about Finn before he put his hand up.

"That's like, three stories about this guy," he said.

"So what?"

"You talk about him a lot." He hit the vape and squinted at the parking lot. "And you've brought up his forearms twice, I think."

"They're frisbee stories."

"One of them was about a pipette."

I picked at the concrete between the steps with my fingertips.

"Also, why'd you blow off David again," he said. "He asked about you."

David had finally stopped saying "sometime" and asked me to hang out, twice, actual plans, and both times I'd had something to do. One time was just hanging out with Finn doing nothing in his room.

"I was busy."

Alex just looked at me.

So I admitted what he wanted me to, because otherwise he was going to keep looking at me like he was. 

"It's a crush," I said. "Obviously it's a crush. I'm aware."

"Okay."

"But I'm not gay. It's a man-crush." I was fully aware of how I sounded. "And he has a girl from his old school. It's on and off but it's a girl and it's from his old school."

Alex sat there with his elbows on his knees while I got all the way through it, and he did not believe one syllable, and he was decent enough not to say so.

"Sure," he said.

····[]····

Finn had a bunch of stuff figured out already, and I admired that. He worked out in his own room, no gym membership, no protein powder, no routine or advice from other people. Pushups off the floor between his bed and the closet, a small set of heavy dumbbells, and resistance bands he anchored in the door hinges. He wore basketball shorts and boxer briefs that actually had support to them, nothing showing off, gray and normal, the waistband pulled up so he didn't look like a fuckboy. He did not seem to want to show off to other guys, which I found strange for a guy as physically peaked as he was.

He was doing pushups one day, when he updated me about the girl.

"We're taking it slow," he said, on the way down. "I don't like to move too fast. I'd rather know somebody first."

He said it into the carpet. I was on his desk chair with my feet up on the bedframe and I took that note internally. In my head I thought, I want to be exactly this guy. I watched his back tense under his shirt while I thought it, the two slabs of muscle beside his spine sliding out and in.

He kept going. He got past thirty and stopped counting out loud.

"How often do you jerk off?" I said.

I heard it leave my mouth before I even thought to second guess asking that question. He didn't stop the pushups.

"Couple times a week I guess," he said, down, up. "Depends. You?"

"About the same," I lied, unable to admit my twice daily habit.

"Yeah."

We moved on to the next thing to talk about. That was the first time we talked about anything close to sexual, and part of me wanted to ask more, but I held myself back. He kept doing pushups and I sat there three feet from him, starting to get hard, just watching him breathe.

····[]····

His parents drove up to see his sister at State one weekend, so it was just us in the house Friday night, and Finn had his shirt off, chillin on a warm night. He was up on his high bed on his stomach with his phone, feet hanging off the end. I had the desk chair again, feet on the bedframe, spinning myself a quarter turn each way.

We talked about nothing, this and that, for an hour. He talked about his old town, and a kid in our grade who'd gotten suspended, whether the old librarian lady was old enough to remember before the drinking age was twenty-one.

Then the conversation moved onto bodies, which didn't feel weird, late at night with two guys in a room. We talked about height. He said he'd stopped growing at sixteen and I said I'd stopped at fourteen and that was a joke for a minute. We agreed I had one more late growth spurt hopefully coming my way, and then talked about hand size, and he put his palm flat against mine over the edge of the loft rail and mine only came up to his second knuckle, and he laughed at that, actually laughed, and I felt it through our hands, up my arm.

"My ex said something to me," he said.

I internally noted that he called her his "ex", and hid my smile as I tried to remain nonchalant.

"About what."

"About like." He rolled onto his side. "Nothing. She said something about me being big. Down there. Whatever."

"Oh."

I spun the chair a quarter turn. My mouth ran ahead of my brain, again.

"How big is it?"

"I mean, compared to the other guys I've seen, it's normal, except when it gets hard."

"Yeah, I think hard is all that counts."

"Yeah."

"So... How big?"

"I don't know like, in inches," Finn said. "I can show you."

I did not move. He did not move either. Neither of us did anything for four or five full seconds. The last ten percent of this was mine to move or not.

"Okay," I said.

He swung down off the bed. He landed on the carpet in front of me and hooked both thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down with the boxer briefs, one motion, to mid-thigh.

It was soft and it was already bigger in girth and length than mine gets at its maximum size. That was the first thing, sitting there thick and heavy over his balls, slightly touching his left leg, with a real weight to it.

"It's big," I said, unable to take my eyes off of it.

"It's not, like, up yet," he said, and took hold of it.

I made my face try to look less enthusiastic. I aimed for looking scientific as I watched him take hold of it. My heart was racing, and I have no idea if I succeeded at seeming normal. He gripped the base and worked his fist over the shaft slowly, up and back and up, standing right in front of the chair facing me, with the ceiling light on and his dick and balls right at my eye level with me. He lifted his shirt, and his abs were tensing as he tried to work himself toward arousal, the muscle there tightening and letting go with each pull, a flat vein running down over his hip and disappearing under his arm. 

The meat sausage filled out in stages. It got heavier and longer and more and more red, the end of it was getting closer to me with each passing second as his hand hypnotically moved up and down the length of the thing. He kept his fist moving, and it kept coming.

The head came out from his grip. Then more of it. He had a whole hand on it and there was still a hand's worth left over past his thumb, and when it went completely rigid it stood up and out from him at an angle and gave a small bounce on its own when he took his fist off.

When he took his hand off of it, it looked even bigger, and thicker.

"That's as big as it gets," he said, like he wasn't totally sure that was a good thing to admit.

I was rock hard in my sweatpants and had been since roughly the words "down there". My heart was racing so loud I thought I might pass out. He gave it two more pulls with his hand, which I don't think he needed to, and then he tucked himself back into the briefs and pulled the shorts up, and he had to arrange it to get it to lie down under there. It made a shape anyway.

"So like eight inches?" he said.

It took me a second to be able to speak again, after trying to swallow with a dry mouth.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You'd need a ruler."

"You'd need a ruler," I agreed.

He climbed back up into the loft.

That became a joke for a bit. Within ten minutes we had decided it didn't count without a ruler, that measuring it against a hand was not a standard unit, and that anybody could claim eight inches. We talked about various forms of male inadequacy for several hours before I finally had to go home.

Then in the morning as we walked to class together, his mouth full of a banana he was eating, he said, "It might be a grower situation." and I said we hadn't controlled for temperature, and he pointed his half banana at me like I'd made a good point.

"It was warm last night," he said.

"It was."

By that afternoon it was going in the lab notebook. We met in bio, so anything we did had to be documented, and on the walk to English on Monday we worked out that we needed a control group, and Finn said with a totally straight face that the control group would be me, and I said absolutely not, and he shrugged like his hands were tied.

"It's the scientific method, man. Peer review... of dicks."

Danny caught the tail end of our conversation.

"Okay, hold on, what," he said. "What are we peer reviewing."

"Nothing," I said.

"What're you guys up to?" 

He looked at Finn, then at me, then back at Finn, and seemed to put it together in his head.

"Ok wait. Show me too."

Finn didn't laugh. He didn't deflect or hedge or turn it into a bigger joke to get out from under it. He looked up from his phone about halfway and said, "I don't whip it out for just anybody, man."

Then he went back to his phone. Danny said something after that. I have no idea what it was. I suddenly felt like the most special boy in the world. 

He only whips it out for me. And I'm going to see it again.

Chapter 2: Vibrating Massager

I thought about nothing but Finn's oversized cock for the next day. His parents were still visiting his sister up at State, and we walked to his house after school and went straight to the den.

I sat in the big recliner as he dropped onto the old, worn couch. It looked bigger when it wasn't covered with all the dudes' bodies from movie night. The middle cushion sank about two inches lower than the ends, in front of a TV that was probably too big for the room, but I liked the way it looked on the wall.

I looked at the side table that separated our seating positions. It was covered in random sundries and junk. There were a couple remotes, a stack of coasters, a hair tie, a plastic thing with a handle on it that had been sitting there since I started coming over and that I hadn't looked at directly before tonight. I couldn't really tell what it was, some strangely shaped toy.

I had been thinking about his dick basically constantly since he showed it to me the day before. Not in a way I would have said out loud. But I'd seen it soft and I'd seen it hard and I had the whole progression now in my head, and the rhythmic way he stroked it to its full, mesmerizing size. And on top of that he was the same guy who said he took it slow with girls, who I'd never heard tell a single hookup story, not even like, a fake one. He'd whipped it out in my face in the middle of a conversation, just upon a suggestion. And then he'd told Danny he doesn't whip it out for just anybody.

I think I subconsciously just wanted to sit closer to him, and I slipped off the chair onto the couch opposite him. We put on some show about people renovating a lake house and neither of us watched it really. Finn kicked his shoes off and turned sideways, and his legs came up over my end of the couch, one shin across my thighs and his heel hooked over the far cushion. It was like when he put his arm on the back of the couch behind my head, with four other dudes in the room, except it was just us.

His basketball shorts had ridden up on the leg that was across me. There was a farmer's tan on his thigh that stopped in a hard line partway down, dark above it from being outside a lot, pale below.

"You ever notice the guy on this show never wears a shirt," I said.

"He wears a shirt sometimes."

"Look how he takes it off randomly, one shot to the next he's just guns out again. Like especially in the demo parts."

"Probably 'cause of the dust."

"That's not why."

"They're all in a network agreement to take their shirts off," Finn said. "It's in the contract, you need ladies to watch these shows too."

I said something back and he said something back until we ran out of steam. The lake house people kept talking about load-bearing walls and neither of us said anything for a while, which had become normal for us.

I looked away from his leg and then I looked back at it.

I don't know how we got onto it, except that it was the same territory as the pushups conversation in his room.

"When was your first time," he said. "Jerking off, I mean."

"Twelve."

"Same. Thirteen maybe." He had his hands laced behind his head. "I didn't know what was happening the first time. I thought I discovered the coolest thing in the world that I needed to tell all my friends about."

"Everybody thinks that."

"I looked it up after. On the family computer." He huffed. "That's probably still in a search history somewhere."

"Your FBI agent knows," I said with a laugh.

"So how often now," he said.

"Few times a week." It was the same lie I'd used in his room, and I stuck with it.

"I've been more like every day lately." He flexed his foot against the far cushion. "I do it dry, mostly."

"Dry? That's insane."

"What do you use."

"Lotion, like a normal person." I hesitated. "Or spit, or conditioner in the shower. Or..."

"Lotion's for guys with no calluses," he said, implying that I had soft, non-working-man hands. I rolled my eyes, enjoying the ribbing.

"What do you watch," I said.

"Depends." He shrugged with his shoulders against the armrest. "Nothing crazy. Sometimes nothing, just thinking about stuff. Or instagram for random thirst traps."

I kept my words plain.

"Porn," I said, "Normal stuff, whatever comes up."

But the actual answer had gotten complicated in the last twenty-four hours, and in the three times I'd pleasured myself in that interval, each time had involved a lot of imagining Finn holding his big dick in front of my face.

"My friends back home used to jerk it together sometimes," he said. "Sleepovers, somebody's basement. One of them would put porn on the TV and it'd turn into a rowdy group sesh."

"Did you ever?"

"Honestly, not really," He said. "I'd grab food from upstairs and wait until it was over. It was more of a Danny type of crowd, honestly."

"Pussy," I said, a shit-eating grin forming on my face as I looked at him.

He rolled his eyes, smiling.

"I would've," he said. "Just wasn't my cup of tea."

"Would you ever?"

"Probably."

"I would."

He lifted his head off the armrest and raised an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, it seems fun to me." I said it with a shrug and kept my eyes on the lake house people. "I've never had friends that wanted to do that though."

"Huh," he said, and let his head drop back.

Then he shifted his hips to get comfortable and I looked down at his shorts, and there was a full outline running up under the fabric toward his hip, and at the exact second I saw it he pushed himself up on an elbow and looked at my lap.

"Dude."

"Dude, look at yourself."

"I'm not the one with a tent in his sweatpants."

"You have a whole CIRCUS tent of cock right there," I said. "There's an elephant trunk and everything."

He chuckled, looking down. "Guess we talked about jerking off enough then."

He pointed at my sweats and I pointed at his shorts and neither of us covered up. I didn't put a pillow on my lap and he didn't roll onto his stomach. We sat there in the blue TV light arguing about which one of us had caused the mutual boner situation.

There was a magazine on the floor by the couch, some fishing catalog his dad got. I rolled it into a tube.

"Don't," he said.

I jabbed him in his bulge with it, and he didn't even try to move his hips out of the way. He barked out a laugh and swatted at the magazine and I got him again, right on the crest of his oversized manhood, and his whole leg came up off my thighs.

"You're gonna break it," he said.

"It's a magazine."

"You're gonna break it."

He twisted around and grabbed for the side table without looking, sweeping his hand across it, groping randomly for an object to return my attack, and he came up with the long plastic thing. He swung it down at my crotch and it connected right on my dick through the sweats, and his thumb hit a switch on the handle on the way down.

The thing shuddered to life in his hand with a low, buzzing whine.

We both stopped. He held it up between us like it had bitten him.

"What the hell is that."

"It's my mom's," Finn said. "I think it's a back massager."

"Turn it off."

"I'm gonna."

He didn't turn it off.

He looked at it and he looked at me, and he pressed the head of it down onto my dick through the sweatpants, grinning, waiting for me to jump and shove him off, which is exactly what the bit would have called for, except I was frozen in place.

I laughed for about half a second, and then the laugh cut off in the middle of my breath. My hand went down and grabbed the edge of the cushion by my hip and squeezed it as I stared down at the thing touching my dick. It was vibrating roughly, giving me a strange sensation of sexual thrill as he held it firmly against me. The buzz went straight through the fabric and up the underside of my dick, all along the shaft, and my hips came up off the couch about an inch on their own.

Finn's grin held.

"Oh my god," I said. "That actually feels good."

He kept it there. Not for the half second the prank needed. He pressed it harder and moved it up toward the head and my mouth fell open. My thighs pulled together around the handle.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yeah."

"I wanna try it," he said.

He took it off me and put it on himself through the shorts, and his abs pulled in tight and he went, "Oh, fuck," in this high voice, and then we both laughed at his voice.

I had known him about six weeks by then and I had heard him be quiet plenty of times, but this was different. He had his bottom lip pulled in under his teeth and his eyes on his own lap, and his breathing turned shallow, and he didn't say one word for probably a minute. He rolled the massager head along the outline of himself through the fabric, up to where the head made a bulge near his hip, then back down.

Then he leaned over and put it on me again, as if to say, okay, back to you.

I got up onto the middle cushion, right next to him, so he didn't have to reach. Our bodies were touching from shoulder to thigh. He worked it on me for ten or fifteen seconds, moving it up and down my rock hard dick-print as it throbbed against my sweats. He looked up at my face intermittently as he did it, straight on, no embarrassment about staring at me, the same face he made reading a gel under the light in fourth period.

Then he took it back to himself, as I watched a pre-cum stain appear at the head of his dick.

Soon he was back on me again. I tried to stay quiet as I gripped the couch with both hands, clamping my jaw shut, and I lost the fight anyway, letting out a short grunt through my nose.

"You're gonna cum," he said, declaratively, with a hint of a smile on his focused face.

"That one did something," I agreed.

There was a dark patch spreading on the front of my sweats where the head of me was, and I saw him look right at it.

"You're leaking," he said.

"Yeah."

"It'd work better with less in the way." He said it to my lap, not to me, not looking up. "The fabric's eating most of it."

"Probably."

"So."

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pushed my sweats and my underwear down to my thighs, lifting my shirt up as my dick came up flat against my stomach and then immediately smacked back down against my leg. It was the first time he'd seen mine. He didn't say anything about the size, which was dwarfed by his monster dong, and I appreciated that more than I could have explained.

He put the plastic straight onto the underside of my shaft, no cotton in between, and I said "oh" out loud like an idiot, and my whole stomach hollowed out and my legs straightened all the way out on the floor.

"Too much?"

"No."

"Okay."

He rode it up to the head and my hips chased it as several strings of pre-cum formed a small web of pleasure on my body.

Then he pushed his shorts and briefs down over his thighs with his free hand and pulled himself out, all of that monster meat out in the fresh air again, and there it was for the second time in a week, hard already, pointing up along his stomach, a thick blue vein along the top and the head shining. A real man's dick, and it was something worth looking at. Sitting on the couch made it look even bigger somehow, resting up on his abs with his shorts stretched under it.

I could feel the heat off his thigh against mine, and I could smell his musky balls again.

"Bro," I said.

"I know."

"That's not a normal amount of cock."

There was a pause.

"We should do it at the same time," he said.

He grabbed my hips with one hand, and pulled me over to him with his strong arm, making me feel small, but also taken care of in a strange way. He leaned forward off the cushion to do it, turning my whole lower body until our hips lined up facing each other.

Our faces came close together, close enough that I felt his breath on my cheek when he exhaled. Both of us had our legs pointed straight out on the floor, tightening up like a boy's legs do when approaching sexual excitement, our upper bodies turned in toward each other, both of us staring down at the same spot.

Then he shoved us together, holding our dicks tightly, and closed his hand around the two of us at once, and his fingers didn't come close to meeting. Both our dicks were wet and leaky, and mine basically got tucked in under his, feeling the warmth of his body radiating into mine immediately. His ran longer past my head by a lot, and it was thicker in the middle by more than I wanted to admit while I was looking directly at it.

That comparison number I had been keeping since middle school stopped updating right there, shattering into a thousand pieces in my head.

He put the massager onto the two of us at once, near the heads of our dicks, while the sensitive undersides vibrated forcefully against each other. I had never felt so intimate and so pleasurable in my life.

My vision actually blurred for a second. His grip tightened and he began to run his hand slowly up and down our shafts, keeping a vice grip on our meats, his strength holding us right in the hot spot of pleasure. I could feel his pulse through the side of my shaft, or mine through his, and the buzz ran through both of us at the same time so I couldn't tell what was happening to him and what was happening to me.

"Okay," Finn said. I felt his breath on my lips when he said it.

"Yeah."

He worked his fist up and down a little more, an inch or two, holding us together, and kept the massager pressed right where our heads touched. He had the whole operation in his hands, both of us, the stroke, the speed, and I just sat there against him and breathed.

I felt the throbs from his cock, all the way to the base, and they suddenly sped up into rapid bursts. I didn't even realize what was happening until a wet warmth landed across my stomach and shirt, his hand clamping down and his abs seizing as a strangled, high-pitched noise came out, boyish and embarrassing. He squirted more ropes across my stomach and over my hand and down onto his own knuckles in long pulses, way more than I thought a guy could produce, his hip lifting off the cushion each time.

Then he started laughing. Mid-orgasm. Still pumping and cracking up at the same time, and I lost it too, both of us wheezing while it was still coming out of him. It was just kind of funny to see another guy cum.

"Sorry," he got out. "Sorry. Sorry."

"You got me... my shirt."

"I know. Sorry."

But he never took the massager or his hand off me, even as he let his dick fall down onto his thigh, cum dripping off of both of us onto the couch below. Through the whole thing, through his shaking, through him laughing so hard he had to put his head back against the couch, he kept it right on me and kept his fist around the base of both of our dicks, and he kept working it in that short stroke, oversensitive and twitching in his own hand, and about twenty seconds later I finished into his fingers and up onto the arm of the couch as my leg vibrated and my heel drummed on the carpet, and he held it there through all of it until I grabbed his wrist and pulled it off me.

"Ok, I'm done," I said with an exhale.

He clicked the switch. The buzzing stopped and the room got loud with the lake house people again.

He quickly wiped our jizz off the massager, and set it back on the side table exactly where it had been, next to the hair tie. We both stopped to breathe for a second, before he stood up, his bare ass briefly in my face as he turned toward the kitchen. He came back a moment later with a fistful of paper towels and handed me half of them.

"She uses that on her shoulders," he said.

"Don't."

"Her neck and her shoulders."

"I'm never looking at it the same again."

We cleaned ourselves up in stages, no real hurry to any of it. I scrubbed at my shirt with the paper towels until it was obvious the shirt was a lost cause, and Finn pulled his shorts back up and dropped onto the couch in the same sideways sprawl as before. When I sat back down on the middle cushion his legs came up over my lap again, shin across my thighs, heel hooked over the armrest. I rested my hand on his ankle because there was nowhere else to put it, and he didn't move it off.

The lake house people were picking out countertops now. We watched them do that for a while.

"Can I ask you something," I said. "How far have you actually gone? With girls."

He thought about it for longer than I would have expected.

"Made out a lot. Some stuff over clothes, once under." He scratched his chest. "That's about it."

"That's it? Dude. Girls throw themselves at you."

"I don't like pushing it," he said. "Even when a girl's really into it, I'd rather move slower than she wants than faster. It's always been like that with me. I don't know why."

"Even when they're horny for you."

"Especially then." He kept his eyes on the TV when he said it. "It feels wrong to rush somebody. Even if she's the one rushing."

I was confused, and I just picked at the seam on his sock with my fingers. It was my turn and we both knew it.

"I've done nothing," I said. "Like, nothing nothing. Never had a girlfriend, never hooked up. I've never even kissed anybody. Not with tongue anyway. I'm basically a kissless virgin, man."

Finn turned his head and looked at the side table. At the massager, sitting there next to the hair tie, back in its spot.

Then he looked at me.

"Not anymore," he said.

The laugh came out of me so hard it hurt my stomach. He was cracking up too, his legs bouncing on my thighs with it, and I shoved his shin and he pushed his heel harder into the armrest and kept his legs right where they were. Every time we almost stopped, one of us pictured it again and we started over.

When it finally burned out we sat there breathing, watching the show.

"You know what I like about you," I said. "You're so cool and casual about everything. Everything's just fine with you. You're my favorite person, man."

He smiled at that, a real one.

"Same to you," he said.

That was the whole exchange. We stayed on the couch through the end of that episode and most of another one, his legs across me, my hand back on his ankle, his arm coming up along the back of the couch behind my head at some point without either of us commenting on it. The lake house got a new dock. The shirtless guy stayed shirtless.

Somewhere in the middle of the second episode I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Just once, quick, my lips on the stubble at his jaw, and then I pulled back and looked at him to see what I had done.

He just smiled.

····[]····

When I finally had to go, I walked home with my shirt covered in jizz stains, feeling weirdly thrilled, relaxed. I kept thinking about when he didn't stop the massager on me after he was already done. He was shaking and laughing and he kept it on me until I finished too.

He's a good friend. He made sure I finished.

Finn: You left your calc book here

Me: Bring it tomorrow

Finn: Also we still never measured

Me: We don't really have to

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

The next morning Will was up before me, and by the time I got my eyes open he already had his gym bag on his shoulder and a protein shake in his hand, swirling it with his wrist while he looked for his other shoe.

“You want anything from the dining hall later?” he asked. “I’ll be down there around noon.”

“Uh. The chicken thing.”

“The chicken thing,” he repeated. “Got it.”

And that was it. He found the shoe under his desk, sat on the edge of his bed to pull it on, and left without looking at me twice. I just watched his muscular body disappear, remembering what I had done to it the night before, and felt a little lingering strangeness in the pit of my stomach. I wanted more with him, but I had no idea what was going through his mind. He hadn't said a word about my dick having been inside him the night before. I stared at the ceiling after the door shut. It was like it might as well not have happened.

Over the next week or so, we never talked about it. Neither of us brought it up. I had every opportunity that whole week, but I never took it. I think I preferred being in limbo to confirming that it was something he regretted. As long as we never set it in stone, then it might happen again, or go further. We were both extremely normal about it, and I got sort of skilled at pretending like it wasn't on my mind. 

The not talking about it was also sort of erotic in its own way. Every time I saw a flash of bare skin from his dick or ass in the corner of my eye, it lit a fire in me even more than it had before. 

And Will seemed to react in his own way, as he went on sort of a sexual binge with several girls. He had the economics girl over again the night after it happened, then a girl from his floor meeting he’d been texting came over the next afternoon, and less than an hour after she left, another girl named Corinne, someone from the gym who I had never actually seen, only heard about, came over to fuck him. Throughout each of these sexcapades, I played my part and either pretended not to see them or left and gave them some space. 

After Corinne left, he read me her texts out loud from his bed with the lamp on.

“What are you up to tonight,” he read. “And she added an eggplant emoji. Dude she wanted me so bad.”

I felt like he was playing some sort of mind game with me, taunting me with his sexual prowess, somehow reminding me that he was a ladies' man.

“You're gonna have fun with her I bet,” I said. 

“I already did.” He put the phone on his chest. “Can you be gone Thursday, from like nine?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re the best.”

I was gone Thursday, from nine. I was gone a lot of nights after that too, and I got to know the third floor lounge and its one working outlet pretty well. He still never once brought up what we did together. He teased me about other stuff, sure, how I never left any hair in the shower drain, implying that I was a little boy, my inability to throw a football. He never went near the actual topic of us fucking.

Then one afternoon, I was lying face down on my bed, reading a textbook, when he grabbed his backpack off the floor on his way to class and spanked me in the ass, just like he used to.

I flinched and smiled at him. He headed for the door, and said over his shoulder, “I owe you one, by the way. You know what I mean.”

I did know what he meant, but the door shut before I could ask him to clarify what he meant.

····[]····

A couple days later, after more of the same from Will, I got locked out after heading to the shower, having left my keys in the room. Will was at class or something. I stood in the hall for a minute, dripping a little, my towel wrapped around my waist and nothing I could do. 

And then I heard a Mario Kart menu chime through the open door of room 304.

Nick and Derek were shirtless when I stepped into their doorway. They had nearly the same body, which I guess is what happens when two guys swim competitively all through high school. Lean, long arms, flat stomachs, their shoulders a bit wider than the rest of them. Both of them looked young for college, smooth-faced, and I doubted either one could grow a real beard yet, same as me. 

Derek was maybe five-ten and Nick had a couple inches on him. Derek's hair was dark and flopped over his forehead, and Nick's was light, almost blond. He had told me once in the dining hall that he was a quarter Japanese, though I couldn't really see it. "Same as Keanu Reeves," he said, and went back to his cereal.

Shirtless, the difference between them was the tan. Derek had serious tan lines, his arms and neck still showing the olive complexion from a summer job, I think, and everywhere a t-shirt would have covered him he was pale, almost glowing white, with sharp lines at his biceps. And his nipples were bright pink, matching his big lips. Nick was one even color all over, no lines at all, right down into his waistband, but he had the same color nipples as Derek. I chuckled at myself for noticing. My head was really just spinning as I stood there in a towel, looking for refuge in my exposed state.

Their room was the same as ours, but they had pushed the beds against opposite walls and shoved the desks together in the middle into a kind of command console. A half-empty bottle of Bacardi sat on it next to several Solo cups and a laptop with a dead battery light blinking. Derek was on his back on the near bed with a controller on his stomach and Nick was lying across his legs, sideways, using Derek’s thigh as a pillow and holding his own controller up in front of his face. They honestly looked sort of "cute", like brothers, even though they had only known each other a couple months.

Nobody moved when I took a step into the room, barefoot and in just my towel.

“Yo,” Derek said, not looking up. “You play?”

He didn't say anything about my state of dress.

“I’m locked out of my room.”

“Then hang out with us,” Nick said with a bored tone, his eyes still on the screen.

They handed me the third controller and I sat on the floor with my back against the desk. I raised my knee to get comfortable before realizing I was flashing my dick and balls directly at them. Both of them glanced briefly at my crotch before I wordlessly adjusted my towel to cover myself. And for twenty minutes nothing happened except that I didn't crack the top half of finishing slots in eleven straight races. 

Derek got up at one point to pour orange juice into a cup, and I looked at his body. He was in boxer briefs, his bulge noticeable to me. When he sat back down Nick returned to using him as a pillow, shifting his head onto his stomach. It reminded me of when I was younger, how I used to play around with my older cousin, putting my head on his stomach just like that, making the air pressure build up in my ear. I hadn't been close with another guy like that since, maybe any person at all, even the girls I had been with. 

Nick and Derek didn’t talk about it or laugh about it, and that was what I kept noticing, while I drove off Rainbow Road four times in a row.

It hit me that if I had done some "gay stuff", technically, with my roommate, maybe it was more common than I expected. I had to sniff these two out. 

"Have you guys gotten laid much since being here?"

Neither of them looked up. Derek took a turn wide, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth, and said, "A little," in the same flat voice he used to complain about blue shells.

"A couple times," Nick said from his spot against Derek's stomach, eyes still on the screen.

No stories came after that, no bragging, no question fired back at me. Two lean swimmer bodies sharing a room, physically close with each other, and the best they could report on their sex lives was very little information for two guys in college. 

“Your roommate’s the big guy,” Nick said. “Three-ten.”

“Will.”

“He’s a beast,” Derek said. “I saw him doing deadlifts at the gym. Guy’s a fucking Clydesdale.”

“He fucks a lot of girls,” I said. “I'm getting sexiled regularly. Or else just turning my back and pretending I'm not listening.”

“Bro,” Nick said, grinning. “Rough.”

“I’ve heard him through the door when I've passed by,” Derek said.

I was starting to admit to myself that my partial nudity was slightly thrilling, as well as talking about Will and his sex life. I wanted to pry a bit further with these two. They were good looking enough to be getting with girls, but they seemed pretty happy to just sit in here by themselves.

I lost another race and said, kind of at the TV, “Okay, hypothetical. Would you guys ever take a brojob? Like if there were literally zero girls. A full drought of pussy.”

Neither of them answered right away. But Derek missed an item box that he never missed before. Nick’s kart drifted into the wall for a second.

“Define drought,” Derek said.

“I don’t know. Like weeks. And you’re desperate.”

“Huh,” Nick said, and nothing else.

That was not like them. These two had a comeback ready for everything, usually in less than a second.

“I mean, I’d do it,” I said. “If I was desperate enough. Who wouldn’t, honestly. It doesn’t even count if you’re just doing it as a friend.”

“Sure,” Derek said, eyes on the screen. "I mean, a hand feels better if it's from someone else, regardless who it is."

Nobody laughed at me. Nobody said "bro, that’s gay". So I kept going.

“And I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not like guys are gross to look at. Some guys are kind of hot. In their own way. I mean, you can just see it. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Derek looked over at Nick. Nick looked at the TV. The lap music played through one whole loop before anybody said another word. Then, instead of asking me a single question about it, they started doing hypotheticals.

