All characters in this story are over the age of 18.
*
Chris looked at the door to room 119, wondering if his roommate was already in there. No message board on the door yet, nothing but the retro-looking construction-paper nametags taped up by the RA. Should he knock? No, it was his room too, and he was a sophomore, not a nervous freshman. Ok, he was a little nervous. The profile on Facebook had looked intimidating but exciting: a jock type, shaved head according to the more recent pics, in a fraternity, relationship status single. Chris opened the door carefully.
"Hey man, welcome home," said a solid-looking guy standing on tiptoes, hanging a poster. He turned around and smiled, his expression easy-going, open, and very masculine. "I'm Justin."
"Hey, Justin." Chris walked over and shook hands. Firm grip, he thought, of course. Friendly brown eyes. Handsome roundish jock face, a few days' stubble on his face and scalp, cute nose, really white teeth. Justin was wearing a yellow muscle T with "Hanson's CrossFit" on it. His arms were impressive: very muscular, but with a small layer of baby fat that made the muscles rounded and juicy-looking rather than chiseled. He must be about 5'11", Chris thought, a couple inches taller than me. "I'm Chris."
"Good to meet you, bro. I put some stuff on the walls already, I hope you don't mind." Chris looked around at the posters. Mostly MMA-type stuff, with a few of chicks with enormous tits fawning over the fighters. One was of a blonde bending over in cut-offs, head between her legs, pretending to sip from a beer bottle and winking. Is that how she prevents hiccups, Chris wondered. The first floor of Kroetzger Hall was high-ceilinged, and Justin had covered all but a quarter of the ample wall space. "I left you that part by the closets," he grinned.
"Cool, cool."
"Which bunk do you want? I didn't pick yet."
"I don't mind, man, you got a preference?"
"Well, if it's cool with you, I'll take lower. I'll have some real crazy late nights, it'll be a little easier not to wake you if I'm not climbing up when I'm drunk." Justin flashed Chris his friendly grin again.
"Sure, man, that's fine. That mean I get the desk by the window?"
"Yeah, it's all yours." Justin looked pleased at his own generosity, and started arranging weights in his closet.
"Cool, cool, I'll start getting my stuff."
Straight as straight can be, Chris thought as he went out to his car. On Facebook, he hadn't been able to tell; there was always room for optimism. After only a few minutes with Justin, he had concluded that there was no gay nut to crack, and started trying to wall off his attraction to his new roommate, sustained over the internet for the two months since the university had assigned them to Kroetzger and each other. Just as well, he thought, it would have been messy if he had been persuadable. His dick started to get hard thinking of Justin's muscle T, his manly arms and chest, and the sexy sides of his torso Chris had seen through the long slits in the shirt. Shit. Better get over this fast. He started unloading suitcases and boxes.
Chris had come out to himself during spring quarter of his freshman year. A six-month relationship with a smart, cute, but mousy girl had been going nowhere; he suspected she might be gay too. She hadn't minded when he broke it off, and they were still friends. He had known he was attracted to men since forever, including guys old enough to be his dad, but thought for a while he could soldier on as straight, or at least bi. But after almost a year of college, grappling with the daily battle of keeping his hungry looks at guys' crotches and asses, chests and arms, legs, hands, even sexy feet unnoticed, he was worn out. No more pretending, not to himself.
He had come out to one other person: Pat. She was the thirty-something co-owner of the rifle range where Chris' dad took him most weekends for target practice. Chris' dad was an ex-marine, and a moody, taciturn, but not unkind man. Chris' lack of interest in sports and hunting had been a disappointment, but Chris did show an aptitude for target shooting, and enjoyed it, although not as much as his father. Chris got to know Pat when he would take breaks from the range while his dad was still going at it. She had been unfazed when he told her he was gay: it had been perfect. No "Oh my God! I'm so glad you figured that out"; no "I would never have guessed in a million years"; just "hm. Sure, I can see that. Don't worry about me, I don't give a damn, and neither will anyone else one you're ready to tell them. Might want to wait a while on your dad. You're gonna tell me if you start dating anyone, right?"
"Yeah," Chris had blushed, pleased that she was both nonplussed and supportive. She was an independent exurban mom of two, and thoughtful. Chris always valued her advice; she was worldly enough to be a good guide, but not so much that he felt like she was a bad influence.
Chris was a good 19-year-old kid -- a smart young man, very strong academically, and a confident person in many respects. In high school, he had been well-liked enough, certainly not picked on with any regularity, and was just now starting to outgrow his adolescent awkwardness into something other people found attractive. He had light blue eyes which shone when he smiled, something he did frequently. His short hair was dark blond, a little bleached from two weeks at the beach; he had grown a beard over the summer, and his facial hair had quite a bit of red in it. He was secretly proud of how full the beard and mustache were, and of how much hair he had on his chest, legs and pubes. Not enough to repel a guy, he hoped, but enough to prove the existence of a nice dose of testosterone that his small dick seemed to contradict. A virgin, he had never had another person confirm that he had a lot less between his legs than average, but he wasn't dumb -- he had seen guys in locker rooms, as well as porn online, and he knew that at four and a half thin inches, he was definitely small. That thought made his erection subside.
Oh well, he thought for the thousandth time, maybe I'll try one of those penis enlarger kits some day. He blushed at the thought of Justin discovering that particular secret. Maybe he wasn't done growing yet; he could buy one at the end of the school year, if he still hadn't improved. Chris had been very careful not to check out Justin's package during their three-minute encounter, but suspected from the size and meatiness of his roommate's hands that he didn't have anything to be embarrassed about.
Chris heaved three boxes into his arms easily in the late-afternoon September sun, and carried them in the dorm. He was a pretty strong guy for being unathletic; one of his P.E. teachers had quickly figured out that Chris was never going to flourish on the football field or the basketball court, and so he opened the weight room for Chris during the units he taught, allowing Chris to explore on his own. Chris was not nearly as muscled as Justin, but at 5'8" and 145 pounds, was fit and well-proportioned.
Justin was chatting on his cell phone when Chris walked in again.
"Yup, just settling in, bro, you? . . . Nada, nada . . . yeah, I'm going over to the house to shoot some pool after dinner, see ya over there."
Chris wondered which frat; the Facebook profile, strangely, hadn't said. Another level of the "privacy" they were always touting, no doubt. He scanned Justin's closet. No visible letters. It was the kind of thing he didn't want to ask, that Justin would probably assume he already knew. He put the boxes down and eyed Justin's desk. In the upper left corner of the corkboard above it, there was a small card; it looked like an invitation. Probably to last year's pledge night. Sigma Alpha Epsilon. Oh, shit. They were hardcore on this campus. Chris' glance slid over to Justin, who was finishing his call. Justin smiled again.