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“Why does it matter?” I ask, wishing I wasn’t so agitated.

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“I don’t have any STIs, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He shakes his head, but it’s dripping with as much disappointment as sweat.

It kills me. The bashfulness, the insecurities, the disappointment. This dude has everything, and he doesn’t even know it. He’s got a mom who cooks dinner for him every night, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t have one negative emotion in that perfect body.

“Look, dude,” I start, catching his eyes and holding onto them, because this is the last time I’m ever going to talk about that night again. “I was sorta drunk and kinda out of it. She went down on me for like two minutes, but I wasn’t feeling it, so I dipped. Didn’t even nut. That’s it. That’s the truth.”

“You weren’t feeling it?”

“I was drunk.” Not that drunk, though. Three beers alone in a room with Tommy, and I’d never go soft. “And she’s not my type.”

He nods, almost like he gets it. The softness of his eyes negates that deep, haunting voice that asks me the most dangerous question of all. “What’s your type?”

I smirk and say the first thing that pops into my mind. “I like blonds.” Then, I cut and run before Tommy can lay more bait in the trap.

Later, while I’m beating off in bed to a video of two beefed up jocks sucking each other off, my orgasm is delayed by a text notification from a name that has my balls tightening. I thought the straight boy had an early bedtime, but it’s nearly eleven and he’s texting me a fucking YouTube link. Since chances are slim to none Tommy is texting me gay porn hotter than the shit I’ve already got going, I swipe his notification away and work my cock until I’m spent all over my stomach.

I clean up, tuck myself under my comforter, and open Tommy’s text with a clear head.

Tommy

Found this searching through my sister’s fb

I tap on a link attached to the text, and it brings me to a video posted four years ago. A playoff match between McClatchy and Johnson. The tickle in my chest makes me chuckle as I watch Tommy come into a match I remember winning in overtime. There’s my boy, on my ass like I jacked his wallet. Back then, though, he really was just a boy. Sixteen, probably. I remember thinking he was like a six-two chihuahua, nipping at my ankles and never giving me a moment’s peace.

Tommy

Cute right? Maybe I wasn’t half bad back then

I watch the entire video. All eight minutes until I’m sleepy enough to blacken my screen and roll over to sleep. But as I bask in the silent darkness of my room, my mind wanders before I even get to dreamland. Thinking about soccer, thinking about workouts, thinking about summer try-outs, and thinking about Tommy.

Thinking about earlier tonight and how Tommy’s style hasn’t changed much since we were teenagers. He was still on me like a hungry cheetah, ass grinding against my hip, locking me in, fucking owning me for all of those seconds before I showed him how easy it is for me to slip from his hold.

“Fuck,” I sigh into my pillow as my dick tries to get hard again.

Why do I have to like straight dudes so much? Why can’t I be into those flashy twinks always making eyes at me at Mustache Jack? Why can’t I be into those goober daddies always hitting me up on Grindr? Sure, they would be fun in the moment, and it would be a nice change of pace to come into something other than my hand, but they don’t live in my head the way guys like Tommy do. The way Tommy does.

I bury my hand back inside my boxers and fist my cock, wet with residual cum I already spent. Takes only a few minutes to get close, my balls as tight as my pelvic muscles.

In this vulnerable state, I’m possessed to do something risky. I dig my phone out from under my pillow and text Tommy back with my free hand.

Me

Very cute. Now go to sleep baby boy

My impulsivity pushes me over the edge. I wet my comforter with what all my cock spurts out, but I’m too dazed to care. Iroll onto my side, tuck my phone back beneath my pillow, and pass out before any reply comes in.

6

Rowan

With finals coming up, I’m working double my usual hours at the tutoring center. My boss likes to pass me all the student athletes. He thinks I have some innate ability to meet them on their level. I don’t mind it. The fact I’ve tutored a fourth of Sac State’s varsity athletes only bolsters my persona on campus. Not only am I needed to win matches, but I’m single-handedly keeping a handful of the school’s biggest star athletes from falling under the minimum GPA threshold.

All these extra hours mean rescheduling a few of mine and Tommy’s training sessions. He just loves that.