“Okay, but,” Nick said, sitting up, “what would even count. Like if a dude blows you, that’s not gay. That’s him being gay.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” Derek said.

“It’s a mouth. You can close your eyes and it’s just a mouth.”

“So if I sucked your dick right now you’d be straight and I’d be gay.”

“Yup," he replied, "And I’d be grateful, but straight.”

I snickered to myself. Derek pointed at me with the controller.

“I feel like receiving counts as less gay,” I said. “Objectively.”

“Thank you.”

“Objectively,” Derek said. “He said objectively.”

“What about a butt,” Nick said.

“A butt is a butt.”

It kept on like that for a while, everybody talking about gay stuff and what counts, with little internally consistent logic. I was just watching them subtly admit that they did stuff together, but apparently had a lot to talk about regarding exactly what was gay about it. I could roughly decipher a sort of ruleset that was forming between them, with little hints.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

Part 1

The next morning Will was up before me, and by the time I got my eyes open he already had his gym bag on his shoulder and a protein shake in his hand, swirling it with his wrist while he looked for his other shoe.

“You want anything from the dining hall later?” he asked. “I’ll be down there around noon.”

“Uh. The chicken thing.”

“The chicken thing,” he repeated. “Got it.”

And that was it. He found the shoe under his desk, sat on the edge of his bed to pull it on, and left without looking at me twice. I just watched his muscular body disappear, remembering what I had done to it the night before, and felt a little lingering strangeness in the pit of my stomach. I wanted more with him, but I had no idea what was going through his mind. He hadn't said a word about my dick having been inside him the night before. I stared at the ceiling after the door shut. It was like it might as well not have happened.

Over the next week or so, we never talked about it. Neither of us brought it up. I had every opportunity that whole week, but I never took it. I think I preferred being in limbo to confirming that it was something he regretted. As long as we never set it in stone, then it might happen again, or go further. We were both extremely normal about it, and I got sort of skilled at pretending like it wasn't on my mind. 

The not talking about it was also sort of erotic in its own way. Every time I saw a flash of bare skin from his dick or ass in the corner of my eye, it lit a fire in me even more than it had before. 

And Will seemed to react in his own way, as he went on sort of a sexual binge with several girls. He had the economics girl over again the night after it happened, then a girl from his floor meeting he’d been texting came over the next afternoon, and less than an hour after she left, another girl named Corinne, someone from the gym who I had never actually seen, only heard about, came over to fuck him. Throughout each of these sexcapades, I played my part and either pretended not to see them or left and gave them some space. 

After Corinne left, he read me her texts out loud from his bed with the lamp on.

“What are you up to tonight,” he read. “And she added an eggplant emoji. Dude she wanted me so bad.”

I felt like he was playing some sort of mind game with me, taunting me with his sexual prowess, somehow reminding me that he was a ladies' man.

“You're gonna have fun with her I bet,” I said. 

“I already did.” He put the phone on his chest. “Can you be gone Thursday, from like nine?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re the best.”

I was gone Thursday, from nine. I was gone a lot of nights after that too, and I got to know the third floor lounge and its one working outlet pretty well. He still never once brought up what we did together. He teased me about other stuff, sure, how I never left any hair in the shower drain, implying that I was a little boy, my inability to throw a football. He never went near the actual topic of us fucking.

Then one afternoon, I was lying face down on my bed, reading a textbook, when he grabbed his backpack off the floor on his way to class and spanked me in the ass, just like he used to.

I flinched and smiled at him. He headed for the door, and said over his shoulder, “I owe you one, by the way. You know what I mean.”

I did know what he meant, but the door shut before I could ask him to clarify what he meant.

····[]····

A couple days later, after more of the same from Will, I got locked out after heading to the shower, having left my keys in the room. Will was at class or something. I stood in the hall for a minute, dripping a little, my towel wrapped around my waist and nothing I could do. 

And then I heard a Mario Kart menu chime through the open door of room 304.

Nick and Derek were shirtless when I stepped into their doorway. They had nearly the same body, which I guess is what happens when two guys swim competitively all through high school. Lean, long arms, flat stomachs, their shoulders a bit wider than the rest of them. Both of them looked young for college, smooth-faced, and I doubted either one could grow a real beard yet, same as me. 

Derek was maybe five-ten and Nick had a couple inches on him. Derek's hair was dark and flopped over his forehead, and Nick's was light, almost blond. He had told me once in the dining hall that he was a quarter Japanese, though I couldn't really see it. "Same as Keanu Reeves," he said, and went back to his cereal.

Shirtless, the difference between them was the tan. Derek had serious tan lines, his arms and neck still showing the olive complexion from a summer job, I think, and everywhere a t-shirt would have covered him he was pale, almost glowing white, with sharp lines at his biceps. And his nipples were bright pink, matching his big lips. Nick was one even color all over, no lines at all, right down into his waistband, but he had the same color nipples as Derek. I chuckled at myself for noticing. My head was really just spinning as I stood there in a towel, looking for refuge in my exposed state.

Their room was the same as ours, but they had pushed the beds against opposite walls and shoved the desks together in the middle into a kind of command console. A half-empty bottle of Bacardi sat on it next to several Solo cups and a laptop with a dead battery light blinking. Derek was on his back on the near bed with a controller on his stomach and Nick was lying across his legs, sideways, using Derek’s thigh as a pillow and holding his own controller up in front of his face. They honestly looked sort of "cute", like brothers, even though they had only known each other a couple months.

Nobody moved when I took a step into the room, barefoot and in just my towel.

“Yo,” Derek said, not looking up. “You play?”

He didn't say anything about my state of dress.

“I’m locked out of my room.”

“Then hang out with us,” Nick said with a bored tone, his eyes still on the screen.

They handed me the third controller and I sat on the floor with my back against the desk. I raised my knee to get comfortable before realizing I was flashing my dick and balls directly at them. Both of them glanced briefly at my crotch before I wordlessly adjusted my towel to cover myself. And for twenty minutes nothing happened except that I didn't crack the top half of finishing slots in eleven straight races. 

Derek got up at one point to pour orange juice into a cup, and I looked at his body. He was in boxer briefs, his bulge noticeable to me. When he sat back down Nick returned to using him as a pillow, shifting his head onto his stomach. It reminded me of when I was younger, how I used to play around with my older cousin, putting my head on his stomach just like that, making the air pressure build up in my ear. I hadn't been close with another guy like that since, maybe any person at all, even the girls I had been with. 

Nick and Derek didn’t talk about it or laugh about it, and that was what I kept noticing, while I drove off Rainbow Road four times in a row.

It hit me that if I had done some "gay stuff", technically, with my roommate, maybe it was more common than I expected. I had to sniff these two out. 

"Have you guys gotten laid much since being here?"

Neither of them looked up. Derek took a turn wide, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth, and said, "A little," in the same flat voice he used to complain about blue shells.

"A couple times," Nick said from his spot against Derek's stomach, eyes still on the screen.

No stories came after that, no bragging, no question fired back at me. Two lean swimmer bodies sharing a room, physically close with each other, and the best they could report on their sex lives was very little information for two guys in college. 

“Your roommate’s the big guy,” Nick said. “Three-ten.”

“Will.”

“He’s a beast,” Derek said. “I saw him doing deadlifts at the gym. Guy’s a fucking Clydesdale.”

“He fucks a lot of girls,” I said. “I'm getting sexiled regularly. Or else just turning my back and pretending I'm not listening.”

“Bro,” Nick said, grinning. “Rough.”

“I’ve heard him through the door when I've passed by,” Derek said.

I was starting to admit to myself that my partial nudity was slightly thrilling, as well as talking about Will and his sex life. I wanted to pry a bit further with these two. They were good looking enough to be getting with girls, but they seemed pretty happy to just sit in here by themselves.

I lost another race and said, kind of at the TV, “Okay, hypothetical. Would you guys ever take a brojob? Like if there were literally zero girls. A full drought of pussy.”

Neither of them answered right away. But Derek missed an item box that he never missed before. Nick’s kart drifted into the wall for a second.

“Define drought,” Derek said.

“I don’t know. Like weeks. And you’re desperate.”

“Huh,” Nick said, and nothing else.

That was not like them. These two had a comeback ready for everything, usually in less than a second.

“I mean, I’d do it,” I said. “If I was desperate enough. Who wouldn’t, honestly. It doesn’t even count if you’re just doing it as a friend.”

“Sure,” Derek said, eyes on the screen. "I mean, a hand feels better if it's from someone else, regardless who it is."

Nobody laughed at me. Nobody said "bro, that’s gay". So I kept going.

“And I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not like guys are gross to look at. Some guys are kind of hot. In their own way. I mean, you can just see it. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Derek looked over at Nick. Nick looked at the TV. The lap music played through one whole loop before anybody said another word. Then, instead of asking me a single question about it, they started doing hypotheticals.

“Okay, but,” Nick said, sitting up, “what would even count. Like if a dude blows you, that’s not gay. That’s him being gay.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” Derek said.

“It’s a mouth. You can close your eyes and it’s just a mouth.”

“So if I sucked your dick right now you’d be straight and I’d be gay.”

“Yup," he replied, "And I’d be grateful, but straight.”

I snickered to myself. Derek pointed at me with the controller.

“I feel like receiving counts as less gay,” I said. “Objectively.”

“Thank you.”

“Objectively,” Derek said. “He said objectively.”

“What about a butt,” Nick said.

“A butt is a butt.”

It kept on like that for a while, everybody talking about gay stuff and what counts, with little internally consistent logic. I was just watching them subtly admit that they did stuff together, but apparently had a lot to talk about regarding exactly what was gay about it. I could roughly decipher a sort of ruleset that was forming between them, with little hints.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

The housing portal assigned us to each other in July and neither of us reached out before move-in day. I don’t really know why.

His name was Will.

Our dorm room was on the third floor of the “nice” dorms on campus. People get randomly assigned, but the chatter on all the forums was that this was the dorm everyone wanted to be in, “for the real freshman experience”. I was from a bigger city, and I grew up in an apartment, so it wasn’t the biggest departure from the norm.

It smelled like fresh paint and plug-in air fresheners as soon as I walked into the building. I looked around at all the other students moving in, many accompanied by families, but I was there solo, just me and a couple suitcases. When I climbed the stairs to my room, I thought about how I might get a little workout from all the steps I would have to ascend this year. I pictured my glutes tightening up, not that I needed it. 

I got teased throughout high school for having a bubble butt. It wasn’t exactly a bad thing, but athletes at my school were notoriously fratty, and had zero limits regarding male-on-male physical contact. And I played two sports. My butt got smacked, groped, fingered and humped on a weekly basis for four years, and I was sure in my head that college would be different. 

The years of homo-erotic touching and nudity-adjacent bro-bonding had definitely always struck me as something interesting, maybe even a slight turn-on. I didn’t find guys gross, even dicks and butts. I had never been with a guy, but I didn’t hate the idea. The thought even recurred enough that I would occasionally check out the “gay” side of twitter, check out some naked dudes, add a little spice to my spank bank. Nothing hardcore, but stuff that the average straight guy definitely wouldn’t gravitate toward. It was a little secret I kept, a slightly hidden side of me that was never prominent enough to necessitate revealing to anyone.

On the way to my room, I passed an open door and glanced inside. Two shirtless guys were giggling, facing away from the door. I could tell from their backs that they were fit and lean, on the taller side. They were looking down.

I paused out of curiosity and watched for a second as they simultaneously pulled open the waistbands of their shorts, looking down into their own and then at each other’s, and giggling more.

“Nick, I think mine’s bigger,” one of them said.

“Inconclusive, Derek,” the other said, letting his waistband snap back to his body. “We’ll have to compare hard later.”

I shook my head. Maybe this place wasn’t going to be as different from high school as I thought. Same fratty boys, just with a little more body hair.

I looked at the number on the square next to their door, “304”. I counted in my head, by even numbers, looking down the hall, identifying the room that would be mine. Three-o-six, three-o-eight… there. I had found my room, and confirmed it on my own little plaque: “310”.

The setup was plain, pretty much identical to the preview I had gotten from the dick-comparing duo down the hall, two long twin beds, two desks facing away from each other, one big window overlooking the courtyard. I took the bed on the left because it was closer to the power outlet, and dropped my stuff. I looked out the window, and released a cinematic sigh, watching my as-yet unacquainted cohort of students scurry around.

I spent twenty minutes arranging things before I heard someone in the hallway. Will walked in with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a laundry basket under his arm and looked around the room, like he was sizing it up. He didn’t look disappointed.

He was tall. That was the first thing I noticed. And he was broad. His large pecs and arms defined his shirt even though his shirt wasn’t tight, and he had the jawline of a male model. He looked a year or two older than a freshman should. Maybe from the musculature, I thought. He had a relaxed look on his face, with airpods in. 

"You the roommate?" he asked with a handsome smile.

“Yeah.”

He dropped his stuff on the right side, looked at my setup for a second, and started unpacking. 

—[]—

We talked for maybe forty minutes while we both unpacked, filling in the basics, and it wasn't awkward exactly, just a little strange meeting a new person that I was going to be sleeping next to every night for the foreseeable future. 

We didn't have a ton in common, as far as I could tell. He was from a suburban place with not a lot to do, played lacrosse in high school, hadn't made the college team but wasn't broken up about it. He liked the gym. He liked going out. He seemed easygoing, but I sensed a little bit of a wild side beneath the surface. I told him I ran track, and played a little volleyball. I liked movies and spent too much time online.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.

“No.”

“I have an ex back home. We still hooked up all Summer, but it’s probably over for real now.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Around eight, there was noise in the hallway, people moving in groups, someone saying something about a new student orientation event happening in the quad. Will looked up from his duffel bag, that he still wasn’t finished unpacking for some reason.

"We should go," he said.

It wasn't a question exactly. 

“Sure,” I said.

We both started changing at the same time on our respective sides of the room. I had my back to him and was pulling on a clean pair of underwear when I heard him cross the room behind me, and then his open hand connected with my left butt cheek with a sharp crack and I felt it jiggle through the cotton and I spun around.

He was already walking back to his side, fully nude, grinning at nothing.

"You're skinny but you got a fat ass, dude," he said, pulling a pair of underwear up, tucking away an unfairly large set of dick and balls.

"Ouch," I said, rubbing my ass.

"Relax," he said. "Girls are going to like that."

I narrowed my eyes at him as he pulled on his pants. 

Yeah, I thought to myself, More of the same.

—[]—

The quad was loud and strung with lights, and there were maybe three hundred students out there as the music got louder and louder. I saw Nick and Derek talking to each other, apparently shy to talk to anyone else yet, and I had the urge to be friendly and strike up a conversation, but Will was pulling me in another direction, and I followed him.

There weren’t any “adults” around, for lack of a better word. It was a student-run thing, and there didn’t seem to be any rules. There were full bottles of booze lining several tables around the perimeter of the grass. It seemed to help the vibe as a bunch of newly independent teens gathered and tried to talk to each other, everyone performing some version of being relaxed about meeting strangers in a new place.

Will seemed to come to life among the crowd, though. He moved through it like he had been there before, easily starting conversations with people. He talked to everyone easily, especially girls. I sort of tagged along as he dragged me by the arm to different areas of the quad. I met a few people as well, tried to remember names, traded instagram contacts and sometimes phone numbers, laughed at the right moments of conversation. The whole thing was an exercise in meeting new people, and with Will there, it honestly seemed like it was going well.

That was how we ended up with the girls. Will introduced himself to two of them near a drink table that also had a bunch of little chocolate brownies that sat behind a cardboard sign with large block letters on it that read “THC BROWNIES” followed by a little drawing of a pot leaf. I thought about it, but decided I didn’t want to go crazy on my first night.

Within ten minutes of talking to the girls, all four of us were standing in a loose circle that was getting tighter by the second, the girls moving closer to us, Will moving closer to them, and me following his lead and reacting as well. 

The conversation had a certain charge to it. It didn’t matter what words were being said. They were wooed by the gentle masculinity in front of them, a certain balance that Will and I provided in tandem, and their body language said they were horny and wanted to go somewhere private. 

Will was talking to the taller girl, dark-haired, confident, matching his energy exactly. The other one was standing closer to me. She had introduced herself but I had already lost her name in the ambient noise and hadn't wanted to ask twice.

We walked back to the dorm as a group. It felt organized without anyone organizing it. Will held the door.

—[]—

Back in the room the energy was different from two minutes prior in the quad, a smaller space, lower light, the door closed. Will sat on his bed with his girl and they were talking but the talking was already winding down into mutual touching. My girl sat next to me on my bed and I was aware of how close she was, and aware of Will just a few feet away.

Will kissed his girl first. She kissed him back without hesitation.

I looked at the girl next to me. She looked back. She grabbed my head and pulled my face into hers. I kissed her back a little awkwardly, and it was fine. She was a good kisser, but some part of my attention kept drifting across the room.

Will had his hand in his girl’s hair and she had both of hers on his bulky chest, and from where I was sitting I could see the line of his dick through his shorts, already hard, fighting ferociously against the fabric, and it was hard to miss because Will was not a small guy, and I had already established that when I saw it plop out earlier, but this time he was excited. There was blood flow. I looked away, energized by the sight, but trying to focus on the task at hand.

My girl shifted closer and put her hand on my thigh, and I was hard too, and she noticed, and she started moving her hand upward with clear intention. Her fingers curled toward my waistband and tugged gently. I froze. I put my hand over hers, gently, and didn't move it further.

Across the room I heard Will's voice, low and whispering inaudibly, and the girl's voice answered back, and then a pause, and then her voice again with a different quality to it, a change in tone, less fun. A few more whispered exchanges ensued, and Will said something I couldn't make out. She said something short back.

She sat up.

"I have to go," she said, and looked over at my girl. "Come with me?"

My girl looked at me. I gave her nothing useful. Honestly, I felt a little relieved. I had never done a one-off hookup in my life, and the whole thing felt a little more strange than arousing. She looked back across the room, made a decision, and stood up.

They were gone in under two minutes, shoes on, quick goodbyes, the door clicking shut behind them, and then it was just me and Will in the room, in the rearranged quiet.

Will stayed on his bed, on his back now, staring at the ceiling, his boner still raging in his pants. I even saw it throb, like he flexed it instinctively. He turned over and groaned into his pillow, a long suffering sound, and then pulled his face out of it.

"I know exactly what I wanted to do to that pussy," he said, to no one in particular.

"Yeah," I said quietly, looking at my phone, which I had picked up reflexively. I had notifications from the classes starting next week.

Will made another sound, between a groan and a laugh, and started moving his hips against his mattress, face down, just for a second, working something out of his system. I looked up at his muscular ass as he thrust again, and I gulped. I looked back down at my phone, staring hard and not retaining anything I was looking at.

He flipped onto his back with energy, the whole bed bouncing, and lay there with one arm over his face. His jeans were doing very little to conceal the throbbing boner still going on underneath them. The fabric was losing a battle against a raging pole of hormones and meat behind it.

I put my phone down on my chest and my eyes closed on their own. I always fell asleep at random spots. It wasn’t narcolepsy, rather it was more like I was too lazy to properly prepare for bed, and I would just get exhausted and fall asleep.

I awoke suddenly to Will pouncing on me on my bed. I guess he had too much leftover energy from the girls being here with no sexual climax. He had so much strength to him, that my attempts to escape basically didn’t register at all. He didn’t put much force into it. It was more like he was just playing with me. He even let me get some leverage at one point, flipping him over onto his back. I even got the sense at one point that he was trying to tickle me rather than actually wrestle. The dude was just having fun. He was a fun guy and I wasn’t used to this kind of friendship.

When we stopped, and caught our breaths, and calmed down a bit, we started talking. We both needed a change of subject. We talked for an hour. That part was easy, easier than the afternoon had been, looser, and somewhere in it I started to like him a little. Beyond the appreciation for his enviable physical form, he was really a cool guy beneath it all. He was funny in a dry, offhanded way. He asked me actual questions and listened to the answers. The last light turned off, and the conversation drifted around and eventually just slowed down on its own, and at some point we both started shedding layers of clothes without discussing it, shirts, then pants, and I heard the soft sounds of him pulling his blanket over himself, and I did the same.

Then his hand appeared over the side of his bed with his underwear in it, dropping them casually onto the floor.

"Damn," I said. "You took off everything."

"I kept one sock," he said.

"Why one sock?"

"For the nut hut," he said, rhythmically, with a sort of ironic tone, like he was implying something.

I chuckled. "The what?"

"Just in case I need it.”

The room was dark and quiet, and I had a few minutes of peace as I lay there, unbothered by lying in a room with a stranger for the first time in my life. In a few short hours, he had become not a stranger. It felt more like visiting family, some sort of distant cousin. 

I stared more at the ceiling than at my phone as my mind drifted on its own, in my personal little period of quiet meditation. I still had a million unanswered questions about how college was going to go, but I didn't hate the way it had started. 

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I heard the unmistakable sound of a male jerking off a few feet away from me under his blankets. I pictured how many dudes were likely doing the same thing in this dorm building, maybe a hundred dicks getting wanked, just a few feet from each other on different sides of walls, in a big gridded dorm room pattern. I pictured Derek and Nick down the hall, probably comparing dicks again. I got hard thinking about it, wondering if I should join in, but sleep took me first, and I was out.

—[]—

By the end of the first week, I had working theories about Will. He had grown up in a sexy body with an easygoing nature, and other people responded well to him. I probably put too much thought into it, but I believed he had never needed to try hard to win people over. It seemed like everyone liked him, and he liked me, at least enough to drag me around, demand I eat every meal with him, go “get girls” together. I was like a little brother to him. 

He wasn't performing confidence, he just didn't have the capacity for self-consciousness. He changed out in the open, often without even facing away from me. He walked to the communal showers in just a towel and came back the same way and hung it on his desk chair to dry without thinking about it twice. He sat at his desk in boxers and did homework. He stretched in the morning with his arms over his head and his shirt riding up and he never checked to see if his morning wood was about to poke me in the eye.

I noticed. I never said anything about it.

His lacrosse body was real. He obviously didn’t play anymore, but he went to the gym a few times a week, always early in the morning, and it was the only time he didn’t make me go places with him. That became my special wank time. Not that it was the only time I was able to jerk off, but it was the most consistent. As soon as he closed the door, I would pull myself into wakefulness, rub one out ritualistically onto some dirty laundry from the floor, and toss it into the corner before going back to sleep. 

He would come back an hour and a half later with his shirt damp across the chest and his hair pushed back and he smelled like pure effort, plus whatever soap they had in the gym showers.  He'd sit on his bed for a minute before he did anything else, just breathing. I believe that was his personal meditation time.

—[]—

The second Friday after classes started, things changed. It rained from the afternoon onward, steadily and heavily. All plans were basically canceled, even the parties that night. Will’s plans fell through. Mine had never really existed on their own. I had been making friends around campus, and almost went to a Dungeons and Dragons thing, but I didn’t know enough people yet to want to commit to something like that. 

Will and I were both still in the room at seven, which almost never happened, and for a while we just hung out, existing in the same space doing separate things, him on his phone, me on my laptop slowly reviewing class-related things, not really working. I had a few sexy tabs open in the browser, but that was for whenever Will left the room.

Around nine I fell asleep without meaning to, sitting up against my headboard, my laptop open in front of me.

When I opened my eyes Will was sitting on the edge of my bed, close enough that I could feel the weight of him through the mattress. He had my laptop on his knee and he was looking at the screen.

I didn't move right away. My brain was still coming back online. Then I registered what was on the screen and I was fully awake.

He opened the sexy tabs on my browser. And what was on the screen wasn’t even what I normally watched. It was two naked guys, ripped and hung, and it was not a subtle video. Will had clearly been looking at it for at least a few seconds because he wasn't startled when I shifted.

He looked over at me. His face had a big, handsome smile on it.

“You’re gay?”

“No.”

“But you’re into guys.”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you ever, like… done it with a guy?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

“No.”

He paused for a second. I took the laptop from him slowly, and closed the lid.

"You should blow me," he said.

My stomach dropped through the mattress. I felt my dick twitch. I didn't say anything. I couldn't locate the words.

He held my eyes for another second and then he shifted back on the bed and pulled the waistband of his sweats down in one slow, casual motion. His big dick flopped out, and he hooked the waistband under his balls. A whole package of meat right in front of me, being offered.

The thing was big. I had seen it already, but not this close, and not in this context. It wasn’t hard, but it was still big, resting on his big balls. My brain sort of recalibrated as I stared at it. My eyes just went there and stayed. I bit my tongue, needing a sharp sensation to remind myself I was awake. 

He stood up and walked over to me, the thing was inches away from me. His hard body was attached. He lifted his shirt a little, showing his abs, and I looked up, and then down. His pubes were trimmed. I guess I knew that subconsciously from seeing it before, but up close it was very neat. It was aesthetic. It was nice.

Something in my right arm moved. It wasn’t a decision I made. My hand lifted maybe two or three inches off the mattress toward him, and my heart was going very fast.

Will watched my hand move. He pulled his waistband back up, and the meaty man package was suddenly closed up, just a bulge again.

He laughed. My mouth dropped in a little shock. Too many emotions were swimming around my brain. It wasn’t even a mean laugh, but I was freaking out inside.

"I'm just fucking with you, man," he said.

He picked up his own phone and walked back to his side of the room. He sat down on his bed and put his feet up, like nothing had happened. 

I sat on my bed and stared at the wall, my eyes wide. What the fuck was that. What did I do?

—[]—

We didn’t talk about it again that night, but he never let it go.

He didn't bring it up constantly or make a big thing out of it, but there were subtle references to my unpracticed not-fully-straight side that he would pepper into our daily life following that incident, with thinly veiled references like, “You like sausage, right?” at breakfast, and “I know you like it when they come from behind,” while we were watching a basketball game at the student center. 

And he made it apparent that he thought about it too, in a specific look he'd give me when he caught me looking at him, and even in the way he'd walk out of the shower and take slightly longer than necessary to put on his underwear after he dropped his towel. 

It was the comments he made in front of two guys from the floor when I said I wasn't doing anything Friday night: "Yeah, he's pretty selective about the guys he spends his time with." 

The guys didn't get it. I got it. Will was looking at his phone when he said it, perfectly casual, and I had to stand there and not react.

I told him I didn't know what he was talking about.

He nodded slowly, like that was a reasonable thing to say, and went back to his food.

And he still jerked off in his bed at night, and I forced myself not to look.

—[]—

Will got interested in this girl in his economics lecture, and she texted him back on a Wednesday, and by Thursday night she was in our room. I had been there first. I had homework to finish. I didn’t like the library.

Will came in with her and they were already laughing about something from the hallway, and he glanced at me once, just once, and I saw him register that I was there, and he didn't ask me to leave.

I put my headphones in. I opened my laptop. I stared at a document I wasn't reading. I know the decent thing to do is leave and let your roommate have some alone time with a girl, but I got this unexplainable feeling that he wanted me there. He wanted to tease me, and I didn’t really want to go.

They were on his bed for maybe ten minutes before things got quiet, and I kept my eyes on my screen. Then she whispered something, and he said something back and I heard his bed creak with shifted weight.

My monitor went black after I didn’t touch it for a while, and I didn’t wake it up. The scene going on behind me, as they brazenly hooked up without caring that I was there, was reflected on my screen, obscured, but visible enough that I couldn’t look away.

It went on for a while as I sat in my desk chair with my headphones in, but nothing playing. Instead I listened to things I wasn't supposed to hear, squishing, wet sounds, Will and a girl exploring each other’s bodies, groans from him, giggles from her, sounds of pleasure from his chest. At one point he clearly said, “Can you tug on my balls?” and I chuckled internally, still acting like I wasn’t listening. I was hard as hell at my desk, and somehow trying to pretend that I was just focused on something else.

At some point I heard her voice in a register I hadn't heard before, and I heard Will's voice get deeper as he said, “I’m gonna bust, babe,” and his skin started clapping against hers. He made more noise than her as he approached climax, breathing and almost growling as he peaked.

When they got quiet, I realized I had been breathing hard.

When she left soon after, it was around one in the morning, Will walked her out and came back in, and I was in bed with my back to the room. He used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, got into bed. I heard his lamp click off.

In the dark he said, "You enjoy the show?"

“Shut up,” I said, turning to him, smiling.

“Did you watch at all?” 

“I tried not to.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t care that you were here,” he said, throwing his arm behind his head.

“I would’ve left if you asked,” I said.

“Yeah, but you also would’ve left if you wanted to.”

I didn’t have a response to that. He was right. 

“So,” he said, “You liked what you saw?”

I felt my face get warm in the dark. I did like it. And he liked teasing me.

—[]—

After the thing with that girl, he turned the dial up.

It started small. A few days later he came back from the gym and stripped his shirt off at the door, which he had done before, but this time he stood there for an extra beat, catching his breath like he had jogged back, and dropped his shorts and underwear too. Nudity wasn’t that strange, but this wasn’t usual. It was more than normal. I looked at his dick, taking in the sight of the sweaty hog, still never getting used to the visual prowess of the thing. I looked up and he was looking at me. 

He smiled, and wiggled his hips. I looked back down and watched it wiggle. 

“Have you gotten with a girl lately?”

“It’s been a couple days,” he said, grabbing the thick meat and shaking it in his fist. I saw some blood flow into it. 

“I’m so horny all the time,” he added, “I would put it in anything.”

I gulped. I felt like the thing was pointing directly at me. 

I reached for myself subconsciously, squeezing the firmness arising in my shorts.

“You wanna suck it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“You wish,” I said with a forced chuckle, hiding nothing.

“Maybe it would be cool,” he said as his hand moved lower to his balls, pulling them tight, “having a quickie blowjob machine at home in the dorm.”

I bit my tongue slightly, as my head started to leave reality. 

He stroked himself once, his fingers lingering on the tip, holding it tight, making it twitch against his hand. I squeezed myself harder, trying to fight back the ache in the erection.

He stepped closer.

“I could put it in your mouth right now,” he said. 

I just bit my tongue harder. I felt my face turn red. I started to rub myself over my shorts, staring at his hardening meat.

There was a pause as he squeezed it, forcing blood into the tip, making it swell. I even saw a vein protrude from the surface.

“It’s veiny,” I said without thinking about it.

“You could feel it with your tongue,” he said, stepping closer, inches away from me now. 

“You want me to,” I said, openly rubbing myself now, forgetting all sense of fear I had been holding onto.

