A gay story: The Test Subject I’m walking across the campus on a Friday afternoon in mid-October when I notice that I am being noticed. The eyes of two students follow me as I march my way toward the library. They are pointing, whispering and nodding. Right at me. What is going on?
When they notice me noticing them, they hurry my way. I instinctively slow down. There are hundreds of other students all around us; I don’t think I’m about to be mugged or otherwise attacked. But then I realize that my admirers are actually part of a group of five. The small group that was behind them is in fact with them. Maybe I should be worried.
The quintet is comprised of two boys and three girls. The taller boy reaches me first. He has blond hair, blue eyes and an assertive smile that probably not too many people say “No” to. His air of confidence alone has me feeling like I’m well on my way to saying “Yes” to something and I’m still clueless to what he’s about to ask. He speaks first. What he says surprises me. He tells me to not introduce myself. They want to get to know me, but the one thing they can’t know is my name. They can’t know who I am.
The tall boy says, “How would you like to make $200? Are you busy tonight? We just need two hours of your time. That’s a hundred bucks an hour. It could be the highest paying job of your life.”
He looks down at my worn and tattered sneakers, my fraying and faded jeans and my battered and beaten book bag. I am a poor college student, lucky to be here because of my scholarship, struggling to make it financially from semester to semester. Even more than new jeans and sneakers, I’m trying to save for a new laptop. I’m still using the same one I started high school with six years ago. It is dying a slow and painful death. Every time I close it I say a little prayer that it will survive the night. And I’m an atheist.
I’ve already mentally added the $200 to my meager bank account. “What do you need me to do?”
Tall boy’s clothes are casual but expensive looking. His jeans have rips in them that he paid for. He says, “Not much. Just hang out with us for a while. Mostly answer some questions. While we’re all majoring in different fields, we all have research projects with some overlapping interests. We need to interview several people and collect data on a range of topics.”
“Why can’t you know my name?”
One of the girls takes over. She has brown hair and green eyes. She says, “The interviews need to be anonymous. We’re out here looking for students who we don’t already know. None of us. We will be asking some deeply personal questions and we need our subjects to be uninhibited. Unconcerned about giving honest answers. No fear of judgment. There can be no history between our test subjects and any of the five of us.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “Have you ever had a class with any of us? Do you recognize any of us?”
I look at all five of them. I do not know any of them. The not super-tall boy is someone I’ve seen around campus before, but we’ve never spoken and have never been introduced. I give an honest answer, “I’ve never been in a class with any of you.”
The not super-tall boy smiles and I get a little tingle from the joy of making someone else happy. With his medium complexion, brown eyes and jet black hair, I suspect he might be from somewhere in South Asia. His dark hair is wavy and hangs down his forehead in tangles. He looks me right in the eyes and I look down at my scuffed kicks.
The black girl says, “So, are you interested? Are you free tonight?” Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail and she exudes authority. It makes me squirm a little.
Maybe the interview has already begun. Will I be judged for being free? For not having had plans on a Friday night? Have I already been judged for the clothes I’m wearing, for the way I look, for the way I walk? At the very least, I feel like these things will all be documented as soon as I walk away. The girl who hasn’t spoken yet is carrying a closed notebook.
I feel a little weird about this whole thing, but I really need the money. I ask the group of them, “If I say yes, how will this work?”
Back to the super-tall guy, “You’ll come over to our place and give us a couple hours of your time. You don’t need to bring or prepare anything. Just bring you.”
I could so use that money. I sigh, “I’m in. Which dorm are you guys in?”
The quiet girl has blond hair too, but it’s a darker blond than tall-boy’s. She opens her notebook, removes a business card and hands it to me. She says, “We’re not in a dorm. We all share an off-campus house. It’s only two blocks away. A short walk.”
The card has an address on the front and on the back, in bold type, says, “Control 86”.
Feeling a little more at ease I comment, “So you’ve already done 85 of these interviews?”
The not-so-tall boy seems to blush, but his medium complexion makes it hard to tell. He regards me sheepishly through his dark tangles, “We’re just getting started. We figured a card with a ‘number 1′ on it would scare people off. 86 is just a random starting point.”
Tall-boy jabs an elbow in his ribs, “Way to go Zain! Now he knows he’s our first.”
“He was gonna figure that anyway as we bumble our way through our maiden voyage.” Zain rubs his ribs where he took the hit, “And you, Keegan, used my real name.” He softly punches the taller boy’s arm.
“It’s okay,” the black girl with the ponytail and the authority declares. “He can know our names. It’s his anonymity that we need to protect. “I’m Jada.”
