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And I mean that in every sense of the word.
The water pounds my shoulders, hot enough to turn my skin pink, and I’m standing here with both palms flat against the tile, trying to think about anything unsexy. It’s been three days and my body’s acting like it’s been three months.
I figured Brandon would be the one suffering. And he is. The guy was restless all morning, tossing in his bed until he gave up and dragged himself to the living room. I heard him turn on some game with the volume way too high. When I walked past, he stared at the screen and just grunted.
But me? I thought I’d coast through this. I’m not some guy who beats off four times a day. Once in the morning, sure, a quick one before class to get the blood flowing and start the day right. But it’s not like I’m addicted to it. I figured a month without would suck, but I’d handle it.
Wrong.
My dick is so hard it hurts. And all it took was Brooke, the girl across the hall, walking past me in those tiny denim shorts that barely cover her ass. Who the hell wears denim shorts in November? She gave me that smile of hers and said, “Hey, Dylan, good workout?” I was coming back from the gym, drenched in sweat, probably smelling like a locker room, and I was rock hard before her door clicked shut.
I tip my head back and let the water run over my face. Should’ve gone cold. But I’m not a masochist. Just a dumbass who made a bet with an even bigger dumbass.
The thing is, nobody would know. Brandon’s glued to his game. The door’s locked, the water’s running. It would take thirty seconds, maybe less. A few strokes, shoot it down the drain, let the water wash the evidence away. Done. Pressure gone. Buy myself at least a couple days of breathing room.
But I’d know.
I’d know I cheated. I’d know I lost to Brandon on day three. And I don’t cheat. Ask anyone who knows me. I talk a lot of shit, yeah, but I back it up. Always have. Poker, girlfriends, stupid bets. My word means my word. I’m not tapping out on day three.
So instead of grabbing my dick and giving it what it wants, I crank the handle all the way to cold. The icy spray hits me and I yelp. My dick surrenders instantly. Balls trying to crawl back inside my body, skin covered in goosebumps. Brutal, but it works.
A knock on the bathroom door. “Are you jerking off in there?”
“What? No.”
“I heard you gasp. You’re totally beating it.”
“I turned the water to cold, you idiot!”
“Open the door.”
“I’m naked, Bran.”
“I don’t care. Open it. I’ll be able to smell it.”
“You’re insane.”
“Open the door or it counts as a confession.”
I yank the shower curtain in front of me and reach over to unlock the door. The bathroom is tiny, barely bigger than a closet, so I don’t even have to step out of the tub. The door swings open, and Brandon’s right there, filling the frame, leaning in and actually sniffing the air like a goddamn bloodhound.
“Satisfied?” I say.
He sniffs again. Squints at me. “Why is your face so red?”
“Because the water’s freezing!” I flick some at him.
He wipes his cheek but doesn’t budge. “I’m watching you, Dyl. The second you slip, I’ll know.”
“You’re losing it.” I tighten the curtain around me. We’re best friends, we’ve seen each other naked plenty. Skinny-dipping drunk, changing in the room. It’s never been a thing. But right now, with my dick shriveled up into a little acorn, I’m keeping this curtain exactly where it is. “Go find something better to do.”
“The better thing to do is exactly what I can’t be doing right now.” He leans against the doorframe, then looks down and gestures at the obvious outline in his sweats. “Look at this. This is your fault.”
I look. He’s not lying. A thick bulge presses against the gray fabric, impossible to miss. Three days without getting off will do that to any guy, but Brandon’s basically a walking testosterone bomb. A grin tugs at my mouth. He’s close to cracking, too. I can feel it. I just have to hold on a little longer.
“Sucks to be you,” I say, like I wasn’t just blasting myself with ice water to kill my own boner.
“Nothing sucks. That’s the whole problem, Dyl.”
