Once a Nerd Ch. 09

A gay story: Once a Nerd Ch. 09 I’m…nervous.

I can’t stand it.

You’d think that wouldn’t be the case with Sam squeezed into an economy seat next to me, the plane’s belly bumping off hiccups of wind beneath us, but he wasn’t wrong. It’s going to be hard to see each other after this, especially with the passive role he’s clinging to.

I like that Sam is a guy of high moral fiber, I do. I wouldn’t be half as attracted to him if he was a sleazeball. It’s adorable, but it’s also an obstacle. He’s totally convinced that a little prolonged distance will kill my interest in him, and while an hour’s great in the grand scheme of things, it won’t be the daily interaction I’m used to. Because he’s so dead set on ‘doing the right thing’, he’ll make no effort to bridge the gap. If I don’t make that effort, I’ll probably never see or hear from him again once we part ways at the airport.

It’s fucking aggravating.

I know how much he likes me. He’s as easy to read as a ‘Baby’s First Words’ foam book. He just won’t act on it because he’s a damn martyr. It wouldn’t be an issue if we were attending the same school or living together, but we’re not. I’ll have no way of keeping track of him, who he’s spending time with. This isn’t Bumfuck, Illinois. It’s the progressive, forward-thinking state of California. Sam’s gorgeous, and while I believe he isn’t into women as he claimed, he’ll be surrounded by plenty of nepotistic, handsome, intellectual pricks. I fucked almost exclusively girls before Sam, so it’s not a stretch to think he’ll break a few more Kinsey Scales.

Will he entertain it if I’m not around? He doesn’t consider us to be in a relationship, it’s a seasonal fling in his mind. It’s driving me literally insane just thinking about it. He makes me insane. I’ve never had control issues until now. I want to…microchip him. Install a little spy camera in his fuckin’ glasses, something. If I had to put a pin in the timeline, I’d say anywhere from the end of the first semester to the end of our first year will be the toughest. After that, when I’m still clinging to him like the most persistent barnacle in the sea, he’ll have no choice but to admit he was wrong about my interest being flippant.

I can’t let off the gas, not for a second. If I play hard to get, let the distance happen, he won’t suddenly start pursuing me like some desperate co-ed. He’ll believe he was right and let me go. Sam is fucking mine. I glance over, and shit, just look at him. He’s reading, and his long legs are crossed primly at the knee. He’s wearing a deep green hoodie with a bunched, dipping neckline that does nothing to obscure his creamy throat and clavicle. His glasses slump down his small nose, and his freckles look like God flicked ink across his cheekbones. The bright green of his eyes flickers haltingly beneath long, thick lashes, and he scoops a bouncy curl behind his ear.

I wish I was the English major. I wish I paid more attention to his class, to Hawthorne. I wish I had the fucking words to describe how beautiful he is. He’s not even doing anything, just sitting, reading, but I can barely breathe. I love him so fucking much—

“Dean, I didn’t agree to take this flight with you so you could melt my face off.” He murmurs, not looking up from his paperback.

“You wanted to join the Mile High Club, right? Got ya covered.”

This earns an embarrassed huff, and I get butterflies watching him try and kill a tiny smile. He slides a teasing glance from the corner of his eye. “With you? I’d never. You fuck like a bull in a china shop.”

Oh, ho. That was absolutely the worst thing to say to a jealous, horny bastard like myself. I lean over the armrest, deeper into his space than he’d ever be comfortable with in public, but he doesn’t pull away. He angles his face towards mine, but still doesn’t fully look up from his book. “Just me? As much as you scream my name, the whole plane would know it.”

He snaps his book shut with a sigh, turning his face all the way towards mine. “Looks like we’re both banned from the club then.”

Half an inch, and our lips would touch. I want nothing more than to steal that distance, but as flirtatious as he’s being now, he wouldn’t let that fly. He might break my nose with a headbutt. I retreat with my own mournful sigh. We’re set to land at Fresno Yosemite International in forty-five minutes, which is all too soon. Sam insisted on Fresno’s airport to make the transit easier on me, feeding his mom a line about the cost of travel being cheaper. She’s picking him up, and I’m forbidden under threat of castration from coming within a hundred yards of her. That doesn’t mean I can’t…discreetly observe.

My nerves buzz like flies as we touch down, deboard, and field pockets of impatient travelers at the baggage claim. I don’t want to let him go, I don’t want him out of my sight for a second. Sam, on the other hand, looks about as emotional as he’d be comparing brands of toothpaste at the grocer. He doesn’t look bothered at all, but if there’s one thing he’s got going for him, he has an impressive poker face. He held it together very well during the school year, when I’d sit in the front row of his class and watch him with all the fascination of a strip club’s regular. When Mr. White nearly caught us, he went from panicked to plain-faced in five seconds. He’s only vulnerable and easy to read when we’re alone.

It’s all of a sudden time for us to part ways, and I can’t just—

I grab the bag from his hand, veering off towards the bathrooms.

“Dean, what—?!”

Naturally, he follows.

I don’t go in the bathroom, just set his bag on the floor outside of it. “What are you doing?” He asks, frowning up at me. I want to smudge the pinch from between his brows, so I do. Shockingly, he allows the contact after only a hasty, nervous glance around. No one’s paying attention in a place as busy as this.

“Sam, before you go, listen to me for a second.”

“Oh…kay.” He agrees slowly.

“You’re not going to shake me.” I start, and he knows what I’m implying. His fixed, curious stare shifts uncomfortably to the side. “Text back. Answer the phone when I call. Make time for me, and if you don’t, I’ll cut it out for myself. Got it?”

He flattens his pretty, red lips into a terse line, but returns my gaze. After a moment’s hesitation, he nods. “I will.”

“Good.”

Dropping my head too fast for him to rear back, I bracket his face in my hands and take his mouth in a biting kiss. He reaches up to grip my forearms, gasping a little noise into it. If anyone’s looking, they’ve got more important matters to carry them on their way. But, it’s too dirty of a kiss to be had in public, so I don’t drag it out. I lick the inside of his cheek like it’s cream dripping the side of a waffle cone, and he spasms against me. Then, it’s over. Before completely straightening up, I can’t help but warn him: “Don’t do this with anyone but me.”

He scowls, though it’s more to do with his embarrassment over the PDA than my warning. “Between class and you blowing up my phone, do you really think I’ll have the time to entertain anything or anyone else?”

“Let’s fuckin’ hope not, because I’ll find the time to beat them half to death.”

I really, really tried to make it sound like a joke. I tried to smile, say it on the wings of a laugh. He flinches back, because it didn’t come out like that at all. It came out as serious as I meant it. It came out like every syllable is a shard of stabbing ice. I wonder what he sees in my face, and I hope he remembers it. He takes a calming breath, something he does a lot when rattled, and retrieves his bag from the floor.

“You won’t have to worry about that, Dean. I promise. Just, do your best, please?”

As if to placate me, he perches on his toes and drops a brief, featherlight kiss to my cheek. It’s about 100,000x harder to let him walk off after that, but he does. I follow discreetly after a minute or so, because I want to see what kind of lady his mom is. Her name’s Jamie, which I learned from previous snooping escapades. She’s waiting for him inside of the terminal, so she must’ve parked her car in the adjoining deck. My first glimpse of her, it’s like…looking in the future. Jamie looks just like Sam, or…I guess he looks just like her. Dark, curly hair down to the middle of her back, streaked with white. Vertically challenged. Freckled.

Shit, she’s even wearing a pair of tortoise-shell glasses.

She’s much thinner than her son, almost to a point of being sickly, but it doesn’t take from her librarian-esque charm. Crow’s feet and laugh lines suggest maturity, and I imagine Sammy’s face aging into something timelessly beautiful, just like her. They hug for a long minute, and he isn’t afraid to smile widely. I can count on one hand the times he’s smiled at me like that. There’s a pang of jealousy before I snuff it out, because that’s his fucking mom, not a romantic rival.

From this distance, from five minutes of observation, their relationship seems like a healthy one. She looks thrilled to see him, and he looks relaxed in her presence, bleeding himself of the tension I created. I contemplate ignoring his warnings and popping up between them, introducing myself. I know I’d make a good impression. I’m a charming son of a bitch, and even if I claim to be a former student, I’d win her over. With Sam, however, our relationship would kick back to the stone ages. He’d probably block my number.

“Hah.” The sound is a hot burst from my mouth as I turn away.

It’s…hard.

My chest is throbbing. Walking away from him, even if it’s just temporary, is miserable. There’s no sense of security to make it easier. It’s wanting, needing something so desperately, but being constantly told to wait. I feel like I’ve been crawling through miles of desert with a mouth so brittle and dry, my tongue won’t unstick from my hard palate and my lips crack and bleed. In the distance, there’s a spring of cold, crisp, sparkling water, but no matter how far I drag my bones through the sand, it doesn’t get any closer. Zombified, I’ll keep crawling.

Because, when I do finally get to the water’s edge? When I take that first sip and realize it’s everything that’s fucking right with the world? There’s nothing better. I got a whisper of that feeling the first time we fucked, and I won’t let it phase out of my life. I won’t let it be a mournful, bitter memory of the one that got away.