Just before I finally brought myself to the point of reaching up to grab him, he stepped back. I felt my stomach sink. He got me again. 

“You’re hilarious,” he said, chuckling through his nose. He wrapped his towel around himself, and went to shower.

The disappointment from the teasing didn’t make my boner drop down at all. I whipped down the front of my shorts as soon as the door clicked shut, stroking myself to a quick orgasm, aiming my load at the blanket bunched up between my legs.

“Fuck,” I said aloud to no one. 

Will had gotten me again. I wasn’t thinking clearly around him anymore. I had to quash this tension, one way or another.

—[]—

The plan started formulating in my head subconsciously before I realized it. I thought about sucking his dick in his sleep. 

No, I thought to myself, That wouldn’t be consensual, no matter how much he teases.

I thought about being straightforward with him. I’d say, “I know you want it, let’s just cut the games and get to it,” but I couldn't really picture what he’d say in response. The risk was too high that I would just ruin it forever.

The next week he was lying on his bed in the afternoon doing nothing, just on his back in his boxers, and he said without any preamble: "Does this look big to you?"

I looked over. He had his phone turned toward me, it was a pic of his dick, hard and laying across the body of some girl he had hooked up with. It was indeed big.

"Yeah," I said.

I grabbed my jacket off the desk chair and walked out the door.

I stood in the hallway for a minute, not going anywhere. I heard him laugh as I left the room. The dude was torturing me. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

—[]—

He left it alone for a few days after that, which was almost worse, because I kept waiting for the next stimulating tease and it didn't come, and I caught myself watching him more than usual, checking to see if something was coming. He would catch me watching and his mouth would go up at one corner and he would look back at whatever he was doing.

Will dragged me to an off-campus party, sometime right before Halloween, because there were decorations around. It was loud and crowded and I had done enough of these by now to feel comfortable, and I found a few people I knew and talked to them while Will did his thing across the room.

Around midnight he materialized at my elbow. He had found two guys, who appeared to be gay, maybe a year or two older, and he introduced them to me with his arm around my shoulder.

"This is my boyfriend," he said, nodding at me.

One of the guys raised his eyebrows, maybe a little interested. The other one grinned.

“He’s cute,” one of them said.

Before I could say anything Will turned toward me and kissed me on the lips, firm and deliberate, and grabbed my ass with one hand, a full handful, and I went completely red from my neck to my forehead. The guys laughed like they were charmed by the audacity of it. I think I even felt his tongue break through his lips a bit.

When he pulled back, he was grinning.

"He's shy," Will said, to the guys, about me, while I just stood there aghast.

"I'm not his boyfriend," I said.

"He's in denial," Will said, nodding sympathetically.

The guys thought he was hilarious. Everybody always thought Will was hilarious. I even found myself laughing along, even as the torture flowed through me. I offered to get everyone another drink, and stepped away to spend five minutes in the kitchen recalibrating. When I came back, Will was talking to someone else. I brought the batch of drinks I was holding to a random group of people I didn’t know, and started up a conversation, trying to take my mind off of it.

I walked home later, alone, feeling a weird thrill, even if I didn’t realize why yet.

I lay in bed that night, after jerking off thinking about Will’s tongue touching my lips, while he slept close enough to me that I could count the sparse hairs on his exposed chest. I stared at the ceiling in the dark. I was going to do something about it, soon.

—[]—

The next night, at almost midnight, Will was in bed under his blanket, playing on his phone with the lamp on, and I was at my desk, failing to study for a midterm. The room was quiet, but the tension in my body was rushing through me. Outside, it had gotten cold enough that the window had a film of condensation on the inside and the heat was running. The room had developed a Winter-ish quality where the air feels kind of weird, maybe dry. It was just different than the fresh air of the other seasons.

I closed my laptop. I sat there for another minute. My brain ran its arguments one more time: this is your roommate, you have to live here, it's going to be strange, you should go to bed, you should leave this alone.

But my body stood up.

I walked across the room. Will looked up from his phone. He looked at me standing there at the side of his bed and he didn't say anything and he didn't move away. He just waited, as the corners of his mouth curled into a smile, maybe a slightly nervous one.

I smiled back, genuinely happy as reached down and pulled his blanket back.

He let me, almost smirking as he watched what I did.

I got onto the bed and crawled over him.

“You really…” he started, but stopped when I grabbed his dick through his shorts. 

“Okay…” he said, almost giggling. 

I dropped down and smelled him. I didn’t even realize I would want to do that, but I did. I had smelled his presence for months now, and I wanted the source, the warm source of that masculine scent that dominated mine in the room.

I put my hand flat on his stomach as I dug my nose around his bulge, inhaling and nuzzling the thing. He exhaled slowly through his nose, half giggling, half sighing. His stomach was hard and warm and I felt it move under my hand.

I hooked my fingers in his waistband and he lifted his hips slightly, just enough to help me as I pulled them down, and he was already half-hard. The thing was big, bigger now than I had seen it up close before, and I wrapped my hand around it. He cleared his throat like he was going to say something, but then he didn’t. He was unguarded, and done teasing me. He was letting me do it. 

Maybe he wasn’t really teasing me all this time. He just waited until I was sure enough to take what I wanted.

He got hard fast as I rubbed him up and down. I moved my hand slowly and he lay there with his head back. His jaw was loose, and both his hands lay flat on the mattress at his sides like he was working to keep himself still. His breathing changed when I put my mouth on it. The thing stretched my lips, and I tasted skin. I looked up and watched his stomach rise and fall.

I bobbed my head for a minute, getting used to a large cylinder applying pressure in my mouth. It was like an adult version of a popsicle, but something hit me. It didn’t really feel like sex. My raging hardon in my shorts told me that it was still sexual, but I needed something else.

I rose up, taking his dick out of my mouth. He lifted his head and looked down at me, a question in his eyes.

I started licking his balls, and he dropped his head again, spreading his legs wider. I took advantage of the space and went lower, licking his taint. The new bouquet of smells and tastes filled me with energy, and I put my hands under his thighs, lifting his legs up. He went along with it without resistance, as my mouth dropped to his ass.

“Fuck,” he said as I pressed my wet tongue deeply inside him, “Yes.”

I tasted the pure taste of man, his most vulnerable part. I was getting everything he had teased me with for months. This is what I wanted after all. 

I started humping the bed underneath me, gently pressing into it while I licked my roommate’s hunky ass. He didn’t have nearly as much hair as I would have expected. He was just a pink hole ready for me to do whatever I wanted to it, and I suddenly wanted a lot. 

I rose up onto my knees, pulling down my shorts in the process, in one coordinated motion that surprised myself. I looked down at him as my dick lined up between his muscular, round globes of ass, touching the soaking wet hole I had just slobbered to oblivion.

“What’re you…” he said, stopping as I pressed forward.

I felt his warm body envelope my rock hard pole, and I popped past the entrance as quickly as my tongue had. Suddenly, as his body tensed around me, clamping down and telling me I had found the right spot, my entire world made sense again. Will’s face twisted slightly between worried and nervous giggling as I pushed into him an inch. 

I waited for a minute as he relaxed. I gripped his dick and stroked it to the tip.

“Thats… good,” he said like he was out of breath. “I always kinda wondered what this would feel like.”

I pushed in further, adding another wad of spit for good measure as I stroked him. He leaned into it, through the tension, more motivated than I had expected when I started this.

I started to move back and forth.

“Ohhh,” he cooed lightly under his breath. His hands found my hips, guiding my pace, and I mostly abided by them, pressing deeply. 

As I started to pick up a pace, a drop of sweat dripped from my nose down onto his abs, and the sensations pushed me to the edge. I reached down and grabbed his balls, pulling them tightly away from his body, wrapping my thumb and index finger around them and keeping it taut.

“Fuckkk,” he groaned. “I’m actually gonna bust, babe.”

“Yeah, cum,” I said in a deeper voice than I usually had. “I’m gonna cum in you too.”

“Fuckkk, okay, okay, okay…” he seemed like he had fallen out of balance as his large dick swelled to maximum size in my hand. I kept thrusting while he held his legs in the air for me, and I felt him pulse in my hand. I aimed his dick toward his chest and he released, squirting himself in the face. I felt his hole clamp down on me and pulse rhythmically, and I thrust one more time, depositing my seed exactly where it belonged. 

I leaned down and rested my head on his neck as I finished my orgasm, feeling his pulses slow down as he oozed out onto himself.

He braced carefully as I slowly pulled myself out of him, feeling the air on my dick again. I lay next to him, propped up on my elbow and looked at his face. He didn’t seem bothered. He just breathed, looking at the ceiling.

“That was…” I started, not really sure what to say. 

He just nodded. “No, that was… kinda cool. I’m glad I tried that.”

“That’s what you get for the teasing.”

“You love it,” he said, smiling and turning toward me.

I rolled my eyes and punched him in the arm, and he suddenly pounced on me, cracking up laughing, sort of half-wrestling, half tickling me.

We were back to normal already. It felt like it did before he even found the gay amateur twitter porn on my laptop. 

Maybe that was all it took. 

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

The housing portal assigned us to each other in July and neither of us reached out before move-in day. I don’t really know why.

His name was Will.

Our dorm room was on the third floor of the “nice” dorms on campus. People get randomly assigned, but the chatter on all the forums was that this was the dorm everyone wanted to be in, “for the real freshman experience”. I was from a bigger city, and I grew up in an apartment, so it wasn’t the biggest departure from the norm.

It smelled like fresh paint and plug-in air fresheners as soon as I walked into the building. I looked around at all the other students moving in, many accompanied by families, but I was there solo, just me and a couple suitcases. When I climbed the stairs to my room, I thought about how I might get a little workout from all the steps I would have to ascend this year. I pictured my glutes tightening up, not that I needed it. 

I got teased throughout high school for having a bubble butt. It wasn’t exactly a bad thing, but athletes at my school were notoriously fratty, and had zero limits regarding male-on-male physical contact. And I played two sports. My butt got smacked, groped, fingered and humped on a weekly basis for four years, and I was sure in my head that college would be different. 

The years of homo-erotic touching and nudity-adjacent bro-bonding had definitely always struck me as something interesting, maybe even a slight turn-on. I didn’t find guys gross, even dicks and butts. I had never been with a guy, but I didn’t hate the idea. The thought even recurred enough that I would occasionally check out the “gay” side of twitter, check out some naked dudes, add a little spice to my spank bank. Nothing hardcore, but stuff that the average straight guy definitely wouldn’t gravitate toward. It was a little secret I kept, a slightly hidden side of me that was never prominent enough to necessitate revealing to anyone.

On the way to my room, I passed an open door and glanced inside. Two shirtless guys were giggling, facing away from the door. I could tell from their backs that they were fit and lean, on the taller side. They were looking down.

I paused out of curiosity and watched for a second as they simultaneously pulled open the waistbands of their shorts, looking down into their own and then at each other’s, and giggling more.

“Nick, I think mine’s bigger,” one of them said.

“Inconclusive, Derek,” the other said, letting his waistband snap back to his body. “We’ll have to compare hard later.”

I shook my head. Maybe this place wasn’t going to be as different from high school as I thought. Same fratty boys, just with a little more body hair.

I looked at the number on the square next to their door, “304”. I counted in my head, by even numbers, looking down the hall, identifying the room that would be mine. Three-o-six, three-o-eight… there. I had found my room, and confirmed it on my own little plaque: “310”.

The setup was plain, pretty much identical to the preview I had gotten from the dick-comparing duo down the hall, two long twin beds, two desks facing away from each other, one big window overlooking the courtyard. I took the bed on the left because it was closer to the power outlet, and dropped my stuff. I looked out the window, and released a cinematic sigh, watching my as-yet unacquainted cohort of students scurry around.

I spent twenty minutes arranging things before I heard someone in the hallway. Will walked in with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a laundry basket under his arm and looked around the room, like he was sizing it up. He didn’t look disappointed.

He was tall. That was the first thing I noticed. And he was broad. His large pecs and arms defined his shirt even though his shirt wasn’t tight, and he had the jawline of a male model. He looked a year or two older than a freshman should. Maybe from the musculature, I thought. He had a relaxed look on his face, with airpods in. 

"You the roommate?" he asked with a handsome smile.

“Yeah.”

He dropped his stuff on the right side, looked at my setup for a second, and started unpacking. 

—[]—

We talked for maybe forty minutes while we both unpacked, filling in the basics, and it wasn't awkward exactly, just a little strange meeting a new person that I was going to be sleeping next to every night for the foreseeable future. 

We didn't have a ton in common, as far as I could tell. He was from a suburban place with not a lot to do, played lacrosse in high school, hadn't made the college team but wasn't broken up about it. He liked the gym. He liked going out. He seemed easygoing, but I sensed a little bit of a wild side beneath the surface. I told him I ran track, and played a little volleyball. I liked movies and spent too much time online.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.

“No.”

“I have an ex back home. We still hooked up all Summer, but it’s probably over for real now.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Around eight, there was noise in the hallway, people moving in groups, someone saying something about a new student orientation event happening in the quad. Will looked up from his duffel bag, that he still wasn’t finished unpacking for some reason.

"We should go," he said.

It wasn't a question exactly. 

“Sure,” I said.

We both started changing at the same time on our respective sides of the room. I had my back to him and was pulling on a clean pair of underwear when I heard him cross the room behind me, and then his open hand connected with my left butt cheek with a sharp crack and I felt it jiggle through the cotton and I spun around.

He was already walking back to his side, fully nude, grinning at nothing.

"You're skinny but you got a fat ass, dude," he said, pulling a pair of underwear up, tucking away an unfairly large set of dick and balls.

"Ouch," I said, rubbing my ass.

"Relax," he said. "Girls are going to like that."

I narrowed my eyes at him as he pulled on his pants. 

Yeah, I thought to myself, More of the same.

—[]—

The quad was loud and strung with lights, and there were maybe three hundred students out there as the music got louder and louder. I saw Nick and Derek talking to each other, apparently shy to talk to anyone else yet, and I had the urge to be friendly and strike up a conversation, but Will was pulling me in another direction, and I followed him.

There weren’t any “adults” around, for lack of a better word. It was a student-run thing, and there didn’t seem to be any rules. There were full bottles of booze lining several tables around the perimeter of the grass. It seemed to help the vibe as a bunch of newly independent teens gathered and tried to talk to each other, everyone performing some version of being relaxed about meeting strangers in a new place.

Will seemed to come to life among the crowd, though. He moved through it like he had been there before, easily starting conversations with people. He talked to everyone easily, especially girls. I sort of tagged along as he dragged me by the arm to different areas of the quad. I met a few people as well, tried to remember names, traded instagram contacts and sometimes phone numbers, laughed at the right moments of conversation. The whole thing was an exercise in meeting new people, and with Will there, it honestly seemed like it was going well.

That was how we ended up with the girls. Will introduced himself to two of them near a drink table that also had a bunch of little chocolate brownies that sat behind a cardboard sign with large block letters on it that read “THC BROWNIES” followed by a little drawing of a pot leaf. I thought about it, but decided I didn’t want to go crazy on my first night.

Within ten minutes of talking to the girls, all four of us were standing in a loose circle that was getting tighter by the second, the girls moving closer to us, Will moving closer to them, and me following his lead and reacting as well. 

The conversation had a certain charge to it. It didn’t matter what words were being said. They were wooed by the gentle masculinity in front of them, a certain balance that Will and I provided in tandem, and their body language said they were horny and wanted to go somewhere private. 

Will was talking to the taller girl, dark-haired, confident, matching his energy exactly. The other one was standing closer to me. She had introduced herself but I had already lost her name in the ambient noise and hadn't wanted to ask twice.

We walked back to the dorm as a group. It felt organized without anyone organizing it. Will held the door.

—[]—

Back in the room the energy was different from two minutes prior in the quad, a smaller space, lower light, the door closed. Will sat on his bed with his girl and they were talking but the talking was already winding down into mutual touching. My girl sat next to me on my bed and I was aware of how close she was, and aware of Will just a few feet away.

Will kissed his girl first. She kissed him back without hesitation.

I looked at the girl next to me. She looked back. She grabbed my head and pulled my face into hers. I kissed her back a little awkwardly, and it was fine. She was a good kisser, but some part of my attention kept drifting across the room.

Will had his hand in his girl’s hair and she had both of hers on his bulky chest, and from where I was sitting I could see the line of his dick through his shorts, already hard, fighting ferociously against the fabric, and it was hard to miss because Will was not a small guy, and I had already established that when I saw it plop out earlier, but this time he was excited. There was blood flow. I looked away, energized by the sight, but trying to focus on the task at hand.

My girl shifted closer and put her hand on my thigh, and I was hard too, and she noticed, and she started moving her hand upward with clear intention. Her fingers curled toward my waistband and tugged gently. I froze. I put my hand over hers, gently, and didn't move it further.

Across the room I heard Will's voice, low and whispering inaudibly, and the girl's voice answered back, and then a pause, and then her voice again with a different quality to it, a change in tone, less fun. A few more whispered exchanges ensued, and Will said something I couldn't make out. She said something short back.

She sat up.

"I have to go," she said, and looked over at my girl. "Come with me?"

My girl looked at me. I gave her nothing useful. Honestly, I felt a little relieved. I had never done a one-off hookup in my life, and the whole thing felt a little more strange than arousing. She looked back across the room, made a decision, and stood up.

They were gone in under two minutes, shoes on, quick goodbyes, the door clicking shut behind them, and then it was just me and Will in the room, in the rearranged quiet.

Will stayed on his bed, on his back now, staring at the ceiling, his boner still raging in his pants. I even saw it throb, like he flexed it instinctively. He turned over and groaned into his pillow, a long suffering sound, and then pulled his face out of it.

"I know exactly what I wanted to do to that pussy," he said, to no one in particular.

"Yeah," I said quietly, looking at my phone, which I had picked up reflexively. I had notifications from the classes starting next week.

Will made another sound, between a groan and a laugh, and started moving his hips against his mattress, face down, just for a second, working something out of his system. I looked up at his muscular ass as he thrust again, and I gulped. I looked back down at my phone, staring hard and not retaining anything I was looking at.

He flipped onto his back with energy, the whole bed bouncing, and lay there with one arm over his face. His jeans were doing very little to conceal the throbbing boner still going on underneath them. The fabric was losing a battle against a raging pole of hormones and meat behind it.

I put my phone down on my chest and my eyes closed on their own. I always fell asleep at random spots. It wasn’t narcolepsy, rather it was more like I was too lazy to properly prepare for bed, and I would just get exhausted and fall asleep.

I awoke suddenly to Will pouncing on me on my bed. I guess he had too much leftover energy from the girls being here with no sexual climax. He had so much strength to him, that my attempts to escape basically didn’t register at all. He didn’t put much force into it. It was more like he was just playing with me. He even let me get some leverage at one point, flipping him over onto his back. I even got the sense at one point that he was trying to tickle me rather than actually wrestle. The dude was just having fun. He was a fun guy and I wasn’t used to this kind of friendship.

When we stopped, and caught our breaths, and calmed down a bit, we started talking. We both needed a change of subject. We talked for an hour. That part was easy, easier than the afternoon had been, looser, and somewhere in it I started to like him a little. Beyond the appreciation for his enviable physical form, he was really a cool guy beneath it all. He was funny in a dry, offhanded way. He asked me actual questions and listened to the answers. The last light turned off, and the conversation drifted around and eventually just slowed down on its own, and at some point we both started shedding layers of clothes without discussing it, shirts, then pants, and I heard the soft sounds of him pulling his blanket over himself, and I did the same.

Then his hand appeared over the side of his bed with his underwear in it, dropping them casually onto the floor.

"Damn," I said. "You took off everything."

"I kept one sock," he said.

"Why one sock?"

"For the nut hut," he said, rhythmically, with a sort of ironic tone, like he was implying something.

I chuckled. "The what?"

"Just in case I need it.”

The room was dark and quiet, and I had a few minutes of peace as I lay there, unbothered by lying in a room with a stranger for the first time in my life. In a few short hours, he had become not a stranger. It felt more like visiting family, some sort of distant cousin. 

I stared more at the ceiling than at my phone as my mind drifted on its own, in my personal little period of quiet meditation. I still had a million unanswered questions about how college was going to go, but I didn't hate the way it had started. 

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I heard the unmistakable sound of a male jerking off a few feet away from me under his blankets. I pictured how many dudes were likely doing the same thing in this dorm building, maybe a hundred dicks getting wanked, just a few feet from each other on different sides of walls, in a big gridded dorm room pattern. I pictured Derek and Nick down the hall, probably comparing dicks again. I got hard thinking about it, wondering if I should join in, but sleep took me first, and I was out.

—[]—

By the end of the first week, I had working theories about Will. He had grown up in a sexy body with an easygoing nature, and other people responded well to him. I probably put too much thought into it, but I believed he had never needed to try hard to win people over. It seemed like everyone liked him, and he liked me, at least enough to drag me around, demand I eat every meal with him, go “get girls” together. I was like a little brother to him. 

He wasn't performing confidence, he just didn't have the capacity for self-consciousness. He changed out in the open, often without even facing away from me. He walked to the communal showers in just a towel and came back the same way and hung it on his desk chair to dry without thinking about it twice. He sat at his desk in boxers and did homework. He stretched in the morning with his arms over his head and his shirt riding up and he never checked to see if his morning wood was about to poke me in the eye.

I noticed. I never said anything about it.

His lacrosse body was real. He obviously didn’t play anymore, but he went to the gym a few times a week, always early in the morning, and it was the only time he didn’t make me go places with him. That became my special wank time. Not that it was the only time I was able to jerk off, but it was the most consistent. As soon as he closed the door, I would pull myself into wakefulness, rub one out ritualistically onto some dirty laundry from the floor, and toss it into the corner before going back to sleep. 

He would come back an hour and a half later with his shirt damp across the chest and his hair pushed back and he smelled like pure effort, plus whatever soap they had in the gym showers.  He'd sit on his bed for a minute before he did anything else, just breathing. I believe that was his personal meditation time.

—[]—

The second Friday after classes started, things changed. It rained from the afternoon onward, steadily and heavily. All plans were basically canceled, even the parties that night. Will’s plans fell through. Mine had never really existed on their own. I had been making friends around campus, and almost went to a Dungeons and Dragons thing, but I didn’t know enough people yet to want to commit to something like that. 

Will and I were both still in the room at seven, which almost never happened, and for a while we just hung out, existing in the same space doing separate things, him on his phone, me on my laptop slowly reviewing class-related things, not really working. I had a few sexy tabs open in the browser, but that was for whenever Will left the room.

Around nine I fell asleep without meaning to, sitting up against my headboard, my laptop open in front of me.

When I opened my eyes Will was sitting on the edge of my bed, close enough that I could feel the weight of him through the mattress. He had my laptop on his knee and he was looking at the screen.

I didn't move right away. My brain was still coming back online. Then I registered what was on the screen and I was fully awake.

He opened the sexy tabs on my browser. And what was on the screen wasn’t even what I normally watched. It was two naked guys, ripped and hung, and it was not a subtle video. Will had clearly been looking at it for at least a few seconds because he wasn't startled when I shifted.

He looked over at me. His face had a big, handsome smile on it.

“You’re gay?”

“No.”

“But you’re into guys.”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you ever, like… done it with a guy?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

“No.”

He paused for a second. I took the laptop from him slowly, and closed the lid.

"You should blow me," he said.

My stomach dropped through the mattress. I felt my dick twitch. I didn't say anything. I couldn't locate the words.

He held my eyes for another second and then he shifted back on the bed and pulled the waistband of his sweats down in one slow, casual motion. His big dick flopped out, and he hooked the waistband under his balls. A whole package of meat right in front of me, being offered.

The thing was big. I had seen it already, but not this close, and not in this context. It wasn’t hard, but it was still big, resting on his big balls. My brain sort of recalibrated as I stared at it. My eyes just went there and stayed. I bit my tongue, needing a sharp sensation to remind myself I was awake. 

He stood up and walked over to me, the thing was inches away from me. His hard body was attached. He lifted his shirt a little, showing his abs, and I looked up, and then down. His pubes were trimmed. I guess I knew that subconsciously from seeing it before, but up close it was very neat. It was aesthetic. It was nice.

Something in my right arm moved. It wasn’t a decision I made. My hand lifted maybe two or three inches off the mattress toward him, and my heart was going very fast.

Will watched my hand move. He pulled his waistband back up, and the meaty man package was suddenly closed up, just a bulge again.

He laughed. My mouth dropped in a little shock. Too many emotions were swimming around my brain. It wasn’t even a mean laugh, but I was freaking out inside.

"I'm just fucking with you, man," he said.

He picked up his own phone and walked back to his side of the room. He sat down on his bed and put his feet up, like nothing had happened. 

I sat on my bed and stared at the wall, my eyes wide. What the fuck was that. What did I do?

—[]—

We didn’t talk about it again that night, but he never let it go.

He didn't bring it up constantly or make a big thing out of it, but there were subtle references to my unpracticed not-fully-straight side that he would pepper into our daily life following that incident, with thinly veiled references like, “You like sausage, right?” at breakfast, and “I know you like it when they come from behind,” while we were watching a basketball game at the student center. 

And he made it apparent that he thought about it too, in a specific look he'd give me when he caught me looking at him, and even in the way he'd walk out of the shower and take slightly longer than necessary to put on his underwear after he dropped his towel. 

It was the comments he made in front of two guys from the floor when I said I wasn't doing anything Friday night: "Yeah, he's pretty selective about the guys he spends his time with." 

The guys didn't get it. I got it. Will was looking at his phone when he said it, perfectly casual, and I had to stand there and not react.

I told him I didn't know what he was talking about.

He nodded slowly, like that was a reasonable thing to say, and went back to his food.

And he still jerked off in his bed at night, and I forced myself not to look.

—[]—

Will got interested in this girl in his economics lecture, and she texted him back on a Wednesday, and by Thursday night she was in our room. I had been there first. I had homework to finish. I didn’t like the library.

Will came in with her and they were already laughing about something from the hallway, and he glanced at me once, just once, and I saw him register that I was there, and he didn't ask me to leave.

I put my headphones in. I opened my laptop. I stared at a document I wasn't reading. I know the decent thing to do is leave and let your roommate have some alone time with a girl, but I got this unexplainable feeling that he wanted me there. He wanted to tease me, and I didn’t really want to go.

They were on his bed for maybe ten minutes before things got quiet, and I kept my eyes on my screen. Then she whispered something, and he said something back and I heard his bed creak with shifted weight.

My monitor went black after I didn’t touch it for a while, and I didn’t wake it up. The scene going on behind me, as they brazenly hooked up without caring that I was there, was reflected on my screen, obscured, but visible enough that I couldn’t look away.

It went on for a while as I sat in my desk chair with my headphones in, but nothing playing. Instead I listened to things I wasn't supposed to hear, squishing, wet sounds, Will and a girl exploring each other’s bodies, groans from him, giggles from her, sounds of pleasure from his chest. At one point he clearly said, “Can you tug on my balls?” and I chuckled internally, still acting like I wasn’t listening. I was hard as hell at my desk, and somehow trying to pretend that I was just focused on something else.

At some point I heard her voice in a register I hadn't heard before, and I heard Will's voice get deeper as he said, “I’m gonna bust, babe,” and his skin started clapping against hers. He made more noise than her as he approached climax, breathing and almost growling as he peaked.

When they got quiet, I realized I had been breathing hard.

When she left soon after, it was around one in the morning, Will walked her out and came back in, and I was in bed with my back to the room. He used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, got into bed. I heard his lamp click off.

In the dark he said, "You enjoy the show?"

“Shut up,” I said, turning to him, smiling.

“Did you watch at all?” 

“I tried not to.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t care that you were here,” he said, throwing his arm behind his head.

“I would’ve left if you asked,” I said.

“Yeah, but you also would’ve left if you wanted to.”

I didn’t have a response to that. He was right. 

“So,” he said, “You liked what you saw?”

I felt my face get warm in the dark. I did like it. And he liked teasing me.

—[]—

After the thing with that girl, he turned the dial up.

It started small. A few days later he came back from the gym and stripped his shirt off at the door, which he had done before, but this time he stood there for an extra beat, catching his breath like he had jogged back, and dropped his shorts and underwear too. Nudity wasn’t that strange, but this wasn’t usual. It was more than normal. I looked at his dick, taking in the sight of the sweaty hog, still never getting used to the visual prowess of the thing. I looked up and he was looking at me. 

He smiled, and wiggled his hips. I looked back down and watched it wiggle. 

“Have you gotten with a girl lately?”

“It’s been a couple days,” he said, grabbing the thick meat and shaking it in his fist. I saw some blood flow into it. 

“I’m so horny all the time,” he added, “I would put it in anything.”

I gulped. I felt like the thing was pointing directly at me. 

I reached for myself subconsciously, squeezing the firmness arising in my shorts.

“You wanna suck it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“You wish,” I said with a forced chuckle, hiding nothing.

“Maybe it would be cool,” he said as his hand moved lower to his balls, pulling them tight, “having a quickie blowjob machine at home in the dorm.”

I bit my tongue slightly, as my head started to leave reality. 

He stroked himself once, his fingers lingering on the tip, holding it tight, making it twitch against his hand. I squeezed myself harder, trying to fight back the ache in the erection.

He stepped closer.

“I could put it in your mouth right now,” he said. 

I just bit my tongue harder. I felt my face turn red. I started to rub myself over my shorts, staring at his hardening meat.

There was a pause as he squeezed it, forcing blood into the tip, making it swell. I even saw a vein protrude from the surface.

“It’s veiny,” I said without thinking about it.

“You could feel it with your tongue,” he said, stepping closer, inches away from me now. 

“You want me to,” I said, openly rubbing myself now, forgetting all sense of fear I had been holding onto.

Just before I finally brought myself to the point of reaching up to grab him, he stepped back. I felt my stomach sink. He got me again. 

“You’re hilarious,” he said, chuckling through his nose. He wrapped his towel around himself, and went to shower.

The disappointment from the teasing didn’t make my boner drop down at all. I whipped down the front of my shorts as soon as the door clicked shut, stroking myself to a quick orgasm, aiming my load at the blanket bunched up between my legs.

“Fuck,” I said aloud to no one. 

Will had gotten me again. I wasn’t thinking clearly around him anymore. I had to quash this tension, one way or another.

—[]—

The plan started formulating in my head subconsciously before I realized it. I thought about sucking his dick in his sleep. 