“I’m Quincy,” says the blond girl.
“And I’m Cass,” says the brown haired, green eyed girl.
I say, “Number 86, at your service.”
They laugh.
Keegan, formerly known as tall-boy, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. He says, “Half now and half after. Come over at 9:00.” He slaps 5 twenties into my palm.
~~
I thought about taking the $100 and just not showing up. They don’t know my name or what dorm I’m in. There are 10,000 students on this campus every day. It’s reasonable to presume that those 5 people could possibly never see me again. But I’m not that guy. I made a commitment and I’m gonna follow through, even though I’m more than a little nervous. I think my trepidations are well-founded. Afterall, they’re not paying $200 for nothing.
I considered changing my clothes but it’s splitting hairs to decide what my nicest stuff is. They had told me to bring nothing and to prepare nothing. They chose me out of thousands the way I am, so I decide that’s how I’ll show up. As I am. In a faded black t-shirt, fraying blue jeans and beat up old DC’s that I’ve worn since I was a Junior in high school. Good enough. Apparently. I run a hand through my light brown hair and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I find their house and knock on the door at the stroke of 9:00. It’s the tall-boy, I mean Keegan, who answers. He smiles widely when he sees me. Almost like he’s relieved. Like maybe he thought I might blow them off. I don’t tell him that I actually considered doing just that.
He reaches out his hand and I shake it. This time he does not leave 5 twenties behind. He said I’d get the rest after. His hand is big and strong. I don’t know if he plays sports or just spends time in the gym, but he’s in good shape. He drapes a heavy arm around my shoulders and guides me inside to the main room. He indicates the empty chair that seems to be the focal point of all the other chairs. He offers me something to drink, but I politely decline.
Keegan shouts out to seemingly no one, but probably everyone, “86 is here!”
They all trickle in from different corners of the house. I ask, “All five of you live here?”
Quincy smiles, “Off campus housing is the best. We have our own bedrooms, two bathrooms and no more dormitory bullshit.”
If I had the money I’d move out of the dorms too. Who wouldn’t?
Jada clears her throat. She’s all business. She tells me, “Keegan wants to be a medical doctor. As an undergraduate, he is a Biology major. Cass is a Sociology major. This semester she is focusing on sexual and gender identity. I am a psychology major and I plan to someday be a relationship slash sex therapist. Zain and Quincy are both business majors. They hope to start a business together after graduation. We will all be here the whole time as there is some overlap in our interests. I’d also like to remind you to answer all questions honestly. We’re taking a deep dive here and you may be inclined toward embarrassment, but remember, you don’t know us and we don’t know you. When you walk out of here in a couple hours, you’ll probably never see any of us again. If on the off chance you do, we’ll act like we’ve never met. That’s our promise to you.”
With the formalities out of the way, Keegan leans forward. “I’m up first.” He starts with questions about my family history with heart disease, blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes and cancer. From there he moves onto my wellness regimen. I tell him that I do cardio – I run four times a week – but I don’t get into the gym very often. He wants to know if my family history impacts my decisions in the world of diet and exercise and what exactly my dietary habits are. As a poor college student I eat too much Ramen and not enough fresh vegetables.
Then he moves onto questions about my body and how I compare to my family. He seems disappointed to learn that I am an only child; it eliminates a whole series of questions of comparison in size as well as behaviors with siblings. Instead he focuses on me versus my dad, comparing our height, musculature, weight, body fat, hair color, eye color, body hair, balding, eye sight, hearing loss. What are my dad’s wellness habits? Would I be disappointed if I had my dad’s body twenty five years from now? (That last one is an easy, “Yes”.)
Next he wants my stats. My age – 20. My height – 5’ 10″. My weight – 145. My waist – 29 inches. My shoe size – 10. He said he was also taking a belly button survey regarding innies and outies. He was curious not only about percentages of each, but factors that might lead to one having an outie versus an innie. Was it a family thing? Was it related to belly fat? I told him that I am an innie and so are both of my parents. He made me prove it, like maybe I was lying. I had to stand up, lift my shirt and show my round innie hole. I ask about his survey’s results and he tells me that his data thus far is from too small of a sample size to be conclusive. He did, however, divulge that the five of them comprise of four innies and one outie. I don’t know who though. He refuses to out the outie.
Keegan informs me that he’ll be taking notes on responses to some of the questions Jada and Cass have for me, but for now, his turn is over. He leans back in his chair and Jada and Cass lean forward. Psychology and Sociology. Okay.
Jada: “Are you happy with your looks?”
Me: I pause to think.
Jada: “Don’t think. Just react. Answer quickly. Whatever comes to mind.”