There’s wanting something, and then there’s doing something about it.

—

It’s a rough first month.

I already knew it going in, but being a ‘student athlete’ in college is a far cry from high school. It’s two, full-time jobs with no fucking pay. Sure, sure, tuition, room, board, and healthcare are covered, but with no cold, hard cash—I can’t afford to do shit off campus. I can’t save up for a car, nor the gas to power it. I’ve contemplated flying back to Illinois, then making the drive with my truck. My old man has taken on the burden of my phone bill, thank Christ. I’m stuck here, and if I didn’t love the game so much, it’d be more miserable than it already is. I’m not a starter for the illustrious Bulldogs yet, but it shouldn’t be long.

I’m one of four out-of-state signees for the school, one of twenty signees for the football team. To my surprise, I’m also one of the biggest guys on the field. There’s only a handful of us over six feet, heavier than two-fifteen. I know I’m a big dude, but this is a university team. I don’t know, I guess I just expected…giants or some shit. Frankly, I’m nervous to get stuck as a lineman due to my size, and to avoid such a fate, I make sure to throw some of the cleanest, sharpest passes this side of the Mississippi. The head coach is a man named Jeremy Nelson, and I’m positive he’s a former Staff Sergeant. I got the read on him pretty quick, and he’s not the type to be swayed by personality. He gives a shit about one of two things:

Talent and ability.

I cracked my first joke with the guy only after throwing the most pristine, pinpoint long pass to Nash Kelly, one of our WR’s, for a touchdown. He quirked a little smile, whereas he’d normally stink-eye a man to tears. I’ve gotten on well enough with the guys on the team, starter or otherwise. Some of them are right pricks, the type of guys that are only good to you if you’re a copy. Non-conformity isn’t looked on kindly, which comes as no surprise. For all intents and purposes, I appear to conform. I don’t mind letting them think as much for now. It’s better to establish myself at the top of the food chain before advertising a weakness.

I’ve been invited to plenty of on-and-off-campus events, mostly ragers disguised as cram sessions, though I’ve only attended two for the sake of keeping up appearances. Even if I wanted to engage in the classic college experience, there’s no time for it. I haven’t given much thought to a major, so for now, I’m enrolled in the bare minimum four courses for a general Bachelor of Business Administration. Between those three classes, it’s a strict, time-consuming regiment of practice, training, and conditioning. Up at four, tucked in by nine.

I’m sure you can guess where I’m going with this.

I miss Sam to fucking death. He’s only an hour away, but it feels like lightyears. I didn’t realize how much of a prisoner I’d be to my own schedule. I text him whenever I get a spare second, and there’s so few of those in the day. Thankfully, he always responds, though he does so in accordance with his own schedule. His replies aren’t clipped, one-word responses either. I can tell he’s making an effort to give me the time I asked for, and he’s transparent about what’s going on in his neck of the woods. Even if it’s only for five minutes before I crash, we talk on the phone or FaceTime nightly.

He sounds just as exhausted as I feel, and I sustain myself on his sleepy voice crackling through the line like it’s crumbs tossed through the bars of a cell. We exchange pictures now, too. Of course, I was the instigator. I’d send him snapshots of my reflection in the gym’s mirror, flattering selfies of myself grinning brightly in the best lighting I can find. The necklace he gifted me, I wear religiously, and that’s not an exaggeration. I’d pray to the damn charm if I thought it’d do any good. I haven’t taken it off since putting it on: shower, sleep, gym, practice.

He’s attracted to me physically, so I’m capitalizing on that as much as possible. It took three weeks of begging before he gave in and started sending pictures of himself. He looks gagged with embarrassment in each one, but fuck, he’s so photogenic. He captures well on film in any light, any angle.

He refuses to send anything provocative, so I make do with what I’m given. There’s one picture I can tell he took hastily, as it’s in public. He’s squinting against midday sun that’s coming through what looks like a cafe’s window, no glasses. His eyes are so goddamn green and bright. His hair’s gotten longer in the short time we’ve been apart, and he’s scraping it out of his speckled face. He has the tiniest, cutest smile, and his cheeks are a little pink, either from the bake of sunshine through glass or his own mortification at taking a selfie.

I’ve beaten off to that picture ten times.

I’ll circle back to that, but let me introduce you to my roommate. Rewinding to the first week on campus, I didn’t meet the guy until four days after I’d moved into the dorm. I was starting to get my hopes up about having the space to myself, but lo and behold, Thursday night brought a new face clunking through the door, luggage in tow. I didn’t mean to scare him, it’s just—

“Agh, holy shit! I’m so…sorry, shit!”

I have next to no shame, so my slip of a towel away from nakedness wasn’t the doomsday he seemed to think it was. “It’s cool, man. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Scooping my pile of clothes from the bed, I return to the adjoined community bathroom with a quickness to spare the poor guy further embarrassment. He’s very determinedly staring at the far wall, studying it like the original Mona Lisa is hanging there. I take my time pulling into my clothes, brushing my teeth, nighttime this’ and that’s. Emerging from the bathroom, Roommate [since I’ve yet to learn his name] is rummaging through his unzipped luggage. I appraise him from the back, like Termovision. Is he someone to be wary of? Competition? Trustworthy? Interesting?

No, nothing like that.

Analysis complete: painfully, aggressively average.

Seventy inches tall. Neither overweight, nor underweight—the underdeveloped physique puberty bestowed upon him. Plain hoodie, plain jeans, plain shoes. No accessories. He’s not ugly, but he isn’t good-looking. His auburn hair was cut with only one request: “I don’t care, just keep it out of my eyes.” There’s no attempt at styling. He doesn’t smell like anything beyond the faint musk of effort and whatever brand of dryer sheets was tossed in with the laundry. Even the contents of his luggage and backpack, there’s no indication of a hobby, personality, or a girlfriend’s feminine touch. He’s like…the living, breathing personification of the pictogram on a men’s public bathroom door. Faceless, anonymous, and forgettable.

There’s one thing, however, that snatches my interest: car keys.

As if sensing the scrutiny, he turns with what might’ve been a smile, more of an awkward grimace. “I’m…really sorry about that. It’s late, I should’ve knocked.”

Huffing a laugh, I drop down onto the edge of my too-small-bed. I know this is community housing, but twins are a crime. “Dude, relax. This is your room too. Name’s Dean, it’s good to meet ya.”

“Oh, John. It’s nice to meet you.”

Christ, even his name is average. I bite the inside of my cheek to withhold the wise crack: “Last name, Doe?”

Instead, I say: “You must be from here, huh? You drove?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m from Bakersfield. What about you?”

“Illinois.”

“Geez, that’s a ways away. You’re…a student athlete, right? That’s why you’re here?”

Snorting, I glance around my side of the room. It doesn’t take a modern-day Sherlock to figure that one out. Protein shakers drying upside down on a little towel. Bulldog-branded gym bag stuffed halfway under my bed. Jersey hanging off the back of my desk chair. “Yup, full-ride.”

“Wow,” John whistles. “Even without all the, uh, evidence, you’re in…shape. Are you a starter yet?”

We chat for a few minutes more, learning the basics of the person we’re meant to share a room with for the year. John’s attending on an academic scholarship, and while it’s not the full-ride mine is, it shaved a hefty chunk off his tuition and living expenses. He’s ultimately aiming for a PhD in Psychology, and I’m a little floored at the goal. For the life of me, I can’t picture this guy diagnosing depression in Eeyore, let alone anything more complex than that. I’m sure to John, I’m as much the meathead as I look, entirely give-a-fuck about the education end of things.

Something else interesting about him, his family’s hardly the All-American Standard it was thirty years ago. Instead of ‘Mom, Dad, two-point-five kids, and a Golden Retriever named Buddy’, John’s an adoptee of a well-off lesbian couple in their fifties. They adopted him as an infant twenty years ago. I have to remind myself this is California, a safe haven for the non-standard. I’m most shocked he told someone like me, especially during our first ever conversation. So far, it’s the most interesting thing about him, and I have to wonder if he goes out of his way to be the human embodiment of a flavorless, colorless wafer to offset the strangeness of his upbringing. John assures me, he’s a stringent heterosexual.

I laugh, “it doesn’t matter to me, man.”

Obviously, it works in my favor.

My alarm goes off ten minutes into our Icebreaker session. It’s 8:30, so Sammy’s officially available. “Ah, sorry, I’ve gotta make a call.”

He nods, returning to what’s left of his luggage. I pop a pair of earbuds in and send the call through. Sammy usually answers on the third or fourth ring, and this time is no different. He grumbles through the line, “hey.”

It’s like John ceases to exist. “What crawled up your ass? That’s my job.”

Sam huffs, and I can imagine the little smile he tries to fight off his face. “Grading shitty papers for a Composition and Rhetoric course. I swear, it’s like twenty assignments written by you.”

“Damn, twenty A++’s?”

