I’m sitting in my Advanced Macroeconomics lecture, attempting to take notes and failing because my brain is helpfully supplying a highlight reel of Drew’s face when he lost control. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, that vulnerable sound escaping his throat, ripped from somewhere deep.
My pen stops moving across the page as I realize that I’ve writtenDrewthree times in the margins.
This is getting pathetic.
It’s been a week since the roller disco, and I’ve become a walking hard-on. Every night follows the same mortifying routine: Ryan announces he’s taking a shower, I give him a two-minute head start, then jerk off to the memory of Drew Larney coming undone against me.
Last night, I nearly bit through my knuckles trying to stay quiet while my body shook with the second most intense release I’ve had in months as I remembered it all. The desperation in hismovements. The way he’d growled, “Come on, Jacky, let go,” like my orgasm was something he needed to survive.
“Mr. Monroe?”
I jolt back to reality. Professor Abernathy is staring at me expectantly, along with half the lecture hall. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you could explain the relationship between interest rates and investment spending.”
My face burns as I scramble for an answer. My brain is still stuck on my hands gripping Drew’s ass. Drew’s hips grinding against mine. Drew’s mouth being hot and demanding.
“Inverse relationship,” I choke out while crossing one leg over the other. “Higher interest rates decrease investment spending because the cost of borrowing increases.”
“Correct.” Professor Abernathy moves on, but I catch a few classmates exchanging glances. Great. Now I’m the guy who spaces out in class, when really, I’m just chronically horny for my fake boyfriend.
The lecture ends eventually, and I pack up my things with shaking hands. My phone buzzes as I exit the hall.
Ryan
Stop masturbating so much. You’ll go blind.
I nearly drop my phone.
Me
I’m not!
Ryan
Sure. That’s why I had to buy more tissue boxes this morning.
Me
I hate you.
Ryan
No, you don’t. Because I pretend not to notice when you wait exactly two minutes after my shower starts to beat your meat.
Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks like wildfire, turning me into a human furnace that could probably melt the snow outside if I stood near the windows long enough.
Me
We’re never speaking of this again.
Ryan
Whatever helps you sleep at night. Or not sleep, as the case may be.
Meet me at The Brew?
Me