Me: “Yes.”
Jada: “What about body image? Are you happy with your body?”
Me: “It’s a work in progress.”
Jada: “Why do you feel that way?”
Me: “I’m lean and healthy. I told you I’m a runner. I need to spend more time, or any time, in the gym.”
Jada: “Again, why do you feel that way?”
Me: I shrug. “I would like to be a little more toned. I feel like I’m a bit on the scrawny side.”
Jada: “You said you’re happy with your looks. Does that not include your body? Is ‘scrawny’ how you perceive yourself or how you feel others perceive you?”
Me: “I suppose I think of ‘looks’ as my face, my hair… And no one has…I guess I haven’t been teased or bullied about anything since middle school. I’m not ashamed of my body, I just have so little upper body build. Arm-wrestling champion is not in my immediate future.”
Cass: “Is that important to you? I mean, I think the arm-wrestling specifically was meant as a joke, but the comparison to others. Do you care?”
Me: “I guess I mostly think about it at the beach or the pool. Places where the shirt comes off.”
Jada: “What about your body are you proudest of?”
Me: I pause to think and get scolded again. “My legs,” I blurt out.
Cass: “Why?”
Me: I shrug again. “Just the right amount of hair, no gross veins, nicely contoured from years of running. My arms and my legs look like they belong on different bodies.”
They all laugh.
Jada: “What do you like least about your body? Or, what would you change if you could?”
Me: I suspect hair or eye color are not what they’re looking for here and I’ve already implied that I don’t love my lack of upper body musculature. “The slight mound of belly between my navel and my waistband. I know I’m thin and I do not need to lose weight, but that bump bothers me.”
Jada: “How do you feel about your penis size?”
Me: I blush. I wasn’t expecting that. “I feel fine.”
Jada: “How do you compare to others you’ve seen?”
Me: “I’ve only seen a few IRL. I tend to not look around too much in the men’s room.”
Jada: “What is your length? You’ve measured, right? Do you know what the average is?”
Me: I promised I wouldn’t lie. I happen to know the answers to all of those questions. “I know that the average length of an adult erect penis is a little less than 5.5 inches. I am 6.25 inches.” I’m still blushing hard.
Jada: “Do you have a partner?”
Me: “No.”
Jada: “How many partners have you had?”
Me: “None.”
Jada: “Best guess here. How many times would you estimate that you’ve had sex?”
Me: My blush deepens. “Zero.”
Jada: “Don’t restrict your answer to only traditional intercourse. You can count oral and hand jobs. How many sexual experiences have you had?”
Me: I clear my throat, “Zero.”
Jada: She turns the page in her notebook. “There are a whole lot of questions that I now won’t be asking, but at the same time, there is a new and interesting path to follow. To be clear, you’re saying you are a virgin?”
Me: “Yes.”
Jada: “Is that your preference? Is it by choice?”
Me: “It’s not ideal, but it is what it is.”
Jada: “Are you trying to meet someone? Are you looking?”
Me: “Not actively.”
Cass: “You’re really cute. Any number of people would… Why are you not out there?”
Me: “I have a full schedule.”
Jada: “Cass is right. It wouldn’t take much effort for you to find someone. What’s really stopping you? What are you afraid of? Penis size sounds fine. Is it disease? Or are you afraid of intimacy?”
Me: “I’ve never been attracted to anyone. That’s just it. I’ve never been compelled to ask anyone out. I haven’t felt what I need to feel to consider intimacy.”
Jada: “Do you have erectile dysfunction?”
Me: Another blush, “No. It works just fine.”
Jada: “How often do you masturbate? On average.”
Me: The blushing will never end. “Four times a week.”
Cass: “What are your pronouns?”
Me: That throws me off balance. “He, him, his.”
Cass: “So, you identify as male?”
Me: “Yes.”
Cass: “What is your sexual orientation?”
Me: “From what choices?”
Cass: “I set no parameters.”
Me: “I’m not a huge fan of labels. Can I pick ‘questioning’?”
Cass: She makes a note and nods. “What do you think about while you’re masturbating?”
Me: “Nothing. It’s like a meditative experience. I clear my thoughts and focus on the sensation.”
Keegan: “Dude! Seriously? No fantasies? That’s gotta be a lie!”
Jada: “Shut up, Keegan.
Cass: “Do you know what The Kinsey Scale is?”
Me: I shake my head.