This earns a real laugh, and my chest tightens at the hearty, unrestricted sound. “God, I wish. English wasn’t your best subject, Dean.”

“Hey, I worked your ass off in that class.”

He laughs again, and is it possible to fall more in love with someone every time they laugh? “Stop talking about my ass. It’s in recovery.”

“Enjoy the break while it lasts, Sammy.”

“Ugh, don’t make it sound like a threat. I’ll never tell you where I live.”

“You don’t have to tell me, I have my ways.”

There’s a pause, and when Sammy speaks again, his voice shakes with the remnants of a withheld laugh. “You’re not…nearly as cool as you think you are. That was so cheesy, Dean.”

Grinning, I tip my head back and close my eyes. “You’re all talk. I know you’re missin’ me, I can always hear it in your voice.”

“…it’s only been a week.” He says quietly, and that’s not a denial. I stiffen at the vulnerable tone, glancing at my phone’s screen. My heart’s suddenly a hummingbird in my chest, fluttering. I have to resist grabbing myself there in an attempt to quiet the arrhythmia.

“Week’s a long time. You can say it, right? You’ll get me through the rest of the month if you tell me you miss me.” I don’t realize I’ve dropped my voice into something low and suggestive until a bitten-off noise comes through the receiver. Ah, fuck, phone sex would be so—

“I…do miss you.”

Those simple words flood me with a bright, robust warmth. It’s like my blood’s been replaced by the bubbling water in a jacuzzi. I think it’s easier for Sam to be honest when he’s alone, when I’m not standing right in front of him. It’s easier for him to speak truths into the quiet solitude of his apartment. Maybe he’s even pretending I’m not on the other line, and he’s only being honest with himself. Whatever the case, it’s like the ultimate gift, a precious reward for all my efforts. I groan from the back of my throat, dropping my forearm across my eyes.

“Goddamn, I miss you too.”

“It’s only been a week.” He repeats, laughing softly. “Anything interesting happen today?”

“Oh—” I suddenly remember I’m not alone in this room, and John is making a valiant effort to mind my privacy. “Shit, yeah. I got a roommate.”

After three weeks of nightly phone calls, just as sexually charged as that one, John finally musters the courage to ask about it. I wouldn’t say we’ve gotten close, but we’re comfortable enough. We acknowledge each other in shared classes, leave the dorms together in the morning, and make amicable conversation in the evenings. I’ve kept an eye on him during that time. He lives up to his bland caricature, not overly friendly with anyone. He’s polite, but keeps to himself. I’m wrapping up my phone call with Sam, not bothering to disguise the whine in my voice: “Come on, just lay the phone on your pillow, I wanna hear you while you fall asleep.”

“What are we, fucking middle-schoolers?” He scoffs.

“You know, that was only a few years ago for—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll never pick up your call again.”

Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I let it go. “Fine, but at least tell me you love me.”

“…goodnight, Dean.”

“I love you, baby.” I coo.

He hangs up with an embarrassed grunt, and I pop the buds out of my ears to return them to their case. John, who’d been halfway typing up an assignment on his second-hand MacBook, isn’t subtle in his side-eyeing. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the air stiff with questions he’s hesitant to ask, he finally breaks: “Um, is that…your girlfriend?”

Wow, someone promote this guy to Head Detective.

“Nah.” I flash a roguish smile at him. “Sam’s a guy.”

I’m not ashamed of my relationship with Sam, but it’s something I’ll leak strategically. If it becomes news, I’m the fucking reporter. From what I’ve observed of John, he’s not the type to spread a person’s business or participate in gossip. Honestly, I just want someone discreet to gush with, and John’s stuck in a room with me for the next ten months. He straightens in his seat, blinking big, surprised eyes. “O-Oh, wow. I-I mean—! Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound…insensitive. You just seem…”

“Forcefully straight?”

John coughs a laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I was just trying to make conservation.”

“You’re fine, dude. I could’ve just said ‘yes’ when you asked.”

“How long have you…been together? Does he go here?”

“Since January, and nah, he goes to Berkeley. He’s on a PhD track for Literature, he wants to teach there.”

“Geez, so you’re both crazy busy, huh?”

“God it’s fucking killing me. I’d give up my left nut to see him.”

“I can tell.” John mutters, strangely seriously. Instead of looking at me, his gaze is fixed on the corner of his desk. “We don’t know each other very well, but you’re totally different when you’re on the phone with…him. Like, there’s nothing else going on in the entire world.”

“Catch.”

He lifts his face just in time to see my phone sailing across the room. With a squawk, he scrambles to catch it. On the screen, it’s that aforementioned picture, the one to see me through a handful of desperate wank sessions crammed in a corner stall of the community showers. He looks like a goddamn model in that picture, and John’s mouth makes a shocked little ‘O’ shape. “Wow, he’s—”

“Ugh, the sexiest creature to walk this fucking Earth?” I groan.

“Well, if I said that, I don’t think you’d let it slide. But, he’s very…handsome. He definitely looks too smart for you.”

“He is. Keep it on the low for me, but if anyone asks, I’m taken.”

John hocks my phone back with another laugh. “Sure.”

—

One month and a week and a half.

That’s how long it takes to become a starting quarterback for the Bulldogs.

Kneeling on the turf after Friday evening’s practice, Coach Nelson is backhanding a clipboard as he reviews the highs and lows of everyone’s effort. We all listen attentively, because his word is the one to give and take away those coveted positions. Despite it being late in the day in November, it’s sweltering and thick with testosterone. My teammates are still working to get their breath under control, sweat burning our eyes and sticking clothes to our skin.

“Saunders!”

“Yes, Coach!”

“Congratulations, you’re off the bench.”

It comes as no surprise to anyone. I don’t bite back a vicious grin, and it’s not exactly the heartwarming expression of victory you’d see in ‘Remember the Titans.’ There’s this…visceral, barbaric feeling associated with winning, being the best. When using your body, whether it’s athletics or back-alley scraps, that feeling is inflated into something monstrous. Probably a primal reflex, overcoming death daily with your bare hands. It certainly feels of savage origin as it pulses under my skin. My core is hot and tight. My head is light. My nerves hum with an undercurrent of electric satisfaction. I feel like fighting. Fucking. Something to cement myself on top of another, weaker person.

Fired up as I am, it’s…a good thing Sam’s an hour away. If he were on campus, I wouldn’t let this feeling burn out. I’d hunt him down like tonight’s fucking dinner. I wouldn’t have the decency or sense to find a private place, just the first empty room that locks. He’d panic over getting caught, begging me to wait, but he’s so weak to pleasure. It wouldn’t take much cajoling to have him bent over a desk or sink, that prizewinning ass milking my cock like it’s got a mind of its own. Sammy’s smooth, toned back bowed with white-out pleasure, fucking stupid with how good I’ll make him feel. God, what about sex right after a winning game—

That’s the thought to overwrite adrenaline with clarity. Coming back to myself, there’s the congratulatory cheers and claps on the back from my teammates. There’s only one downside to this:

“It’s on Kappa Sigma tonight, boys!”

Well, fuck.

While there’s no excuse stupid or insignificant enough to throw a rager, it’d cause too many problems if I skipped out on one thrown in my honor. Maintaining respect and popularity is almost a political game. You have to make appearances, be willing to kiss a couple babies. I have to show up, outdrink, outclass, and nurture the fragile connections with my peers. Teammates, especially. If they don’t respect me, or at least fear me if it comes down to that, we’ll be fucking trash on the turf.

It’s Saturday, and Coach Nelson is more than aware he’s coaching a college team—D1 or not. He delivered this news on the cusp of a rest day, no practice or classes. Fresno State has over thirty fraternities and sororities, and the chapter housing for the IFC is conveniently linked to the stadium by one little street. So, it’s locker rooms, then an immediate brisk walk to liver failure. It’s already after eight. I’d normally be settling in for my much-anticipated call with Sam, and I’m struggling to swallow my irritation over missing it. Sure, I can still call him, but it’s not like I’d be able to dedicate the attention he deserves.

Begrudgingly, I shoot him a text before disrobing for the showers.

“I can’t call at the normal time 🙁 going to an obligatory frat party, BUT I have news! Ily and I miss you, pls tell me about ur day and send nudes :(”

I don’t wait for an immediate reply, as he usually doesn’t reply right away. If he did, I’d be rooted lockerside exchanging sad, desperate messages back and forth. Peeling out of damp gear, grateful for freedom from it, I make the quick beeline to the big, white hall of shower heads. It’s a nice fucking lockeroom, night and day to the facilities of a backwater high school that hasn’t seen a renovation since the mid eighteenth century. But, the communal showers are still something you’d get in prison, just cleaner. Dick, balls, and ass galore. If you’ll remember, I had almost no interest in dick and balls before they were attached to Sam. That’s still very much the case. Like a hive mind, my teammates greet me with a round of uproarious barking.

