Chapter Four - The Competition
CHAPTER FOUR
The Competition
The following week was orientation week, which was all about parties, alcohol, having fun and meeting new people. Classes wouldn’t start for another week. So why the hell was I studying?
The answer was simple. I’d foolishly agreed to Taylor’s competition, so now I had five days — not even a full week — to learn how to be good at sex, otherwise Taylor would steal my bedroom, and I’d be exiled to the tiny dark jail cell.
Rationally, I knew I’d done something stupid, and I should call the competition off, but I was determined to see this through.
For the most part, I was an organised person, and I’d learned copious amounts of information in a short time before.
How hard was it to learn to be good at sex?
Besides, it would feel so good to win and make Taylor answer to my every beck and call.
I’d already daydreamed about the things I’d make him do.
He’d carry my bags when I went shopping.
He’d cook me dinner and then he’d serve it to me like a waiter.
I’d make him compliment me every morning.
I’d make him do all the household chores.
I’d make him rub my shoulders if I felt tense, and I’d make him accompany me to restaurants and cafes if I wanted to eat out, but didn’t want to go alone.
That life was so close, I could almost touch it. All I had to do was reach for it.
I rubbed my eyes, and stared down at the book I was reading.
I’d downloaded a bunch of ebooks off the internet about sex, and how to be good at it.
The page before me was describing the woman’s G spot.
I read, absorbing the information. A few pages later, the book talked about the male equivalent to the G spot, the prostate.
I didn’t need to read about that because it wasn’t as if I’d be tested on sticking a finger up a guy’s ass.
I found myself reading it anyway. I’d always been curious about the prostate, even though I’d never done anything with my ass, not even when I was extremely horny. It just felt scary to me. But I heard it felt good.
The information was actually pretty interesting, but I couldn’t linger on it long before the book whisked me off to the next topic, which was all about cunnilingus.
Over the next few days, I found myself in a pattern.
I’d wake up, study books for an hour or two, and head out to attend some orientation activities.
Then, in the evening, I’d go to parties and meet so many people, I’d instantly forget all their names.
I drank every night, which I knew was bad for my health, but I took care to make sure I didn’t drink too much.
I didn’t want a repeat of Sunday night. Then I’d stumble home sometime early in the morning, sleep in, wake up and do it all over again.
I only saw Taylor once during those days.
It was evening on Wednesday night, and I was in the bathroom, checking my hair before I went to a party hosted in another dormitory building.
The bathroom door was open, and I saw Taylor leave his room in the mirror’s reflection.
He came out wearing a bedsheet, and I was confused for a moment before I realised it was meant to be a toga.
He spared me a glance, didn’t say anything, and left the dorm.
I was left staring at the space where he’d been standing.
It truly wasn’t fair. He’d worn a handmade toga and it looked messy as hell, but somehow he looked glorious.
Maybe it was all the skin he had exposed.
Only one nipple was covered, the other a rose-pink colour.
Finally, it was Friday night — competition time.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what the competition would involve.
I tried to prepare for anything, and as I sat on the couch, waiting for Taylor to arrive, I revised all the information I’d read.
I’d watched some video tutorials too. There were some on YouTube, and then there were the NSFW ones on adult websites.
I’d watched one video explaining how to fuck, and sure, it’d been helpful, but I’d gotten hard thirty seconds into the video and stopped watching so I could rub one out.
I’d been more horny than usual recently.
It was probably the new environment I was in.
University and the endless future possibilities of having sex.
I’d also talked to a lot of gorgeous girls at parties and from the way they looked at me and touched my arm, I knew that if I wanted to sleep with them, I could.
I almost did, for a variety of reasons. Of course I wanted to have sex with a gorgeous girl, and also, it’d be good to have some practice in before the stupid competition thing.
But something stopped me from going through with it. I don’t know why, but it felt wrong.
Maybe I was a romantic after all. Maybe deep down, I wanted my first time to be with someone I loved, or liked a lot. Or at least someone I had known for more than an hour.
At 8:55, Taylor entered the apartment, wearing a plain navy shirt and black shorts. It was a simple outfit, but somehow he still looked like a high fashion model.