Cass: It’s a sexuality scale that ranges from 0 to 6. Zero being 100% heterosexual, 3 being evenly bisexual and 6 being 100% gay. I find the scale too limiting. I like to use a 1 to 99 scale. 1 and 99 because I believe that no one is 100% anything. The most heterosexual person you can imagine would be 1/99 and the gayest person you could imagine would be 99/1. And there is no 50/50 either. Everyone has to lean at least a little one way or the other. Where are you on the scale?”
Me: This time I don’t get scolded for taking a moment to calculate my answer. “25/75.”
Jada: “You haven’t had feelings for anyone yet, but have you ever been attracted to anyone?”
Me: “Not anyone who I actually know.”
Cass: “Do you imagine yourself ever being with anyone?”
Me: “I don’t imagine being a virgin my whole life, but I can’t say I imagine marriage and kids either. I really don’t know.”
Cass: “Of the three girls here, who do you find to be the most attractive?”
Me: Without thinking I blurt out, “Quincy.”
Cass: “Interesting. Same question for the boys. Who do you find more attractive, Keegan or Zain.”
Me: Again, zero hesitation, “Zain.”
Cass: “Huh.”
Keegan: “Hold up a sec. Did you understand the question?”
Jada is laughing her ass off. She says, “You have to understand, 86, Keegan here thinks he’s the hottest guy on campus and God’s gift to all women everywhere. Out of like 5000 guys! You just exploded his brain.”
Cass: “You have to admit, Quincy and Keegan are pretty much each other’s counterparts. They both have the blond hair, the blue eyes, the perfect tan, the high cheek bones, the athletic build. They are the male and female equivalents of each other. Why did you pick Quincy over Jada and I?”
Me: “Honestly? Because she’s the only one who hasn’t asked me intimate, embarrassing questions yet.”
Cass: “Fair. And why Zain over Keegan?”
Me: “Keegan is probably right. Out of 10,000 kids on campus I wouldn’t be surprised if 9900+ picked Keegan over Zain. But to me, his looks are too perfect. Almost unreal. Like he’s a Ken Doll or something. No offense.”
Keegan: “Whatever.” But he looks offended.
Cass: “So just to clarify, was picking Zain about picking Zain or was it about not picking Keegan?”
I glance at Zain and he’s busy staring down at his feet. I clear my throat.
Me: “I can’t imagine who I would have picked over Zain.”
Cass makes a note and Jada says, “That concludes the interview portion of tonight’s proceedings. Quincy and Zain are about to do their thing.”
What is “their thing”? They said they were business majors, right? I have less than no money. Certainly they don’t want to know about my thoughts on economics, investing or finance. Besides, Jada said the interview is over. I peek at my phone and it’s only been about 30 minutes. I still have a good 90 minutes to go. But 90 minutes of what?
Zain must be reading my mind because he says, “Jada told you that Quincy and I plan to go into business together after graduation. That business will have a few different components to it, but it will focus on massage therapy. We are both already certified massage therapists, but we are looking for test subjects as we attempt to offer some unique specialties. These specialties are not taught in school. We’ve watched some online videos, but now we feel we’re ready for a live patient.”
“So, you want to give me a massage?” I ask.
“Not a regular massage,” says Quincy. “This one is specifically for men. Have you ever heard of Lingam Massage?”
I shake my head.
Zain continues, “Lingam Massage is a type of tantric penis massage that was developed just in recent decades. The process of a Lingam Massage is designed to combine feelings of well-being with deep relaxation, and helps receivers let go of pent-up stress related to relationship or self-esteem issues, including those related to sexuality. Lingam Massage is not the same as a typical erotic massage with a happy ending. To be clear, the goal of this practice has nothing to do with ejaculation. It is an authentic tantric penis massage that only sometimes culminates in a physical climax. We are looking to practice our delivery technique as well as gather data on why one test subject may reach orgasm while another does not.”
“And all five of you will be in the room?”
Jada says, “As an aspiring sex therapist, I’d like to be. Keegan is interested in the physical science of it all and Cass has interests from a sociological point of view.”
Zain adds, “We realize you weren’t expecting this. Believe me, no one wants to hurt you in any way. If you consent, you will be brought to pleasures like you’ve never known before but only with your permission.”
“What if I say ‘No’?”
Quincy says, “You give Keegan back $50 of the $100 he gave you earlier and we call it even. The night ends now.”
I really need the money but I can’t imagine being naked and on display in front of these five strangers. Not to mention erect and being manhandled like a piece of farm equipment. But damn I need the money.
“Okay. I’m willing.”
They all grin.
~~
A few minutes later, we’re all crammed into Zain’s bedroom. I am told to lie down on my back on his bed. I am still fully clothed and they’re all staring down at me.
Zain says sheepishly, “There’s one more thing we haven’t told you about yet.”
