I pulled my light jacket tighter as I turned sideways to serpentine through the masses on the crowded sidewalk. The produce markets were teaming with older people pulling small carts behind them as they made their daily pilgrimage to buy fresh bok choy and lotus root. It was always a bit of a free-for-all walking home from my internship in the late afternoon.
I had decided that I wasn't in the mood to make dinner that evening, so I popped into my favorite dumpling place near the corner of College and Spadina. I took a seat at a two-top close to the entrance. When the curt waitress approached, I ordered ten pieces of steamed pork with chive and a side of the garlic-fried Chinese broccoli.
My mind wandered as I waited for my food to arrive. I thought about my upcoming finals. I knew that I wasn't prepared for most of them, and that I needed to get mostly A's if I was going to be competitive when I applied to law school in the fall. That led me to a larger question: where did I want to go to school?
I had been considering blanketing the top fourteen since they had the most prestige. As a dual citizen, though, staying in Toronto had its appeal. Even though I had grown up in North Carolina, it had been a pleasant experience over the past three years connecting with the city in which my mom had been raised.
Before I could delve deeper into the decision-making process, my food arrived. I quickly shoveled it down; I wasn't the type who savored the experience of eating. I enjoyed a lot of things in life, but food wasn't high on the list. After I paid the bill, I walked the few remaining blocks to my apartment complex.
I had chosen to live near the university on the edge of Chinatown. I loved that it was bustling with people from so many different backgrounds: fellow students, immigrants, and hipsters who were fond of the Kensington Market area. It was a great place for people watching, provided you could find any place to stand, sit, or lean. Odd as it will sound right now, that was a big selling point for me, even though I myself wasn't much of a people watcher.
I looked up at the three-story brick edifice. It appeared resolute in its stature, having withstood the past hundred years. It showed signs of aging, but was in remarkably good condition. One of the reasons I had chosen to live there, aside from the affordable rent, was the sense of history.
I let myself in through the front door, passed through the entryway vestibule, and walked in the direction of the main corridor. I lived in one of the basement units, which were partly below ground. There were windows placed higher up on the walls though, which was important, since I didn't think living without any natural sunlight was something I could tolerate.
I walked to the mailboxes, which had been the purpose of my detour. There were twenty-four small, locked cubbies - one for each apartment. I checked mine, but wasn't surprised to find it empty. I looped back towards the main door, turned the corner into the stairwell, and descended to the lower level.
My unit was right in the middle of the hallway, with a stairwell on both ends leading to the upper levels. There were three other studio units on each side of mine. The upper floors were one- and two-bedroom floor plans. I let myself in using what was one of the only two keys I routinely carried with me.
The room was minimalistic, but not inhospitable. I had positioned a full bed against the wall beneath the window, a small desk and chair in the corner near the entrance, and a battered recliner that a friend had gifted me. I'd positioned the recliner against the wall leading to the galley-style kitchen.
I plopped down on the bed, feeling unreasonably exhausted. I didn't even bother to remove my sneakers, so I made sure my feet hung over the edge so as to not dirty the sheets. I drifted off to sleep.
I woke to darkness; the flashing alarm clock on my nightstand informed me that it was 11:08 p.m. I was in mild shock that I had slept for roughly three hours. It made sense, though, since I had been staying up until the earlier hours of the morning studying, and finding other, less scholastic ways to occupy myself.
I realized that I had morning wood, then remembered the time.
Nigh-midnight wood, perhaps?
I wondered. My dark blue jeans bulged where my dick was pushing forward in its quest for attention.
A sexual charge coursed through my body. At twenty-one years old, it didn't take much to stimulate my carnal appetite. I began to drift into fantasy without being aware that that was what was happening. A few key memories from the past few years flooded into my mind.
You're probably expecting me to tell you that I was thinking about some particularly raunchy hook-up, or various porn clips that had drilled their way into my brain. The thing is, my desires were not, and still aren't, exactly normal. I wasn't sure what had made me the way I was, but I knew that what turned me on only did the same for a select group of people.
I had started to understand my deeper desires after a happy accident. I had been working out at the campus gym during my freshman year. After lifting weights for about an hour, I had gone to wash myself up before heading out to meet a friend for dinner.
I had stowed my sweaty clothes in the small locker and bounded towards the showers. It had been Monday, so the gym hadn't been too crowded. I had pulled the plastic shower curtain from its partially-open position and slid into the stall. As I'd been lathering my hair with the shampoo from the dispenser mounted to the wall, a stray drop had snaked its way down to my right eye. I'd tried to rub it away with the back of my wrist since my hands had still been covered with suds.
Whoosh!
"Oh, shit!" I had heard from behind me.