It’s a thing, apparently. We’re the Bulldogs, so we bark. I bark back on the way to my designated head, because I’m not an antisocial asshole. Parked between two teammates I’m particularly close with, as the game demands, Jalyn Cahill on the left, Max Finnus on the right. RB and WR respectively. Jalyn is on the shorter side, stocky, with a core like iron to withstand a beating. He’s considered a power back, so trying to get him off his feet is like trying to tip over an F150 with your hands and weight alone. Max is practically a cookie-cut WR. He’s got an inch of height on me, whip-thin, and hands like fucking bear paws. He’s one of the fastest guys on the team. Or any team in a fifty mile radius. Dude could lap me for days.

“Thank Christ Nelson made you a starter before the season kicks up, Saunders.” Max groans, eyes pinched to avoid shampoo blistering them.

“It’s a good thing he’s so hard to please. It’s why we’ve got so many solid guys.”

Jaylin scoffs, scrubbing his underarms like they’ve offended him. I’d never say it unprovoked, but my man’s B.O. could knock a lesser man out. He already knows it, hence the prescription-strength deodorant. “Dean, please. It’s fucking insulting when you try n’ act humble. You should’ve seen your face when Coach announced it, it’s like you…Joker-ed some poor cunt.”

“Joker-ed?”

“Yeah, like the Joker. Heath, not Joauqin.”

“So, insane. Why not Joaquin?” I snort.

“No, no, just…evil? I mean that as a compliment, honestly. Not Joaquin because you’re made to feel bad for the dude, and I don’t feel fuckin’ bad for you. Heath’s Joker just had that dog in him.”

Max carries on, choosing not to address my place on the ‘Most Evil’ scale. “I literally cannot wait to blow off some steam tonight, man. You know how people go out saying, like, ‘I wanna get buzzed, but I don’t wanna overdo it! I wanna be able to walk home and see straight!’? Nah, nah. I wanna pass out in a pile of vomit, Uber me to the goddamn ER if you have to. I wanna still be tipsy when I wake up on Monday. I need this.”

“Jesus Christ!” I laugh at the image. Hard pass.

“I just wanna get laid.” Jaylin whines.

“What happened to your girl?” Max asks over my head, and it sort of pisses me off that anyone’s able to do anything over my head. “Uh, Sha…kira?”

“What the fuck do you think happened, Finnus? If we’re not in class, we’re right goddamn here. If we’re not here, we’re crashed out or at the gym. She dumped me because I don’t have time for dates and shit. Said she felt like she was dating my shadow or some bullshit.”

“Damn, man, I didn’t know. You dated in high school, right?”

Jaylin’s darker than sin, but he’s scrubbing himself hard enough to have red blooming through. “I’d like to see you, or anyone on this team, hold down a steady relationship. It’s fucking impossible unless she’s down way, way bad.”

“I bet Mr. Monster Cock over there wouldn’t have a problem!” Comes the chortling answer four heads down, a linemen named Shawn Kelsey. He’s more a linemen in name than size, as anyone in here wouldn’t have a problem tackling the dude on his ass. I don’t love the nickname, but it’s not inaccurate.

“Dean’s probably got bitches in a queue. ‘Take a number, ma’am, we’ll call you when ready!'”

“Seriously,” Max eyeballs my soft dick with a mix of envy and amazement. “How many puppies and orphans did you rescue in your last life?”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” That’s…mostly a lie. “If I get hard too fast, it feels like I’ll black out.”

“That’s a brag, not a fucking problem, Saunders!”

With showers wrapping up, we find towels to keep from advertising our junk more than necessary and return to designated locker stalls. I knot the cotton at my hip and snatch my phone from the top shelf of my locker. If I’m being honest, Jaylin’s comments about maintaining a relationship left a bad taste in my mouth. I knew the reality of it going in, even if Sam thought I was off in some la-la-land. I knew it’d be hard to see each other. I knew we’d be fucking busy. But, I was only thinking about it two-dimensionally. If I can prove how serious I am to him, it’s all rainbows and butterflies down the line. Between the two of us, I’m definitely the one with more of an…appetite.

But, what about Sam’s…desires? What if he starts to feel lonely, horny? What if he’s seduced by some other bastard in his time of need, while I’m not around? Would he tell me? He…would, right? Sam’s so fucking softhearted, he wouldn’t even let me kill the spiders we’d find in the house. There’s no way he’d—

Unless he thinks I’m getting my dick wet without telling him.

Fortunately, for the sake of my crumbling confidence, there are three replies from Sam. I unlock my phone like a man possessed. There’s a typed message at the top, an image, and another typed message below it. My eyes zero in on the picture, and it’s ironic that we were just discussing my risk of unconsciousness should I pop a boner too suddenly. “Jesus Fuck—!” I hiss under my breath, ripping my teeth into my knuckles. He actually…fucking did it.

Sam sent me a nude. Sort of.

It’s like…something a girl would take, which makes sense considering I fuck him like one, but how’d he even know how to…arrange himself? Has he taken pictures like this before? Sent them to ex’s or flings? I have to remind myself he’s not a virgin, nor a boomer. He was only taking the moral high ground with me, specifically. He’s naked as the day he was born, on a bed, in a room that’s mostly dark save the aurelian glow of a bedside lamp. I recognize it as his bedroom from previous FaceTimes. His chest is pressed to the bed, but he’s on his knees, ass lifted. He must’ve had his phone extended in front of himself, because it doesn’t catch his face at all—only a few curls tousled across his brow.

The knobs of his slender shoulders, the slope of his sexy back, and the fuckable rounds of his ass in the background. There’s a delicate flush glazing his skin, a starburst of darkened freckles in the midpoint of his spine. It’s not a crude picture of his dick or asshole, but it’s goddamn erotic. Exactly the type of picture I’d expect Sam to take, exactly the type of picture to have me lightheaded and boldly tenting a towel.

A picture like this, knowing it was taken and sent with me in mind, makes it so, so easy to insert myself in it. The longer I stare at it, the easier it is to imagine myself there with him, behind him. The lockeroom melts away, and I’m kneeling on his bed, fisting bruises into his plush hips. The back of his creamy thighs are sticky and twitching, and his eyes are fuzzy with anticipatory tears through a mess of dark hair, catching mine over his shoulder. It’s the expression he makes when his belly is burning and clamped with need, dick drooling into the sheet, desperate for my cock. He’s always putting up a front, acting cool and unaffected when others are around. When we’re alone like that, I want to completely break him down.

I’d massage the head of my cock against his soft, warm hole until he’s fucking sobbing for it, driving his hips back like a bitch in heat. “Dean, fuck, please!”

“Please what, baby? Say it like you mean it.”

He’d be ripe with embarrassment. “Nngh, please, don’t…make me say it!”

God, sliding into him those first few inches? Feeling his pliant body spread around my girth? The suction of his tight, wet insides is fucking otherworldly. His eyes would probably roll back, rosebud mouth dropping around a choked-off sound. It’s been so long, he might even cum off the first thrust. I’d make him thank me for it, too, or maybe he’d be so delirious, he’d sing my praises without being asked.

What I wouldn’t give to—

“Christ, Saunders, you trying to waste a nut before we get there? What the fuck are you lookin’ at, man?”

I shock out of the daydream. Marcus, a TE, is scrutinizing me from two stalls down, brows lifted to a neat, buzzed hairline. I don’t intend it to come out as hostile as it does, but: “Mind your fuckin’ business or join the queue.”

He sobers up at the tone, lifting his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “My bad, my bad, shit.”

Erection halfway murdered, I return my attention to the thread. I at least have enough brain cells to read Sam’s written messages. The first one reads: “Sorry if this looks stupid, I don’t take pictures like this.”

The second one reads: “Congratulations on becoming a starter, 1+1=2 so I figured that was the news. I’m proud of you, have fun. You deserve it.”

“Fuck.” My chest is throbbing. It’s Saturday night. Instead of this useless party, I could find a way to make the hour drive to see him. I’m fucking aching to see him, actually, in more places than my balls. I miss him so goddamn much, it feels like it’s eating me alive. Patience, patience, patience. I’m not there yet. I’m not at the tippy top of the totem pole. If I don’t attend shit like this, it’ll bite me in the ass. I type up a hasty reply and slam my phone on its face so I can focus on dressing.

Reply: “I’m going to fuck the absolute shit out of you, Sam.”

If you’ve been to one sloppily organized rager, you’ve been to ’em all. For those who enjoy that type of environment, I’m sure the consistency is appreciated. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, but lately, there are far better uses for my time. As a herd, we make the twenty minute walk from the stadium’s lockeroom to the Kappa Sigma house. The closer we get, I can feel basslines pounding through the soles of my feet as if the house had sprouted roots underground. It might be held at Kappa Sigma, but it looks like the occupants of every other chapter are weaving about like drunken ants.

While it’s not an outrageous scene from the likes of ‘Project X’, it makes Kayla’s graduation bash feel as tame as a toddler’s birthday party. Seizure-inducing strobes, a debris-littered lawn before ten p.m., a generic Spotify playlist probably titled ‘COLLEGE PARTY SONGS’ threatening the integrity of the foundation, fold-up tables boasting a beer pong tournament that’s being taken way, way too seriously. Good God, is that…”Swimming Pools”? Kendrick, forgive me, man.