Uh oh.
“In order to understand what the data is telling us, we need a baseline first.”
“Data?” I ask.
“Whether or not you reach orgasm and how long it takes. Remember, this is supposed to be sensual, not erotic. Hold out if you can, though often, inevitably there is a release.”
“Right,” I say. “Baseline?”
“We need to know how sensitive you are so we can calculate your limits. Where we should start, what we could build to, how far we can take things.”
Again, uh oh.
“How do you establish this baseline?”
“With a blindfold and… Well. May I ask, how ticklish are you?”
I have no idea. I’ve never been tickled before. Not really. I have no siblings and it’s just not something that I’ve experienced. I say, “I guess average.”
“On a scale of 1 to 10?” Quincy asks.
“Maybe a 3. What’s the point of the blindfold?”
“It heightens the experience,” Quincy says. “Aside from not seeing what’s coming, the fear and anticipation add an intensity.”
Is this a mistake? Should I give back $50 and just walk out of here? If I didn’t desperately need the money… What? Maybe I wouldn’t leave. Maybe part of me is curious about what’s about to happen. I look at all five of their faces, landing on Zain’s last and I nod again.
“Can you, umm…take your shirt off?” Quincy asks shyly.
I guess I should have seen that coming. I pull off my t-shirt and my too lean, underdeveloped upper torso is on display for all to see. If we were at the beach or the pool I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but inside with all five of them staring and fully clothed, I’ve never felt more self-conscious in my life.
And then Quincy blindfolds me.
Zain says, “We trust your intention to comply, we really do, but Keegan is going to hold your arms down. Defense is an involuntary response, so some gentle restraint will be required.”
Two hands, Keegan’s I presume, wrap around my wrists and pin me down to the mattress. For a full minute the room is silent and nothing happens. Quincy was right; the blindfold has me in suspense. My breathing quickens despite the inactivity. Then fingertips touch my ribs on my left side and I almost scream. Keegan’s grip tightens as I flinch hard. Those fingers prod and stroke my side and soon another hand joins in and attends to my neglected right side. These two hands journey repeatedly from my ribs to my armpits and my blindfold is getting soaked with tears from laughter.
Another set of hands lands on my stomach. I instantly quiver from the sensation. Ten new fingers do a dance across my lower abdomen and I laugh out loud with reckless abandon. Fingernails graze across from side to side just above the waistband of my jeans and I am covered in goosebumps. While those four hands and twenty fingers continue their assault on my upper torso, I feel new hands grip my shoes. My old, tattered DCs are so worn that they both slide right off my feet with little effort and no need to untie any laces. And then my feet get attacked and I thrash around like a raving lunatic. Fingernails drag up the length of each arch and laughter turns to shrieks.
The brutality against my poor feet ceases momentarily but then I feel the weight of two bodies sitting on my shins, pinning my legs down. Both socks get stripped off and I cry out, “No, no, no!!!!” But my cries land on deaf ears. Every square inch of my tender bare feet gets thoroughly molested with swipes and strokes and scratches and jabs. Meanwhile, the hands on my upper body continue their performance and it’s all starting to be too much. I seriously think I’m about to pass out when suddenly, everything stops. The bodies rise off of my shins and all eight hands stand down from my tickle torture as Keegan releases my wrists.
Quincy removes the blindfold and smiles down at me as I blink against the light of the room. She says, “You did great. You underestimated your sensitivity by a ton – I’d say you’re at least a 7 – but you really hung in there like a trooper.”
Zain is writing in a notebook. He shows it to Quincy who reads it and nods.
My breathing has finally normalized. I’m still on my back on Zain’s bed, barefoot and bare-chested. Quincy says, “Now the jeans need to come off. The underwear too.”
“If he’s wearing any,” Keegan laughs.
“And all five of you still need to be here?” I ask.
“We’re a group,” she replies. “There’s overlap.”
I look at each of them again. No one is recording anything that I can tell. At least, no cell phones are out. I sigh and unbutton and unzip my jeans, pulling them down my hips and slipping my legs out. She begins to massage my legs from the knees running up the thighs. It feels nice. Zain takes his notebook over to a desk against the wall and sits with his back to us. The other three watch as Quincy continues her work. She knows what she’s doing. I have no doubt she is a certified massage therapist. I close my eyes and begin to enjoy the skillful rubbing.
Eventually, she begins a massage of my abdomen. I am not being tickled anymore and again, it feels nice. I relax further. This goes on for some time until eventually Zain walks into the room (I hadn’t realized he’d left) and hands her a bottle. Zain returns to his desk, turning his back and Quincy grips the waistband of my boxers – the last article of clothing on my body. She says, wincing in apology, “These have to come off now too.”
