When it comes to sex, he is not your typical college football player. He’s had sex two times and had his dick sucked maybe a handful of times. He’s gotten Savannah off a lot more than that, mostly because she complains about how ridiculous it is that he doesn’t want to do it all the time. She’s grateful he doesn’t care about getting anything in return. He writes it off like being left hanging like that is normal—but that’s not normal. Well, I shouldn’t say it's not normal, because of course it’s normal forhim. But I think he’s covering something up. Or refusing to believe something about himself. Like, maybe the fact that he isn’t into women…
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. It’s more he’s just not into Savannah because she’s a royal C-U-N-T. He’s also got a lot going on in his life between school, football, Savannah, his family… he’s probably stressed out and she doesn’t make matters better for him. She doesn’t know how to be a support for him.
But none of that has anything to do with this, with what just happened.
My phone hits seven minutes and I quickly hang up before he realizes what happened. I don’t want him to feel weird about this, because it’s the exact thing that would have him all up in his head. One more thing to stress him out that he doesn’t need. See, I’m thoughtful. Savannah isn’t. I have a long list of why I’m better than she is.
I put my phone on the edge of the bed and glance down at the tent in my pants.
And I just came at the club…
I guess that’s just what Austen Brewer does to me.
It’s pathetic. I know this. Because being in love with your straight best friend is the most cliche thing a gay man like myself could do. He’s the football player, and I’m the misunderstood artsy friend. He’s straight with the perfect life planned out. I’m a fucking mess who screws a different guy each week. Sometimes more than one.
Yeah, my life is pretty fucking pathetic.
I stare down at my dick like it’s an alien. My body is telling me to take care of it. To rub one out real quick. But there’s this voice inside my head that’s telling me not to do it because it’s wrong.
Sure, I’ve jerked off thinking of Austen before, but that was different. This feels like it’s crossing a line. I was listening to something I shouldn’t have been listening too, and if he knew I had, he’d be so uncomfortable. Best friends or not, I can’t do this. So instead, I hop into an ice cold shower until my mind is too preoccupied with surviving rather than coming.
“Here, I brought you your favorite.” I hold out the coffee to Austen, and he takes it gratefully.
“Thank you,” he says with a sigh of relief, flashing me that perfect smile of his before taking a small sip.
I sit on the wall with him. It’s not meant for sitting, and the campus sends out emails all the time, but if you looked around, you’d think none of us got them. It’s the perfect height for sitting, and the perfect width for holding books and drinks. If they didn’t want us sitting on their wall that’s supposed to be used as a boundary line, they shouldn’t have made it so comfortable.
“What are you working on?” I ask, glancing over his shoulder to see the book in his lap.
“Research paper for English.”
“Boring,” I say.
He groans, dropping his head back. “I should have listened to you.”
“Uh, which time?” I ask, bringing my hot cup of coffee to my mouth for a sip.
“Freshman year when you said I should get all my shitty classes out of the way, so senior year can be more fun.”
I bark out a laugh. “Kicking yourself in the ass over it now, huh?”
“Sure am.” He groans again, and this time it causes my stomach to heat. I quickly clear my throat and get to my feet because I need some space.
Am I going to think about him jerking off all the time now? I hope not. I’m not going to ruin our friendship over something so ridiculous. As much as I’d love for Austen to have some kind of gay awakening and realize he’s in love with me as much as I’m in love with him, it’s best I accept that it won’t happen. At least, not until pigs fly.
“We should go out tonight,” I offer. “Bowling?”
“Can’t. Got plans with Savannah.” He twists his lips, his eyebrows furrowed as he says, “Sorry.”
“Okay… how about tomorrow?”
“Dinner with my parents.” He sighs.
“Friday?”
“Game.”
“You suck,” I say.