Stepping up from the curb to the lawn, you’d think my name was fucking Beyoncé. The reaction seems a little inflated considering no one’s seen me play in an actual match, but who am I to turn my nose up at a warm welcome? They’re not wrong for having high hopes, as I won’t be satisfied with anything less than the Bowl. My teammates break away to pursue their preferred activity, whether that’s in the kitchen for shots, finding a body to perform an uncoordinated grind against, or skipping the line for beer pong. Many of the upperclassmen are also ‘brothers’ of a fraternity, so they reconnect with their housemates.

I’ve never understood the appeal.

Unfortunately, my celebrity status doesn’t show signs of waning. Wherever I go, I’m forced to mingle. I know I made the politics analogy earlier, but it’s more apt than I realized. Except, instead of shaking hands, it’s all limp-wristed daps. Wall to wall, corner to corner, there’s an abundance of feminine wiles. Tits, legs, ass. Campus-wide, if they’ve got a pussy and a heartbeat, they’re at this party. The less sober they become, the more unsolicited touching there is to dodge. The fact that I’m so keen on dodging it really puts into perspective how much I’ve changed. There are a ton of different takes on love, and I get that.

But, if it’s the real fucking deal, why do people focus so much on the labor that goes into it? Like, it’s hard work? The amount of times I’ve heard my buddies say something along the lines of: “I love my girl, but I’ve got needs, man.”

I nodded my head like it was common sense, the inherent nature of man. It was easy to agree when I knew fuck-all about love. Back then, I thought ‘love’ just meant wanting to spend time with a girl outside of sex, and I’d never even experienced that much. It seemed perfectly reasonable to meet your physical needs externally if they weren’t being met internally, because sex felt just as necessary as water, food, and air. Now? That’s…literally fucking insane to me. Without Sam, even if it’s just his afterimage in my imagination or a picture, my dick is out of order. I still have eyes and a brain. I know when a person’s hot, but it’s just a passing fact.

I’m pent up. I’m hornier than a coked-up chimp, to the point it’s starting to sharpen the edge of my temper. Even so, if I singled out the baddest bitch on the property, whisked her upstairs, and sat through a heartfelt striptease, she’d stomp from the room after ten minutes with a bruised ego and blab the news of my erectile dysfunction. To me, that’s a big part of love. Some would call it loyalty, but even that implies a bit of conscious effort. My body’s on the same page as my brain, and there’s no effort or labor required, no matter how perky the breast or voluptuous the ass. If it’s not attached to Sam’s body, it holds no sway over mine.

That being said, it doesn’t stop anyone from trying, and I’m not yet in the position where I can shut it down cold. It’s a lot of polite misdirection, and the next hour and a half passes by strategically. One round of shots with about twenty faces I couldn’t pick out of a line up, then it’s strictly beer. After winning four straight games of beer pong, a plastered Max comes to me with the sudden urge for passing drills. We launch a football across the lawn, over the heads of a band of half-naked coeds who’ve christened themselves monkeys in the middle. I can’t be mad at the blatant attention-seeking behavior, as it’s not a legitimate drill. Finnus is too fucked to even rely on muscle memory.

“Yo! Delaney! Come toss to Finnus, it’s the only thing keepin’ him on his feet.” I swap out with one of our beefier linemen posted up on the house’s veranda. “I’m grabbing a beer.”

Then going the fuck back to the dorm. It’s already eleven. My phone’s been burning a hole in my pocket. I’ve scooped it out at least a dozen times to check for a reply, only to find the minutes trudging onward. Sam read it, but that’s it. Maybe he’s asleep, fuck. It’s not that late, and it’s Saturday. I’ll call him when I get back—

“That’s one lucky girl.”

Digging a beer out of the back of the fridge, I’m caught red-handed staring at our text thread. I’d already saved Sam’s picture and deleted it from the thread, that way there’s no risk of it being glimpsed over my shoulder. It’d make me look defensive if I hastily shut my phone off and crammed it back in my pocket, so I don’t. To the right of the big, double-door fridge smeared with greasy prints, there’s a girl leaning against the counter. My brain tickles with recognition, but no names float to the surface. She’s pretty enough that it’s strange for her to be unattended by a sloshed suitor or three. On the tall side for a woman, biracial, skin like too-creamy coffee. Dark, coily hair sprouts around her sultry-done face in a healthy afro. Her tit to ass ratio is damn near the golden standard, a skinny waist sloping between.

It honestly boggles my mind that I barely recognize a girl like this. She’s worth a shitton more than a passing glance, but that must’ve been all I had to give. Closing the fridge, I casually return my phone to its designated pocket.

“Which girl would that be?”

“Whichever girl is on the other side of that phone.” She quirks a little smile, teasing but unbothered. “Every time I see you, you’re on it.”

“Oh? You keepin’ tabs on me?”

“I don’t have to keep tabs, you stand out.”

“I wouldn’t call you a wallflower either.” I accuse, brows lifted.

“Exactly, that’s my point.” She laughs, swiping bouncy hair over a smooth, naked shoulder. “I wouldn’t call myself forgettable, but you don’t know my name, do you? We’re in three classes together, Dean.”

I admit awkwardly: “Ah, you caught me.”

“Cecilia.”

“Pretty name.”

“Oh, please, keep the bogus flattery to yourself. You know, a lot of these girls think they’ve got a chance. If I was your girlfriend, I might be upset that you’re not loud and proud about your status. I’m guessing she doesn’t go here?”

Sammy would probably have a panic attack if I went around advertising it, as she’s suggesting I do. Leaning against the opposite counter, I size her up. I can’t tell if she’s flirting or nosy. “You seem very, very interested in this relationship you’re assuming I’m in.”

“Because it is interesting. Dean Saunders, nineteen, D1 starter in less than two months. Face like that, abs like those, and you know what it all adds up to? Manwhore, creatine for brains.”

I bust a laugh: “Holy shit, are you…negging me right now?”

She scoffs: “Negging is a form of flirting. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mm, you want the honest answer? It might hurt your feelings.”

“They’re pretty hard to hurt, but give it your best shot.”

Cecilia grins, and it’s far from a kind or jovial expression. Excitable, almost mocking, but she’s no less gorgeous for the strange sharpness of it. She shines like a wicked villainess. “I’m a psych major.”

“So, I’m interesting…psychologically?”

“Very. I can’t spell it out for you, since I’m a few years shy of a degree. It wouldn’t be ethical to diagnose a guy I just met.”

Diagnose? I’ve been accused of narcissism, but I don’t think that’s the implication. While I’m curious to know what brand of insane she suspects me of, I’m not curious enough to press her for it or loiter around in this kitchen. We have classes together, apparently, so it’s not like I’ll never see her again. I’m also not convinced this isn’t her subtle way of negging, trying to foster my interest in her. Maybe that’s the narcissism cropping up. Once my bottle is empty, I excuse myself from her presence. She wiggles her fingers at me, and again, her smile is uncomfortably knowing.

Now that a majority of the crowd is on the train to Shit-faced Station, it’s easy to slip out. One shot and six beers isn’t enough to inebriate me, but there’s a pleasant warmth spread through my limbs. The ground feels soft and padded under my feet, and the muscle tension of a rigorous practice is fuzzed out. It’s a thirty minute walk back to the dorms, but for a few reasons, I turn that into a fifteen minute run. I’ll get back to the room by 11:45, give or take a few minutes. If I call Sam before midnight, he might answer. Even if he doesn’t, I fully intend to blow the world’s fattest load while eye-fucking that picture.

It’s not like I took our summer for granted. No, I cherished every fucking second, took pains to commit it all to memory: every smile, laugh, look, touch. It’s almost a double-edged sword, remembering him so vividly. If I’m not dwelling in a memory, I’m agonizing over how he’s doing now. We talk every day, but he’s not the type to ramble or tell prolonged stories. When discussing his coursework or events of interest, he’s painfully succinct. He’s name-dropped a few acquaintances, but no real details. I, however, am the type to ramble, and he encourages it. It doesn’t occur to me how little I know about his daily life until we’re off the phone.

FaceTimes are even rarer. I miss him, and I can feel my head about to go through the metaphorical ceiling. Patience isn’t my strongest virtue.

Clambering into the dorm, I’m not surprised to find it dark and empty. John often leaves for home on Friday afternoons after classes let out, returning Sunday evening. There’s the vague desire to shower again, brush my teeth to avoid waking with the squalid aftertaste of a Miller Lite, but it’s too low on the priority list. I’m already half-hard just thinking about that picture. Shucking out of my jeans, I replace them with a pair of mesh shorts. I’m running the risk of pissing Sammy off if my call wakes him up, but I give less than an iota of a fuck. I crash back onto the bed, snug my earbuds in, and anxiously send the call through.

When it rings a fifth time, the little spark of hope in my chest dies. I wasn’t really expecting him to answer, but—

“…Sammy?”