I nod and lift my butt an inch off the bed as she pulls my underwear all the way off and casts them aside with the rest of my discarded clothes. Next, she pours oil out of the bottle Zain gave her and moistens both hands. She begins to rub all around what we all know is her eventual target, coming her fingers through my pubic hair, oiling up my pelvic bone, my perineum and my hips. The oil is warm and soothing – Zain must have been warming it up. She pours more into her hands.
She explains, to our spectators as much as to me, that Lingam is an historic and cultural term for penis. Lingam Massage literally means penis massage. It’s all about moving the energy around in the body, increasing its healing capabilities, pleasure and spiritual purposes. If the Lingam is massaged correctly, the body’s energy will be spread and awaken magical moments of pleasure unlike anything ever experienced before. These moments can culminate in ecstasy and touch the soul in earth-shattering ways.”
Keegan chuckles, “We all know what that means.”
Cass swats his arm, “Weren’t you listening? The goal is not orgasm.”
“Every guy’s goal is orgasm,” Keegan chortles.
“Hopeless,” Cass says, but she’s smiling at him.
Quincy touches my Lingam for the first time. She lifts my flaccid penis and rubs oil all over for coverage. It feels nice but I remain soft. She grazes my scrotum with her fingernails and I smile in delight, but still I do not stiffen up.
Quincy tells the room, “The Lingam Shiatsu Stroke is the first step. I’ll begin at the root of the shaft, gently pressing the penis with my thumbs and index fingers and then releasing. I will move up one centimeter at a time, repeating the process until I have traveled the full length of the shaft.”
Cass says, “That will be a short journey. He isn’t very long right now.”
Jada comments on the obvious, “He’s totally limp.”
My eyes pop open.
“I mean,” Cass continues, “isn’t a Lingam Massage performed on an erect…Lingam?”
Quincy releases my Lingam and it falls back down against my thigh.
Jada says, “You told us you didn’t suffer from erectile dysfunction. Did you lie to us or do you have a problem you were not aware of?”
I know I’m not impotent. I’m not sure why I’m not responding.
Cass asks, “How can you not be rock hard after everything that’s been going here for the last fifteen minutes?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve answered all questions honestly, except maybe one.
Keegan has an idea. “Quincy, let me give it a shot.”
She protests, “You’re not a certified massage therapist. You don’t know how to give a proper Lingam Massage.”
“I just want to see something. Give me one minute.”
Quincy gets up and Keegan takes her place. He grips my shaft in his large, athletic, calloused hand and while I feel a slight stirring, I don’t feel the magic I’m expected to feel.
“A little progress, but…” Keegan gets a huge grin on face. He says, “Hold up a second. Zain?”
Zain turns around from his desk across the room, “Yeah?”
Keegan is still grinning, “Get over here. You’re tapping in.”
He approaches with caution, “Umm, me?”
“Well, apparently you’re the cute one. This is all an experiment, right? Let’s see what happens.”
Zain replaces Keegan between my legs. He hasn’t made a move for me yet, but his eyes briefly connect with mine. He raises an eyebrow and I don’t look away.
Keegan laughs, “Houston, the launch sequence has begun. He’s chubbing up fast and Zain hasn’t even touched him yet. The bus wasn’t broken, we just assigned the wrong bus driver.”
I can feel Zain’s eyes on me. I continue to grow. Actually, I can feel his hands on me despite the fact that contact has yet to be made. My Lingam is now pointing straight up at the ceiling.
Cass says, “86? You picked Quincy as your favorite of the three girls, but she had absolutely no effect on you. All Zain had to do was glance your way and you get a raging boner. What the hell? You said you were 25/75 on my modified Kinsey Scale. You lied. Your penis is telling us the truth, but your words were a lie.”
Keegan musses my hair like he’s proud of me, “Calm down Cass. He’s not a liar. He told us he was 6.25 inches and now that he’s standing at attention, we can see he clearly did not exaggerate. He also told us he was “questioning” when pressed to pick an identity. Maybe he’s still figuring shit out. He didn’t respond to Quincy, but he really didn’t respond much to me either. Now as for our colleague Zain here? The response was immediate and undeniable. 86 likes Zain. Cut him some slack.”
Cass opens her notebook, sighing theatrically, and scribbles some notes. She grumbles, “We’re paying him. All he has to do is tell the truth. Is that too much to ask?”