No, I thought to myself, That wouldn’t be consensual, no matter how much he teases.

I thought about being straightforward with him. I’d say, “I know you want it, let’s just cut the games and get to it,” but I couldn't really picture what he’d say in response. The risk was too high that I would just ruin it forever.

The next week he was lying on his bed in the afternoon doing nothing, just on his back in his boxers, and he said without any preamble: "Does this look big to you?"

I looked over. He had his phone turned toward me, it was a pic of his dick, hard and laying across the body of some girl he had hooked up with. It was indeed big.

"Yeah," I said.

I grabbed my jacket off the desk chair and walked out the door.

I stood in the hallway for a minute, not going anywhere. I heard him laugh as I left the room. The dude was torturing me. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

—[]—

He left it alone for a few days after that, which was almost worse, because I kept waiting for the next stimulating tease and it didn't come, and I caught myself watching him more than usual, checking to see if something was coming. He would catch me watching and his mouth would go up at one corner and he would look back at whatever he was doing.

Will dragged me to an off-campus party, sometime right before Halloween, because there were decorations around. It was loud and crowded and I had done enough of these by now to feel comfortable, and I found a few people I knew and talked to them while Will did his thing across the room.

Around midnight he materialized at my elbow. He had found two guys, who appeared to be gay, maybe a year or two older, and he introduced them to me with his arm around my shoulder.

"This is my boyfriend," he said, nodding at me.

One of the guys raised his eyebrows, maybe a little interested. The other one grinned.

“He’s cute,” one of them said.

Before I could say anything Will turned toward me and kissed me on the lips, firm and deliberate, and grabbed my ass with one hand, a full handful, and I went completely red from my neck to my forehead. The guys laughed like they were charmed by the audacity of it. I think I even felt his tongue break through his lips a bit.

When he pulled back, he was grinning.

"He's shy," Will said, to the guys, about me, while I just stood there aghast.

"I'm not his boyfriend," I said.

"He's in denial," Will said, nodding sympathetically.

The guys thought he was hilarious. Everybody always thought Will was hilarious. I even found myself laughing along, even as the torture flowed through me. I offered to get everyone another drink, and stepped away to spend five minutes in the kitchen recalibrating. When I came back, Will was talking to someone else. I brought the batch of drinks I was holding to a random group of people I didn’t know, and started up a conversation, trying to take my mind off of it.

I walked home later, alone, feeling a weird thrill, even if I didn’t realize why yet.

I lay in bed that night, after jerking off thinking about Will’s tongue touching my lips, while he slept close enough to me that I could count the sparse hairs on his exposed chest. I stared at the ceiling in the dark. I was going to do something about it, soon.

—[]—

The next night, at almost midnight, Will was in bed under his blanket, playing on his phone with the lamp on, and I was at my desk, failing to study for a midterm. The room was quiet, but the tension in my body was rushing through me. Outside, it had gotten cold enough that the window had a film of condensation on the inside and the heat was running. The room had developed a Winter-ish quality where the air feels kind of weird, maybe dry. It was just different than the fresh air of the other seasons.

I closed my laptop. I sat there for another minute. My brain ran its arguments one more time: this is your roommate, you have to live here, it's going to be strange, you should go to bed, you should leave this alone.

But my body stood up.

I walked across the room. Will looked up from his phone. He looked at me standing there at the side of his bed and he didn't say anything and he didn't move away. He just waited, as the corners of his mouth curled into a smile, maybe a slightly nervous one.

I smiled back, genuinely happy as reached down and pulled his blanket back.

He let me, almost smirking as he watched what I did.

I got onto the bed and crawled over him.

“You really…” he started, but stopped when I grabbed his dick through his shorts. 

“Okay…” he said, almost giggling. 

I dropped down and smelled him. I didn’t even realize I would want to do that, but I did. I had smelled his presence for months now, and I wanted the source, the warm source of that masculine scent that dominated mine in the room.

I put my hand flat on his stomach as I dug my nose around his bulge, inhaling and nuzzling the thing. He exhaled slowly through his nose, half giggling, half sighing. His stomach was hard and warm and I felt it move under my hand.

I hooked my fingers in his waistband and he lifted his hips slightly, just enough to help me as I pulled them down, and he was already half-hard. The thing was big, bigger now than I had seen it up close before, and I wrapped my hand around it. He cleared his throat like he was going to say something, but then he didn’t. He was unguarded, and done teasing me. He was letting me do it. 

Maybe he wasn’t really teasing me all this time. He just waited until I was sure enough to take what I wanted.

He got hard fast as I rubbed him up and down. I moved my hand slowly and he lay there with his head back. His jaw was loose, and both his hands lay flat on the mattress at his sides like he was working to keep himself still. His breathing changed when I put my mouth on it. The thing stretched my lips, and I tasted skin. I looked up and watched his stomach rise and fall.

I bobbed my head for a minute, getting used to a large cylinder applying pressure in my mouth. It was like an adult version of a popsicle, but something hit me. It didn’t really feel like sex. My raging hardon in my shorts told me that it was still sexual, but I needed something else.

I rose up, taking his dick out of my mouth. He lifted his head and looked down at me, a question in his eyes.

I started licking his balls, and he dropped his head again, spreading his legs wider. I took advantage of the space and went lower, licking his taint. The new bouquet of smells and tastes filled me with energy, and I put my hands under his thighs, lifting his legs up. He went along with it without resistance, as my mouth dropped to his ass.

“Fuck,” he said as I pressed my wet tongue deeply inside him, “Yes.”

I tasted the pure taste of man, his most vulnerable part. I was getting everything he had teased me with for months. This is what I wanted after all. 

I started humping the bed underneath me, gently pressing into it while I licked my roommate’s hunky ass. He didn’t have nearly as much hair as I would have expected. He was just a pink hole ready for me to do whatever I wanted to it, and I suddenly wanted a lot. 

I rose up onto my knees, pulling down my shorts in the process, in one coordinated motion that surprised myself. I looked down at him as my dick lined up between his muscular, round globes of ass, touching the soaking wet hole I had just slobbered to oblivion.

“What’re you…” he said, stopping as I pressed forward.

I felt his warm body envelope my rock hard pole, and I popped past the entrance as quickly as my tongue had. Suddenly, as his body tensed around me, clamping down and telling me I had found the right spot, my entire world made sense again. Will’s face twisted slightly between worried and nervous giggling as I pushed into him an inch. 

I waited for a minute as he relaxed. I gripped his dick and stroked it to the tip.

“Thats… good,” he said like he was out of breath. “I always kinda wondered what this would feel like.”

I pushed in further, adding another wad of spit for good measure as I stroked him. He leaned into it, through the tension, more motivated than I had expected when I started this.

I started to move back and forth.

“Ohhh,” he cooed lightly under his breath. His hands found my hips, guiding my pace, and I mostly abided by them, pressing deeply. 

As I started to pick up a pace, a drop of sweat dripped from my nose down onto his abs, and the sensations pushed me to the edge. I reached down and grabbed his balls, pulling them tightly away from his body, wrapping my thumb and index finger around them and keeping it taut.

“Fuckkk,” he groaned. “I’m actually gonna bust, babe.”

“Yeah, cum,” I said in a deeper voice than I usually had. “I’m gonna cum in you too.”

“Fuckkk, okay, okay, okay…” he seemed like he had fallen out of balance as his large dick swelled to maximum size in my hand. I kept thrusting while he held his legs in the air for me, and I felt him pulse in my hand. I aimed his dick toward his chest and he released, squirting himself in the face. I felt his hole clamp down on me and pulse rhythmically, and I thrust one more time, depositing my seed exactly where it belonged. 

I leaned down and rested my head on his neck as I finished my orgasm, feeling his pulses slow down as he oozed out onto himself.

He braced carefully as I slowly pulled myself out of him, feeling the air on my dick again. I lay next to him, propped up on my elbow and looked at his face. He didn’t seem bothered. He just breathed, looking at the ceiling.

“That was…” I started, not really sure what to say. 

He just nodded. “No, that was… kinda cool. I’m glad I tried that.”

“That’s what you get for the teasing.”

“You love it,” he said, smiling and turning toward me.

I rolled my eyes and punched him in the arm, and he suddenly pounced on me, cracking up laughing, sort of half-wrestling, half tickling me.

We were back to normal already. It felt like it did before he even found the gay amateur twitter porn on my laptop. 

Maybe that was all it took. 

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

Max was my most comfortable, long-term friend. By the end of high school, we had jerked off in the same room more times than I could count, and we literally learned techniques together. But that had long stopped, like we had grown out of it or something. It was something I always kind of missed, but never brought up. Thought it would seem too gay. But suffice it to say, we were close. When he got super into working out, it became a secondary hobby of mine to join in, somewhat.

His mom was a nurse who worked doubles at the hospital and his dad was always at work until seven or later. We always had the house to ourselves from noon until dinner, and nobody ever came in to bother us.

I was his spotter, kind of my whole job. It went along with being lifelong best friends with a dude who found his zen in lifting, and didn't have many other hobbies. I was always jealous of his body, and I admit I stared a lot. He was a beast by senior year, and after we turned eighteen he kept joking about "now that I'm legal, it's time to go round up some milfs," but he never actually "got" with any girls. At school there was some back and forth with the ones who were obviously drawn to him, and it fizzled every time, and then he'd be hanging out with me after school again.

He also never wore a shirt in there. He would come out of the kitchen in basketball shorts and nothing else, sometimes with a sock on one foot, the only person I had ever seen walk around like that. And he'd start loading plates. By July this summer, his tan stopped in a hard line above his elbows and another one across his neck, so his chest and stomach were pale in a way that made the muscle look almost fake. His abs were little hills, and there were eight of them.

I had also started padding the program, making him work out more, since I actually enjoyed doing it with him. He wanted to do five days, and I kept telling him his central nervous system needed an extra day, which was something I half-remembered from a video, and he bought it every time because I made it sound convincing. So it was six days a week that we were both in that garage. I still don't really know why I did that.

One squat day, a "max-effort" one, he counted the working sets out loud from the second he walked in. 

"Two-seventy-five, three-fifteen, three-forty, and then we send it," he said, dragging the forty-fives off the rack pegs one at a time and letting them clang onto the bar collar. He chalked his hands over the bucket and clapped, and the dust hung in the natural light coming in, until the fan pulled the cloud apart.

"I've been reading about the recovery window," he said. He talked at full volume even though I was three feet away. "So your testosterone spikes after a heavy compound. Like actually spikes, measurably. But the window is like an hour, and if you don't do something with it, it just dumps. You waste it."

"Do something with it... like what," I said.

"That's what I'm figuring out." He got under the bar for the two-seventy-five and set his hands. "I saw a whole thread on it on Reddit. Guys are doing bloodwork."

I stood behind him with my hands out at his ribs, not touching, close enough to feel the heat coming off his back. That was the spot. Every set, every session, that same six inches of air between my palms and his skin. He went down and the plates settled and he came up talking through his teeth, and I was already hard in my shorts, and I had been since the first plate went on. It started before he did anything and it kept happening after, and I had gotten used to standing at a slight angle so the front of my shorts didn't touch him.

The waistband of his shorts always rode down when he braced. There are two dimples at the base of his spine, right above where the elastic gives up, and I know exactly how far apart they are. I could draw them from memory. He would hit depth and his lower back would arch and the shorts would slip another quarter inch and I'd count the rep out loud.

"Four," I said. "Five. That's five."

He racked it and shook his arms out and grabbed the water jug off the bench and drank about a third of it. He kept going about the thread while he loaded the next jump, something about a guy tracking his numbers weekly, and I said "huh" at the right intervals. He got to three-forty and it moved fine. Then he sat on the bench and put his forearms on his knees and stared at the mat for a full minute, which is what he did before a top set, so I stopped talking, because that was the rule.

Three-eighty-five went up slow on the second rep and he growled the whole way through the third, and racked it hard enough that the pins rang. He stood there with both hands on the uprights, breathing in through his nose, back shining wet under that white window light.

"Something's pulling," he said.

"Where."

"Glute. Right side. Like, right in the middle of it." He reached back and dug his thumb in through the fabric, then made a face. Then he put both thumbs in his waistband and shoved his shorts down to his ankles and stepped out of them, his two big, white globes of ass were showing. They popped out naturally, just barely meeting in the middle where the two circles of butt cheek came together. He stood on the mat looking over his own shoulder at his ass.

I already knew that he didn't wear underwear. What was new was that he was hard. Fully. It stood up off him thick all the way down with a vein up the left side of it, and his balls hung low and heavy and loose from the heat. He was hung. It was much bigger than the last time I saw it hard. I'd known that too, in an abstract way, from locker rooms and from a hundred sessions of him in loose shorts, but seeing it up close and at full mast was a new revelation.

He didn't mention it. He didn't cover it. He didn't move his hands anywhere near it. He twisted at the waist and pushed his fingers into the meat of his own glute and said, "Right there. Feel that? It's like a knot."

"I'm not touching it," I said, and it came out weird and quiet.

"It's a knot," he said again, like I had disagreed about the knot.

He reached over to the shelf above the workbench and got the massage gun, the cheap one his aunt gave him for Christmas with the foam ball head on it, and he thumbed it on, and then he held it out behind himself over his shoulder without turning around.

"You gotta get it," he said. "I can't get the angle."

I looked at his hand holding the gun and I looked at the two dimples and I took it.

He waited there with the gun buzzing in his outstretched hand, and I got down on one knee on the mat, then both, the rubber hot through my shorts. I pressed the massager into the meat of his glute, watching the muscle and skin jiggle rapidly as I pushed into it.

"Higher," he said. "Like where it meets the back of the leg. There."

I moved it in little circles toward where I thought he was asking me to put it. The muscle jumped under it and then softened and he groaned and dropped his forehead against the upright of the rack.

"Oh my god. Yeah. That's the spot, keep it there."

I kept it there. I had my left hand flat on his hip to steady him, which he didn't comment on either, and I worked the head in slow circles into the bottom of that glute where it turned into hamstring. His skin was wet with sweat and the foam ball skidded a little so I pressed harder. From where I was kneeling I could see the whole underside of him, the hang of his balls and the shadow of the crease going up, and above that the two halves of his ass, pale and round and heavy enough that they moved when the gun hit them, and the tan line from his shorts cut across the top of his thighs in a hard edge.

"Go up in between the cheeks," he said. "It's radiating. Like into the middle."

"Into the middle..."

"Yeah, like... in there." He reached back with one hand and pulled the cheek out and away, opening himself up, holding it there. "It's connected. It's all one sheet of tissue back there. Go in."

I did. I moved the head into that space and let it press right against him, and he made a strange noise, half giggling, half grunting. I hadn't heard it before. It was low and went on for a couple seconds, his whole back tensing and his shoulders bunching up. His hand stayed where it was, holding himself open, a chalk print left on his own skin.

"Right there," he said. "Don't move. Just hold it right there."

I held it there as I pressed it right into his hole. My other hand had ended up on the small of his back with my thumb in one of the dimples, and I was so hard it hurt, and I did not move it. He rocked his hips back against the gun, small, a couple inches, and then again, and then he braced both hands on the rack and pushed back onto it steady, and his dick was still standing straight up off him, bobbing every time he moved, and neither of us said a single word about that. Not one. He didn't glance down, even as I saw a bead of clear juice appear at the tip, then slowly drip down, creating a string hanging in mid-air. 

"Tissue quality's trash on that side," he said. "That's from all the unilateral stuff."

"Okay," I said.

He worked himself back against the massager for another minute. His breathing got even heavier than it had been under the bar. I watched the muscle in the back of his thigh flutter, and I watched a bead of sweat come down out of the small of his back and run over my thumb, and I kept the gun exactly where he told me to keep it, because at no point did he tell me to stop, and at no point was I going to be the one who did.

It was at some point while sitting in this position, that it hit me that I was getting a thrill out of this. I knew I had a boner, but those always came and went throughout the day, especially when working out, especially with Max.

Because I'm so relaxed, I would think to myself. That's why I get so many random boners around my buddy.

Then he stood up straight, out of nowhere, and rolled his shoulder and said, "Yeah, okay, that's got it."

He picked his shorts up off the mat and stepped into them and pulled them up over everything, still hard, the shape of it obvious and pushing the waistband out in front, and he didn't adjust it. He took the gun out of my hand and set it on the shelf.

"Dude, your hands are unreal," he said. "For real, that's a recovery tool right there. That's like a two-hundred-dollar table session."

"I just used the massage gun," I said.

He clapped me on the shoulder with his chalky hand and left a white handprint on my shirt. "I gotta eat, I got like four hours of eating to do. There's veggie stuff if you want."

"In a minute."

"Log the three-eighty-five as three reps. It was three. The third one counted." He was already at the door, and the fan wobbled as he pushed past it, and then the door shut.

I was still on both knees on the mat, and the gun was somehow back in my hand, buzzing against my leg. I thumbed it off and the garage got very quiet except for the fan.

"What the fuck..." I muttered out loud to myself. 

I knew exactly what I was going to do when I got home, which was the same thing I did most nights by myself in bed, except tonight I had new material swimming around in my brain. His hand pulling his ass cheeks apart. That noise he made. I was going to use all of it, and I was going to use it for probably two sessions. I still didn't know what I was going to do in the real world about this, but I knew that much.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

Max was my most comfortable, long-term friend. By the end of high school, we had jerked off in the same room more times than I could count, and we literally learned techniques together. But that had long stopped, like we had grown out of it or something. It was something I always kind of missed, but never brought up. Thought it would seem too gay. But suffice it to say, we were close. When he got super into working out, it became a secondary hobby of mine to join in, somewhat.

His mom was a nurse who worked doubles at the hospital and his dad was always at work until seven or later. We always had the house to ourselves from noon until dinner, and nobody ever came in to bother us.

I was his spotter, kind of my whole job. It went along with being lifelong best friends with a dude who found his zen in lifting, and didn't have many other hobbies. I was always jealous of his body, and I admit I stared a lot. He was a beast by senior year, and after we turned eighteen he kept joking about "now that I'm legal, it's time to go round up some milfs," but he never actually "got" with any girls. At school there was some back and forth with the ones who were obviously drawn to him, and it fizzled every time, and then he'd be hanging out with me after school again.

He also never wore a shirt in there. He would come out of the kitchen in basketball shorts and nothing else, sometimes with a sock on one foot, the only person I had ever seen walk around like that. And he'd start loading plates. By July this summer, his tan stopped in a hard line above his elbows and another one across his neck, so his chest and stomach were pale in a way that made the muscle look almost fake. His abs were little hills, and there were eight of them.

I had also started padding the program, making him work out more, since I actually enjoyed doing it with him. He wanted to do five days, and I kept telling him his central nervous system needed an extra day, which was something I half-remembered from a video, and he bought it every time because I made it sound convincing. So it was six days a week that we were both in that garage. I still don't really know why I did that.

One squat day, a "max-effort" one, he counted the working sets out loud from the second he walked in. 

"Two-seventy-five, three-fifteen, three-forty, and then we send it," he said, dragging the forty-fives off the rack pegs one at a time and letting them clang onto the bar collar. He chalked his hands over the bucket and clapped, and the dust hung in the natural light coming in, until the fan pulled the cloud apart.

"I've been reading about the recovery window," he said. He talked at full volume even though I was three feet away. "So your testosterone spikes after a heavy compound. Like actually spikes, measurably. But the window is like an hour, and if you don't do something with it, it just dumps. You waste it."

"Do something with it... like what," I said.

"That's what I'm figuring out." He got under the bar for the two-seventy-five and set his hands. "I saw a whole thread on it on Reddit. Guys are doing bloodwork."

I stood behind him with my hands out at his ribs, not touching, close enough to feel the heat coming off his back. That was the spot. Every set, every session, that same six inches of air between my palms and his skin. He went down and the plates settled and he came up talking through his teeth, and I was already hard in my shorts, and I had been since the first plate went on. It started before he did anything and it kept happening after, and I had gotten used to standing at a slight angle so the front of my shorts didn't touch him.

The waistband of his shorts always rode down when he braced. There are two dimples at the base of his spine, right above where the elastic gives up, and I know exactly how far apart they are. I could draw them from memory. He would hit depth and his lower back would arch and the shorts would slip another quarter inch and I'd count the rep out loud.

"Four," I said. "Five. That's five."

He racked it and shook his arms out and grabbed the water jug off the bench and drank about a third of it. He kept going about the thread while he loaded the next jump, something about a guy tracking his numbers weekly, and I said "huh" at the right intervals. He got to three-forty and it moved fine. Then he sat on the bench and put his forearms on his knees and stared at the mat for a full minute, which is what he did before a top set, so I stopped talking, because that was the rule.

Three-eighty-five went up slow on the second rep and he growled the whole way through the third, and racked it hard enough that the pins rang. He stood there with both hands on the uprights, breathing in through his nose, back shining wet under that white window light.

"Something's pulling," he said.

"Where."

"Glute. Right side. Like, right in the middle of it." He reached back and dug his thumb in through the fabric, then made a face. Then he put both thumbs in his waistband and shoved his shorts down to his ankles and stepped out of them, his two big, white globes of ass were showing. They popped out naturally, just barely meeting in the middle where the two circles of butt cheek came together. He stood on the mat looking over his own shoulder at his ass.

I already knew that he didn't wear underwear. What was new was that he was hard. Fully. It stood up off him thick all the way down with a vein up the left side of it, and his balls hung low and heavy and loose from the heat. He was hung. It was much bigger than the last time I saw it hard. I'd known that too, in an abstract way, from locker rooms and from a hundred sessions of him in loose shorts, but seeing it up close and at full mast was a new revelation.

He didn't mention it. He didn't cover it. He didn't move his hands anywhere near it. He twisted at the waist and pushed his fingers into the meat of his own glute and said, "Right there. Feel that? It's like a knot."

"I'm not touching it," I said, and it came out weird and quiet.

"It's a knot," he said again, like I had disagreed about the knot.

He reached over to the shelf above the workbench and got the massage gun, the cheap one his aunt gave him for Christmas with the foam ball head on it, and he thumbed it on, and then he held it out behind himself over his shoulder without turning around.

"You gotta get it," he said. "I can't get the angle."

I looked at his hand holding the gun and I looked at the two dimples and I took it.

He waited there with the gun buzzing in his outstretched hand, and I got down on one knee on the mat, then both, the rubber hot through my shorts. I pressed the massager into the meat of his glute, watching the muscle and skin jiggle rapidly as I pushed into it.

"Higher," he said. "Like where it meets the back of the leg. There."

I moved it in little circles toward where I thought he was asking me to put it. The muscle jumped under it and then softened and he groaned and dropped his forehead against the upright of the rack.

"Oh my god. Yeah. That's the spot, keep it there."

I kept it there. I had my left hand flat on his hip to steady him, which he didn't comment on either, and I worked the head in slow circles into the bottom of that glute where it turned into hamstring. His skin was wet with sweat and the foam ball skidded a little so I pressed harder. From where I was kneeling I could see the whole underside of him, the hang of his balls and the shadow of the crease going up, and above that the two halves of his ass, pale and round and heavy enough that they moved when the gun hit them, and the tan line from his shorts cut across the top of his thighs in a hard edge.

"Go up in between the cheeks," he said. "It's radiating. Like into the middle."

"Into the middle..."

"Yeah, like... in there." He reached back with one hand and pulled the cheek out and away, opening himself up, holding it there. "It's connected. It's all one sheet of tissue back there. Go in."

I did. I moved the head into that space and let it press right against him, and he made a strange noise, half giggling, half grunting. I hadn't heard it before. It was low and went on for a couple seconds, his whole back tensing and his shoulders bunching up. His hand stayed where it was, holding himself open, a chalk print left on his own skin.

"Right there," he said. "Don't move. Just hold it right there."

I held it there as I pressed it right into his hole. My other hand had ended up on the small of his back with my thumb in one of the dimples, and I was so hard it hurt, and I did not move it. He rocked his hips back against the gun, small, a couple inches, and then again, and then he braced both hands on the rack and pushed back onto it steady, and his dick was still standing straight up off him, bobbing every time he moved, and neither of us said a single word about that. Not one. He didn't glance down, even as I saw a bead of clear juice appear at the tip, then slowly drip down, creating a string hanging in mid-air. 

"Tissue quality's trash on that side," he said. "That's from all the unilateral stuff."

"Okay," I said.

He worked himself back against the massager for another minute. His breathing got even heavier than it had been under the bar. I watched the muscle in the back of his thigh flutter, and I watched a bead of sweat come down out of the small of his back and run over my thumb, and I kept the gun exactly where he told me to keep it, because at no point did he tell me to stop, and at no point was I going to be the one who did.

It was at some point while sitting in this position, that it hit me that I was getting a thrill out of this. I knew I had a boner, but those always came and went throughout the day, especially when working out, especially with Max.

Because I'm so relaxed, I would think to myself. That's why I get so many random boners around my buddy.

Then he stood up straight, out of nowhere, and rolled his shoulder and said, "Yeah, okay, that's got it."

He picked his shorts up off the mat and stepped into them and pulled them up over everything, still hard, the shape of it obvious and pushing the waistband out in front, and he didn't adjust it. He took the gun out of my hand and set it on the shelf.

"Dude, your hands are unreal," he said. "For real, that's a recovery tool right there. That's like a two-hundred-dollar table session."

"I just used the massage gun," I said.

He clapped me on the shoulder with his chalky hand and left a white handprint on my shirt. "I gotta eat, I got like four hours of eating to do. There's veggie stuff if you want."

"In a minute."

"Log the three-eighty-five as three reps. It was three. The third one counted." He was already at the door, and the fan wobbled as he pushed past it, and then the door shut.

I was still on both knees on the mat, and the gun was somehow back in my hand, buzzing against my leg. I thumbed it off and the garage got very quiet except for the fan.

"What the fuck..." I muttered out loud to myself. 

I knew exactly what I was going to do when I got home, which was the same thing I did most nights by myself in bed, except tonight I had new material swimming around in my brain. His hand pulling his ass cheeks apart. That noise he made. I was going to use all of it, and I was going to use it for probably two sessions. I still didn't know what I was going to do in the real world about this, but I knew that much.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

By the end of the first day of freshman year, my roommate Brayden and I had established that we were both desperate virgins. While we were getting ready for bed on the first night, I was just dropping my pants when he asked, "What are we gonna do when one of us wants to come home with a girl?"

"I gotchyu man," I said, "I would clear out as long as needed."

"Me too," he replied.

I nodded and slid under my blankets, leaning on an elbow to look at him as we kept talking.

"I'm a virgin, by the way," I said.

"Me too."

I smiled. He kept looking at his phone.

To be honest, I was disappointed. Part of me had been hoping to get paired with a guy who had actual experience, somebody who had done stuff and could talk me through it, maybe help me get into the scene. But if I was being real with myself, experience was not what I needed. What I needed was a gooner bro. Someone who was fine with open masturbation, because that was what I had gotten used to back home. My bedroom back home had been a teenage den of sin. My friends and I beat it in there constantly, side by side in chairs, or on my bed, or even on the floor on the carpet with our phones out, and that combination, porn and my buddies in the same room, was probably my favorite hobby in the world.

I watched him scroll for a second and figured there was only one way to find out which kind of roommate I got.

"What have you done with a girl?" I said, my hand subconsciously crossing my body down to my crotch under the blanket, the beginning of an instinctive erection beginning on its own, just from being in bed. 

"Nothing," he said, and I felt my boner literally deflate. 

"Me neither," I said. "I was hoping you would have some stories to talk about."

"Why?" he said, furrowing his brow, his eyes still on his phone. "You trying to jerk off to my stories?"

I chuckled. 

"What stories?" I said sarcastically. 

He smiled, looking over at me.

"I got some boob once," he said, and I felt my body perk up again. 

"Oh yeah?" I said, reaching for myself. 

"Yeah. And I almost fingered her."

"Nice," I said, rubbing myself openly, doing nothing to stop my blanket from moving on its own.

He looked me dead in the eyes, and reached for himself too, silently establishing what I had hoped for. 

We watched each other jerk off for a few seconds. I looked at his face. He had a younger look than me. I could tell he barely had to shave yet. 

"How big is your dick?" he asked.

"Six inches," I said. "You?"

"Slightly less," he said flatly.

"Okay, we gotta do this," I said. "Whip it out."

He looked at me carefully. "What?"

"Let's compare."

He smiled, almost giggling.

"You wanna look at my dick."

"No homo, bro. You're not curious how we actually stack up?"

He held my eyes for a second. "Fine."

He flipped his blanket off his lap and I flipped mine, and there we were, two hard virgins on opposite walls with our dicks standing out in the lamp light.

His was thick as hell, and actually kind of long. Longer than me, which made me frown a little without realizing it. It was a fat hog of a dick, clearly superior to mine. It was so wide his fingers barely closed around it. Mine stood clearly fine on its own, hooking upward toward my stomach with a solid head on the end. 

"Bro, you got a monster can of a cock," I said. "You're bigger than six. More like seven, or more."

"No way," he said.

"When did you last measure it?"

"Like tenth grade, I think," he said, but he clearly wasn't even sure.

"Well you've grown," I said.

We looked for a couple more seconds at each other, and then both blankets came back up, and our hands kept moving underneath them.

"What do you think about?" he asked. "When you do it."

"Normally just porn," I said.

"Me too."

Then after a second, he reframed his question.

"But, like, what makes you cum? Like when you think about a girl you know in real life."

"Oh. Then, like, her on top," I said. "Or just getting head. Or getting pegged."

He chuckled. "Nice. Kinda tame though."

"What do you like then?"

"A girl with big boobs," he said, and the lump of his fist picked up speed under his blanket. "She's wearing a tank top. I think about pulling it down with my teeth and sucking on them. Then I bend her over a table or desk right in the middle of a classroom, and I pound her from the back while she tries to stay quiet so no one hears us in the hallway."

"That's hot. And really specific."

"Years of development, bro."

"Have you ever," I started, pausing, "...jerked off in a classroom?"

"Dozens of times," he said quickly, without flinching.

"Jesus," I said, "And I wasn't sure if you were a freak like me."

"Where's the weirdest place you've jerked it?" he asked.

"Umm, my friends and I were kind of freaky. We had a competition on a bus once, during a field trip."

"Nice," he said. "You're the first friend I've had like... this."

My fist matched his pace as we continued talking, and the room filled up with the small sounds of our fabric shifting and our hands rubbing our dicks, his bed frame ticking against the wall, his breath coming through his nose loud enough to hear across the gap between our beds.

