My phone blared at me and I groggily felt for the thin rectangle on my nightstand to shut it off. I turned and stared at the blank ceiling, trying to figure out if the memories I had of the night before were either the result of a very vivid wet dream or if they actually happened.
Russ came home visibly drunk and told me to suck his cock, which I did because no self-respecting gay guy is going to refuse the offer when it comes from a walking testosterone factory like Russ. Not only that, but he was the one who came on to me, and not the other way around; so much for the stereotype of the predatory faggot preying on unsuspecting straight men trying to save their virtue for the right woman. And then the shower, which I thought would lead into a second round, but instead it was more of a "bro" thing. Y'know, dudes being dudes and whatever. He didn't touch me, and I certainly didn't try to get that delicious cock in my mouth again, as much as I wanted to, but there was something strangely intimate about sharing a shower with him. Russ gave me easy grins like they were free coupons in the mail, and made small talk that contrasted wildly with the alpha straight guy persona I had just seen in the living room mere moments earlier.
What the shower gave me an opportunity to do was take in every inch of Russ' naked form from head to toe. I watched the water run down his rippling back and corded arms, winding down in rivulets to his firm ass and then coursing over his thighs and calves. When he turned around, I studied the firm pecs and his tight abs, the hirsute torso calling me to run my hands through the coarse hair like a siren's song, how I envied the droplets trapped in that forest just above the skin. I wanted to graze his nipples with my teeth, biting lightly and maybe eliciting a gasp of arousal from his throat, that Adam's apple bobbing. His biceps popped in an effortless flex as he washed the shampoo out of his hair, showing off his furred pits. My eyes drew naturally to his heavy member, still half-hard, dripping water off its tip. How I wanted to get on my knees again and offer myself however he needed to use me.
Instead, all that happened was he asked if I was done, and I said yes. We dried off, said good night, and went to our rooms.
Anticlimactic.
Even though reliving the memories made me want to take care of my morning wood, I still felt unsure about what my life would be like just beyond my bedroom door. Russ didn't seem mad or regretful about what happened, even offering a friendly wave before he shut his door. It was confusing, but perhaps I was overthinking it. If all Russ needed me to be was a willing recipient of his spunk, even if just for one alcohol-fueled blowjob, then that was fine by me; no other guys were busting down my door asking to take his place. I should be forward-thinking and modern. I should just be like one of those "cool girls"—no, "cool gay." Sure, bro, you can use my throat any time you want, just don't throw me out on my ass. Sure, bro, let me be your cumslut after that pussy doesn't put out.
It didn't really feel right.
I put on a shirt and shorts and peeked outside my door. Russ sat at the kitchen table, flicking up and down his phone, eating a bowl of cereal. He heard my door creek open and he waved and smiled like seeing me was the highlight of his goddamn day.
"Morning, Joe! Coffee's ready!"
"Lemme use the bathroom first," I muttered, not even getting the whole sentence out as I dashed from the relative safety of my bedroom to the bathroom.
I stared at myself in the mirror. Russ looked ready to tackle the day and I was still dealing with bedhead and tired-looking eyes. I pursed my lips; they weren't dick-sucking lips by any means, and I felt pretty sure that Paige had thicker lips than mine, so surely it couldn't have been that he wanted more cushioning around his dick as he pumped into my face. Nothing about me screamed sissyboy, or whatever those straight dudes go for when they want other dudes to dress up in women's clothing. I wasn't seeing whatever compelled Russ to make a move. Again, possibly overthinking: it could have just been beer goggles, and I was willing. Why should I be worried about looking like a total schlump next to a paragon of human excellence? It only happened the one time, and that was probably the only time it would happen. As long as I was clean and I paid the rent, that should be all I cared about.
And yet as I sat down across from him with my cup of coffee, watching him be so relaxed after sticking his cock down my throat less than twelve hours earlier, I still felt unsure. I wanted to address it, but didn't want to rock the boat. It sent my mind and heart rate into overdrive. Several times I opened my mouth, only to close it because I didn't know what to say.
Russ felt my eyes on him and he quirked an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"
"Uh." I couldn't even form words. Behold, ladies and gentlemen: a gay who should be over the moon that his breeder roomie seemed willing to pretend nothing ever happened and yet still wants to mine drama out of it.
"Is it about last night?"
I nearly dropped my mug from the nonchalance of the question, and instead settled on placing it firmly on the table lest another one of his questions rattle me. "Yeah, it is."
"Was it okay?"
I thought about the best way to phrase it. "It was... unexpected, but not unwelcome."
"Not unwelcome? So, welcome? It was welcome?"
I needed him to stop looking at me with those piercing eyes. "Well, yeah. I mean, you're... you," I finished lamely.
"I'm not getting it."
I vaguely motioned to him as if that answered everything. "You're hot?"
"Am I?"
"Oh come on, Russ, don't act like you don't know you're sex on wheels." I swore I could see that same glint in his eye from last night, and his confused demeanor cracked at the hint of a smile. "Oh, you're fucking with me."
Russ laughed, a deep, rich timbre, and held his hands up. "You make it easy."
"Don't! It's fucking with my head."
"Joe, here's the thing: I'm cool with it if you're cool with it." He shrugged. "We're just two guys who needed to let off some steam. Don't get all worked up over something we both enjoyed."
"Well..." I trailed off, unsure of what to say. Russ had a point, and I thought it remarkably refreshing coming from a straight guy.
"Just let it be. It's okay. I'm not going to go all 'gay panic' on you." He got up and clapped me on the shoulder as he headed to the sink to wash out his cereal bowl. "Gotta run to class. See you later." Russ grabbed his bag off his chair and left, leaving me partially reassured but still a bit mystified.
I relaxed as we eased into the weekend and the coming week of school. I still felt unsure about Russ' insistence that he was cool about the blowjob, and I carried that thorny ball of insecurity to every interaction with Russ; truth be told, he really did act like everything was normal, like what had happened was just another day in the crazy life of a college student. I wanted to read into his easy demeanor towards me that he wanted to spend more time with me, like I had given him such amazing head that he wanted to drop everything to do with Paige, but there was no way to know for sure. Sure, one night he ordered pizza for the both of us as we crammed for tests. Okay, and he might've wanted to watch TV with me more than usual. Neither of those ostensible signals meant anything other than he was hungry and we both wanted to watch the same movies.
I wanted to tell someone else about what had happened. I could offload my own insecurities and concerns onto someone else and entangle them in the weeds so I wouldn't be alone. Every time a perfect opportunity presented itself with one of my friends, I remembered the awful stereotype about gay men preying on straight guys, and though I didn't think anyone I knew would actually think lesser of me for giving head to my roommate (there would probably be a few jokes at my expense, followed by badgering me for details, knowing my friends), I didn't really want to perpetuate that image of myself. It wasn't me. I didn't throw myself into the path of every set of six-pack abs I came across. So, I stayed quiet.
At night, though, I was anything but. It took everything I had not to shout his name as I climaxed into wads of tissues, recalling every detail of him forcing his cock into my mouth, or envisioning scenarios where he would do more to me than just cum down my throat. Despite all my reservations about how to act around him, or worrying about how he was actually dealing with what we had done, my imagination ran violently wild at night. Knowing what he looked like without any clothes on, what his cum tasted like, and the sounds he made when he came were enough to allow me to fully furnish my masturbatory fantasies with the smallest details to last me the rest of my college career, and perhaps beyond if it continued to be just be me and my right hand for the foreseeable future.