He picked up! But, there’s no greeting. He doesn’t say anything for several long seconds, but there’s a slight shuffling. Did he slap the phone in his sleep, thinking it was an alarm? Hell, I’ll take it. I’m not above beating off to his quiet, rhythmic breathing. Then, I’ll fall asleep to it, pretending we’re in bed together. I’ll take whatever I can fucking get. I’m just about to swipe out of the call screen and into my photo gallery, when his voice hums through the buds. I stiffen up like I’ve made eyes at Medusa. Rationality blinks out of my brain, and half my body’s blood is siphoned off into my cock.

“Dean…? I…hah…”

That’s his ‘I’m about to cum’ voice.

—

Dean will never comprehend the culmination of emotions behind that picture, both taking it and sending it.

He asks for nudes all the time, but it always comes as a throwaway comment like that. I know he isn’t joking, but he’s also never expecting anything. Tonight, however, a seed was planted. I tried to deprive it of water and sunlight, but before I knew it, it’d sprouted. Then, it was a magnificent tree with branches and hearty leaves casting shadows on every corner of my mind. When he said he had both news and a party to attend, I knew it’s because he made the starting line-up.

I wanted…to do something for him, somehow.

Dean upheld the fierce promises he laid at my feet at the airport before we parted ways. He texts me any moment he gets during the day, and he calls me faithfully every night. If I didn’t boot him off the phone, he’d find something to talk about until morning. I’ve been doing my best to uphold my own end of that promise, and it comes more naturally than I thought it would. I catch myself anticipating his correspondence, and I have to stop myself from initiating it. Even after almost two months, I’m still clinging to passivity, like that makes it less morally compromising.

He tells me he loves me, he misses me, and there’s no less passion in his voice than the day we parted ways. If anything, it sounds like he’s feeling it more keenly. There’s a desperate edge to him sometimes, and it takes my breath away to hear it. It frightens me. Dean’s…such an intense person, and I can’t help but worry about the both of us. Am I a distraction for him? Is he doing well in classes? Practice? Making friends? I’m scared for if/when we’ll meet again, too. If he’s well and truly abstained from sex all this time, he might cripple me.

I’m also scared for the day that his messages and calls become fewer and fewer, or perhaps there won’t be a slow tapering. Maybe they’ll just stop altogether. It’s the first thought that crosses my mind when I open my eyes in the morning, dreams traded for the start of a new day. Dean wakes up much, much earlier than I do, and he never fails to send some sort of corny ‘good morning’ text. I glance at my phone, wondering if today’s the day there won’t be one. I shouldn’t be so content existing in this state of limbo, as it’s doing no one any favors. At this point, I should either dive in or get the fuck out of the pool.

But, wouldn’t God find it so funny if the second I start investing just as much energy into Dean as he’s invested into me, the kid goes off and gets a girlfriend? He’d be laughing through the next millennium off a joke as sick as that. In any case, we’re both swamped in our own way. Dean’s balancing all the responsibility of a student athlete on top of testing and coursework, and while I’ve only got the academia side of things to sweat, it’s just as strenuous as I’d feared. I was able to jump right into the TA program with the MA I already possess and my background as an educator, but I still have my own courses to participate in.

I worried about Dean’s ability to make friends, but I hardly have a spare second to exchange words with anyone if they aren’t related to a course’s material. I might not have even spoken more than a few sentences to my mother if we didn’t have at least one dinner date a week, but she’d be the first one to be understanding of my plight. That being said, the interest I’ve received at UC Berkeley is…

Bold and overwhelming. I can’t bring myself to tell Dean, as I’m not sure how I’d even say something like that. It would just seem like I’m trying to rile him up. “Yeah, I’ve been asked out, like, fifty times. Isn’t that funny?”

Even though I’m sure he’s in a similar boat. Or, a much, much bigger boat. God, he probably has a fanclub.

It’s about a seventy/thirty disparity in gender. Seventy percent women, thirty percent men. Thirty is still a staggering percentage. Most of the men who’ve been venturesome enough to flirt in broad daylight are all typecasted: older, larger, distinguished, scholarly. They’re either upperclassmen in a hoity-toity major or professors of said major. But, to my vague horror, I’ve been approached on the lowest of down-lows by a few men of Dean’s breed. Burly athletes who must be able to smell some sort of pheromone on me: “Yeah, that guy definitely takes it in the ass.”

Dean would shit a brick.

I tell myself, as long as I don’t reciprocate in any way, he doesn’t need to know. I hate to admit it, but he’s ruined me. Plenty of those aforementioned men were objectively good-looking, some muscular, but none of them were…Dean. He’s raised the bar into the goddamn stratosphere. It should be illegal to be that hot, athletic, likable, and endowed. Despite the lack of down time afforded to me, he’s rewritten the code of my body. Namely, my libido. I never used to be this insatiable, but we were having mind-blowing sex multiple times a day, almost daily.

If my phone’s in hand, you can assume I’m taking a quick swipe through the many, many pictures he’s sent. Especially those of the shirtless-and-sweaty variety. It’s a guilty pleasure. Phone tucked to my chest, thighs squeezing together, heat blistering in my belly. If I told him just how badly I want him, I know he’d appreciate it. More than appreciate it, he’d probably commit GTA and break every traffic law in California to get here. It’s also just plain embarrassing. What would I even say?

“How was your day, Sammy?”

“It was fine. Somewhere between ‘ModPo’ and lunch, I daydreamed about you using my face like a fleshlight and emptying your balls directly into my stomach. How was your’s?”

Dean might be able to flippantly announce whatever filthy thought pops into his head, but I’m not so nonchalant. It’s hard enough to say such things during sex, I might die from too much blood rushing to my head if I tried sending it in text or saying it over the phone. Three weeks into the semester, it felt like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t find some form of release. I purchased a toy online, a little ashamed of myself for forking out the extra money for express shipping. I’ve used them before, just not in a long, long time. Before Dean, I had no issue with occasional celibacy periods between relationships or flings. The package arrived two days after placing the order, but my workload suddenly saw an increase. Until tonight, I’ve yet to use it.

Tonight, I was already feeling particularly needy.

There are no classes on Saturday, and I’d caught up on my work by two in the afternoon. My mother and I met for lunch, and then there was suddenly fuck-all to do. Coming back to the empty, barely-furnished apartment, I was crushed by a deep, consuming loneliness. I miss Dean taking up all of my time, space, and attention. I missed him so much, my eyes started to burn and my chest throbbed. I hated myself for missing him to a point of physicality. With fuck-all to do, I drank and languished, periodically checking my phone. I’m embarrassed to recall how many times I opened our thread and began typing up a message, just to delete it in a flush of humiliation. I don’t know how to express myself to him properly, even though he makes it look so fucking easy.

Being honest with him feels the equivalent of becoming an active party in a wrongdoing, whereas previously I could call myself a bystander.

By the time his text came through later in the evening, the catalyst of scotch had metamorphosed that loneliness into a raw, searing need. It was a relief he’d be too preoccupied to call, as he’d definitely hear it in my voice, and he’d definitely call me out on it. But, there it was again, a casual request for nudes. He throws it in almost like a punctuation mark. My uninhibited subconscious latched onto it, and a bloody battle waged inside my head for ten straight minutes. I haven’t taken a picture like that in ages, but I desperately wanted to know what he’d say. How would he react? Does he really want me as much as I’m wanting him right now?

But, if I do it, I’m crossing a line. The line I’ve clung to for months. I’d be making myself extremely fucking vulnerable to him, and that still terrifies me. I’d be admitting this is…something. We’re something, even though it’s twenty shades of wrong and fucked-up. Even though it’s bound not to last.

Ultimately, I was drunk enough for butterflies and desire to tip the scales against rationality and fear. I disrobed with shameful quickness and crawled onto the bed, pose already in mind. I kept telling myself that as long as my face isn’t in it, there are no identifying tells on my body. No tattoos, scars, or large marks. There are no photographs or decor in the backdrop of my bedroom to give anything away. Dean’s the only one who will know it’s me, and fuck, if that thought doesn’t pitch heat through my guts like a beachside bonfire. With my arms extended in front of myself, I press my cheek to the mattress, keeping most of my face from the screen.

It’s such a demoralizing position, an act of presenting, waiting. Chest down, knees spread, cool air kissing the nakedness of my tipped ass. I’m waiting for Dean to fuck me. He’ll praise me for my eagerness and patience, then he’ll say cruel and possessive things in a voice roughened with gravel. “Fuck, look at you, Sammy.” He’d slide his big, open hands from the back of my knees, up the columns of my hamstrings, thumbs applying pressure to the sensitive slips of skin where inner thigh meets groin. He’d deliberately skip over all the places I’m desperate for him to touch.

“…waitin’ for me like this, you’re so good. I’ll fuck you just like you want, baby, just like you deserve.”

My insides spasm at the fantasy, cock beading pearls to stain the sheet. I take the picture before I can overthink it, and the act of doing so is enough to sober me up a little. Slumping out of the risqué position, I spend another five minutes agonizing over whether or not I should send it. That, too, I rip off like a bandaid. I send a pre/post text, both far more clinical and curt than I’m feeling, and toss my phone away like it’s set to detonate. I can’t bear to look at the thread for longer than that, as I already regret everything about what I’ve just done.