"Say the desk part again," I said. "About the girl you wanna bang."

"She's biting the sleeve of her shirt so her mom doesn't hear." His voice thinned out at the end of it, and I turned to look at his face. 

"Are you close?" I said.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"I wanna do the girl with you. At the same time."

"Bro, we're not sharing her."

"Too late. I'm gonna cum."

I grabbed the old t-shirt off the floor next to my bed just in time and squirted into it hard, three long pulses that made my legs straighten out under the blanket. A few seconds later he grunted through his teeth, his hips lifting clean off his mattress, and finished into a shirt of his own.

He balled up his cumrag and tossed it out toward the middle of the floor. I threw mine after it. The two shirts came down on top of each other between our beds, his and mine, one little pile of the same laundry. I got the image in my head of our fluids mixing together as they soaked through the cloths.

We lay there breathing for a minute, blankets half kicked off, and then he started talking again, and I got the whole rundown of everything he had ever actually done with a girl.

····[]····

Over the next couple days, we came to an unspoken agreement that neither of us was going to pretend we didn't jerk off. The room was too small to do otherwise. After a couple days it wasn't even awkward anymore. We'd strike out at some party, walk back to the dorm, and jerk it in our own beds while we each watched our own stuff on our phones. Sometimes we did it twice, spurred on by the other. And sometimes we talked our fantasies out loud to each other while we stroked it out. 

And Brayden was a freak about it.

"I need a girl that'll let me hit it in the ass," he said one night, mid-stroke, his other hand holding his phone, probably watching an anal video. "Like, rough anal. That's the dream. And I'd eat her out first. Honestly I'd eat the ass too, I don't care."

"You'd eat ass before you've even kissed anybody," I said, stroking along, amused at his fantasy.

"Especially because I haven't kissed anybody."

"You're a certified freak, bro."

"You know it."

Even if he was a bit weirder than me sometimes, I knew I was still the real freak. And I never stopped stroking while he talked. I kept my eyes on my own screen and my hand on my own dick and let him narrate. 

That was pretty much our whole social life for the first few weeks. Other guys on the floor were out at pregames and house parties, and we were leaving the parties early to come home to our room and goon our brains out, eventually up to two loads a night each. We essentially raced each other to see who could cum first, then made the second one last longer. It was the best gooner bro friendship I had ever had. 

The cumrag pile moved to the corner of the room, and got taller each day. We had turned striking out into a hobby. Of course, we still needed to have some real pussy at some point, but this part was okay for now.

Kyria was the hot girl of our hall, a couple doors down, and she was stacked, dark hair to the middle of her back, and an ass that made watching her walk feel like looking at porn. Guys propped their doors open just to see when she walked by.

And one day, Brayden and I finally got invited to something worthwhile. A sophomore named Trey was throwing a party in an off-campus house with a basement, and the invite came through a group chat we had never been in before, with guys whose names I barely recognized. But it was only the third week of college, classes had barely started, and it wasn't strange to just show up at places where you didn't know anyone. They apparently just added us. We did not care that we didn't know anyone there. The group chat was all dudes, talking about how sexy this party was going to be. 

"Everyone will be getting a nut, guaranteed," one of the messages read, and a dozen guys liked the message. 

Brayden and I talked about actually losing our V-cards. Kyria must be going. Everyone must be going if they invited us.

The night of the party, Brayden was on his bed with his back against the stone wall, one knee up, making me walk him through the party, and what getting with a girl was going to be like, as if I knew any more than he did. 

I said you just go upstairs with a girl and then you do it. When she's ready, you just stick it in, just like in porn. I realized when I said it out loud that I was also completely out of my element. I had no idea what to actually do to get to the point where you're sticking your dick into the girl, let alone what the actual mechanics would be like once I got inside. 

"The most important thing is probably learning how to actually fuck. Like, make her feel good."

He rubbed his face with both hands. "You're not helping." 

I was turned around backward in my desk chair with the seat squeaking every time I shifted.

"And on top of all that," he said, "I want you to tell me how not to be the guy that lasts four seconds."

"What're your thoughts?" I said, unsure of what to do or say next.

"I have no idea," he said, "I feel like I will cum immediately. I get close to cumming just sitting near a girl. I literally will get hard and my dick rubs against my pants on its own, just from getting a boner, and that has made me cum before."

"Same thing has happened to me!" I said, excited for a moment, before realizing how fucked we both were. In the bad way. 

He pointed at me. "Exactly. Neither of us knows. And everybody else already knows."

That part was true. Every guy on our floor talked about girls with a sort of relaxed authority, almost like sex was just a casual thing that happened on its own, all the time. Trey, down the hall, had a girlfriend at another school and also, apparently, was able to fuck a different girl every weekend. Marcus two doors down said the phrase "when I was hooking up with this older girl over the summer" at least once a day, and he said it while doing something else, like putting on his acne cream next to me at the sink in the common bathroom.

Brayden sat back against the cinderblock and sighed.

"Honestly? My fear is I bust before I'm even in," he said. "Like she's naked, she's ready, I'm lining it up, and I just cum on the outside of her. Right on her thigh or whatever. Before the sex has technically even started. And then I get soft and nervous."

I laughed at him, but then I thought about it.

"Yeah, I could see that happening to me too," I admitted. "Squirting at the entrance like a broken firehose while some poor girl is waiting for a real man to show up." 

"Marcus said he's fucked like thirty girls," I said. "We should ask him for advice."

"Marcus is lying. But it doesn't matter if he's lying." He looked at the ceiling with his hands laced on his stomach. "We need literal experience. And we only have like two hours before the party."

"Hookers?" I said in my most ironic voice.

"Yeah, I don't wanna get AIDS."

"Jesus christ," I said.

"Put something on your computer. Maybe we can practice via gooning."

I laughed. He laughed. But we watched porn anyway. That was normal for us already, except this time we pulled out our dicks openly, with the laptop propped between us on his bed while we talked about it.

He kept calling things fake. 

"She's not really enjoying that," he said. "She's just doing that for the camera. Nobody does that." 

I asked him how he would know and he said he wouldn't, that was the problem, and then scrolled to one with bad lighting in a small room and said that one was more like what it was actually going to be. The guy on the screen pulled out and went for the girl's mouth, and Brayden made a considering noise and asked if I would do that. 

"If she said to," I said. He asked if she would say to and I asked him how the hell I was supposed to know.

He laughed at that, a quick little hiccup laugh I was used to hearing. 

Then he was quiet for a second and said, "That's the part I've never gotten. Like I don't even know what that feels like. Getting sucked. I have literally no data for this."

"Same."

"None."

"None."

"So we're gonna show up, supposedly to get laid with experienced girls, and both of us are running blind."

"Yep."

"We should just suck each other and get it over with," he said.

It was a joke. I laughed. He laughed. The porn continued playing.

And then neither of us said anything for about ten seconds, which felt like a long time.

"I mean," I said.

"I was kidding," he said, leaning away from me as if to hide his dick, inadvertently flashing his hairless little ass to me.

"Right."

"Obviously."

"Obviously," I said. "Unless..."

He turned his head and looked at me. Not a big dramatic look. Just a look.

"Unless what."

"It's the joke people say. I was just kidding."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "I think you weren't kidding."

"You want to blow each other then?"

"No homo, but like..." he looked down at my dick in my hands. "No. No. No we can't. We're not doing that."

"We could," I said.

"Why should we?"

"Practice." My mouth was moving fast. "Like it's not a gay thing, but we'll know what it's like. We haven't had it done at all. We're behind. Girls do this with each other all the time. It's literally a girls' sleepover staple activity."

"You really think so?" I asked, rubbing myself naturally.

"So we catch up to the other guys, using a shortcut."

"In a no homo way."

He nodded.

He slid down off his elbow toward my crotch, and looked at my dick up close as I held it in my hand. 

"Alright, I'll go," he said, and I turned my face toward the porn, bracing for whatever came next.

He reached for the base of my dick, peeling my fingers off my own dick and replacing them, and it felt better than I expected it to. He gave it a squeeze, then ran his fist up to the end a couple times quickly. His grip squeezed tighter than mine usually did, but it worked.

"No homo," I said, "but it actually feels better when it's someone else's hand."

He chuckled, still stroking me at his own unhurried pace. "Is this the best handjob you've ever gotten?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's the only..."

He cut me off as his mouth dropped down onto my dick, shutting me up.

It was warm and wet and it felt good, but it also felt completely wrong, and my body did not know what to do with the fact that the top of a male head was moving down there, and I got softer instead of harder. It was too weird. And his head and body were blocking the porn.

"Stop, stop," I said, pushing his head back. "This is weird, dude, I can't."

He came up off me and looked at my face from about eight inches away. His mouth was shiny.

"Just think about Kyria," he said. "Look at your phone."

I picked up my device and opened instagram, searching for the last thing she posted, and Brayden went back down. I turned off my brain for a second, and before I knew it, I was harder than I had ever been in my entire life. I could finally appreciate the warm wetness of the mouth that was pleasuring me.

"Fuck," I said, "It actually feels really good."

He grunted a quick response directly onto my cock.

"Okay wait," I said. "Wait. I'm gonna cum."

He didn't come off me. He said something with me still in his mouth that I couldn't understand, then pulled back an inch. "Already?"

"Yeah."

"Think about something nasty. Think about my smelly shoes."

I laughed and my dick jumped in his hand and I actually did it. I pictured his black Nikes under the bed, the ones he wore to intramural with no socks, and the particular smell that came off them when the window unit pushed air the wrong direction. It genuinely backed me off from orgasm, maybe fifteen percent.

He hummed around me and I could feel him twitch his tongue and the shoes lost their potency in my head.

I lasted maybe another thirty seconds, which still felt like a win, and then it came out of me hard enough that my heels dug into his blanket, and some of it got in his mouth before he got clear of it, aiming my dick at my abs and letting the rest spill onto my body. He turned his head and spat off the side of the bed into the trash can, then wiped his lip with the back of his wrist.

"I think that actually worked," I said, breathing. "I kind of had some control over it at the end there."

"Then why'd you finish in my mouth?"

"Well," I said. "I didn't have that much control."

He laughed the hiccup laugh. Then he leaned back against the wall, and he pushed his shorts down, and it was my turn.

He took it out and I stopped talking.

It was bigger than mine, and looked even bigger up this close. It sat in his hand as he squeezed it. It was thick and heavy and already half up with anticipation, and there was a smell coming off him, not a bad smell, just a very male aroma. It honestly reminded me more of the cumrag pile than it did of a human. It was pure balls, and I felt my face grimace on its own. His dick was right there, and he was waiting and I could see it getting harder while I looked at it, which somehow made it worse.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do it."

"C'mon man," He said lightly as his eyebrows went up. "After I did you already?"

"Yeah, man. I'm so sorry. I just can't."

He looked down at himself, then at the wall over my shoulder, and his hand opened and closed on his own thigh.

"Well, what am I gonna do," he said. "Fuck you?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. No homo, but I'd actually rather you did that." My pulse was slamming in my throat and the words came out of me before I even rationalized it. "You deserve it after all. I just can't do the other thing."

"Okay," he said.

He got up and opened the desk drawer for his gooner oil, the bottle of baby oil he used when he needed it. I heard the plastic click of the cap and then I was lying face down on his bed with my face on his pillow, my pants still on, bracing yet again for what would come next.

He reached for my waistband, and I lifted my hips as he pulled my pants down past my knees. There was a cold line of wetness poured onto my ass, and then his hand spread it between my cheeks, pulling them to the side one at a time and gently inspecting me.

Just before I was going to ask what his actual plan was, his weight came onto the mattress, and I felt him work himself the rest of the way hard, his knuckles rubbing against the back of my thigh as he stroked himself, and then he leaned forward, his left arm appearing in front of my face as the pressure started between my butt cheeks.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped. "Does it hurt?"

"No, it's okay. Just go slow."

He went slowly. It was a strange, full pressure that kept going after I expected it to stop, finding spots deeper and deeper inside me as I felt myself stretching to accommodate his greased up hog. He leaned down, letting his chest meet my back, and the weight made it slightly harder to breathe.

His face was right by my ear, his hot, uneven breath tickling the side of my face, and somewhere in there the pressure turned into something else and I pushed back into it. He felt that and started moving faster.

I couldn't say anything, but the weirdness and the discomfort were sort of overpowered as he pressed some new buttons inside me that I didn't know were there before.

I got a hand back on his forearm and squeezed until he stopped.

"Does it hurt again?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just lemme turn over."

It didn't actually hurt. But I couldn't admit that I just wanted to watch him and see what he was doing that made it feel weirdly good. I kicked my pants the rest of the way off and got onto my back, quickly lifting my legs for him.

"Go ahead," I said. "Now."

He knelt up, and aligned himself with me again, and I watched him do it, and watching him actually do it was a new experience. It was scary, seeing exactly how much of him was stretching me open. He pushed back in quickly, and he was back to balls deep inside me in seconds. He seemed to like this position even better than the first, even if my dick and balls were on display for him now, as he actively pushed my knees up to my chest. And he settled into a rhythm that kept getting rougher.

He was lasting way longer than I could have. One minute of oral had finished me off, and that took some effort. Whereas he was minutes deep inside my ass, and he was actually pounding with force, his jaw tight and his abs working hard to keep stuffing my sore ass.

Suddenly, I couldn't hide my pleasure any more, and I reached down and started stroking myself.

"What're you doing?"

"It feels good. I don't know."

"I'll do it," he said, and he pulled my hand off by the wrist and put it on the blanket and took over. And again, it felt even better. It felt a lot better, having somebody else's grip on me while he was inside me, and my ears burned so hot I could feel my own pulse in them.

He got faster. His hips started clapping against the backs of my thighs, this flat wet sound, and he kept stroking me through all of it without losing the rhythm.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow.

"Yeah," I said, too fast, red all the way down my neck.

"I'm about to cum," he said.

"No, wait."

He actually stopped, and he looked down at me confused, because there was no hurt this time and we both knew it. I didn't have a reason ready. I just didn't want it to be over.

I shifted my hips and he slid out of me and I rolled onto all fours facing away from him, and I heard him get his feet under him. He mounted me from above, standing on the mattress, squatting down into me at an angle that was completely new, and it went deeper than it had any of the other ways.

"Fuck, right there," I said, knowing I was going to cringe at myself later for saying it like that.

He clapped away at my ass and I put my forehead down onto the blanket. The pressure kept building in my groin as I started to slam back against him, making his dick hit deeper parts of me even harder than before. There was this bubble inside my body that got bigger every time he came down, and I breathed hard through my mouth when I understood what was happening, because nobody was touching me at the time. He kept the same steady pace and the same pressure and I blew a load onto his blanket, shaking, without a hand anywhere near me.

"Oh, I'm gonna finish now," he said.

This time I wanted him to.

He kept going and I felt him pulse inside me, twice, three times, his whole rhythm falling apart, and my arms gave out. I collapsed flat and his full body weight followed me down, slamming down on top of me and driving my hips into my own wet mess on the blanket, and he kept thrusting as much as he could from there, pinning me, his chest against my back, my face pressed into the cool part of the pillow.

When he finally pulled out of my battered hole, I turned over slowly, one shoulder at a time, keeping a forearm across my stomach.

"Woah," he said, stuffing himself back into his shorts as he looked at me. "You really did like it."

"Shut up," I said, reaching for my pants.

We both dressed. He found his shirt on the floor and smelled it and put it on anyway.

"Ready for the party?" I said.

"I mean. We should probably shower."

I looked at my watch. "Shit, it started an hour ago."

"You're right. Just hop in with me to save time."

"Okay," I said, without a second thought.

····[]····

The house had a porch couch and music coming up through the floorboards, and my ass ached the whole walk over, a low reminder with every step of what we had done. Brayden noticed me adjusting my stride on the porch stairs and smiled to himself, and said nothing.

Some guy I didn't recognize opened the door before we even knocked. 

"Hey it's those two freshman!" he yelled, and pulled us in with an arm around each of our necks, and then we were inside, and I started scanning the room for Kyria.

But there was no Kyria. There were no girls at all. And the dudes were half shirtless, one guy wearing just a jock strap, and several pairs and groups of guys were making out, running their hands up and down each other's bodies.

I looked at Brayden. He looked back at me, his face flush with fear, but his next words surprised me.

"Should we get some more... practice?"

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

By the end of the first day of freshman year, my roommate Brayden and I had established that we were both desperate virgins. While we were getting ready for bed on the first night, I was just dropping my pants when he asked, "What are we gonna do when one of us wants to come home with a girl?"

"I gotchyu man," I said, "I would clear out as long as needed."

"Me too," he replied.

I nodded and slid under my blankets, leaning on an elbow to look at him as we kept talking.

"I'm a virgin, by the way," I said.

"Me too."

I smiled. He kept looking at his phone.

To be honest, I was disappointed. Part of me had been hoping to get paired with a guy who had actual experience, somebody who had done stuff and could talk me through it, maybe help me get into the scene. But if I was being real with myself, experience was not what I needed. What I needed was a gooner bro. Someone who was fine with open masturbation, because that was what I had gotten used to back home. My bedroom back home had been a teenage den of sin. My friends and I beat it in there constantly, side by side in chairs, or on my bed, or even on the floor on the carpet with our phones out, and that combination, porn and my buddies in the same room, was probably my favorite hobby in the world.

I watched him scroll for a second and figured there was only one way to find out which kind of roommate I got.

"What have you done with a girl?" I said, my hand subconsciously crossing my body down to my crotch under the blanket, the beginning of an instinctive erection beginning on its own, just from being in bed. 

"Nothing," he said, and I felt my boner literally deflate. 

"Me neither," I said. "I was hoping you would have some stories to talk about."

"Why?" he said, furrowing his brow, his eyes still on his phone. "You trying to jerk off to my stories?"

I chuckled. 

"What stories?" I said sarcastically. 

He smiled, looking over at me.

"I got some boob once," he said, and I felt my body perk up again. 

"Oh yeah?" I said, reaching for myself. 

"Yeah. And I almost fingered her."

"Nice," I said, rubbing myself openly, doing nothing to stop my blanket from moving on its own.

He looked me dead in the eyes, and reached for himself too, silently establishing what I had hoped for. 

We watched each other jerk off for a few seconds. I looked at his face. He had a younger look than me. I could tell he barely had to shave yet. 

"How big is your dick?" he asked.

"Six inches," I said. "You?"

"Slightly less," he said flatly.

"Okay, we gotta do this," I said. "Whip it out."

He looked at me carefully. "What?"

"Let's compare."

He smiled, almost giggling.

"You wanna look at my dick."

"No homo, bro. You're not curious how we actually stack up?"

He held my eyes for a second. "Fine."

He flipped his blanket off his lap and I flipped mine, and there we were, two hard virgins on opposite walls with our dicks standing out in the lamp light.

His was thick as hell, and actually kind of long. Longer than me, which made me frown a little without realizing it. It was a fat hog of a dick, clearly superior to mine. It was so wide his fingers barely closed around it. Mine stood clearly fine on its own, hooking upward toward my stomach with a solid head on the end. 

"Bro, you got a monster can of a cock," I said. "You're bigger than six. More like seven, or more."

"No way," he said.

"When did you last measure it?"

"Like tenth grade, I think," he said, but he clearly wasn't even sure.

"Well you've grown," I said.

We looked for a couple more seconds at each other, and then both blankets came back up, and our hands kept moving underneath them.

"What do you think about?" he asked. "When you do it."

"Normally just porn," I said.

"Me too."

Then after a second, he reframed his question.

"But, like, what makes you cum? Like when you think about a girl you know in real life."

"Oh. Then, like, her on top," I said. "Or just getting head. Or getting pegged."

He chuckled. "Nice. Kinda tame though."

"What do you like then?"

"A girl with big boobs," he said, and the lump of his fist picked up speed under his blanket. "She's wearing a tank top. I think about pulling it down with my teeth and sucking on them. Then I bend her over a table or desk right in the middle of a classroom, and I pound her from the back while she tries to stay quiet so no one hears us in the hallway."

"That's hot. And really specific."

"Years of development, bro."

"Have you ever," I started, pausing, "...jerked off in a classroom?"

"Dozens of times," he said quickly, without flinching.

"Jesus," I said, "And I wasn't sure if you were a freak like me."

"Where's the weirdest place you've jerked it?" he asked.

"Umm, my friends and I were kind of freaky. We had a competition on a bus once, during a field trip."

"Nice," he said. "You're the first friend I've had like... this."

My fist matched his pace as we continued talking, and the room filled up with the small sounds of our fabric shifting and our hands rubbing our dicks, his bed frame ticking against the wall, his breath coming through his nose loud enough to hear across the gap between our beds.

"Say the desk part again," I said. "About the girl you wanna bang."

"She's biting the sleeve of her shirt so her mom doesn't hear." His voice thinned out at the end of it, and I turned to look at his face. 

"Are you close?" I said.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"I wanna do the girl with you. At the same time."

"Bro, we're not sharing her."

"Too late. I'm gonna cum."

I grabbed the old t-shirt off the floor next to my bed just in time and squirted into it hard, three long pulses that made my legs straighten out under the blanket. A few seconds later he grunted through his teeth, his hips lifting clean off his mattress, and finished into a shirt of his own.

He balled up his cumrag and tossed it out toward the middle of the floor. I threw mine after it. The two shirts came down on top of each other between our beds, his and mine, one little pile of the same laundry. I got the image in my head of our fluids mixing together as they soaked through the cloths.

We lay there breathing for a minute, blankets half kicked off, and then he started talking again, and I got the whole rundown of everything he had ever actually done with a girl.

····[]····

Over the next couple days, we came to an unspoken agreement that neither of us was going to pretend we didn't jerk off. The room was too small to do otherwise. After a couple days it wasn't even awkward anymore. We'd strike out at some party, walk back to the dorm, and jerk it in our own beds while we each watched our own stuff on our phones. Sometimes we did it twice, spurred on by the other. And sometimes we talked our fantasies out loud to each other while we stroked it out. 

And Brayden was a freak about it.

"I need a girl that'll let me hit it in the ass," he said one night, mid-stroke, his other hand holding his phone, probably watching an anal video. "Like, rough anal. That's the dream. And I'd eat her out first. Honestly I'd eat the ass too, I don't care."

"You'd eat ass before you've even kissed anybody," I said, stroking along, amused at his fantasy.

"Especially because I haven't kissed anybody."

"You're a certified freak, bro."

"You know it."

Even if he was a bit weirder than me sometimes, I knew I was still the real freak. And I never stopped stroking while he talked. I kept my eyes on my own screen and my hand on my own dick and let him narrate. 

That was pretty much our whole social life for the first few weeks. Other guys on the floor were out at pregames and house parties, and we were leaving the parties early to come home to our room and goon our brains out, eventually up to two loads a night each. We essentially raced each other to see who could cum first, then made the second one last longer. It was the best gooner bro friendship I had ever had. 

The cumrag pile moved to the corner of the room, and got taller each day. We had turned striking out into a hobby. Of course, we still needed to have some real pussy at some point, but this part was okay for now.

Kyria was the hot girl of our hall, a couple doors down, and she was stacked, dark hair to the middle of her back, and an ass that made watching her walk feel like looking at porn. Guys propped their doors open just to see when she walked by.

And one day, Brayden and I finally got invited to something worthwhile. A sophomore named Trey was throwing a party in an off-campus house with a basement, and the invite came through a group chat we had never been in before, with guys whose names I barely recognized. But it was only the third week of college, classes had barely started, and it wasn't strange to just show up at places where you didn't know anyone. They apparently just added us. We did not care that we didn't know anyone there. The group chat was all dudes, talking about how sexy this party was going to be. 

"Everyone will be getting a nut, guaranteed," one of the messages read, and a dozen guys liked the message. 

Brayden and I talked about actually losing our V-cards. Kyria must be going. Everyone must be going if they invited us.

The night of the party, Brayden was on his bed with his back against the stone wall, one knee up, making me walk him through the party, and what getting with a girl was going to be like, as if I knew any more than he did. 

I said you just go upstairs with a girl and then you do it. When she's ready, you just stick it in, just like in porn. I realized when I said it out loud that I was also completely out of my element. I had no idea what to actually do to get to the point where you're sticking your dick into the girl, let alone what the actual mechanics would be like once I got inside. 

"The most important thing is probably learning how to actually fuck. Like, make her feel good."

He rubbed his face with both hands. "You're not helping." 

I was turned around backward in my desk chair with the seat squeaking every time I shifted.

"And on top of all that," he said, "I want you to tell me how not to be the guy that lasts four seconds."

"What're your thoughts?" I said, unsure of what to do or say next.

"I have no idea," he said, "I feel like I will cum immediately. I get close to cumming just sitting near a girl. I literally will get hard and my dick rubs against my pants on its own, just from getting a boner, and that has made me cum before."

"Same thing has happened to me!" I said, excited for a moment, before realizing how fucked we both were. In the bad way. 

He pointed at me. "Exactly. Neither of us knows. And everybody else already knows."

That part was true. Every guy on our floor talked about girls with a sort of relaxed authority, almost like sex was just a casual thing that happened on its own, all the time. Trey, down the hall, had a girlfriend at another school and also, apparently, was able to fuck a different girl every weekend. Marcus two doors down said the phrase "when I was hooking up with this older girl over the summer" at least once a day, and he said it while doing something else, like putting on his acne cream next to me at the sink in the common bathroom.

Brayden sat back against the cinderblock and sighed.

"Honestly? My fear is I bust before I'm even in," he said. "Like she's naked, she's ready, I'm lining it up, and I just cum on the outside of her. Right on her thigh or whatever. Before the sex has technically even started. And then I get soft and nervous."

I laughed at him, but then I thought about it.

"Yeah, I could see that happening to me too," I admitted. "Squirting at the entrance like a broken firehose while some poor girl is waiting for a real man to show up." 

"Marcus said he's fucked like thirty girls," I said. "We should ask him for advice."

"Marcus is lying. But it doesn't matter if he's lying." He looked at the ceiling with his hands laced on his stomach. "We need literal experience. And we only have like two hours before the party."

"Hookers?" I said in my most ironic voice.

"Yeah, I don't wanna get AIDS."

"Jesus christ," I said.

"Put something on your computer. Maybe we can practice via gooning."

I laughed. He laughed. But we watched porn anyway. That was normal for us already, except this time we pulled out our dicks openly, with the laptop propped between us on his bed while we talked about it.

He kept calling things fake. 

"She's not really enjoying that," he said. "She's just doing that for the camera. Nobody does that." 

I asked him how he would know and he said he wouldn't, that was the problem, and then scrolled to one with bad lighting in a small room and said that one was more like what it was actually going to be. The guy on the screen pulled out and went for the girl's mouth, and Brayden made a considering noise and asked if I would do that. 

"If she said to," I said. He asked if she would say to and I asked him how the hell I was supposed to know.

He laughed at that, a quick little hiccup laugh I was used to hearing. 

Then he was quiet for a second and said, "That's the part I've never gotten. Like I don't even know what that feels like. Getting sucked. I have literally no data for this."

"Same."

"None."

"None."

"So we're gonna show up, supposedly to get laid with experienced girls, and both of us are running blind."

"Yep."

"We should just suck each other and get it over with," he said.

It was a joke. I laughed. He laughed. The porn continued playing.

And then neither of us said anything for about ten seconds, which felt like a long time.

"I mean," I said.

"I was kidding," he said, leaning away from me as if to hide his dick, inadvertently flashing his hairless little ass to me.

"Right."

"Obviously."

"Obviously," I said. "Unless..."

He turned his head and looked at me. Not a big dramatic look. Just a look.

"Unless what."

"It's the joke people say. I was just kidding."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "I think you weren't kidding."

"You want to blow each other then?"

"No homo, but like..." he looked down at my dick in my hands. "No. No. No we can't. We're not doing that."

"We could," I said.

"Why should we?"

"Practice." My mouth was moving fast. "Like it's not a gay thing, but we'll know what it's like. We haven't had it done at all. We're behind. Girls do this with each other all the time. It's literally a girls' sleepover staple activity."

"You really think so?" I asked, rubbing myself naturally.

"So we catch up to the other guys, using a shortcut."

"In a no homo way."

He nodded.

He slid down off his elbow toward my crotch, and looked at my dick up close as I held it in my hand. 

"Alright, I'll go," he said, and I turned my face toward the porn, bracing for whatever came next.

He reached for the base of my dick, peeling my fingers off my own dick and replacing them, and it felt better than I expected it to. He gave it a squeeze, then ran his fist up to the end a couple times quickly. His grip squeezed tighter than mine usually did, but it worked.

"No homo," I said, "but it actually feels better when it's someone else's hand."

He chuckled, still stroking me at his own unhurried pace. "Is this the best handjob you've ever gotten?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's the only..."

He cut me off as his mouth dropped down onto my dick, shutting me up.

It was warm and wet and it felt good, but it also felt completely wrong, and my body did not know what to do with the fact that the top of a male head was moving down there, and I got softer instead of harder. It was too weird. And his head and body were blocking the porn.

"Stop, stop," I said, pushing his head back. "This is weird, dude, I can't."

He came up off me and looked at my face from about eight inches away. His mouth was shiny.

"Just think about Kyria," he said. "Look at your phone."

I picked up my device and opened instagram, searching for the last thing she posted, and Brayden went back down. I turned off my brain for a second, and before I knew it, I was harder than I had ever been in my entire life. I could finally appreciate the warm wetness of the mouth that was pleasuring me.

"Fuck," I said, "It actually feels really good."

He grunted a quick response directly onto my cock.

"Okay wait," I said. "Wait. I'm gonna cum."

He didn't come off me. He said something with me still in his mouth that I couldn't understand, then pulled back an inch. "Already?"

"Yeah."

"Think about something nasty. Think about my smelly shoes."

I laughed and my dick jumped in his hand and I actually did it. I pictured his black Nikes under the bed, the ones he wore to intramural with no socks, and the particular smell that came off them when the window unit pushed air the wrong direction. It genuinely backed me off from orgasm, maybe fifteen percent.

He hummed around me and I could feel him twitch his tongue and the shoes lost their potency in my head.

I lasted maybe another thirty seconds, which still felt like a win, and then it came out of me hard enough that my heels dug into his blanket, and some of it got in his mouth before he got clear of it, aiming my dick at my abs and letting the rest spill onto my body. He turned his head and spat off the side of the bed into the trash can, then wiped his lip with the back of his wrist.