Keegan puts a hand on her shoulder, “We’re asking a lot more of him than that. The poor dude is lying there stripped naked with all five of us staring down at him. We asked him ridiculously embarrassing questions, we tickled him nearly to death, and now? I know that orgasm is not the goal of Lingam Massage, but the way he seems to be responding to Zain, this poor guy is about to literally lose his shit in front of an audience.”
I wouldn’t have expected Keegan to be the voice of reason in this collection of people. He might not be “questioning” his own sexuality, but we’re both guys and he can imagine not wanting to be in the position I find myself in.
Cass softens a bit. “I guess I’ll assume he was confused earlier. Call it a brief moment of Dyslexia. He understood the scale backwards. He said 25/75, but what he really meant was 75/25. Right, 86?”
My pulsating penis bobs and glistens in precum. My brain flashes on the memory of one of the two times I recall seeing Zain on campus. We’d never met and I didn’t know his name, but I was heading to the track to start a run and he was headed off, just having finished one. He was drenched in sweat with his dark curls wet and weighted down lower than they’re hanging right now. He lifted his shirt to wipe his dripping brow and the brief sight of his light brown stomach caused an involuntary stirring in my shorts. There were a dozen shirtless guys, lean and musclebound, all around us. None of them had any effect on me whatsoever, but that stolen glimpse under Zain’s lifted shirt was a moment that burned in my mind. Seared in my brain. I’ll never forget it.
I nod at Cass, though in truth, I understood the scale. I was probably lying to myself more than anything else.
Zain says, “Quincy already explained step 1. Here we go.”
His first touch is like a jolt of electricity and I gasp. He eventually makes it to the pinnacle and my heart is racing. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. They all know I’m a virgin. My own masturbation techniques never felt like this.
“Next is the Skiing Stroke. Hold the sides of the Lingam with both hands and ‘ski’ with your thumbs up and down starting at the root of the penis and going all the way to the tip.”
He skis me until I don’t think I can take it anymore. When I close my eyes, I see stars. This is the most raging erection I’ve ever had in my life.
Keegan observes, “I think he’s grown past 6.25. That’s at least 6.5.”
Cass smiles at him, “You would know.”
He takes her hand, “So would you.”
Jada says, “Gross.”
Zain clears his throat, “Third is The Screwdriver Stroke. Surround the Lingam with both hands, twisting them in opposite directions. Be careful not to squeeze too hard here.”
Oh my god! The sensation is so intense that I actually whimper. The friction of each twist is its own mini fireworks show. I can’t believe that I’m not spurting my load all over the room at this point. Zain can tell that I’m close though. He stops at just the point where only one more twist would have been one too many and the show would have reached its grand finale.
“Fourth,” Zain announces, “is Meet the Frenulum. Slowly circle the thumb and index finger in both directions around the frenulum of the penis.”
So he does. And he does and he does. I turn my head and bite down hard on the palm of my hand. Again, he expertly takes me just to the edge before stopping and bringing me back.
“The fifth and final move is The Crossed Prayer Stroke. Hold your hands with crossed fingers like in a gesture of prayer and surround the penis between them. Then, open the thumbs and slide them along the sides of the Lingam up and down and at varying speeds.”
He said this was the final one. We’re almost done. I can survive this. Zain knows how to read me. He has proven four times before that he can bring me right up to the edge and stop. So, I decide to trust him. I lower my hands and rest them against the mattress. I let myself relax, physically and mentally and I almost feel like I’m melting into the bed. As Zain strokes me up and down, I’m in unimaginable ecstasy. Minutes are going by and I’m staying strong. But then he changes tack.
He goes back to the Screwdriver. I grip the bed sheets and open my eyes. He’s not looking at my face. The Screwdriver is intense and my strength is quickly fading. Then he goes back to the Ski Stroke. My knees begin to twitch and my mouth falls open. He’s not narrating anymore and I have no idea how long each new motion will last or what he plans to do next.
He decides to get reacquainted with my frenulum. This time, he allows his thumbs to explore lower than before and the length of the underside of my shaft gets plenty of attention. A lot of attention. Too much attention. Finally, he goes back to the final move – the prayer thing. He tightens his grip and increases his pace. My whole body shudders. I’m quickly approaching that edge again. He must know it. How can he not? I slap the mattress and scream, “Zain!” But he only tightens his grip even more and increases the pace. I fight for oxygen. My toes curl. My first shot is timed perfectly with an upwards stroke and I get hit in the chin. My second spurt lands on my chest and about eight more dribble down my shaft and Zain’s fingers, pooling in my pubic hair.
Keegan laughs, “Hey man. You held out longer than I thought you would. Good job.” He musses my hair again but it’s a genuinely friendly gesture. He takes Cass’s hand and says, “I need to talk to you in my room.”