It’s official. I’m complicit.

I intentionally sent a nineteen-year-old, ex-student a sexual photo. I feel I should throw my clothes back on and call the cops on myself. Technically, nothing about it is against the law, but maybe they’d be disgusted enough to give me a few punitive whacks with a nightstick. I decide a shower is in order, anything to keep me away from my phone. I also might vomit, and the shower’s as good a place to do it as any. The scalding, penalty shower turns into a thirty-minute pity soak with what’s left of the hot water. I don’t vomit, but my stomach does roll a warning into my throat.

Returning to my bedroom, I’m more prune than man. My phone leers at me from its exilement at the foot of the bed, and it might as well be a huge fucking snake for how much anxiety it spikes in my breast. I ignore it for all of thirty minutes, taking my time in every nighttime indulgence I can think of. I’ve never moisturized my entire body before, but tonight’s the night. Eventually, there’s nothing else to do but face the music. I scoop my phone from the bed, and sure enough, there’s a text from Dean.

Giddiness, embarrassment, anxiety, raw fucking fear. I’ve never felt more like a helpless, emotionally-wrecked teenager than I do right now. Not even when I was a helpless, emotionally-wrecked, very gay teenager. I’m scared to read it. If his reply is too bland, I’m afraid my heart might actually shatter. He’s busy, though. He was going to a party, he might’ve just sent something brusque to let me know he saw it.

“Goddamnit, Sam, you’re a fucking…adult.” I berate myself, even though my voice is audibly cracking. “Be an adult.”

Yet another bandaid. I open it.

And just like Dean, he somehow knows exactly what to say: “I’m going to fuck the absolute shit out of you, Sam.”

Short, concise, powerful.

It’s the type of phrase that’s so like him, it jumps off the screen and fills the air with his voice: low, hungry, and guttural with desire. Instead of a shattered heart, I’m slingshot back to square one. So horny, it hurts. I squeeze my legs together and dig the butt of my palm into my navel, like I’ll feel his cock behind it if I press hard enough. “I’m so fucked…” I whisper the admittance into my empty bedroom, wishing it was crowded by one occupant more.

Believe it or not, instead of immediately ripping that unused toy out of my bedside drawer, I try to sleep it off. I’m convinced I’ll have less to feel guilty about in the morning if I can fall asleep without first fucking myself to fantasies of a teenager. I’ve managed to avoid doing so since we separated. It’s nearly ten when I crawl under the covers, willing my erection to die. Unfortunately, it can’t be reasoned with. My head’s too full of Dean, and the second my cock starts to wilt, it snaps back to attention with a stray thought or memory. After an hour, my lower abdominals start to burn. Whether or not it makes me scum of the lowest labyrinth of Hell, I might combust if I don’t see stimulation in the next ten minutes.

I flip the bedside lamp on and begin a frantic rifle through the nightstand’s drawer for that small, unopened box and a bottle of lube. Said items are found quickly, and I rip the box open like it holds the secrets of the Universe. It might as well. The toy is shaped like a classic plug, but it comes equipped with a charging port and a little remote. According to Amazon, the thing’s supposed to do all kinds of everything. It heats up, vibrates, rotates, and thrusts. When purchasing it, I jokingly muttered aloud: “shit, will it wash the dishes too?”

For the price point, I have faith it’ll get the job done. If it’s a dud, I might sue.

Shimmying onto my back, I flatten my feet to the mattress. Knees bent, thighs spread as wide as they’ll go. With little to no patience left, I grit through an unsatisfactory prep with way too much lube and too few fingers. The toy is quite bulbous, and I’m sure to regret shoving it in after less than a minute of a two-finger stretch, but I’m losing my mind. Even the uncoordinated, jerky thrust of fingers is making that knot of muscle spasm, guts fluttering. My body is begging to be fucked by something, anything in lieu of the one thing I can’t have. Dean’s cock would put any toy to shame, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I click a few arbitrary buttons on the remote to make sure the plug works in accordance, and once satisfied that it does, I bring the tip of it to nudge against my wet hole. As predicted, I’m filled with more than silicone as I try pushing it in. Regret, mostly. Determined, I power through it. I pretend it’s Dean forcing his thick cock into my ill-prepared body [“you can take it, Sammy, come on”], and the pain is lanced through with hot flashes of pleasure. Unsafe sex probably shouldn’t arouse me so much, but I’ve not got the presence of mind to care.

I drop my head into the pillow, eyes clenched against the burn of tears, and a pained hiss cuts between my teeth: “Nngh, shit!”

The sharp discomfort is over in a beat, and with the flat base flush against my rim, I go limp against the bed. While my body adjusts around the size and shape of it, I work to regulate my breathing. Plugs always feel so awkward at first, like there’s a balloon in my ass. Squirming in place, shifting my hips, it’s not long before the stretch creates a pleasant friction in my lower body. There’s nothing left to do but try out all the bells and whistles, and I sort of feel like a kid figuring out how to deploy their shiny, new RC car. They’re…fucking complicated.

I activate the heating function first, as that seems the safest place to start. Unless it’s so cheaply made, it overheats and catches fire in my ass. God would love that too. Over the course of two minutes, artificial warmth blooms in my belly. It’s a strange, liquid feeling, but not something I dislike. It’s…relaxing, and I almost wonder if I could fall asleep like this. Better not to risk it, as internal burns would be even more humiliating than death via sex-toy-related-fire. I’d have to live through that consequence. Curiosity persists, and I click the button for rotation.

“H-ah! Holy…fuck, oh my God!”

I involuntarily jackknife forward, twisting like I can escape the terrible sensation by doing so. It’s like the plug is trying to blend up my insides. I shut it off seconds after turning it on. Isn’t shit like this supposed to go through…test groups? Who the fuck okay-d this function? I’m almost nervous to try anything else, but goddamnit, I spent too much money not to. There are something like nine vibration modes, so I warily begin flipping through them until I find one I like.

Short bursts.

Patterns of repeating short and long pulses.

By the fourth click, the vibration no longer pulses. It’s a gentle, steady buzz that massages my inner walls. “Mm, hah—!” Flattening my palm to the button of my stomach, I smooth it downwards to the root of my cock. I squeeze the rigid flesh in the circle of my hand, but resist stroking it. Now that I’m actually in the midst of it, I don’t want to race to the finishing line of my orgasm. If Dean were here, he’d sooner break my wrist than let me touch myself. I swear to God, that’s the secret. Orgasm denial until there’s enough stimulation against my prostate to rip it from my body, tooth and nail. To be sure I can achieve that same result.

Feeling brave, I increase the strength of the vibration.

“Nngh! Oh, fuck!” I don’t even sound like myself. It’s that soft, cracked, high-pitched mess Dean’s so good at wrenching from me. Normally, I’d be mortified to make such a weak, wanton voice, but he eats it up. My ears burn with the memory of him tabled over me, watching me, lusting after me like I’m the end and beginning of things to be desired on this Earth. His body is a sculpted, well-oiled machine—the pinnacle of masculinity. Large, strong arms threaded with the occasional bulging vein rise up around my head like pillars, the kind erected centuries ago that have stood the test of time. Shoulders like handholds on a cliffside, ironclad abdominals flexing and dewy with sweat.

We’re so…different. I’m not strong, nor athletic. I’m not the classic definition of a man’s man. Dean’s achieved a mastery over his body that most people, even fellow athletes, can only dream about. His strides are always sure, simple movements fluid and wasteless. Meanwhile, I’ll find a pocket of air to trip over any given day. To have a man like that putting his everything into wrenching ecstasy from me, it’s…addictive. I’m addicted to him. I might never see another orgasm again without, at the very least, memories of him.

The sustained vibration is electrifying my prostate, and my hips are beginning to twitch. Thighs and stomach shaking. Cock leaking. The balls of my feet dig into the mattress, lower back jumping from the bed. I turn my face and squish my cheek into the pillow, catching the thin, cotton case in my teeth. More, I need…something more than this. Fumbling with the remote, I increase the vibration again. It’s good, but—

The thrusting option. Now, what’s that all about?

It’s black magic, is what it is.

“Mmph! Nngh, fuck! Ah, that’s—!”

It feels like the tip of the plug is lunging forward like a spear, and goddamn, if it isn’t stupidly accurate. I can’t imagine how ridiculous my face looks, because it feels like I’m running through all seven stages of grief in a span of seconds. Eyes wide and rolling, then pinched and blinking away stars. Mouth working around what might be a prayer, were it nothing but obscenities. To keep from fisting my cock, I ball up the sheet in my hands, twisting it to wrinkles. “Oh…my God! Hah, gah—! M—ngh!”

Close, close, so fucking close. I can taste it, like static. There’s a rolling boil in my lower belly. I just need—

My phone rings.

My heart rackets in my chest for an altogether different reason from an impending orgasm. There’s only one person who’d call me this late, and sure enough, Dean’s caller ID tempts me from the too-bright screen.