"I think that actually worked," I said, breathing. "I kind of had some control over it at the end there."

"Then why'd you finish in my mouth?"

"Well," I said. "I didn't have that much control."

He laughed the hiccup laugh. Then he leaned back against the wall, and he pushed his shorts down, and it was my turn.

He took it out and I stopped talking.

It was bigger than mine, and looked even bigger up this close. It sat in his hand as he squeezed it. It was thick and heavy and already half up with anticipation, and there was a smell coming off him, not a bad smell, just a very male aroma. It honestly reminded me more of the cumrag pile than it did of a human. It was pure balls, and I felt my face grimace on its own. His dick was right there, and he was waiting and I could see it getting harder while I looked at it, which somehow made it worse.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do it."

"C'mon man," He said lightly as his eyebrows went up. "After I did you already?"

"Yeah, man. I'm so sorry. I just can't."

He looked down at himself, then at the wall over my shoulder, and his hand opened and closed on his own thigh.

"Well, what am I gonna do," he said. "Fuck you?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. No homo, but I'd actually rather you did that." My pulse was slamming in my throat and the words came out of me before I even rationalized it. "You deserve it after all. I just can't do the other thing."

"Okay," he said.

He got up and opened the desk drawer for his gooner oil, the bottle of baby oil he used when he needed it. I heard the plastic click of the cap and then I was lying face down on his bed with my face on his pillow, my pants still on, bracing yet again for what would come next.

He reached for my waistband, and I lifted my hips as he pulled my pants down past my knees. There was a cold line of wetness poured onto my ass, and then his hand spread it between my cheeks, pulling them to the side one at a time and gently inspecting me.

Just before I was going to ask what his actual plan was, his weight came onto the mattress, and I felt him work himself the rest of the way hard, his knuckles rubbing against the back of my thigh as he stroked himself, and then he leaned forward, his left arm appearing in front of my face as the pressure started between my butt cheeks.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped. "Does it hurt?"

"No, it's okay. Just go slow."

He went slowly. It was a strange, full pressure that kept going after I expected it to stop, finding spots deeper and deeper inside me as I felt myself stretching to accommodate his greased up hog. He leaned down, letting his chest meet my back, and the weight made it slightly harder to breathe.

His face was right by my ear, his hot, uneven breath tickling the side of my face, and somewhere in there the pressure turned into something else and I pushed back into it. He felt that and started moving faster.

I couldn't say anything, but the weirdness and the discomfort were sort of overpowered as he pressed some new buttons inside me that I didn't know were there before.

I got a hand back on his forearm and squeezed until he stopped.

"Does it hurt again?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just lemme turn over."

It didn't actually hurt. But I couldn't admit that I just wanted to watch him and see what he was doing that made it feel weirdly good. I kicked my pants the rest of the way off and got onto my back, quickly lifting my legs for him.

"Go ahead," I said. "Now."

He knelt up, and aligned himself with me again, and I watched him do it, and watching him actually do it was a new experience. It was scary, seeing exactly how much of him was stretching me open. He pushed back in quickly, and he was back to balls deep inside me in seconds. He seemed to like this position even better than the first, even if my dick and balls were on display for him now, as he actively pushed my knees up to my chest. And he settled into a rhythm that kept getting rougher.

He was lasting way longer than I could have. One minute of oral had finished me off, and that took some effort. Whereas he was minutes deep inside my ass, and he was actually pounding with force, his jaw tight and his abs working hard to keep stuffing my sore ass.

Suddenly, I couldn't hide my pleasure any more, and I reached down and started stroking myself.

"What're you doing?"

"It feels good. I don't know."

"I'll do it," he said, and he pulled my hand off by the wrist and put it on the blanket and took over. And again, it felt even better. It felt a lot better, having somebody else's grip on me while he was inside me, and my ears burned so hot I could feel my own pulse in them.

He got faster. His hips started clapping against the backs of my thighs, this flat wet sound, and he kept stroking me through all of it without losing the rhythm.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow.

"Yeah," I said, too fast, red all the way down my neck.

"I'm about to cum," he said.

"No, wait."

He actually stopped, and he looked down at me confused, because there was no hurt this time and we both knew it. I didn't have a reason ready. I just didn't want it to be over.

I shifted my hips and he slid out of me and I rolled onto all fours facing away from him, and I heard him get his feet under him. He mounted me from above, standing on the mattress, squatting down into me at an angle that was completely new, and it went deeper than it had any of the other ways.

"Fuck, right there," I said, knowing I was going to cringe at myself later for saying it like that.

He clapped away at my ass and I put my forehead down onto the blanket. The pressure kept building in my groin as I started to slam back against him, making his dick hit deeper parts of me even harder than before. There was this bubble inside my body that got bigger every time he came down, and I breathed hard through my mouth when I understood what was happening, because nobody was touching me at the time. He kept the same steady pace and the same pressure and I blew a load onto his blanket, shaking, without a hand anywhere near me.

"Oh, I'm gonna finish now," he said.

This time I wanted him to.

He kept going and I felt him pulse inside me, twice, three times, his whole rhythm falling apart, and my arms gave out. I collapsed flat and his full body weight followed me down, slamming down on top of me and driving my hips into my own wet mess on the blanket, and he kept thrusting as much as he could from there, pinning me, his chest against my back, my face pressed into the cool part of the pillow.

When he finally pulled out of my battered hole, I turned over slowly, one shoulder at a time, keeping a forearm across my stomach.

"Woah," he said, stuffing himself back into his shorts as he looked at me. "You really did like it."

"Shut up," I said, reaching for my pants.

We both dressed. He found his shirt on the floor and smelled it and put it on anyway.

"Ready for the party?" I said.

"I mean. We should probably shower."

I looked at my watch. "Shit, it started an hour ago."

"You're right. Just hop in with me to save time."

"Okay," I said, without a second thought.

····[]····

The house had a porch couch and music coming up through the floorboards, and my ass ached the whole walk over, a low reminder with every step of what we had done. Brayden noticed me adjusting my stride on the porch stairs and smiled to himself, and said nothing.

Some guy I didn't recognize opened the door before we even knocked. 

"Hey it's those two freshman!" he yelled, and pulled us in with an arm around each of our necks, and then we were inside, and I started scanning the room for Kyria.

But there was no Kyria. There were no girls at all. And the dudes were half shirtless, one guy wearing just a jock strap, and several pairs and groups of guys were making out, running their hands up and down each other's bodies.

I looked at Brayden. He looked back at me, his face flush with fear, but his next words surprised me.

"Should we get some more... practice?"

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I didn’t expect some fellow freshman’s butt to shock me so much. I walked into my first water polo practice of my college career armed with a superiority complex and four years of shoulder gains, and they were spiritually deleted by a wet, freshman butt while he was looking for a towel.

I had spent my high school years steadily becoming the biggest guy in almost every room, and I had gotten used to it. I lifted before school and after practice. I ate for it, slept for it, planned my whole week around loading and recovery. By senior year I had “mogging shoulders” (I’m sorry) that made people step aside in hallways. I chased girls. I got a few of them. I started to believe that I was better than the smaller, softer guys, who I believed just didn’t know what to do with their bodies’ potential. I believed that the way a Christian believes in Jesus: He either lives in your heart or he doesn’t.

So the locker room after the first day of college water polo should have been my home turf. I expected a bit of sizing up, some crude jokes, and wordlessly comparing pecs and arms to decide where I stood in the new pecking order. But I got a surprise.

Where I came from, nobody changed naked. We did the towel change, the whole ritual of carefully wrapping yourself for dick-level modesty while changing out of your speedo, one hand pinning the towel at the hip while the other worked the suit off underneath. We showered in our Speedos. I had gone eighteen years without standing bare in front of another guy, and I had never once thought that was strange, because everyone I knew did the exact same thing.

Most of the rest of the guys were still standing around the pool, bullshitting about this and that, when Josh walked in first. It was just me and him in there. I did not know his name yet. He was a freshman like me, on the team like me, and that was where the similarity stopped. He was smaller than I was by a good deal, lean, and athletic, but completely uncompetitive in the arms, shoulders, pecs. He carried himself with a lot of confidence though, and he still had the swimmer's toned back and body. He also had sort of a baby-face. Whereas I had always been confused for being a couple years older than I was, he seemed like the opposite. He had a sharp, narrow jawline and big eyes, and sort of “big lips” as weird as it was to notice that. He looked kind. He had been fast in the water during practice, and I had clocked his versatility in both offensive and defensive plays. 

I was sitting on the bench in my speedo, still wet from practice when Josh dropped his bag at the locker directly across from me. Then he hooked his thumbs into his speedo suit and took them down to his ankles in one motion, facing his locker, and stood there completely bare while he dug for his towel. 

The unabashed nudity struck me, knocking me off of my steady sense of bravado, and the unsettling was amplified by the carefree nature of the situation. We were the only two in this area, and his perky little ass was like a foot from my face.

I tried to look away, but my constitution failed me. He was still bent forward into the bottom of his locker, digging around for the towel, and the angle put all of him right there in front of me. His cheeks were firm and high and set close together, with a clean line down the middle, and there was not a hair anywhere on him, not on the skin and not in the crease. He was still damp from the pool and the fluorescent light caught the water on him. There was a faint pale band low on his hips where the speedo had sat all afternoon. I had spent years ranking other guys by their arms and their shoulders and their chests and usually coming out on top of the ranking, or else having a good excuse in my head. But no part of my system had a single thing to say about what I was looking at now. I just looked. My mouth had gone dry at some point, and I found myself trying to make spit, swallowing to no effect.

He talked to me over his shoulder while he searched, his taut butt paradoxically jiggling deceptively in my face when he moved from one side to the other, casual and completely unbothered. He asked how I thought the first practice had gone, and whether coach was always going to run the team that hard. I heard the question and it took me an extra beat to answer. He looked over his shoulder at me and I realized. 

“Yeah,” I said, “I mean… no. He’s trying to weed out the whiners.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning back and shuffling his things around, somehow incredibly messy already on just the first day. “Makes sense.”

Then he found the towel and threw it over his shoulder as he stood up, turning to face me, and I saw the rest of him. 

My eyes stuck to the form in front of me. 

He had a long, pink, heavy piece on him that would humble a horse. He was carrying a size of manhood that I would never be able to compete with, and I’d be surprised if anyone could. It was pure genetics. It was a pecker-pecking order, and he stood at the top of it.

He caught me looking, or at least he noticed that I was a little dazed. He tilted his head. 

“You ok?” he asked, not sounding suspicious, just checking. The question pulled me up out of wherever I had gone.

“Um, yeah,” I said with a little hesitation as I looked up.

And when I looked at his face, it was like he was a different guy than I had briefly noticed during practice. There was a warmth to his smile that matched the heat low in my stomach, which was spreading. I felt sort of frozen, until a door banged somewhere behind me and another guy came in loud and laughing, and the noise snapped me out of it. 

“I’m Ty, by the way… Tyler,” I said. 

“Hey, Josh,” he replied, wrapping the towel on the wall hook and stepping into the empty shower by himself. I watched one last time as his form moved into the space, turning on a shower head at the far end, before I caught myself staring once again.

I turned back to my locker, my face was hot and my heart pounding as the bulk of the rest of the guys swarmed in. The college locker room did not have the unspoken rules of modesty that I had grown up with. It was older and settled, the tile worn smooth in the middle of the floor from a hundred teams walking on it before us, and guys dropped their bags on the benches and started stripping down with a comfort I did not have. Still, it felt like something I was already numb to, after Josh.

He had broken a seal.

I stripped down with the rest of them, and walked into the shower room as part of a group, hip to hip with the boys, thinking about Josh and trying not to look at him. It seemed like he was the first at everything. First into the room, first out. I wondered what other firsts he would be interested in.

····[]····

The showering itself was uneventful after that, a bunch of guys, many of which had known each other for years now, and the freshman like me, just learning who everyone was, soaped ourselves up and telling jokes. There was only one comment about Josh’s big hog, and it was basically in passing. I don’t even remember the joke, but Josh played along, wiggling his hips, and the jokes moved on.

No one else seemed phased, but I found it hard to even join the conversation. I laughed at the right parts, but my mind was elsewhere. Josh was on the opposite corner of the shower room from me, and I fought hard not to glance at him every five seconds. But every time I lost focus,  I was looking at Josh. I was looking at the small of his back and the two dimples above his butt, and the pale cheeks under the tanline where a suit had likely sat all Summer, and I could not stop. 

No one else noticed what was going on in my head. And no one else seemed to notice how magnificent Josh was. 

He had an understated confidence, a natural way of carrying himself. He didn’t have to try hard. Maybe he was nothing special to the average guy, but there was some quality in him I couldn’t pinpoint, and couldn’t stop thinking about. 

····[]····

I did not think much about why I wanted to hang out with Josh with such urgency. I only knew that I wanted to be around him more, and it wasn't exactly familiar to me. 

I had tried to catch up with him, but true to his nature, he was the first out of the showers, and he was gone before I was even dried off.

After the first practice I thought about him nearly constantly. It was like I wanted to be best friends with him. I had never felt so needy in my life. With “the boys” everything was low key, and loud, and funny, and forgettable. With Josh I noticed things. I noticed when he showed up to practice and when he did not. I noticed the half smile and the soft voice and the way he talked to everyone as though he already trusted them, which somehow made him seem more trustworthy by default as well. I started angling to be near him in the pool, sharing a lane, resting on the same wall. I thought maybe I just wanted to be close to a good teammate, a “good dude”. 

We got friendly the honest way, so I thought. I was able to push down my weird fascination and find little excuses to hang out with him a lot over the next few weeks, and he never seemed to say he was busy or not feeling it. He was always “down”. We bonded over stupid conversations that ran long, sometimes late into the night in or near one of our dorms, a random roommate usually nearby. He was funny and confident. He let me talk more than I should have sometimes, and he seemed to actually listen, which nobody my size is used to. 

Practices became normal, team nudity was easy to get used to, but my attraction to Josh never dulled, and all I wanted to do in my free time was see if he was busy. 

I found reasons. A team dinner became a walk back the long way. A walk back became sitting on a wall for an hour. Every reason was real and every reason was also an excuse, and I only understood the second half of that much later.

····[]····

The thing about being the big guy is that there’s a positive feedback loop when it comes to confidence. People assume a lot of things about you, and you become sort of a caricature of yourself by pure social reinforcement. A frat was already trying to woo me in my first couple weeks on campus, and I was playing into it while remaining non-committal. They had recruited a handful of athletes and I could tell they wanted to add me to their trophy case. This frat was pretty “cool”. I could tell on the first night of orientation that they threw the parties everyone would be trying to get into. 

And they wanted me. That meant I got the soft version of access before I had even started pledging, which would become official the following semester, if I chose to join. I had a few names in my phone, access codes to a couple of locked doors around campus that were for “secret societies only”, and a simple nod at parties that got me past the guys working the entrance like a superpower. 

I had also been introduced to a few “special” spots around campus.

“You can take the ladies here when you need a private space. It’s especially useful for freshmen who still have a roommate,” Brian had said to me the first time he showed me the “screening room” near the freshman dorms.

It was basically a lounge in an annex to the freshman quad, tucked at the end of a dusty, stone hall that most people never walked down, with an old couch in it that somebody's parents must have donated a hundred years ago. It was huge and low and soft, the cushions worn into a permanent sink. There was a giant, modern TV on the wall, and I guessed that’s why it was called the “screening room”, which seemed to be the ostensible use case that got the administration to allow it to exist. Clearly, almost nobody used it, and I had a way in.

I had written the access code into the notes app on my phone when I first saw it, and then didn’t think about it for a long time, until one night, when it was just me and Josh hanging out, and he said something that made me think about it.

“I wish we had a private spot, just to chill and watch TV.” 

“Yeah,” I said, agreeing with him instinctively, before it hit me that I had exactly that kind of place available to me.

“Wait,” I said, and he looked at me.

I double checked my notes app, and there it was. 

“You wanna see the ‘screening room’?” I said, doing the air quotes.

He smiled. “Yeah, sure.”

And we went.

····[]····

The couch was even bigger than I remembered. We dropped onto it at the same time and it took us in, the cushions folding around us so that the middle sank and pulled us toward each other naturally. I felt comfortable, being close to him, but being able to blame the couch. 

There was a lamp on in the corner and nothing else. The building was quiet around us. We sat close because the couch made close the only option, and neither of us moved away, just sitting with the proximity.

Josh found the remote and turned it on. It had a smart TV console, and all the streaming apps appeared to be logged in. He clicked on Netflix and started scrolling. 

“Better Call Saul,” I said, “I’ve been meaning to watch it.”

“I watched the first season a long time ago. Seemed like nothing really happens. It’s not as good as Breaking Bad.”

“No,” I said, “They say it gets good at the end. We should watch it.”

He nodded slowly, like I had convinced him. I subtly wondered how easy he would be to convince of other things, my inner dominant streak momentarily returning to the surface.

Most of our legs were touching as the first scene started, the grey flash-forward that was difficult to recognize as not a flashback. His thigh ran against mine from the knee up, and I could feel the warmth of it through both our shorts, a steady heat that I was suddenly very aware of. Within a couple minutes, we were leaning into each other. His shoulder was against my arm and his weight was tipped toward me, and I let it be there. I knew it was different than how I normally sat with guys, but Josh made it seem fine. It was comforting, in a way. It would’ve been funny under the right context. He was an easy-going guy, and he never had his guard up, and we were friends now. And after all, the couch was doing this, not me.

During the slow parts, we talked about little things. I found myself unable to fully track the words. Most of my attention had dropped down to the lines of contact between his body and mine, the pressure of him against me, the way it shifted a little every time he laughed, the oblique feeling of his chest breathing as it moved his torso. My arm was up along the back of the couch behind him. It had started there for no reason, or for a reason I would not acknowledge. And then, slowly, without any decision I would have admitted to making, my hand traveled down along the top of the cushion behind his shoulders until it was not on the couch anymore. It was on him. My arm was around him and my hand was resting on his far shoulder and I was, for all practical purposes, holding him. 

Gently. 

He went still. He didn’t pull away. He just didn’t move. He turned his head to look at me.

"Hey, so," he said. There was a hesitation in his voice, a soft pause before the words, and I felt it from his face, before I registered the words. "You know I'm… I'm not gay."

I have been hit in the chest before, in the pool, in weight rooms, in a fight once in high school. This was worse. And it left no mark. It went straight through the front of me and landed somewhere behind my sternum and stayed there. Because he was right. He had read the whole situation. He had called it out. And he had done it plainly, in the kindest voice I had ever heard, 

And the kindness was the part that ruined me. I had thought I was hiding it perfectly. I had not even admitted it to myself yet, and this smaller guy with the sweet face had just looked over and said the quiet part out loud.

"What?" I said. It came out as a denial reflex. I had never been a good liar, and I knew I had no chance, but I didn’t have the capacity to engage with the idea yet.

I could feel the fear sitting on my own face. I did not have to see it. For years I had been the bigger guy, the one stacking muscle and chasing girls and feeling above everyone, and this freshman with a babyface had just quietly owned me on a donated couch and I had no play. I felt devastated. There were a hundred layers of denial stacked up between me and that feeling, and I could not get through even one of them fast enough to say anything true.

"I'm not gay either," I said as I pulled my arm back to myself, my voice cracking a little.

"Oh," he said. "Okay."

He let it sit. He did not pull his leg away from me. Instead his face went soft. The half smile came back, smaller and gentler, aimed only at me, and there was no judgment in it anywhere. That was when I recognized the kindness for what it was. He was not calling me out to “own” me in any way, which was a hard, defensive instinct for me to break from. He had just said what he felt he needed to say, for my actual benefit.

Something in me came out, jostled loose by his unapologetically positive nature.

"I do think about you," I said. It was the most honest sentence I had said out loud since I came to college, and it barely came out above a whisper. “A lot.”

He nodded, like he already knew, and had known, and was only glad I had finally caught up.

"Gay guys love me," he said with a shrug, somehow not bragging when he said it, just stating it. "My brother calls me a twink. The gay one."

I felt myself chuckle, surprised, the tension in my chest breaking just enough to let air in. "I've heard that word," I said.

"So you aren't gay," he said, watching my face, "or like, you're not sure?"

"I don't know," I said.

My face was hot again, but there was nowhere to turn away to. He was right there. I felt cracked open and stupid and somehow regretted being this honest. But I didn’t pull it back.

"I really don't know."

"I mean," he said. He shifted a little, turning more toward me, and his knee pressed harder into my thigh. "I'm a good bro. If you need to be sure, I can, like…"

He stopped.

I waited in the pause. My heart had started to throb, among other things, my blood flow was not slowing down. I knew what he was building toward before he finished, and my body knew it faster than my mind did, because I felt it respond just to the expectation of the words, a tightening low and immediate, a heat that spread down from my stomach and made it hard to sit still.

"I can, like… help you find out," he said.

····[]····

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, I pushed forward and kissed him. I felt sparks tingling in my chest, while he was tentative at first. His mouth was soft, and he moved carefully. We were both testing something we hadn’t done before, and for a moment it just two dudes touching lips with a moderate amount of pressure applied.

Then he made a small sound against my mouth, like he was surprised at himself, and he leaned in harder. His hand came up to my shoulder and his fingers held me, letting me know he was there for me.

It felt like he liked it, but I didn’t know if that was just in my head at that point. His breathing shifted, and I felt it against my face, and his weight tipped toward me as he slipped the smallest amount of tongue past my lips. I responded in kind, careful not to overdo it and scare him off. I licked the tongue touching mine and pressed back into his, feeling the slightest five o’clock shadow as our lips moved against each other. Our mouths stopped being careful as we fully engaged in making out, my hand reaching up to the back of his neck, his sliding up to hold me gently by the hair on the back of my head.

I got my arm all the way around him and pulled, and he followed, sliding halfway across my lap on the worn cushions, his arms starting to hold my back, creating more body contact, warm everywhere he touched me.

My hand found the bare skin under his shirt, at the small of his back. I felt for the dimples I had stared at on the first day of practice, and the feel of it under my palm only exaggerated the want in me. 

He arched into my touch. I felt the pressure of his chest against mine, and it became clear that he was getting as much as he was giving. I didn’t have to talk to him about it to understand that he enjoyed the kissing, as much as he was only “trying to help me out”. His fingers dug into my back, and I stopped thinking about my denial or his.

Our communication after that was physical. Josh told me things with his eyes and his hands and his hips. He got as hard as I had been and he grinded into each other as he settled more and more onto my lap. His hands moved on my back, and they said the same thing his eyes did.

My palms moved over him without even thinking about where they were going as our tongues wrestled. We groaned lightly together in a sea of sensations as I gripped his butt, the cheeks that had started this whole thing, lifting him up further onto me as I leaned forward, giving him space to wrap his legs around me. 

The heat built up, concentrated in our core as the grinding generated friction between our bodies and the fabric. 

His hand gripped my wrist, moving it to his stomach, off the safe stretch of his shoulder, and I rubbed his abs, feeling them. If that’s what he wanted, I had no problem with that. He was giving me everything I had wanted for weeks, and I only wanted him to be happy at this point.

"No," he said, pushing my hand lower. "Here."

I froze when my hand touched the large, hard shaft throbbing under the fabric. I held there with my hand where he had put it and I looked up at his face. I hadn’t even expected to actually get intimate. I didn’t think we’d go this far. I was scared, but somehow he was more certain than I was. I still wasn’t sure if he was doing this for himself or for me, but I squeezed it, taking his suggestion.

I kissed him hard as I started to rub it, feeling him moan from deep in his chest, directly into my mouth. I moved down his neck and he seemed to love that. I took my time as I laid him onto his back on the couch. I didn’t really want it to end, and I still did not fully believe it was happening. I stopped when I ran out of collarbone skin to kiss, and pulled off his shirt. I dropped my face down to his chest and felt his breath get uneven under my mouth as I kissed him and licked his nipple, my hand still gripping the heavy meat in his pants. I moved lower and his stomach pulled in tight when I reached it. I kissed his light happy trail, the only body hair he seemed to have.

I got to the waistband and stopped. There was a held breath, his and mine at the same second.

When I pulled at it with both hands, he lifted his body off the couch and let me peel the barrier swiftly down to mid thigh. He was fully hard, and even bigger in this state than I had let myself imagine. The size of him made the whole thing more real somehow.

His hands came into my hair and guided me as I held it upright and put it into my mouth. I didn’t waste any time ogling him more than I already had over the past few weeks as I took him in quickly, rubbing my tongue on the sensitive underside, holding my jaw as far open as I could, trying to give him as much pleasure as I could. 

His fingers tightening in my hair told me everything I needed to know. I had no reference for any of this and I was winging it in real time, the taste and the weight of it were being imprinted onto my brain, and the sounds he made gave me all the payoff I could have hoped for.

My jaw was quickly sore, and he seemed happy to accept some tight strokes from my fist as I moved further south, licking his balls the way I liked my own licked. When I got curious and dipped my tongue a bit lower, he understood what I was going for before I even did, and he repositioned for me, tilting his body and lifting his own legs, showing me a pink hole between two mesmerizing cheeks, perky somehow even at this angle.

When I pressed my tongue onto his warm, pink center, his body leaned into it, one of his hands pulling at the back of my head again, this time holding me down with strength.

He moaned this time, not just audibly, but vocally. I could tell this was his favorite part so far. His hand took over his rod and I reached down to pull him further apart, giving my tongue more space to push deeper. 

The door opened.

I heard someone stop in the doorway behind me. I felt Josh tense up under me, but I didn’t move. Nothing was going to stop me from having this moment.

"We're busy!" Josh said sternly, keeping his legs in the air.

He said it fast and urgently, without a shred of shame. I continued running circles with my tongue inside the hole in front of me as the person behind me stepped back, and pulled the door shut. Footsteps went quickly down the hall until they were gone.

We were alone again, and Josh pulled my head into his body in waves, like he wanted the motion as much as the pressure.

I got the feeling that he somehow wanted more, but I couldn’t be the one to suggest it. I couldn’t be the one to push this further than what we had already done. I was the fucked up one, he was still just a guy helping out a friend. 

He answered the question himself when he pulled my head back, angling my face to look at him.

"You won't tell anyone about this, right?" he said, his cute, boyish face showing shyness and vulnerability.

“Yeah,” I said, taking a breath, his balls in my face. “Of course not. Whatever you want.”

“You can fuck me, if you want,” he said, “Like, put it in me.”

“Okay,” I said immediately. 

I didn’t even take in how much of an escalation that was, or how strange this should have been to me. I just got up onto my knees, keeping his body exactly how it was positioned, and whipped myself out of my shorts. He watched my body as I took off my shirt, put his hands on my hips, and then closed his eyes.

I lined myself up with him quickly. We were already slick and sticky from the juices leaking out of me, and all the spit I had left on him. I pushed forward slowly, not really knowing what to expect from a male body taking a dick for the first time.

I watched his face for signal, and found anticipation as I increased the pressure slowly. When I finally pressed past the entrance, the familiar sensations of sex took over, and this was better than anything I had ever felt before. Some last piece of the guy I used to be fell away in that moment, and it did not survive the experience of Josh letting me have my way with him.

He held onto me by the hips, keeping his palms on the front of my lean V-line like he was preventing me from going too hard. And I held onto him by the center of his abdomen, feeling the athletic, narrow body and watching his giant hog hover above his abs, a thing string of clear, sticky fluid connecting it to his abs.

It felt like losing my virginity, like this was the real first time my body had been waiting for. It was the best I had ever felt in my life, and it was coming from another guy, and I did not care about one single thing I had believed before that moment.

I pressed in further and his mouth fell open. He stopped closing his eyes and looked at me, like he was in shock.

“You okay?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, “You can keep going.”

I pressed in and out of him, feeling the curves of the inside of his body as he passively pleasured me, letting me do what I wanted. 

“This is… so good,” I said in a breath.

“Yeah?” he said softly. 

“I’m not gonna last,” I said.

“You can bust whenever you want,” he said, one side of his mouth only forming a smile. “I can’t get pregnant.”

I smiled, and he chuckled, which was interrupted when I picked up the speed, pushing in a little further.

His body started to bounce a little and his arms came around to my back. His thighs tensed around me, squeezing me.

I grabbed his heavy meat. 

“It’s so big,” I said as I began squeezing it and stroking it, rubbing it with his pre-cum. 

He started to breathe heavily. I added some spit and it made squishy sounds. 

“Ohhh I’m gonna cum,” he said.

“Me first,” I said as I pounded him rapidly now.

“No me,” he said, and we chuckled together again.

His face turned serious as he let out a small groan and I felt him pulse, in my hand as well as on my dick. 

I was over the edge at the same time, and I don’t even know who shot first. I pulsed inside him in ecstasy as I watched his O-face get a streak of his own juice across it. 

We groaned in asymmetrical waves of pleasure as we grinded out our orgasms. I almost cried at the peak of it, hearing myself whimper.

I rubbed a thumb through the mess on his chest as I slowly pulled out of him, grabbing myself and stroking it instinctively, wiping my rod on his inner thigh.

His dick dropped with a splatter onto his abs when I let go of it, and he sat up, our cheeks coming into contact just once before he scooted back, reaching around for something to wipe himself up with. 

He found the box of tissues behind him and pulled out a generous wad before setting it down in front of me. 

It was quiet for a moment, the lamp buzzing in the corner and the netflix auto-paused.

“Are you still watching?” overlied the frozen picture of the main character’s face in the middle of a yelling scene. The intensity was on pause. 

When we were wiped off to our satisfaction, a pile of tissues lain on the table next to the couch, Josh turned his head against the couch cushion and looked at me. The half smile came back, bigger now, dazed and a little proud.

"Well," he said. "THAT was unexpected."

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I didn’t expect some fellow freshman’s butt to shock me so much. I walked into my first water polo practice of my college career armed with a superiority complex and four years of shoulder gains, and they were spiritually deleted by a wet, freshman butt while he was looking for a towel.

I had spent my high school years steadily becoming the biggest guy in almost every room, and I had gotten used to it. I lifted before school and after practice. I ate for it, slept for it, planned my whole week around loading and recovery. By senior year I had “mogging shoulders” (I’m sorry) that made people step aside in hallways. I chased girls. I got a few of them. I started to believe that I was better than the smaller, softer guys, who I believed just didn’t know what to do with their bodies’ potential. I believed that the way a Christian believes in Jesus: He either lives in your heart or he doesn’t.

