God, everythingtingles. My cock is rock hard, trapped between my stomach and something hot and solid. It's too dark to see, but I reach out, feeling for whatever it is I want to desperately grind against.
Skin meets skin, my hands latching on to a ribcage, thumbs tracing the shorn off edge of a cotton t-shirt. My palms slide down, down, down, gliding over a ripple of abs covered in hair. A thigh presses between my legs and I groan, rubbing and bucking my aching cock against it. Hot breath tickles across my neck, stubble scraping at my jaw and making my every nerve ending come alive.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” a low voice rasps in my ear as a pair of hands come down to cup my ass. “I can’t stop wanting you. I shouldn’t, but goddamn, Alex.”
He pulls me closer, grinding that hot, hard thighagainst my weeping erection, and my head goes fuzzy from the friction.
“I…oh god…” I stammer, moaning and sighing as we rub against each other, pleasure swirling in my gut, coiling tight and threatening to burst.
“It's my turn to ask a question, Alex, and I want to know. Do you want me as badly as I want you?”
I whimper, and he squeezes my ass harder, grinding me faster against him.
“Don’t bother lying to me, either. Not when you’re rubbing your dick on me like a needy little kitten. You gonna come all over my thigh and then tell me you just want to be friends?”
The motion of our dry humping pulls at the loose waistband of my pajama pants, and when the sensitive, leaking, throbbing head of my dick meets the fabric of his pants, my balls draw up tight. Pleasure swirls in my gut, coiling and threatening to burst at the seams. My breath comes in hot, needy pants, and the overload of sensation sweeps me under. With one last hard thrust against his thigh, I’m coming, shooting everywhere and shaking with the force of it, gasping and moaning as the orgasm rolls through me.
And as it subsides, as the pleasure fades from intensity to soft contentment, leaving me gooey and sated, I feel the light of morning warming my bareback. I try to take a deep breath but I’m met with a mouth full of cotton fabric and realize my face is buried in a throw pillow. My heart is pounding, my crotch is wet, and I’m pretty sure I ruined my favorite pair of Home Alone themed holiday pajamas.
Well. This is fucking humiliating. I’ve never been more happy to live alone in my life.
The man holding me close and whispering dirty things to me in my dream may not have been real, but the way I just defiled my poor couch to completion in my sleep certainly was. I groan as I roll over, trying and failing to keep the cum in my pants from making me any messier. My phone is still propped up against a stack of books on my coffee table, right where I left it last night while Elliot and I talked about everything and nothing until I watched him fall asleep.
I say a quiet thank you prayer to any gods and goddesses that might be listening for giving me the good sense to end our video chat last night before falling asleep myself. I think the only thing more humiliating than having a wet dream at the ripe, old age of twenty-seven is having a wet dream in front of your new friend because you didn’t want to stop watching him sleep long enough to hang up the phone.
Sitting up, I prop my elbows on my knees anddrop my face into my palms. That was the third dream I’ve had in as many days where I’m happily and enthusiastically hooking up with another man. Which, okay, fine. It’s happened before. Dreams are dreams, they don’t have to mean anything.
Except this time, I went all the way. This time, dream me and real life me came, hard. Dream me and real me were super into dry humping the fuck out of that guy’s legs.
And this time, I have to try extra hard to lie to myself and pretend that dream guy was some nameless, faceless entity sent to my subconscious to have me questioning my sexuality.
Especially when I know for a fact that it was my new friend’s name on my lips when I was coming, that hearing myself moan his name is what woke me up.
And especially when, ten minutes later in the shower, I’m hard again and stroking myself to green eyes, happy trails, and abs in crop tops.
7
FROM DINNER ROLLS TO COMMUNIST LITERATURE
Elliot
Sitting in the back seat of Lennon’s truck with the window rolled down, I feel uncharacteristically enthusiastic and alive for eight in the morning. Especially when I’ve already been awake for hours. Early this morning, the entire Redwoods starting offensive line up met up in Golden Gate Park to run a Turkey Trot 5k for charity. It’s something we do every year, and it's always a good time, even if the main event is expending cardiovascular energy at the ass crack of dawn. We get to hang out with and meet Redwoods fans, run relays with kids, and between pledged donations and the money matched by the team and individual athletes like myself, we raised over two million dollars for at-risk youth in the Bay Area.
Now Breaker, Lennon and I headed downtown to meet up with the rest of our team and the guys and gals from the Thunder to prep and serve Thanksgiving meals for people in need. These kinds of events are always a mixed-bag of emotions for me. I’m eternally grateful for the life I’ve built, the privileges I’ve afforded myself, and the fact that I have the free time, energy, and money to give back to my communities. But there is a part of me that will never forget what it felt like to be a kid on holidays, standing in line with strangers at food banks or soup kitchens, waiting to be fed while Mom did her best to make everything feel as normal and as special as possible for the two of us.
One particular year when I was ten always sticks out in my mind. It was that weird, in-between age where I was old enough to know the deal with Santa but still young enough that Mom was able to convince me that sleeping in the kitchen with the oven door cracked for heat was just a fun way of camping and not actually her way of keeping us warm on frigid nights because she couldn’t afford to turn the heat on. It was the day before Thanksgiving break at school, and our teacher took us to an assembly in the cafeteria to help put together baskets of food—cans of corn and cranberries, boxed stuffing, dinner rolls—for the high school kids to deliver to “the less fortunate” later that afternoon. I had a blast stuffing baskets, and when I went home that day, I’d been so excited to tell Mom about the good deeds I’d done that day.
But before I got a chance, a handful of high school kids in their letterman jackets and cheer uniforms were knocking on our apartment door, delivering a basket that I’d help assemble that afternoon.
Those teenagers didn’t know me. They didn’t know I was a student at the elementary school or that I’d been so excited arranging jarred gravy and canned green beans just a few hours ago.
Those older kids were kind and caring. Nobody said or did anything to make me feel less than. They didn’t have to. I knew it intrinsically the moment I opened the door.
When Mom asked what we’d done at school that day, I lied and said we helped the first graders make hand turkeys. I couldn’t let her in on the shame I was feeling deep in my chest. That would have killed her.
I know that there will be kids, teenagers, young adults in line for food today that are going to feel shame, embarrassment, guilt—all things a person shouldn’t feel on a holiday, or any day for that matter—and I try to make it my mission to make things as fun as I possibly can to take the edge off all those big, harsh feelings.
“Do you think they’re gonna be dumb enough to stick the O-Line on turkey duty again?” Breaker asks from the front seat, his hand grasping Lennon’s tightly on the center console while a folk-sounding Taylor Swift song I don’t quite recognize plays quietly from the speakers. I snort in response.
