Pulling up to the nondescript stoplight, Mathew lets out a frustrated groan inside of his old, crummy sedan. The ancient brakes squeak, forming an interesting duo, along with the driver's groan. The LED array becomes warped in the grubby windshield, raindrops beginning to fall on this cold and damp November evening. The windshield wipers crudely wipe away the rain, frayed from overuse and a lack of funds for replacement.
Mathew slumps in his seat, his thick, shaggy brown hair covering the expanse of the cracked, sun-damaged leather of the car's headrest. His body language is that of a much older gentleman, and definitely not someone of twenty-two years.
Cigarette smoke streaks out of the small crack in his window. He quickly smokes the cigarette, looking to take the edge off after a long, frustrating day of work at the restaurant. Mathew's eyes drift to the sparsely lit buildings at the university.
"Group project meeting on Tuesday," he reminds himself.
His tired foot lazily pushes against the accelerator as he rounds the last corner before his apartment complex. Approaching the security coded gate, he leaves his cigarette in his mouth, squinting his eyes to avoid the smoke trying to billow in between his eyelid.
He punches in the incorrect code, his fingers sliding against the rain-slicked keypad. He grumbles. Finally, he opens the gate and bounces into the drive, jostled by the superfluous placement of speed bumps.
He exits the car. Mathew is thankful to have an assigned, covered parking spot. He is not thankful, however, for his proximity to the door.
"Get a second floor apartment, they said," he mutters, trudging up the steps, stubby cigarette surviving the growing rainfall in his left hand. The last couple of puffs are finished just before Mathew's entrance, and the cherry is squeezed off and extinguished by the rain soaked concrete.
He opens the unlocked door, and finds himself in the warm confines of his living room. Before he can even enter the room, his roommate Jason readies himself for a night out with friends.
"Hey man. Do you want to hit up the bars?" his friend asks, throwing on his coat, and grabbing for his umbrella.
"Nah. No thanks, man. I'm pretty tired," he responds.
"Alright man. I'll see you later," says Jason. Mathew nods and Jason rushes out into the night.
Mathew's living room sets the tone for the rest of home. Scuffs mar the textured walls, and old dust clings to the abomination that is the cottage cheese ceiling. The well-used sofa points towards the large television, that is located in the corner of the room. Betwixt the two is the coffee table that is negligently cleaned.
Uncomfortable leather shoes are kicked off into the nearby wall, before resting upon the tiled threshold. His hooded jacket is tossed over the couch. His serving apron, itself needing a wash, is thrown onto the table with his car keys. Trudging into the kitchen, he snags a pop from the fridge and some cold pizza. He brings it back to the coffee table.
He collapses into the couch, his six-foot body stretching over the whole region of the sofa. His right arm immediately closes around his face, the joint of his elbow molding against his nose and eyes. He peels his socks off of his feet, curling his big toes to take them off with minimal effort. He leaves them at the end of the couch, a behavioral trait his ex girlfriend was not at all fond off. He takes a deep, long breath, reflecting on his day.
After composing himself, Mathew quickly sits up on the couch, wipes the tired out of his eyes, and grabs for his box of leftover pizza, the Brooklyn style slices encased in a greasy cardboard box. He turns on the TV with the nearby control, and settles on the current talk show. The slices are folded, and devoured with minimal effort. After finishing his dinner, he shuts off the television, and tosses away his empty pop can and box.
Realizing that he is alone after a long, dull day, he shuffles his feet towards his bedroom. The tired young man quickly opens his bedroom door, flips on the light, shuts the door closed and plops into his desk chair. His dress shirt is unbuttoned and thrown on the bed behind him, along with his undershirt. Next, Mathew's belt and pants are taken off and kicked off to the side, piled up on the floor.
Reaching down below, he opens the bottom drawer of his desk. Sticking his hand passed the old binders and notebooks, he pulls out his tube of warming lubricant and places it upon the top of the desk. Mathew opens up the laptop, and is greeted by the bright, white screen of his internet browser. A rapid series of keystrokes brings him to his preferred streaming porn site. As the page loads, he quickly discards his boxer briefs.
Mathew idly strokes his cock as he focuses on the vast selection porn in front of him. Many minutes pass as he searches through his favorite categories, trying to find the perfect video for him on this drab day. Finally, he settles upon a lengthy video, in which an amateur girlfriend gives her man a hand-job, the camera shooting from the boyfriend's perspective. He nods to himself in agreement, and loads up the video. He sighs as he clicks away from the pop up ads that accompany this smut. He maximizes the video to fit his screen.
He takes the tube of gel into one of hands, and classically places his right hand below the opening. He squeezes a sizable amount into his hand, the smell of the substance surrounding him. He leans back in his seat, poised to spread the substance into his two hands, and then his groin. Disaster strikes. His cell phone rings.
"God dammit," he curses, his eyes zoning in on his pants. The phone glows through the pocket of his trousers. His ears are tortured by his new ring tone.
"... Ring, ring, ring ... Banana Phone!" croons the lounge music coming from the phone.
Not wanting to have to make the return phone call, Mathew rises from his chair. His cock hard and bobbing in the air, he pivots his head, looking for something to dispose the lube with. He settles on a dirty tube sock, and leaves it on the ground, slimy and undesirable. Mathew reaches into the pocket and retrieves the phone. He focuses his eyes towards the screen.
"Connie?" he questions, bemused.
Meeting as classmates in their course of Social Psychology, it didn't take long before Constance and Mathew hit it off quite well. Study group outings routinely ventured to the bar, where they discovered similar interests. Still, they hadn't dated, or even visited since the new semester has begun. The phone call on this Friday evening was indeed strange.
Putting the phone to his ear, he presses the green button. "Hello?" he says, some awkwardness in his voice, understandable, as he stands naked in his room.
"Hey, Mathew," the chipper, higher pitched voice greets. "How are you doing?" she asks.
"I've had a better day or two," he says, hand running through his hair, leaving a tract of lubricant smeared along his scalp. He grimaces.
