“Three times. I told him you’d fallen asleep studying.” Ryan’s lips twitch. “Seemed kinder than explaining you’d knocked yourself unconscious via aggressive self-pleasure.”
“Oh my God.” I bury my face in my hands, forgetting about the dried evidence until it’s too late. “Oh, gross.”
“Indeed.” Ryan returns to his essay with the air of someone who’s seen too much and chooses to cope with homework. “He invited me to attend because he noticed I wasn’t at the last event.”
As if I needed another reminder of how completely fucked I am. My body still carries phantom sensations from earlier—the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming need to be filled by Drew specifically. And now I have to perform some kind of sensual art with him? In public?
“Let me check if the Ice Queen has posted yet.” Ryan pulls up the blog on his laptop and scrolls through it with efficiency. “Nothing so far.”
I should get up. Should wash my hands, take a shower, and pretend this whole undignified situation never happened. But something in Ryan’s tone makes me pause.
“You think I’m an idiot,” I say.
“I think you’re in over your head.” His expression has turned gentle. “Jackson, is this really what you want to do? Perform some ridiculous stunt for charity?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Ryan’s voice cuts through my deflection.
“I want to be around him,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper. “Always.”
A small smile tugs at Ryan’s lips, but it’s not mocking. “Then tell him that.”
“I need to shower,” I announce, standing abruptly. The throw blanket falls away, and I’m hyperaware of the state I’m in—boxers twisted, shirt rucked up, hand still bearing evidence of my wild night of masturbation.
I grab my shower caddy and flee, deciding to use the communal shower room instead of our private one to avoid temptations. No way to jerk off when you’re surrounded by other guys washing between their cheeks.
My flip-flops echo down the empty hallway, each slap against the linoleum a broadcast of my disheveled state. I clutch my shower caddy against my chest like a shield, eyes darting to check doorways, praying no one sees me with my twisted boxers and the crusty evidence still flaking from my right hand. As I approach the showers, I hear guys talking about the Ice Queen and wondering when her post will go live. I ignore them all and take the showerhead at the farthest end of the room.
The shower itself is both a blessing and a curse. Hot water washes away the physical evidence of my activities, but it does nothing for the mental replay. Every time I close my eyes, I see Drew’s face on that FaceTime call. Hear his voice asking if I’m okay with this, as though he cares about my comfort level. He probably does, in his own way. Drew’s not cruel. He wouldn’t force me into something I’m genuinely uncomfortable with. The problem is I’mtoocomfortable.Toowilling.Toodesperate for any excuse to touch him.
I scrub harder, hoping to wash away these feelings along with the soap suds. But they cling to me, persistent as the water droplets on my skin. The truth is inescapable—I’m completely, pathetically, irrevocably head over heels for Drew Larney.
As I dry off, I think about how nobody forced me to agree to fake date Drew. Nobody made me say yes to the roller disco, or this new charity event, or any of it. I walked into this situation with my eyes wide open and my heart completely exposed.
And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
ICE QUEEN BLOG POST #5
Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me
Posted by The Ice Queen | March 14th | 2:10 PM
Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.
Mark your calendars because Berkeley Shore University is about to host the most gloriously inappropriate charity event in its 127-year history. On March 19th, the Berkeley Shore Convention Hall will be converted into a den of sin. Dozens of BSU’s finest athletic specimens, clad only in thongs (yes, you read that correctly), will be stationed inside individual glass display cases throughout the convention hall. Sam Sparro’s “Black & Gold” will pulse through the speakers on repeat—that hypnotic beat that builds and throbs in all the right places. Our brave participants will then paint each other’s bodies while performing the most intimate moves you’ve ever seen in public.
I can already imagine the rugby boys turning it into a competition of who can be the most provocative. The hockey team? They’ll probably approach it like a contact sport withaggressive touches and barely restrained energy. And don’t even get me started on what the wrestling team might do with their legendary flexibility.
Now, you’re probably wondering if this is even legal. Well, it’sart. Educational, even. We’re exploring themes of trust, vulnerability, and human connection through interpretive dance and body paint. The fact that it involves gorgeous men in thongs is merely incidental to the vision.
I’m particularly curious to see how Drew and Jackson will handle the constant touching required by this performance. Will Drew’s famous confidence hold when he’s wearing nothing but a thong and has to run his paint-covered hands all over Jackson’s quarterback physique? Will Jackson maintain that adorable blush of his for the entire performance?
And what about the other couples? Oliver Jacoby and Mason Bay nearly caused a riot with their roller-skating routine. Gerard Gunnarson, in a thong, is going to push things into X-rated territory. Kyle Graham’s flexibility combined with this format? We might need paramedics on standby for poor, dear Alex.
I’ll be there, of course, documenting every paint stroke, every intimate touch, every moment when the line between performance and reality gets deliciously blurred.
So polish your credit cards, clear your Saturday night, and prepare yourselves for a night of glorious fun. After all, nothing says romance quite like Sam Sparro’s sultry voice, reminding us that we’re all searching for something real in this black and gold world.