I'd spun around towards the source of the words, feeling disoriented. I'd still had one hand clasping my scalp and the back of the other rubbing my cheek. I had seen a young man standing in front of me; his eyes had been wide with surprise and his mouth had gaped open.
I had frozen like a deer in the headlights; I hadn't been sure if it was a natural reaction or if I'd just been mirroring him. My heart had started to pound as the water had continued to cascade down my back. A rosy hue had spread across my cheeks - embarrassment beginning to bloom.
"I'm so sorry, dude," the towel-clad, muscular young guy had said. "I was totally spacing out and didn't hear the shower. Or, I mean, I heard the shower, but I thought it was the one next to this one. Of course, I thought this one was empty. I wouldn't have opened it if I didn't think it was empty."
His discomfort had been obvious in more ways than one. His eyes had kept darting from my eyes to my crotch. It was as if he hadn't wanted to look, but couldn't help himself. The embarrassment had started to change; it had been unlike anything I had ever felt. It had begun to feel warm... and alive.
"I didn't see a towel either," he'd offered. "Oh, I think it fell off the hook."
He'd awkwardly crouched forward and snatched the towel from where it laid crumpled on the ground. He'd then snagged it on the hook with a quick yank. He had stared at me blankly for a second; I'd remained silent.
"Okay, I'll just close this now," he'd said. "Enjoy the rest of your shower."
I had watched, silent and unmoving, as he'd pulled the curtain closed again, after which I'd immediately let out a gasp, realizing that I had been holding my breath. Electricity had sparked through my core and radiated outward. That was the first time I'd started to realize that I liked being watched. More importantly, I'd realized I liked being caught.
Over the next two years, I had felt a sense of excitement whenever I'd used the shower at the gym. I had hoped that someone would open it. I had even thought about leaving it open a little "by accident," but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I had felt the same urge when I'd used fitting rooms to try on clothing when I'd gone shopping.
I had never really cared if it was a man or woman who caught me in those fantasies; I guess that's one a perk of being bisexual. It had been more about the being exposed in a sexual way.
I had finally worked up the courage to start exploring my burgeoning desires during the beginning of my junior year. When I'd moved into my apartment complex, I had realized the laundry room was almost directly across the hall from me. It was small, with only two washing machines and two dryers. It was akin to a cave, since it didn't have windows like the studios on the lower level.
One night, I had been doing laundry way too late; it had been around 2 a.m. I had been laying on my bed watching Netflix, wearing only my blue plaid boxers, when the timer on my phone had gone off. I had started to step into my sweatpants but stopped myself. I'd done the mental math and had decided to take a leap.
I had pushed through the fear and walked across the hall to the laundry room to collect my clothing. I had been so filled with nerves that I'd sped through the process. I'd hurriedly crammed the clothes into my hamper and raced back to my apartment. Alas, nobody had seen me. I had still jerked off as the mixture of excitement and fear had coursed through my veins.
I had continued to retrieve laundry in my boxers each week, although my confidence (or perhaps my desire to get caught) had steadily increased. I had begun to linger in the room longer after loading my clothes into the machine. I had started wearing tighter boxer briefs. I had begun to do my laundry a little earlier in the evening, but not too early.
As I lay in bed thinking about that first time in the shower, and the subsequent experiments in the laundry room, I knew that I wanted to up the ante that night. I'd spent a lot of time in the prior weeks coming up with something new to try.
I went and hopped into my shower. I gave myself a quick rinse even though I didn't need one; I had bathed earlier in the day after having worked out on campus. I raced through the motions as the excitement started to build.
I stepped out of the shower and looked at myself in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door. I stood six-foot-two and weighed two hundred pounds. I was proud of my physique, since I had invested an immense amount of time and energy into getting jacked. My biceps looked like I could be a lower-level Avenger and my six-pack wasn't too shabby either.
My paternal grandparents had immigrated from Sweden, which explained many aspects of my appearance. I had shorter blond hair and icy blue eyes. I had a wide jaw with a defined bone structure. My nose was what some might call "strong"; from an early age, I had been told it made my face looked very masculine.
I glanced down at my package. I was well-endowed - seven inches soft. It was pretty fat, too. Most of my hook-ups had needed both hands to contain its girth. My sandy pubes were trimmed to a tidy patch, and my large, clean-shaven nuts hung weightily down, swinging between my thighs.
I spun around and examined my ass. Even though I only ever topped, I was most proud of my behind. It was what all of my hook-ups seemed to love. It was large and muscular, but shaped into a perfect bubble. When I clenched my cheeks, little dimples formed on the sides.
I grabbed the towel from the hook and wrapped it around my waist. I made sure that it was firmly secured. I walked over to my hamper full of dirty clothes and grabbed it before heading towards the door. I stopped for a moment and second-guessed myself.