“Oh, shit, no. No, no, fuck—”

The remote, where’s the fucking remote?! I fumble blindly around the strewn sheets, but the little piece of hard plastic doesn’t jump into my hand. I want…to talk to him, hear his voice, but I don’t want him to know! Shit, shit, shit—

Against my better judgment, I answer the call. Instead of immediately putting the receiver to my ear, I continue my desperate search for the remote. In changing position, it puts a new kind of pressure on my prostate. I can hardly move through it. Distantly, I can hear Dean say something, probably calling name. Knowing him, he won’t hang up the phone just because I don’t respond. Oh, God, I’m…so fucked. Even as I pick up the phone, my hand shakes. I can’t get my breath or voice under any semblance of control. “Dean? I…hah…”

I don’t even know what to say. Should I just try and…take the plug out? I put the phone on speaker. “Uh, give me a—”

His voice is hard and unarguable: “Answer it.”

“Eh—?”

My heart leapfrogs into the back of my mouth, as a request for FaceTime comes through. Heat explodes in my face. I make a strangled, terrified sound, because he definitely knows. What’s he going to do? Say? Will he mock me for using a toy? He’ll want to see it, oh my God. I’m wilting from embarrassment at just the thought. Shit, fuck—

I recline against the headboard, attempting and failing to create a picture of nonchalant relaxation. When I accept the video request, I keep the phone angled strategically above my neck. The vibration and jabbing pressure against my prostate is a ceaseless torment, and my dick is actually throbbing. I grit my molars against a string of noises. When Dean appears on the screen, like Pavlolv’s dog, my chest flutters and my hole tightens up. He’s so fucking hot. God, it’s unfair. Feathery, blonde hair tousled around a face fit for movies and magazines. His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping. There’s no trace of lagoon blue in his eyes, as his pupils have grown to a point of eating up any color. Lids heavy, predatory.

Aren’t people supposed to look a little uglier over FaceTime?

“Sam.”

“Mmhmm.” I respond with my lips pressed together, because if I dare to part them, God only knows what sound is coming out.

I can’t bring myself to look at my own miniaturized image on the screen, instead discreetly sweeping my gaze around for that slippery fucking remote. It didn’t phase through the bed or fall off the face of the Earth, it’s around here somewhere. It’s—

Oh! I jump in place, eyes blowing open. It’s on the fucking floor, shit! “One sec—!”

“Don’t even fucking think about it.” Dean snaps through the screen. I flinch, white-knuckling the phone. Sitting upright like this is actually killing me, and I drop my head to use my hair as a shield. Sweat makes a fine sheen on the back of my neck, in the dip of my throat, and a small groan worms through a crack in my lips. Dean’s not an idiot, and he knows better than anyone what I look and sound like in the middle of sex. He exhales hard: “Show me.”

“Nngh, please, let me just—”

“I’ve been dying to fuck you over the phone, and you’re doing it under my nose? Gettin’ off without me? You’re really fucking trying it, Sam.” There’s a bit of shuffling from the screen, and when I dare to look up, my pulse slams in my throat. Dean’s got his shorts yanked down his upper thighs, brazenly wielding the phone on the opposite side of his cock. He must have his phone-hand resting on his thigh, because his right hand is a loose, damp fist sliding up and down that engorged length of flesh. In the background, he’s watching me, waiting not-so-patiently.

Dean couldn’t find a bad angle if his life depended on it, and this particular one makes it feel like I’m on my belly between his legs. He’s shirtless, and the muscle in his stomach is rolling and twitching with effort. No low-angle shot can get the better of him, as looking downwards at the camera doesn’t soften the line of his jaw or skew his striking features.

“See? Look how easy it is, dick out. Now, show me, or I’ll come catch the show in person. I’ve got, like, ten assignments to do too—”

“Okay, just, hang on!”

Jesus Christ, am I really about to point my phone at a vibrating plug in my ass? Dean doesn’t make empty threats, so, unfortunately. Sliding down the headboard until my ass and lower back are parallel with the mattress, I widen the space between my thighs. Lowering my phone’s camera between my legs is one of the top five most humiliating things I’ve ever done. It’s made more unbearable by the fact that it’s still humming violently and drilling me directly in the prostate. I’m trembling, dripping. It’s so fucking wet between my legs.

Palming my cock to try and at least hide that much, I aim the camera at my hole stretched around the silicone. Dean swears, a series of curses ripped forcefully from his chest. “Holy fucking God, Sammy—” He groans hard. His reaction flushes heat through my core, and I shudder. I’m starting to feel lightheaded from the combination of physical stimuli and shame. I quickly bring the phone back up, but I can’t make myself look at him.

“It’s—is it fucking vibrating?” His voice has a hungry, breathless quality to it.

“I…couldn’t—hngh! I couldn’t find the remote—!”

“How many times have you used it?” As he interrogates me, he’s stroking his massive cock leisurely and methodically, dragging the flat pad of his thumb across the sticky head. My mouth waters, and I won’t be analyzing what that says about my proclivities.

“First…time.” I grit, shivering through a punch of pleasure. I would’ve cum ages ago if the thrusting function had more power behind it, but with the distraction of Dean, it’s keeping me leashed at the edge.

“Have you cum yet?”

“I was…about—mm!—about to, you bastard!”

“Get back in that position, the one from the picture.”

I look at him like he’s asked me to drown a boxful of puppies in cold blood. “What? No, I—”

“Sam.” Fuck, that gritty, cruel tone. Soft, but severe. If he were in the room, I’d have gotten in position so fast, my head would spin with it. He’d bruise my ass for not listening the first time, and my skin itches with the memory of it. My belly tightens, and my cock jumps like a trained poodle. Hesitantly, I move to comply, and he praises me in a sinful, quiet voice:

“Good job, baby, lemme see it. That’s it, fuck.”

Back on my knees, chest flush with the mattress, ass in the air. I feel like such a whore, moreso because it’s a live performance for Dean’s rapt viewing. This position is a dangerous one, because the arch in my back stretches my rim further around the neck of the plug. There’s a sudden, astonishing amount of pressure on my prostate, the tip jabbing away at it. My insides had grown somewhat numb from the vibration, but now I’m very, very aware of it. My whole body is twitching, shaking, and I can barely hold the camera.

“Look at me, Sammy, come on. I wanna see your face.”

Too far gone to argue, I drag my face across the pillow. On the screen, Dean’s feverishly beating himself off, lip caught between his teeth. I rest the phone against the headboard, so I have free reign of my hands. For now, they’re uselessly clenched in the sheets. I desperately want to touch myself, but I want…permission. I know he’ll give it without my having to ask. I miss him, and I miss his cock. With it right in front of my face, separated by a thin sheet of glass, I feel like crying. I’d give anything to have it sliding down my throat, gagging me. I want him to fuck my face until I black out, keep it in the back of my esophagus until he repaints my stomach with his cum.

“Fuck, Sam, what’s going through your head, huh? Tell me.”

“I just…miss you—! Shit, hah!”

“You mean you miss my cock.”

“That…too, mmph, I just…want you! All the time, I’m—nngh! I’m losing my mind!”

“Me too, Christ, you have no goddamn idea—hah, fuck! Go ahead, Sammy, touch yourself. Cum for me while thinking about how good I’m going to fuck you later, ‘kay? Nothing and no one will ever make you feel as good as I can, baby. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Instantly, I snake my hand between my legs to catch my weeping cock in a fist. I didn’t expect to be so sensitive, and the second contact is made, my sizzling nerves catch fire. I sob loudly, then attempt to smother any further cries in the pillow. Two or three more pumps, and I might not be on this plane of existence anymore. I might actually fucking ascend. Returning my gaze to the screen, Dean’s not far behind. He might not have a plug in his ass, but I know he’s pent up. He’s watching me like a starving man eyeballs a glass case of ribeyes, tongue swiping across his teeth, muttering obscenities and backhanded praises.

PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the “A” icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

Even as my orgasm smacks me into the next dimension, I desperately keep my blurred-out eyes on the phone. I want to see him cum, geysering cream in the air. I spasm hard enough to pull something, ass clenching painfully around the plug. “Nngh, oh my fu—! I’m, shit, Dean—!”

“Sammy, goddamnit—” He drops his head back, groaning long and loud from the depths of his diaphragm. His hips jerk upwards, plunging his cock through the snug sleeve of his fist. Hot, thick jets of cum erupt from that spongy, flushed head, splattering across his chest. Never have I so badly wanted to lick up stripes of cum from a man’s chest. Dean’s really, really fucked me up. With the dam broken in my head, endorphins flooding my wrecked body, I’ll pass the fuck out of I don’t shut this toy off. Dragging myself over the edge of the bed, I snatch the remote from the rug. Turning it off brings relief straightaway, and I collapse in the mess I made.

“Holy shit…” I mumble.

“I love you so fucking much.” He breathes. “I miss you, Sammy.”

Elation and embarrassment tickle through me, and it’s so much easier to be honest in the warmth of a post-coital glow.

“Me too.”

Please rate this story

The author would appreciate your feedback.

story TAGSSimilar Stories