So the locker room after the first day of college water polo should have been my home turf. I expected a bit of sizing up, some crude jokes, and wordlessly comparing pecs and arms to decide where I stood in the new pecking order. But I got a surprise.

Where I came from, nobody changed naked. We did the towel change, the whole ritual of carefully wrapping yourself for dick-level modesty while changing out of your speedo, one hand pinning the towel at the hip while the other worked the suit off underneath. We showered in our Speedos. I had gone eighteen years without standing bare in front of another guy, and I had never once thought that was strange, because everyone I knew did the exact same thing.

Most of the rest of the guys were still standing around the pool, bullshitting about this and that, when Josh walked in first. It was just me and him in there. I did not know his name yet. He was a freshman like me, on the team like me, and that was where the similarity stopped. He was smaller than I was by a good deal, lean, and athletic, but completely uncompetitive in the arms, shoulders, pecs. He carried himself with a lot of confidence though, and he still had the swimmer's toned back and body. He also had sort of a baby-face. Whereas I had always been confused for being a couple years older than I was, he seemed like the opposite. He had a sharp, narrow jawline and big eyes, and sort of “big lips” as weird as it was to notice that. He looked kind. He had been fast in the water during practice, and I had clocked his versatility in both offensive and defensive plays. 

I was sitting on the bench in my speedo, still wet from practice when Josh dropped his bag at the locker directly across from me. Then he hooked his thumbs into his speedo suit and took them down to his ankles in one motion, facing his locker, and stood there completely bare while he dug for his towel. 

The unabashed nudity struck me, knocking me off of my steady sense of bravado, and the unsettling was amplified by the carefree nature of the situation. We were the only two in this area, and his perky little ass was like a foot from my face.

I tried to look away, but my constitution failed me. He was still bent forward into the bottom of his locker, digging around for the towel, and the angle put all of him right there in front of me. His cheeks were firm and high and set close together, with a clean line down the middle, and there was not a hair anywhere on him, not on the skin and not in the crease. He was still damp from the pool and the fluorescent light caught the water on him. There was a faint pale band low on his hips where the speedo had sat all afternoon. I had spent years ranking other guys by their arms and their shoulders and their chests and usually coming out on top of the ranking, or else having a good excuse in my head. But no part of my system had a single thing to say about what I was looking at now. I just looked. My mouth had gone dry at some point, and I found myself trying to make spit, swallowing to no effect.

He talked to me over his shoulder while he searched, his taut butt paradoxically jiggling deceptively in my face when he moved from one side to the other, casual and completely unbothered. He asked how I thought the first practice had gone, and whether coach was always going to run the team that hard. I heard the question and it took me an extra beat to answer. He looked over his shoulder at me and I realized. 

“Yeah,” I said, “I mean… no. He’s trying to weed out the whiners.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning back and shuffling his things around, somehow incredibly messy already on just the first day. “Makes sense.”

Then he found the towel and threw it over his shoulder as he stood up, turning to face me, and I saw the rest of him. 

My eyes stuck to the form in front of me. 

He had a long, pink, heavy piece on him that would humble a horse. He was carrying a size of manhood that I would never be able to compete with, and I’d be surprised if anyone could. It was pure genetics. It was a pecker-pecking order, and he stood at the top of it.

He caught me looking, or at least he noticed that I was a little dazed. He tilted his head. 

“You ok?” he asked, not sounding suspicious, just checking. The question pulled me up out of wherever I had gone.

“Um, yeah,” I said with a little hesitation as I looked up.

And when I looked at his face, it was like he was a different guy than I had briefly noticed during practice. There was a warmth to his smile that matched the heat low in my stomach, which was spreading. I felt sort of frozen, until a door banged somewhere behind me and another guy came in loud and laughing, and the noise snapped me out of it. 

“I’m Ty, by the way… Tyler,” I said. 

“Hey, Josh,” he replied, wrapping the towel on the wall hook and stepping into the empty shower by himself. I watched one last time as his form moved into the space, turning on a shower head at the far end, before I caught myself staring once again.

I turned back to my locker, my face was hot and my heart pounding as the bulk of the rest of the guys swarmed in. The college locker room did not have the unspoken rules of modesty that I had grown up with. It was older and settled, the tile worn smooth in the middle of the floor from a hundred teams walking on it before us, and guys dropped their bags on the benches and started stripping down with a comfort I did not have. Still, it felt like something I was already numb to, after Josh.

He had broken a seal.

I stripped down with the rest of them, and walked into the shower room as part of a group, hip to hip with the boys, thinking about Josh and trying not to look at him. It seemed like he was the first at everything. First into the room, first out. I wondered what other firsts he would be interested in.

····[]····

The showering itself was uneventful after that, a bunch of guys, many of which had known each other for years now, and the freshman like me, just learning who everyone was, soaped ourselves up and telling jokes. There was only one comment about Josh’s big hog, and it was basically in passing. I don’t even remember the joke, but Josh played along, wiggling his hips, and the jokes moved on.

No one else seemed phased, but I found it hard to even join the conversation. I laughed at the right parts, but my mind was elsewhere. Josh was on the opposite corner of the shower room from me, and I fought hard not to glance at him every five seconds. But every time I lost focus,  I was looking at Josh. I was looking at the small of his back and the two dimples above his butt, and the pale cheeks under the tanline where a suit had likely sat all Summer, and I could not stop. 

No one else noticed what was going on in my head. And no one else seemed to notice how magnificent Josh was. 

He had an understated confidence, a natural way of carrying himself. He didn’t have to try hard. Maybe he was nothing special to the average guy, but there was some quality in him I couldn’t pinpoint, and couldn’t stop thinking about. 

····[]····

I did not think much about why I wanted to hang out with Josh with such urgency. I only knew that I wanted to be around him more, and it wasn't exactly familiar to me. 

I had tried to catch up with him, but true to his nature, he was the first out of the showers, and he was gone before I was even dried off.

After the first practice I thought about him nearly constantly. It was like I wanted to be best friends with him. I had never felt so needy in my life. With “the boys” everything was low key, and loud, and funny, and forgettable. With Josh I noticed things. I noticed when he showed up to practice and when he did not. I noticed the half smile and the soft voice and the way he talked to everyone as though he already trusted them, which somehow made him seem more trustworthy by default as well. I started angling to be near him in the pool, sharing a lane, resting on the same wall. I thought maybe I just wanted to be close to a good teammate, a “good dude”. 

We got friendly the honest way, so I thought. I was able to push down my weird fascination and find little excuses to hang out with him a lot over the next few weeks, and he never seemed to say he was busy or not feeling it. He was always “down”. We bonded over stupid conversations that ran long, sometimes late into the night in or near one of our dorms, a random roommate usually nearby. He was funny and confident. He let me talk more than I should have sometimes, and he seemed to actually listen, which nobody my size is used to. 

Practices became normal, team nudity was easy to get used to, but my attraction to Josh never dulled, and all I wanted to do in my free time was see if he was busy. 

I found reasons. A team dinner became a walk back the long way. A walk back became sitting on a wall for an hour. Every reason was real and every reason was also an excuse, and I only understood the second half of that much later.

····[]····

The thing about being the big guy is that there’s a positive feedback loop when it comes to confidence. People assume a lot of things about you, and you become sort of a caricature of yourself by pure social reinforcement. A frat was already trying to woo me in my first couple weeks on campus, and I was playing into it while remaining non-committal. They had recruited a handful of athletes and I could tell they wanted to add me to their trophy case. This frat was pretty “cool”. I could tell on the first night of orientation that they threw the parties everyone would be trying to get into. 

And they wanted me. That meant I got the soft version of access before I had even started pledging, which would become official the following semester, if I chose to join. I had a few names in my phone, access codes to a couple of locked doors around campus that were for “secret societies only”, and a simple nod at parties that got me past the guys working the entrance like a superpower. 

I had also been introduced to a few “special” spots around campus.

“You can take the ladies here when you need a private space. It’s especially useful for freshmen who still have a roommate,” Brian had said to me the first time he showed me the “screening room” near the freshman dorms.

It was basically a lounge in an annex to the freshman quad, tucked at the end of a dusty, stone hall that most people never walked down, with an old couch in it that somebody's parents must have donated a hundred years ago. It was huge and low and soft, the cushions worn into a permanent sink. There was a giant, modern TV on the wall, and I guessed that’s why it was called the “screening room”, which seemed to be the ostensible use case that got the administration to allow it to exist. Clearly, almost nobody used it, and I had a way in.

I had written the access code into the notes app on my phone when I first saw it, and then didn’t think about it for a long time, until one night, when it was just me and Josh hanging out, and he said something that made me think about it.

“I wish we had a private spot, just to chill and watch TV.” 

“Yeah,” I said, agreeing with him instinctively, before it hit me that I had exactly that kind of place available to me.

“Wait,” I said, and he looked at me.

I double checked my notes app, and there it was. 

“You wanna see the ‘screening room’?” I said, doing the air quotes.

He smiled. “Yeah, sure.”

And we went.

····[]····

The couch was even bigger than I remembered. We dropped onto it at the same time and it took us in, the cushions folding around us so that the middle sank and pulled us toward each other naturally. I felt comfortable, being close to him, but being able to blame the couch. 

There was a lamp on in the corner and nothing else. The building was quiet around us. We sat close because the couch made close the only option, and neither of us moved away, just sitting with the proximity.

Josh found the remote and turned it on. It had a smart TV console, and all the streaming apps appeared to be logged in. He clicked on Netflix and started scrolling. 

“Better Call Saul,” I said, “I’ve been meaning to watch it.”

“I watched the first season a long time ago. Seemed like nothing really happens. It’s not as good as Breaking Bad.”

“No,” I said, “They say it gets good at the end. We should watch it.”

He nodded slowly, like I had convinced him. I subtly wondered how easy he would be to convince of other things, my inner dominant streak momentarily returning to the surface.

Most of our legs were touching as the first scene started, the grey flash-forward that was difficult to recognize as not a flashback. His thigh ran against mine from the knee up, and I could feel the warmth of it through both our shorts, a steady heat that I was suddenly very aware of. Within a couple minutes, we were leaning into each other. His shoulder was against my arm and his weight was tipped toward me, and I let it be there. I knew it was different than how I normally sat with guys, but Josh made it seem fine. It was comforting, in a way. It would’ve been funny under the right context. He was an easy-going guy, and he never had his guard up, and we were friends now. And after all, the couch was doing this, not me.

During the slow parts, we talked about little things. I found myself unable to fully track the words. Most of my attention had dropped down to the lines of contact between his body and mine, the pressure of him against me, the way it shifted a little every time he laughed, the oblique feeling of his chest breathing as it moved his torso. My arm was up along the back of the couch behind him. It had started there for no reason, or for a reason I would not acknowledge. And then, slowly, without any decision I would have admitted to making, my hand traveled down along the top of the cushion behind his shoulders until it was not on the couch anymore. It was on him. My arm was around him and my hand was resting on his far shoulder and I was, for all practical purposes, holding him. 

Gently. 

He went still. He didn’t pull away. He just didn’t move. He turned his head to look at me.

"Hey, so," he said. There was a hesitation in his voice, a soft pause before the words, and I felt it from his face, before I registered the words. "You know I'm… I'm not gay."

I have been hit in the chest before, in the pool, in weight rooms, in a fight once in high school. This was worse. And it left no mark. It went straight through the front of me and landed somewhere behind my sternum and stayed there. Because he was right. He had read the whole situation. He had called it out. And he had done it plainly, in the kindest voice I had ever heard, 

And the kindness was the part that ruined me. I had thought I was hiding it perfectly. I had not even admitted it to myself yet, and this smaller guy with the sweet face had just looked over and said the quiet part out loud.

"What?" I said. It came out as a denial reflex. I had never been a good liar, and I knew I had no chance, but I didn’t have the capacity to engage with the idea yet.

I could feel the fear sitting on my own face. I did not have to see it. For years I had been the bigger guy, the one stacking muscle and chasing girls and feeling above everyone, and this freshman with a babyface had just quietly owned me on a donated couch and I had no play. I felt devastated. There were a hundred layers of denial stacked up between me and that feeling, and I could not get through even one of them fast enough to say anything true.

"I'm not gay either," I said as I pulled my arm back to myself, my voice cracking a little.

"Oh," he said. "Okay."

He let it sit. He did not pull his leg away from me. Instead his face went soft. The half smile came back, smaller and gentler, aimed only at me, and there was no judgment in it anywhere. That was when I recognized the kindness for what it was. He was not calling me out to “own” me in any way, which was a hard, defensive instinct for me to break from. He had just said what he felt he needed to say, for my actual benefit.

Something in me came out, jostled loose by his unapologetically positive nature.

"I do think about you," I said. It was the most honest sentence I had said out loud since I came to college, and it barely came out above a whisper. “A lot.”

He nodded, like he already knew, and had known, and was only glad I had finally caught up.

"Gay guys love me," he said with a shrug, somehow not bragging when he said it, just stating it. "My brother calls me a twink. The gay one."

I felt myself chuckle, surprised, the tension in my chest breaking just enough to let air in. "I've heard that word," I said.

"So you aren't gay," he said, watching my face, "or like, you're not sure?"

"I don't know," I said.

My face was hot again, but there was nowhere to turn away to. He was right there. I felt cracked open and stupid and somehow regretted being this honest. But I didn’t pull it back.

"I really don't know."

"I mean," he said. He shifted a little, turning more toward me, and his knee pressed harder into my thigh. "I'm a good bro. If you need to be sure, I can, like…"

He stopped.

I waited in the pause. My heart had started to throb, among other things, my blood flow was not slowing down. I knew what he was building toward before he finished, and my body knew it faster than my mind did, because I felt it respond just to the expectation of the words, a tightening low and immediate, a heat that spread down from my stomach and made it hard to sit still.

"I can, like… help you find out," he said.

····[]····

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, I pushed forward and kissed him. I felt sparks tingling in my chest, while he was tentative at first. His mouth was soft, and he moved carefully. We were both testing something we hadn’t done before, and for a moment it just two dudes touching lips with a moderate amount of pressure applied.

Then he made a small sound against my mouth, like he was surprised at himself, and he leaned in harder. His hand came up to my shoulder and his fingers held me, letting me know he was there for me.

It felt like he liked it, but I didn’t know if that was just in my head at that point. His breathing shifted, and I felt it against my face, and his weight tipped toward me as he slipped the smallest amount of tongue past my lips. I responded in kind, careful not to overdo it and scare him off. I licked the tongue touching mine and pressed back into his, feeling the slightest five o’clock shadow as our lips moved against each other. Our mouths stopped being careful as we fully engaged in making out, my hand reaching up to the back of his neck, his sliding up to hold me gently by the hair on the back of my head.

I got my arm all the way around him and pulled, and he followed, sliding halfway across my lap on the worn cushions, his arms starting to hold my back, creating more body contact, warm everywhere he touched me.

My hand found the bare skin under his shirt, at the small of his back. I felt for the dimples I had stared at on the first day of practice, and the feel of it under my palm only exaggerated the want in me. 

He arched into my touch. I felt the pressure of his chest against mine, and it became clear that he was getting as much as he was giving. I didn’t have to talk to him about it to understand that he enjoyed the kissing, as much as he was only “trying to help me out”. His fingers dug into my back, and I stopped thinking about my denial or his.

Our communication after that was physical. Josh told me things with his eyes and his hands and his hips. He got as hard as I had been and he grinded into each other as he settled more and more onto my lap. His hands moved on my back, and they said the same thing his eyes did.

My palms moved over him without even thinking about where they were going as our tongues wrestled. We groaned lightly together in a sea of sensations as I gripped his butt, the cheeks that had started this whole thing, lifting him up further onto me as I leaned forward, giving him space to wrap his legs around me. 

The heat built up, concentrated in our core as the grinding generated friction between our bodies and the fabric. 

His hand gripped my wrist, moving it to his stomach, off the safe stretch of his shoulder, and I rubbed his abs, feeling them. If that’s what he wanted, I had no problem with that. He was giving me everything I had wanted for weeks, and I only wanted him to be happy at this point.

"No," he said, pushing my hand lower. "Here."

I froze when my hand touched the large, hard shaft throbbing under the fabric. I held there with my hand where he had put it and I looked up at his face. I hadn’t even expected to actually get intimate. I didn’t think we’d go this far. I was scared, but somehow he was more certain than I was. I still wasn’t sure if he was doing this for himself or for me, but I squeezed it, taking his suggestion.

I kissed him hard as I started to rub it, feeling him moan from deep in his chest, directly into my mouth. I moved down his neck and he seemed to love that. I took my time as I laid him onto his back on the couch. I didn’t really want it to end, and I still did not fully believe it was happening. I stopped when I ran out of collarbone skin to kiss, and pulled off his shirt. I dropped my face down to his chest and felt his breath get uneven under my mouth as I kissed him and licked his nipple, my hand still gripping the heavy meat in his pants. I moved lower and his stomach pulled in tight when I reached it. I kissed his light happy trail, the only body hair he seemed to have.

I got to the waistband and stopped. There was a held breath, his and mine at the same second.

When I pulled at it with both hands, he lifted his body off the couch and let me peel the barrier swiftly down to mid thigh. He was fully hard, and even bigger in this state than I had let myself imagine. The size of him made the whole thing more real somehow.

His hands came into my hair and guided me as I held it upright and put it into my mouth. I didn’t waste any time ogling him more than I already had over the past few weeks as I took him in quickly, rubbing my tongue on the sensitive underside, holding my jaw as far open as I could, trying to give him as much pleasure as I could. 

His fingers tightening in my hair told me everything I needed to know. I had no reference for any of this and I was winging it in real time, the taste and the weight of it were being imprinted onto my brain, and the sounds he made gave me all the payoff I could have hoped for.

My jaw was quickly sore, and he seemed happy to accept some tight strokes from my fist as I moved further south, licking his balls the way I liked my own licked. When I got curious and dipped my tongue a bit lower, he understood what I was going for before I even did, and he repositioned for me, tilting his body and lifting his own legs, showing me a pink hole between two mesmerizing cheeks, perky somehow even at this angle.

When I pressed my tongue onto his warm, pink center, his body leaned into it, one of his hands pulling at the back of my head again, this time holding me down with strength.

He moaned this time, not just audibly, but vocally. I could tell this was his favorite part so far. His hand took over his rod and I reached down to pull him further apart, giving my tongue more space to push deeper. 

The door opened.

I heard someone stop in the doorway behind me. I felt Josh tense up under me, but I didn’t move. Nothing was going to stop me from having this moment.

"We're busy!" Josh said sternly, keeping his legs in the air.

He said it fast and urgently, without a shred of shame. I continued running circles with my tongue inside the hole in front of me as the person behind me stepped back, and pulled the door shut. Footsteps went quickly down the hall until they were gone.

We were alone again, and Josh pulled my head into his body in waves, like he wanted the motion as much as the pressure.

I got the feeling that he somehow wanted more, but I couldn’t be the one to suggest it. I couldn’t be the one to push this further than what we had already done. I was the fucked up one, he was still just a guy helping out a friend. 

He answered the question himself when he pulled my head back, angling my face to look at him.

"You won't tell anyone about this, right?" he said, his cute, boyish face showing shyness and vulnerability.

“Yeah,” I said, taking a breath, his balls in my face. “Of course not. Whatever you want.”

“You can fuck me, if you want,” he said, “Like, put it in me.”

“Okay,” I said immediately. 

I didn’t even take in how much of an escalation that was, or how strange this should have been to me. I just got up onto my knees, keeping his body exactly how it was positioned, and whipped myself out of my shorts. He watched my body as I took off my shirt, put his hands on my hips, and then closed his eyes.

I lined myself up with him quickly. We were already slick and sticky from the juices leaking out of me, and all the spit I had left on him. I pushed forward slowly, not really knowing what to expect from a male body taking a dick for the first time.

I watched his face for signal, and found anticipation as I increased the pressure slowly. When I finally pressed past the entrance, the familiar sensations of sex took over, and this was better than anything I had ever felt before. Some last piece of the guy I used to be fell away in that moment, and it did not survive the experience of Josh letting me have my way with him.

He held onto me by the hips, keeping his palms on the front of my lean V-line like he was preventing me from going too hard. And I held onto him by the center of his abdomen, feeling the athletic, narrow body and watching his giant hog hover above his abs, a thing string of clear, sticky fluid connecting it to his abs.

It felt like losing my virginity, like this was the real first time my body had been waiting for. It was the best I had ever felt in my life, and it was coming from another guy, and I did not care about one single thing I had believed before that moment.

I pressed in further and his mouth fell open. He stopped closing his eyes and looked at me, like he was in shock.

“You okay?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, “You can keep going.”

I pressed in and out of him, feeling the curves of the inside of his body as he passively pleasured me, letting me do what I wanted. 

“This is… so good,” I said in a breath.

“Yeah?” he said softly. 

“I’m not gonna last,” I said.

“You can bust whenever you want,” he said, one side of his mouth only forming a smile. “I can’t get pregnant.”

I smiled, and he chuckled, which was interrupted when I picked up the speed, pushing in a little further.

His body started to bounce a little and his arms came around to my back. His thighs tensed around me, squeezing me.

I grabbed his heavy meat. 

“It’s so big,” I said as I began squeezing it and stroking it, rubbing it with his pre-cum. 

He started to breathe heavily. I added some spit and it made squishy sounds. 

“Ohhh I’m gonna cum,” he said.

“Me first,” I said as I pounded him rapidly now.

“No me,” he said, and we chuckled together again.

His face turned serious as he let out a small groan and I felt him pulse, in my hand as well as on my dick. 

I was over the edge at the same time, and I don’t even know who shot first. I pulsed inside him in ecstasy as I watched his O-face get a streak of his own juice across it. 

We groaned in asymmetrical waves of pleasure as we grinded out our orgasms. I almost cried at the peak of it, hearing myself whimper.

I rubbed a thumb through the mess on his chest as I slowly pulled out of him, grabbing myself and stroking it instinctively, wiping my rod on his inner thigh.

His dick dropped with a splatter onto his abs when I let go of it, and he sat up, our cheeks coming into contact just once before he scooted back, reaching around for something to wipe himself up with. 

He found the box of tissues behind him and pulled out a generous wad before setting it down in front of me. 

It was quiet for a moment, the lamp buzzing in the corner and the netflix auto-paused.

“Are you still watching?” overlied the frozen picture of the main character’s face in the middle of a yelling scene. The intensity was on pause. 

When we were wiped off to our satisfaction, a pile of tissues lain on the table next to the couch, Josh turned his head against the couch cushion and looked at me. The half smile came back, bigger now, dazed and a little proud.

"Well," he said. "THAT was unexpected."

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I never knew I had a big dick, until I went to school one day wearing sweatpants with no underwear. It wasn't really on purpose, I just couldn't justify wearing dirty underwear yet again, and still hadn't done laundry, so I threw on some sweats and headed out. Part of me got slightly worried on the walk to school that a girl would see it, get disgusted by seeing the imprint of a cock, and then tell all her friends and ruin my chances with any girl at school ever dating me, but I pushed the thought away. Girls don't care, they won't look at dicks like that, I thought to myself.

I guess I was aware that my dick print was more visible, but I literally had never expected someone to actually look at it. Guys ignored other guys' dicks for the most part, except for the rowdy jocks. And girls, of course, wouldn't make a scene out of something like that, not in front of the guy at least, or so I would think.

Last period of the day was a joke, honestly. Some gen-ed lecture about not doing drugs, even though we were supposed to be in a geography class. I was bored as hell, and slouched so far down in the seat that my legs were half out into the aisle. I was always taller than my classmates, and at some point it felt like the desks weren't even made for my body. My knees were spread wide, giving an inadvertently clear view of the space of bunched of cotton holding my cock and balls, almost "tenting" my grey sweatpants even though I was completely soft.

One thing I did know about myself, was that I was not a grower. I was a shower. But at the moment, I wasn't thinking about anything except how many minutes were left in this dumb class, whether any of the girls in class were also going commando today, and whether I was hungry enough for lunch yet.

Then this guy Robert who was sitting next to me elbowed my arm and did a little chin-point down at my lap, silently chuckling.

"Bro are you pitching a tent right now?"

I looked down quickly, worried I had a surprise erection on the worst day. But my fears were cooled when I saw that it was just my bulge.

"No," I said plainly, turning my head back toward the front of the room.

"Dude that's like a mountain of cock. It's obscene."

"What do you mean?"

"I can like, fully see your whole business. You're too hung to wear sweatpants with no underwear. It looks like an apple on a pringles can, man."

I chuckled, and he was giggling slightly louder now. I felt my face turn hot and red.

"Shut up," I said.

"I'm jealous," he added, but I was still more embarrassed than flattered.

"Quit looking at my dick, homo," I said quietly, but it attracted the attention of some others nearby.

"I'm barely legal," I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Robert closed his eyes and shook his head.

I reached down to adjust myself, doing my best to tuck all my meat and junk between my thighs, but that was too uncomfortable and I ended up with a still-present pile of meat in my lap under the fabric.

The whole back row was leaning toward me now, and Jemma, this girl I had done a group project with before and otherwise never shared a word with, twisted around in her chair and looked directly at my cock, the attention from which actually gave me a little jump down there, adding to the existing blood flow that the attention from Robert had already given it, as much as I hated to admit that. Her eyebrows went all the way up.

"Is that a phone..." she whispered, realizing halfway through talking that it wasn't. I just shook my head slowly in response, unable to hide a nervous grin. I hated and I loved the attention at the same time.

When the bell rang, a group of guys came over immediately. Robert had texted them. I didn't even know he was friends with the rowdy football guys, but three of them came from the other side of the room to poke fun at my exposed state. They lost it as soon as they saw it, and I couldn't really do anything except sit there. I felt my ego elevating the whole time, seeing the mix of envy and spectator enjoyment on their faces.

One of them said, "No wonder you walk like that," and I laughed it off as I shifted my hips, crossing my ankle over my knee to kill the sightline, but that just made it bunch up between my thighs and stick out higher.

"You're a bunch of homos," I said in a completely straight way.

"No homo but I wanna kiss it," the tallest one of them said.

I'd had enough, and I stood up to get to my next class, leaving them behind, walking with my chest pushed out a little farther than normal. I felt about nine feet tall. I'd never had a girl do a double take at me for any reason before. I noticed some people doing side glances in the hall. Maybe I was walking different now, which I was suddenly self conscious about. But I kind of wanted people to see it. Let them look.

I floated down the stairs and out the front doors into the afternoon with my chin up and my whole body feeling a bit lighter, like I was somehow more important now.

I stopped at a water fountain, and this guy I knew was bent over taking a drink. I stood behind him for a second, then without even thinking about it, I nudged him gently with my crotch. He stood up a second later and looked back at me, chin-nodding upward when he saw that it was me. Then he looked down at my crotch and I saw his eyes go wide.

"Bro, no homo, but what the fuck is in your pants?"

"My cock," I said, feeling myself start to smile.

When school was finally out, I had the urge to get home quickly. I wanted to spend the day naked in my room, taking pics, measuring, looking stuff up online and basically perving out over my newly found genetic lottery winnings.

The fast way home cut through this old city park, with lots of trees and shrubs. I usually went the long way home, walking with friends, but today I had a mission.

It's a decent park. Big old trees, a path that loops the pond, benches, that low brick bathroom building near the middle that's always sort of clean-looking for a park bathroom. Usually, if I took the path through the park, I would have my head down and my phone out, not paying attention. But today I walked with my head up and my phone in my pocket, still riding the high from the attention of the day, replaying the reactions I had gotten.

And I started noticing that people were noticing me here in the park too.

There were a fair number of guys around for a Tuesday afternoon. Older guys, mostly. Not old-old, just men, thirties and up, some on benches, a couple standing near the tree line, appearing to be doing nothing in particular. And as I came down the path one of them, sitting alone, sort of followed me with his eyes the whole way past. He did a full head-turn. When I glanced back he didn't even look away, just held it, unbothered. I'd have never called myself a guy who gets looked at.

But apparently my cock has superpowers.

Another guy, leaning against a tree, gave me a slow up-and-down that started at my face and moved downward, undressing me with his eyes. Yet another guy who looked like he could be my dad glanced up from his phone from a bench, looked straight at my crotch, and held the stare for a second before he went back to his phone. I wasn't even sure that he didn't take a pic of me. That, somehow, gave me a rush I never would have expected.

I didn't have the word for what this place was. I learned from an internet search later that night what "cruising" was, but at this point, if you'd told me that gay dudes came here specifically to find other guys to hook up with, I'd have laughed and not believed you. But I could feel the vibe of this place, and I assumed I had simply ignited it myself with the magic of my god-given lower endowment.

My blood was rushing. I could feel my pulse in my chest as I slowed down near the little brick bathroom building, because that's where more of them seemed to be loosely gathered, like they were casting a wide circle around it, even if they mostly weren't even talking to each other, just standing sort of near it with their hands in their pockets.

I stopped at the water fountain a few yards off, which I did not need, and pretended to drink from it, which barely worked because the button was broken. And I watched them watching me over the top of it.

I started to slow down, trying not to abuse my superpowers, and just pulled out my phone for a bit, standing there pretending to text people and wasting time. I had a few texts and messages on various apps from friends, including a couple referring to having heard about my "giant cock", which apparently some people were talking about at school now.

When the circling men had mostly dissipated, I felt ready to do something. There was a guy on a bench, maybe late twenties with big arms, in decent shape with a recent haircut, but way older than me obviously. It would be inappropriate even if I was gay, but I could tell he was looking at me through his sunglasses.

So, almost without even thinking about it, I hooked my thumb in the waistband of the sweatpants, angled myself so the bench guy had the view and nobody else really did, and I pulled the pants outward by a few inches, then straight down, letting him see my whole cock for just a second, in all its meaty wonder.

His whole face opened up. His mouth actually came apart. He sat forward off the backrest and looked at it, and then looked at me with this expression that I later realized was pure, lustful craving. He mouthed something I couldn't hear, and I snapped the waistband back onto my body, covering up the free show, and my stomach was suddenly full of helium.

I loved it. It was the same feeling as when Jemma's eyebrows raised at school, but cranked up a bit, because this guy wasn't being polite, this guy wanted it and I had it and I could turn him on and off like a light. The power was getting to my head.