“Were you waiting for me?” He fell onto the couch beside me.
I scrambled out of the way. I didn’t want to accidentally touch him. “Duh,” I said. “We have our competition.”
He leaned over, so his face was inches from mine. I could see the black ring around his irises. I could smell him, and damn, he smelled good. Musky and clean.
Then I realised what he was doing, getting all in my personal space, and shoved him away. “What are you doing?”
“Just testing how close I can get.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s a sex competition, right? But you don’t like me getting close to you.”
“Of course, I don’t,” I snapped. “Maybe this is news to you, Taylor, but not everyone in the world is in love with you.” Then I remembered what he’d said. “Hold up. Our competition isn’t going to involve…touching each other, is it?”
My heart pounded. We’d boasted about our sexual experience, but obviously that meant experience with girls. There was no way Taylor was going to ask me to touch him. To run my hand up and down his defined stomach. To wrap my fingers around his hard, throbbing —
“No, it isn’t,” he said, sounding calm as he interrupted my panicked thoughts. “I thought about it, and there’s a way to decide who’s better in bed without touching each other, or getting naked.”
“Oh yeah?” I was hoping for a verbal test. Hopefully he’d say something like “how many nerve endings does the clitoris have?” and I would answer and then I would win.
“Yeah,” he said. “Take your pants off.”
I almost jumped off the couch. “Hold up. You said we weren’t getting naked or touching each other.”
“We won’t. Stop looking so terrified.” He hooked both thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down, untangling them over his ankles and throwing them to the side.
I stared. His lower half was covered with nothing but a pair of black briefs. I ripped my eyes away from his crotch to see him staring at me.
“Just take your pants off. Trust me.”
“I’d never trust you,” I grumbled, but I did what he said. It was a good way to distract me from the sight of his long, lean legs and the suggestive shapes underneath the black fabric. “Okay, done,” I said, after I’d taken my pants off and placed them on the couch beside me.
He looked at my boxer briefs — they were blue and covered in tiny bananas and I fought the urge to kill myself right then and there — and dragged his eyes up to meet mine.
“You know what women love?”
“What?” I asked, my mouth as dry as a desert.
“Dirty talk. We’re going to compete to see who has the filthiest mouth.”
Dirty talk? Well, sure, I’d read a few books that mentioned some people loved verbal confirmation during sex.
I’d also read some articles online that suggested phrases to use.
“Fuck” was a good simple one, if you were too embarrassed to say anything more complex.
There was also, “you’re so hot”, “you’re so tight”, etc. etc.
Those phrases were fine, but the truth was, I’d read a few erotic stories over the years.
I know the most common method for teenage boys was to wank to a porn vid, and sure, videos were great, but I’d always liked the way stories allowed you to use your imagination.
You could find the exact story that appealed to you.
You could immerse yourself in a scenario that would be impossible for a porn studio to film.
You could imagine the characters to be as hot as you liked.
To have the exact appearance you preferred.
For me, I always imagined the guy to be tall, and lean, with black hair and dark eyes, and an infuriating cockiness about him that just —
AND ANYWAY. The woman in the stories would be super hot, with huge boobs and a tiny waist and a big ass. Yeah.
“Okay,” I said. “Dirty talk. Easy peasy.”
“Good,” Taylor replied. “Glad to see that you’re cooperating without causing a fuss.”
I ignored that. “So, why are our pants off, then?”
He smiled, which made my heart stop for a second. Every time he smiled like that, I knew something bad was about to happen.
“First to get hard loses.”
I frowned. “What? That’s stupid.”
“How’s it stupid?”
“Because our dirty talk is meant to appeal to women. We’d be saying stuff that turns them on, not another guy. You clearly haven’t thought this through. And besides, isn’t this whole thing a little…” I paused. “Gay?”
Taylor laughed at that. A full on, head-tipped-back laugh.
“Oh, Archie,” he said. “Is your masculinity so fragile that you’re worried everything is gay?
We’re not even touching each other. There’s nothing to worry about.
Look. You can’t even see my dick. Unless…
” That horrible, mischievous smile again. “You want to?”
“I’d rather wash my eyes out with bleach,” I said in a deadpan voice.