Jada again says, “Gross.”
Cass blushes, smiles and lets him lead her away. I guess I was their pregame show.
Jada and Quincy both leave too and Zain hands me a towel along with a sheepish smile.
~~
Fifteen minutes later, I’m cleaned up and dressed. Zain hands over the rest of the money I earned. I guess this is it. I am to leave this house with my cash and pretend like none of this ever happened. Like I don’t know these people and they don’t know me. That would be pretty easy to do if Zain were not one of them. Or if he wasn’t so ridiculously cute. As much as I needed the money, Zain being in this group is the only reason I agreed to tonight in the first place. And once I found what I was in for, he is the only reason I stayed. But now it’s over. And there seems to be some confidentiality rule, so… Yeah. That’s it.
I shove my cash in my pocket and suddenly I feel the strong need to get the hell out of here. It’s not embarrassment or regret. These people will all move on to their next test subjects and I’ll be little more to them than a nameless number and anonymous results. Barely a fading memory. Which is fine, for four of them. But the thought of Zain forgetting me makes my eyes burn with tears. With absolutely zero cool, I blurt out, “Bye.” And I dash down the stairs and out the front door.
Zain follows me. He catches me on the porch and grips my elbow. He pulls the door closed behind him and we are completely alone. He turns me around to face him. Even through his thicket of dark brown tangles, his eyes are warm and kind.
He smiles, “I have to admit, I’ve seen you around.”
I cock an eyebrow.
“I just mean that I’ve noticed you. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know your name. I’ve seen you running on the track.”
“That’s something we have in common.”
“Probably one thing among a list of things.”
I smile. And then my smile falls away. “You can’t know me.”
“I already know you. Intimately.”
I shake my head, “No you don’t. You know 86. And I can never know you.”
Zain holds out his hand. At first I think he wants his money back, but he says, “Give me your phone.”
I hand it to him. He smiles, shakes his head and hands it back, “Unlock it please.”
Oops. I place my thumb accordingly and hand it back.
He taps at my phone screen for a while, then says, “You already know a little about me. I’m also twenty years old, also a junior, I also like to run, I’m a business major, a massage therapist and I know my way around the penis.”
I snort out a laugh.
He continues, “Oh, and apparently I’m the cutest guy on campus.”
I laugh again, “I didn’t say that. I said you were the cutest guy out of the two in the room.”
“That was the original question, but then you qualified your answer.”
I forgot about that. I guess I did pretty much admit that I think Zain is the hottest guy on campus.
He grins, “Here’s some stuff you don’t know. Despite being a gay young adult male, I can compartmentalize. I mean, I can give a guy – even a hot guy – a Lingam Massage and it means nothing to me. It’s my job. But tonight, I was sitting at my desk on the other side of the room because it was you. I haven’t just noticed you a couple times. I’ve really NOTICED you. I didn’t want to witness that happening to you if I wasn’t going to be the one making it happen.”
He hands my phone back to me. He added himself as a new contact.
He goes on, “What happened tonight is over but other things can be just the beginning. The choice is yours. The ball is in your court. You can delete me from your phone and from your mind and just walk away. I don’t know your name and I have no way to find you or contact you. Or, you can text me. If you text me, I’ll have your number. If you text me, we can make plans to meet up again next Friday night, but this time, for pizza. And to talk. And who knows what might come next. But it’s all up to you.”
I say, “How ticklish are you?”
Another grin, “I might be willing to let you find out.”
I grin back, “I might also like to discover whether or not I have an aptitude for giving tantric massages.”
Now he snorts, “Maybe not on a first date.”
“Wait,” I pretend to be serious, “You’re not the outie, are you?”
“Huh?”
“Keegan’s belly button survey. One of the five of you has an outie. Is it you?” I’m just messing with him. I already know it’s not from the time I saw him lift his shirt after that long run.
He laughs, “No worries. I’m an innie all the way.”
“Whew!”
I tap at my phone and his phone pings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen and smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Brandon.”
We shake hands. I say, “I know it’s almost midnight, but I know a pizza place just a couple blocks from here that’s still open. I’ve kind of worked up an appetite.”
“Me too,” he grins again.
We start toward the sidewalk, but he stops. He turns to me and places his hands on my hips. He pulls me against him and he kisses me. Long and deep and my toes curl in my well-worn sneakers. One of my hands rubs circles in his back while the other entangles in his hair that I’ve been dying to touch for months. When we break apart, he takes my hand. He says, “At best, I’m the second cutest guy on campus.”