The guy on the bench nodded toward the bathroom, and I just stayed where I was as he got up and went inside. I didn't actually want to follow him. I didn't want to see what he wanted to do with me in there. But he disappeared inside and didn't come out, and I shrugged and pulled my phone back out, until I noticed another guy, maybe forty-five with a dusting of grey on the sides of his hair, leaning against a wall not far from me. He hadn't exactly given me any attention, but I wanted to test my powers further.

So I did it for this guy too. I faced him from a few feet away until he looked at me, and then I did the same move, thumb in the waistband, quick tug, flash, gone. He went still all over and swallowed and I watched his hand drift to the front of his own shorts before he caught himself.

I was two for two with these horny men. My face was hot, and I was grinning down at my phone, pretending to text people back.

I did a slow lap of the building. Every pass I'd catch an eye, hold it, and if the guy looked hungry enough I'd give him a peek of me. It became a little loop I couldn't get out of. I'd show my cock, watch the reaction, feel the high move through me, move on, want more, do it again. I was there for probably an hour, watching guys come and go, giving a show every few minutes or so. Each one wound me tighter. I'd never in my life had this much of a single asset, this much attention on me that I was able to command. And every flash cranked my internal meter higher and made me want to see how far up the dial the thing went.

····[]····

That's when I noticed another guy, younger than most of the dudes I had been flashing all day, maybe younger twenties, still older than me obviously, but not a man-man.

He wasn't just standing around like the other guys. He was passing through like he was on his way somewhere. Something about his face snagged on my brain, like I'd seen him around before. His face was familiar, and I squinted as I tried to place where I might have seen him. I stood there and stared at him as he walked past, looking at his phone. Was it my friend Brody's older brother? Had to be. The one who'd been at Brody's a couple times when he was back from college. He drove a cool car, a Mercedes convertible, barely said a word to me. He had been intimidating, and so cool. I remember picturing the girls he must get with at college. Blondes with big tits, letting him do whatever he wanted to them.

And suddenly, he was looking right back at me.

A sane person, who was not full of mental helium, an ego-boosted delirium, would've nodded or said "hey". But I wondered if he was staring because he recognized me too, OR was he another gay dude, checking me out, and honestly in the state I was in, either of those two possibilities had completely collapsed my hormone-addled compulsive streak into one response: that just meant flash him. I wanted my friend's cool older brother to see that I was at his level, or higher, if maybe in a different way.

So I reached for my waistband, and he squinted at me from where he was. I whipped down my shorts quickly, showing the whole meaty length and thickness to him. I held this one for a beat longer than the others, wiggling my hips, giving him the whole "apple on a pringles can" show, an image I couldn't get out of my head. I was the alpha of the park, and this was my kingdom, and he was now one of my subjects.

His face did not do what the other faces did. His eyes went huge, like he was purely shocked by what he was looking at. His head jerked back a couple inches and his mouth made a shape like he was about to speak, but he didn't say anything.

And the helium left me all at once. My stomach dropped straight through the ground. Because if that was Brody's brother, if that was a person who knew people who knew me, I had just flashed my dick at him in a public park, and by tonight the entire group chat, everyone, Robert, Jemma, my mom probably, the world might know. I was already writing my own obituary, standing there with my heart pounding in my throat. Reality had caught up with me. I cursed myself, frozen in place, waiting to see what would happen.

Then he tipped his head toward the bushes.

It was small. A little sideways nod, his chin toward the thick, tall wall of dark green hedges that ran along the back of the building, and then he turned and walked into them and was gone, just like that, swallowed up with an implicit invitation extended to me to join him.

I felt a wave of relief. Okay, I thought to myself, he's a freak like the rest of these guys. My cock superpowers really do work. But my reality instincts were starting to return to the surface of my consciousness. I could just walk home and never come back to this park again, and I could feel that possibility right there, available, the smart one.

But I looked at the gap in the hedges where he'd gone in, and I got nervous because I hadn't started walking home yet. I was still here, in the chaos, in the mania of the day. I hadn't put it behind me yet, even after a close call. My mouth was dry. My pulse was up in my ears. I think I could literally hear it flowing.

And worst of all, my cock had gotten rock hard.

I was definitely getting blood flow all day with all the attention I was receiving. But had my friend's cool older brother actually just agreed to go look at my cock up close? Maybe even touch it? I didn't even know what goes on with the dudes when they disappear together. Do they kiss?

I still didn't feel gay, but I couldn't deny that the attention was more interesting than anything I was going to do at home. AND, now I had a boner that was even more obscene than my bulge had already been.

I don't fully know how to explain the pull of it, but the panic and the attraction to the idea were fighting each other, and I'd spent the last hour essentially getting rewarded with ego and dopamine every single time I did the scary thing instead of the smart thing.

I walked to the bushes. I checked over my shoulder once, saw nobody looking that mattered, and I pushed through the gap.

····[]····

It was cooler in there, shaded and dim, a little dirt clearing behind the hedge wall with the brick of the building on one side. He was already there. And before I could say anything, before I could ask if he recognized me, or explain myself or even say hey, he came in close to me and got down on his knees in the dirt in front of me. I paused and didn't react as he reached up and pulled the front of my sweatpants down to my knees.

My dick came out and he grabbed it quickly holding it as it reached just about its full size. He licked his lips and made a sound as he exhaled.

"Damn," he said. Not to me really, more to it. "It's so big. It doesn't look real."

And before I knew it, his mouth was on me.

I felt my body tense up at the sensation, as my hands both reached for his blonde, medium length, messy hair. I'd never felt anything like it. I'd only ever had my own hand, usually dry with the occasional baby oil lube if I felt like doing it "right", and the occasional finger in my ass in the shower. That had been the extent of my sex life before this day, and now I had a mouth on me. I didn't care that it was a dude. To be honest, it was the most high quality dude I could imagine, the intimidating guy with the cool car. And his mouth was on me, warm and wet and alive and moving, his lips working down the length of my sensitive shaft, and his tongue going flat against the underside, and my knees nearly buckled right there in the dirt. I put a hand on the rough brick of the wall to keep myself up, and he pulled off just to breathe and looked up at me with my dick still pushed up against his lips.

"I've never seen one this big," he said. "I swear to God." Then he took me back in and went further down, and I felt myself hit the back of his throat, and it felt even better, like a tight, wet, hot space made solely to pleasure my cock. He held it there, working his tongue on my skin, his hand wrapped around the base of my dick, his fingers failing to reach around fully as he gave me slow strokes on the part that wouldn't fit inside him.

I started making sounds I didn't recognize. My whole body was lit up. He came off me again, breathing hard, stroking me with a slick hand, which felt amazing and threatened to make me finish early. He looked up at me again.

"You're such an alpha, dude," he said. "Fuck. I feel so lucky right now. You have no idea."

He said it like he meant it, like I'd done him a favor by letting him do this, even though he was basically giving me the best pleasure I had ever known, and then his mouth was back on me and I stopped being able to think in words at all. He got a rhythm as he seemed to learn my cock step by step. He went deep and slow, and then fast and shallow, rubbing his lips raw and red against me as he put every ounce of effort into pleasuring me. He seemed expert at keeping me on the edge, never making me tip over into orgasm, making me more and more desperate with each swirl of his tongue. He kept one hand on my shaft, and one either braced on my thigh or tugging on my balls.

Every time he moaned around me, I felt it buzz up through my whole shaft, like my cock was a divining rod. The tingles ran up my spine, and I started pushing into his mouth, driving my hips forward as I held his head. He pressed his face down to meet me and swallowed the whole thing, and I watched his neck bulge out obscenely as he made wet gagging sounds. And he kept coming right back for more like he was grateful for it.

It made me curious what else I could "do" to him. I pulled out of his mouth as he sucked in his cheeks, and it made a wet popping sound. I turned around, and I don't even know where the idea came from, but I held his head and pushed his face into my bare ass. I had only seen it in porn, and joked about it with my buddies, about doing it to girls, but it felt degrading, and perfect in the moment.

"Eat my ass," I said, looking over my shoulder at his face.

"What?" he said, hesitating with his chin already touching the skin of my ass, his lips all swollen, red and shiny.

I just pushed his head more firmly against me.

He was older than me. Twenty-two, twenty-three, something like that, but I had the control, and he leaned in and pressed his face right into the valley of my ass. His stubble scraped the inside of my butt cheeks, and then his tongue pushed flat and wet against my hole. My other hand shot forward to the brick wall to hold myself up.

"Good boy," I said, and he groaned into me and dug his face in deeper, his hands rising to grip a cheek in each hand as he spread me open like a Christmas ham. The dude was suddenly starving for my butt, and I achieved a new level of godhood in that moment.

I was drunk on the power I had, but I was still sane enough to know that. Seeing what I could push this dude into doing, and watching him obey every command, only made me want to push it further.

And I loved the feeling in my ass. I didn't even know what to expect, but a warm tongue dancing around only kept me on the edge. It felt unbelievable, his tongue working a part of me nothing had ever touched.

But I wanted his mouth back, so I turned around, grabbed his jaw, and fed my dick into him again, and this time I fucked his face hard, my hips fully smacking his face, forcefully pushing past the opening of his throat with no mercy, because he didn't need any. He moaned and groaned around my mass, struggling but doing well as he took everything I gave, my young body going into overdrive to get an orgasm inside this man. He gripped my thighs and took every stroke, his face emanating sloshing sounds as I got closer to finishing. His joy was evident in the tent in his pants, which stuck out clearly as he spread his knees and lowered himself almost all the way to the ground.

I put my foot down onto his bulge, feeling it with my foot. I pressed the sole down into his balls, feeling his boner throb under my foot, and squished gently, just enough to watch him squirm, groaning desperately as I held his head down to the hilt on me. The sound he made around my dick buzzed all the way up my spine and pushed me right to the edge.

"I'm gonna," I got out, which was all the warning I could manage, and he moaned like that was exactly what he'd been waiting to hear and pushed himself down further, his throat clenching onto me.

I finished in his throat, almost confused at how good the orgasm was. I had never had a climax that wasn't from my own hand before. My whole body clenched up and I squirted into him in these long pulses, emptying me out. He swallowed around me and kept his lips locked, moving his head to stroke out every last bit of my seed, until I was shaking against the brick and had to push his head back gently when I couldn't take any more.

He sat back on his heels. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at me with this glazed, satisfied look, breathing hard.

I stood there catching my breath with my dick still out and my sweatpants down and no clue what was supposed to come next. I remember thinking, in a sort of scrambled way, that there was probably an expectation of a "next part", that maybe he thought I was supposed to go down on him next, which I had no intention of doing.

But then he just stood up, wiping his face. 

And my friend’s cool older brother’s eyes were bloodshot as hell, his face wet with sweat and tears and spit. He was rock hard in his shorts, but he seemed confident in his demeanor as he reached down and shoved the head of his dick upward into his waistband. He gave me one last look, up and down.

"Thanks," he said softly, sniffling and adjusting his shirt and pants, giving himself one last once-over.

I chuckled internally, that he would thank me after all that, but it went along with the superpowers I was still learning to wield.

And then he stepped through the gap in the hedge and was gone, his footsteps fading quickly across the grass, leaving me standing in the dirt with my pants down, my wet dick pointing outward as I waited for it to go down, sort of "airing it out" in a way. My heart was hammering with post-nut clarity and the real world setting in, and I felt like I had absolutely no idea what had just happened to me.

I pulled my sweatpants up after a minute. It was very quiet back there in the bushes.

"Okay," I said, quietly, out loud, to nobody.

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

I never knew I had a big dick, until I went to school one day wearing sweatpants with no underwear. It wasn't really on purpose, I just couldn't justify wearing dirty underwear yet again, and still hadn't done laundry, so I threw on some sweats and headed out. Part of me got slightly worried on the walk to school that a girl would see it, get disgusted by seeing the imprint of a cock, and then tell all her friends and ruin my chances with any girl at school ever dating me, but I pushed the thought away. Girls don't care, they won't look at dicks like that, I thought to myself.

I guess I was aware that my dick print was more visible, but I literally had never expected someone to actually look at it. Guys ignored other guys' dicks for the most part, except for the rowdy jocks. And girls, of course, wouldn't make a scene out of something like that, not in front of the guy at least, or so I would think.

Last period of the day was a joke, honestly. Some gen-ed lecture about not doing drugs, even though we were supposed to be in a geography class. I was bored as hell, and slouched so far down in the seat that my legs were half out into the aisle. I was always taller than my classmates, and at some point it felt like the desks weren't even made for my body. My knees were spread wide, giving an inadvertently clear view of the space of bunched of cotton holding my cock and balls, almost "tenting" my grey sweatpants even though I was completely soft.

One thing I did know about myself, was that I was not a grower. I was a shower. But at the moment, I wasn't thinking about anything except how many minutes were left in this dumb class, whether any of the girls in class were also going commando today, and whether I was hungry enough for lunch yet.

Then this guy Robert who was sitting next to me elbowed my arm and did a little chin-point down at my lap, silently chuckling.

"Bro are you pitching a tent right now?"

I looked down quickly, worried I had a surprise erection on the worst day. But my fears were cooled when I saw that it was just my bulge.

"No," I said plainly, turning my head back toward the front of the room.

"Dude that's like a mountain of cock. It's obscene."

"What do you mean?"

"I can like, fully see your whole business. You're too hung to wear sweatpants with no underwear. It looks like an apple on a pringles can, man."

I chuckled, and he was giggling slightly louder now. I felt my face turn hot and red.

"Shut up," I said.

"I'm jealous," he added, but I was still more embarrassed than flattered.

"Quit looking at my dick, homo," I said quietly, but it attracted the attention of some others nearby.

"I'm barely legal," I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Robert closed his eyes and shook his head.

I reached down to adjust myself, doing my best to tuck all my meat and junk between my thighs, but that was too uncomfortable and I ended up with a still-present pile of meat in my lap under the fabric.

The whole back row was leaning toward me now, and Jemma, this girl I had done a group project with before and otherwise never shared a word with, twisted around in her chair and looked directly at my cock, the attention from which actually gave me a little jump down there, adding to the existing blood flow that the attention from Robert had already given it, as much as I hated to admit that. Her eyebrows went all the way up.

"Is that a phone..." she whispered, realizing halfway through talking that it wasn't. I just shook my head slowly in response, unable to hide a nervous grin. I hated and I loved the attention at the same time.

When the bell rang, a group of guys came over immediately. Robert had texted them. I didn't even know he was friends with the rowdy football guys, but three of them came from the other side of the room to poke fun at my exposed state. They lost it as soon as they saw it, and I couldn't really do anything except sit there. I felt my ego elevating the whole time, seeing the mix of envy and spectator enjoyment on their faces.

One of them said, "No wonder you walk like that," and I laughed it off as I shifted my hips, crossing my ankle over my knee to kill the sightline, but that just made it bunch up between my thighs and stick out higher.

"You're a bunch of homos," I said in a completely straight way.

"No homo but I wanna kiss it," the tallest one of them said.

I'd had enough, and I stood up to get to my next class, leaving them behind, walking with my chest pushed out a little farther than normal. I felt about nine feet tall. I'd never had a girl do a double take at me for any reason before. I noticed some people doing side glances in the hall. Maybe I was walking different now, which I was suddenly self conscious about. But I kind of wanted people to see it. Let them look.

I floated down the stairs and out the front doors into the afternoon with my chin up and my whole body feeling a bit lighter, like I was somehow more important now.

I stopped at a water fountain, and this guy I knew was bent over taking a drink. I stood behind him for a second, then without even thinking about it, I nudged him gently with my crotch. He stood up a second later and looked back at me, chin-nodding upward when he saw that it was me. Then he looked down at my crotch and I saw his eyes go wide.

"Bro, no homo, but what the fuck is in your pants?"

"My cock," I said, feeling myself start to smile.

When school was finally out, I had the urge to get home quickly. I wanted to spend the day naked in my room, taking pics, measuring, looking stuff up online and basically perving out over my newly found genetic lottery winnings.

The fast way home cut through this old city park, with lots of trees and shrubs. I usually went the long way home, walking with friends, but today I had a mission.

It's a decent park. Big old trees, a path that loops the pond, benches, that low brick bathroom building near the middle that's always sort of clean-looking for a park bathroom. Usually, if I took the path through the park, I would have my head down and my phone out, not paying attention. But today I walked with my head up and my phone in my pocket, still riding the high from the attention of the day, replaying the reactions I had gotten.

And I started noticing that people were noticing me here in the park too.

There were a fair number of guys around for a Tuesday afternoon. Older guys, mostly. Not old-old, just men, thirties and up, some on benches, a couple standing near the tree line, appearing to be doing nothing in particular. And as I came down the path one of them, sitting alone, sort of followed me with his eyes the whole way past. He did a full head-turn. When I glanced back he didn't even look away, just held it, unbothered. I'd have never called myself a guy who gets looked at.

But apparently my cock has superpowers.

Another guy, leaning against a tree, gave me a slow up-and-down that started at my face and moved downward, undressing me with his eyes. Yet another guy who looked like he could be my dad glanced up from his phone from a bench, looked straight at my crotch, and held the stare for a second before he went back to his phone. I wasn't even sure that he didn't take a pic of me. That, somehow, gave me a rush I never would have expected.

I didn't have the word for what this place was. I learned from an internet search later that night what "cruising" was, but at this point, if you'd told me that gay dudes came here specifically to find other guys to hook up with, I'd have laughed and not believed you. But I could feel the vibe of this place, and I assumed I had simply ignited it myself with the magic of my god-given lower endowment.

My blood was rushing. I could feel my pulse in my chest as I slowed down near the little brick bathroom building, because that's where more of them seemed to be loosely gathered, like they were casting a wide circle around it, even if they mostly weren't even talking to each other, just standing sort of near it with their hands in their pockets.

I stopped at the water fountain a few yards off, which I did not need, and pretended to drink from it, which barely worked because the button was broken. And I watched them watching me over the top of it.

I started to slow down, trying not to abuse my superpowers, and just pulled out my phone for a bit, standing there pretending to text people and wasting time. I had a few texts and messages on various apps from friends, including a couple referring to having heard about my "giant cock", which apparently some people were talking about at school now.

When the circling men had mostly dissipated, I felt ready to do something. There was a guy on a bench, maybe late twenties with big arms, in decent shape with a recent haircut, but way older than me obviously. It would be inappropriate even if I was gay, but I could tell he was looking at me through his sunglasses.

So, almost without even thinking about it, I hooked my thumb in the waistband of the sweatpants, angled myself so the bench guy had the view and nobody else really did, and I pulled the pants outward by a few inches, then straight down, letting him see my whole cock for just a second, in all its meaty wonder.

His whole face opened up. His mouth actually came apart. He sat forward off the backrest and looked at it, and then looked at me with this expression that I later realized was pure, lustful craving. He mouthed something I couldn't hear, and I snapped the waistband back onto my body, covering up the free show, and my stomach was suddenly full of helium.

I loved it. It was the same feeling as when Jemma's eyebrows raised at school, but cranked up a bit, because this guy wasn't being polite, this guy wanted it and I had it and I could turn him on and off like a light. The power was getting to my head.

The guy on the bench nodded toward the bathroom, and I just stayed where I was as he got up and went inside. I didn't actually want to follow him. I didn't want to see what he wanted to do with me in there. But he disappeared inside and didn't come out, and I shrugged and pulled my phone back out, until I noticed another guy, maybe forty-five with a dusting of grey on the sides of his hair, leaning against a wall not far from me. He hadn't exactly given me any attention, but I wanted to test my powers further.

So I did it for this guy too. I faced him from a few feet away until he looked at me, and then I did the same move, thumb in the waistband, quick tug, flash, gone. He went still all over and swallowed and I watched his hand drift to the front of his own shorts before he caught himself.

I was two for two with these horny men. My face was hot, and I was grinning down at my phone, pretending to text people back.

I did a slow lap of the building. Every pass I'd catch an eye, hold it, and if the guy looked hungry enough I'd give him a peek of me. It became a little loop I couldn't get out of. I'd show my cock, watch the reaction, feel the high move through me, move on, want more, do it again. I was there for probably an hour, watching guys come and go, giving a show every few minutes or so. Each one wound me tighter. I'd never in my life had this much of a single asset, this much attention on me that I was able to command. And every flash cranked my internal meter higher and made me want to see how far up the dial the thing went.

····[]····

That's when I noticed another guy, younger than most of the dudes I had been flashing all day, maybe younger twenties, still older than me obviously, but not a man-man.

He wasn't just standing around like the other guys. He was passing through like he was on his way somewhere. Something about his face snagged on my brain, like I'd seen him around before. His face was familiar, and I squinted as I tried to place where I might have seen him. I stood there and stared at him as he walked past, looking at his phone. Was it my friend Brody's older brother? Had to be. The one who'd been at Brody's a couple times when he was back from college. He drove a cool car, a Mercedes convertible, barely said a word to me. He had been intimidating, and so cool. I remember picturing the girls he must get with at college. Blondes with big tits, letting him do whatever he wanted to them.

And suddenly, he was looking right back at me.

A sane person, who was not full of mental helium, an ego-boosted delirium, would've nodded or said "hey". But I wondered if he was staring because he recognized me too, OR was he another gay dude, checking me out, and honestly in the state I was in, either of those two possibilities had completely collapsed my hormone-addled compulsive streak into one response: that just meant flash him. I wanted my friend's cool older brother to see that I was at his level, or higher, if maybe in a different way.

So I reached for my waistband, and he squinted at me from where he was. I whipped down my shorts quickly, showing the whole meaty length and thickness to him. I held this one for a beat longer than the others, wiggling my hips, giving him the whole "apple on a pringles can" show, an image I couldn't get out of my head. I was the alpha of the park, and this was my kingdom, and he was now one of my subjects.

His face did not do what the other faces did. His eyes went huge, like he was purely shocked by what he was looking at. His head jerked back a couple inches and his mouth made a shape like he was about to speak, but he didn't say anything.

And the helium left me all at once. My stomach dropped straight through the ground. Because if that was Brody's brother, if that was a person who knew people who knew me, I had just flashed my dick at him in a public park, and by tonight the entire group chat, everyone, Robert, Jemma, my mom probably, the world might know. I was already writing my own obituary, standing there with my heart pounding in my throat. Reality had caught up with me. I cursed myself, frozen in place, waiting to see what would happen.

Then he tipped his head toward the bushes.

It was small. A little sideways nod, his chin toward the thick, tall wall of dark green hedges that ran along the back of the building, and then he turned and walked into them and was gone, just like that, swallowed up with an implicit invitation extended to me to join him.

I felt a wave of relief. Okay, I thought to myself, he's a freak like the rest of these guys. My cock superpowers really do work. But my reality instincts were starting to return to the surface of my consciousness. I could just walk home and never come back to this park again, and I could feel that possibility right there, available, the smart one.

But I looked at the gap in the hedges where he'd gone in, and I got nervous because I hadn't started walking home yet. I was still here, in the chaos, in the mania of the day. I hadn't put it behind me yet, even after a close call. My mouth was dry. My pulse was up in my ears. I think I could literally hear it flowing.

And worst of all, my cock had gotten rock hard.

I was definitely getting blood flow all day with all the attention I was receiving. But had my friend's cool older brother actually just agreed to go look at my cock up close? Maybe even touch it? I didn't even know what goes on with the dudes when they disappear together. Do they kiss?

I still didn't feel gay, but I couldn't deny that the attention was more interesting than anything I was going to do at home. AND, now I had a boner that was even more obscene than my bulge had already been.

I don't fully know how to explain the pull of it, but the panic and the attraction to the idea were fighting each other, and I'd spent the last hour essentially getting rewarded with ego and dopamine every single time I did the scary thing instead of the smart thing.

I walked to the bushes. I checked over my shoulder once, saw nobody looking that mattered, and I pushed through the gap.

····[]····

It was cooler in there, shaded and dim, a little dirt clearing behind the hedge wall with the brick of the building on one side. He was already there. And before I could say anything, before I could ask if he recognized me, or explain myself or even say hey, he came in close to me and got down on his knees in the dirt in front of me. I paused and didn't react as he reached up and pulled the front of my sweatpants down to my knees.

My dick came out and he grabbed it quickly holding it as it reached just about its full size. He licked his lips and made a sound as he exhaled.

"Damn," he said. Not to me really, more to it. "It's so big. It doesn't look real."

And before I knew it, his mouth was on me.

I felt my body tense up at the sensation, as my hands both reached for his blonde, medium length, messy hair. I'd never felt anything like it. I'd only ever had my own hand, usually dry with the occasional baby oil lube if I felt like doing it "right", and the occasional finger in my ass in the shower. That had been the extent of my sex life before this day, and now I had a mouth on me. I didn't care that it was a dude. To be honest, it was the most high quality dude I could imagine, the intimidating guy with the cool car. And his mouth was on me, warm and wet and alive and moving, his lips working down the length of my sensitive shaft, and his tongue going flat against the underside, and my knees nearly buckled right there in the dirt. I put a hand on the rough brick of the wall to keep myself up, and he pulled off just to breathe and looked up at me with my dick still pushed up against his lips.

"I've never seen one this big," he said. "I swear to God." Then he took me back in and went further down, and I felt myself hit the back of his throat, and it felt even better, like a tight, wet, hot space made solely to pleasure my cock. He held it there, working his tongue on my skin, his hand wrapped around the base of my dick, his fingers failing to reach around fully as he gave me slow strokes on the part that wouldn't fit inside him.

I started making sounds I didn't recognize. My whole body was lit up. He came off me again, breathing hard, stroking me with a slick hand, which felt amazing and threatened to make me finish early. He looked up at me again.

"You're such an alpha, dude," he said. "Fuck. I feel so lucky right now. You have no idea."

He said it like he meant it, like I'd done him a favor by letting him do this, even though he was basically giving me the best pleasure I had ever known, and then his mouth was back on me and I stopped being able to think in words at all. He got a rhythm as he seemed to learn my cock step by step. He went deep and slow, and then fast and shallow, rubbing his lips raw and red against me as he put every ounce of effort into pleasuring me. He seemed expert at keeping me on the edge, never making me tip over into orgasm, making me more and more desperate with each swirl of his tongue. He kept one hand on my shaft, and one either braced on my thigh or tugging on my balls.

Every time he moaned around me, I felt it buzz up through my whole shaft, like my cock was a divining rod. The tingles ran up my spine, and I started pushing into his mouth, driving my hips forward as I held his head. He pressed his face down to meet me and swallowed the whole thing, and I watched his neck bulge out obscenely as he made wet gagging sounds. And he kept coming right back for more like he was grateful for it.

It made me curious what else I could "do" to him. I pulled out of his mouth as he sucked in his cheeks, and it made a wet popping sound. I turned around, and I don't even know where the idea came from, but I held his head and pushed his face into my bare ass. I had only seen it in porn, and joked about it with my buddies, about doing it to girls, but it felt degrading, and perfect in the moment.

"Eat my ass," I said, looking over my shoulder at his face.

"What?" he said, hesitating with his chin already touching the skin of my ass, his lips all swollen, red and shiny.

I just pushed his head more firmly against me.

He was older than me. Twenty-two, twenty-three, something like that, but I had the control, and he leaned in and pressed his face right into the valley of my ass. His stubble scraped the inside of my butt cheeks, and then his tongue pushed flat and wet against my hole. My other hand shot forward to the brick wall to hold myself up.

"Good boy," I said, and he groaned into me and dug his face in deeper, his hands rising to grip a cheek in each hand as he spread me open like a Christmas ham. The dude was suddenly starving for my butt, and I achieved a new level of godhood in that moment.

I was drunk on the power I had, but I was still sane enough to know that. Seeing what I could push this dude into doing, and watching him obey every command, only made me want to push it further.

And I loved the feeling in my ass. I didn't even know what to expect, but a warm tongue dancing around only kept me on the edge. It felt unbelievable, his tongue working a part of me nothing had ever touched.

But I wanted his mouth back, so I turned around, grabbed his jaw, and fed my dick into him again, and this time I fucked his face hard, my hips fully smacking his face, forcefully pushing past the opening of his throat with no mercy, because he didn't need any. He moaned and groaned around my mass, struggling but doing well as he took everything I gave, my young body going into overdrive to get an orgasm inside this man. He gripped my thighs and took every stroke, his face emanating sloshing sounds as I got closer to finishing. His joy was evident in the tent in his pants, which stuck out clearly as he spread his knees and lowered himself almost all the way to the ground.

I put my foot down onto his bulge, feeling it with my foot. I pressed the sole down into his balls, feeling his boner throb under my foot, and squished gently, just enough to watch him squirm, groaning desperately as I held his head down to the hilt on me. The sound he made around my dick buzzed all the way up my spine and pushed me right to the edge.

"I'm gonna," I got out, which was all the warning I could manage, and he moaned like that was exactly what he'd been waiting to hear and pushed himself down further, his throat clenching onto me.

I finished in his throat, almost confused at how good the orgasm was. I had never had a climax that wasn't from my own hand before. My whole body clenched up and I squirted into him in these long pulses, emptying me out. He swallowed around me and kept his lips locked, moving his head to stroke out every last bit of my seed, until I was shaking against the brick and had to push his head back gently when I couldn't take any more.

He sat back on his heels. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at me with this glazed, satisfied look, breathing hard.

I stood there catching my breath with my dick still out and my sweatpants down and no clue what was supposed to come next. I remember thinking, in a sort of scrambled way, that there was probably an expectation of a "next part", that maybe he thought I was supposed to go down on him next, which I had no intention of doing.

But then he just stood up, wiping his face. 

And my friend’s cool older brother’s eyes were bloodshot as hell, his face wet with sweat and tears and spit. He was rock hard in his shorts, but he seemed confident in his demeanor as he reached down and shoved the head of his dick upward into his waistband. He gave me one last look, up and down.

"Thanks," he said softly, sniffling and adjusting his shirt and pants, giving himself one last once-over.

I chuckled internally, that he would thank me after all that, but it went along with the superpowers I was still learning to wield.

And then he stepped through the gap in the hedge and was gone, his footsteps fading quickly across the grass, leaving me standing in the dirt with my pants down, my wet dick pointing outward as I waited for it to go down, sort of "airing it out" in a way. My heart was hammering with post-nut clarity and the real world setting in, and I felt like I had absolutely no idea what had just happened to me.

I pulled my sweatpants up after a minute. It was very quiet back there in the bushes.

"Okay," I said, quietly, out loud, to nobody.