Chapter 4
JACKSON
Present Day
Iwaddle across the dorm room, my thighs chafing against cotton that rides up places it has no business exploring.
The elastic waistband digs into my hip bones while everything below feels vacuum-sealed, packaged, and ready for shipping.
With each step, the fabric shifts and bunches, sending little lightning bolts of discomfort straight to my brain.
Jesus. Is this what a sausage feels like?
“Hey, Ryan?” I pause mid-waddle, one hand instinctively cupping my junk. “How the hell do you wear these things every day? I feel like my boys are in prison.”
Ryan looks up from where he’s folding his clothes with military precision.
His own white briefs peek out, and he appears completely unbothered.
“I’ve worn briefs since I was a child, Jackson.
My father believed they were the only appropriate undergarments for a young man. I’ve never known anything different.”
“So you’re saying your junk just…adapted?”
“Precisely.” He smooths out a crease in his shirt. “Your anatomy will need time to adjust to the compression. The male genitalia is remarkably adaptable, though the initial transition period can be uncomfortable.”
I grunt and take another awkward step. “Remind me again why I can’t wear my boxers to this thing? It’s not like anyone’s going to be inspecting my underwear.”
Ryan sets down his shirt and fixes me with that patient expression he gets when he’s about to explain something obvious.
“The Polar Bear Plunge involves submerging oneself in water that hovers around forty degrees Fahrenheit. Loose-fitting undergarments will provide no thermal protection whatsoever. The snug fit of briefs traps body heat close to your most vulnerable extremities.”
“My most vulnerable—”
“Your penis, Jackson. The tightness will help prevent frostbite to your penis.”
I blink at him. “Frostbite. On my dick.”
“It’s a genuine medical concern. Penile frostbite can result in tissue damage, reduced sensation, and in severe cases—”
“Okay, okay, I get it!” I hold up my hands. “Briefs it is. Gotta protect the goods if I want to have kids someday.”
Ryan nods, satisfied, and returns to his folding.
I shuffle over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of our closet door, figuring I should at least see what I’m working with before the entire hockey team and half the campus witness my suffering.
Holy mother of God.
I choke on my tongue. Literally choke, like I’ve swallowed it wrong, which shouldn’t even be possible.
The white briefs have transformed my lower half into something obscene. My package sits front and center, cradled in cotton, making it look approximately three times its normal size. I can see the outline of everything—and I do mean everything.
I turn slightly, craning my neck to check out the back view, and my brain short-circuits.
My ass. My ass looks incredible.
Each cheek is lifted and cupped as though the briefs were custom-designed by some sort of ass architect.
The cotton hugs the curve of my glutes, creating this rounded, perky situation that I’ve never seen on my own body before.
The waistband sits below the small of my back, framing everything perfectly.
If I were a narcissist—which I’m not, I swear—I’d seriously consider fucking my own ass after seeing this.
“Ryan.” My voice comes out strangled. “Ryan, look at my butt.”
“I’d rather not.”
“No, seriously. Come here and look at what these briefs are doing to my butt.”
With a heavy sigh, Ryan walks over and stands beside me, examining my reflection with clinical detachment. “Your gluteus maximus does appear more prominent.”
“Prominent? Dude, my ass looks like it belongs in a museum.”
“That’s a rather dramatic assessment.”
“Look at it!” I gesture wildly at my reflection. “Each cheek has its own little shelf thing going on. When did my ass get shelves?”
“The supportive nature of the garment creates a lifting effect. It’s quite common.” Ryan adjusts his glasses. “Though I must say, the fit does seem rather snug in the front as well.”
I glance down at my crotch, then back at the mirror. The bulge is impossible to ignore. “Yeah, well, apparently I’m packing heat I didn’t know about.”
“The compression creates an illusion of increased size. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“An illusion? Ryan, I can see the ridge of my—” I stop myself. “You know what, never mind. The point is, I’m about to run into the ocean looking like I stuffed an eggplant down my underwear while my ass auditions for a rap video.”
Ryan returns to his side of the room. “I fail to see the problem. You wanted to participate in this charity event. This is the appropriate attire for thermal protection.”
I stare at my reflection for another long beat. The briefs really do make my body look different. More defined somehow. My thighs appear thicker, my waist narrower by comparison. And that ass looks like it could bounce quarters.
Shit. Drew is going to see me in these.
Drew, with his easy smile and his quick wit and his habit of stealing my fries. Drew, who’s going to be at this plunge with the entire hockey team, probably wearing even less.
Drew, who is absolutely, definitely just my friend.
My stomach twists itself into a pretzel.
“You’ve been staring at yourself for three minutes,” Ryan observes. “That’s approaching narcissistic territory.”
“I’m mentally preparing.” I tear my eyes away from the mirror. “For the cold. And the public humiliation.”
I grab my sweatpants from my bed and yank them on over the briefs, grateful for the coverage even as the fabric settles weirdly over my newly prominent package. My hoodie follows, and suddenly, I’m a normal human being again instead of an underwear model.
“What time are we leaving?” I ask.
Ryan checks his watch—an analog. “We should depart in approximately forty-five minutes. That will give us adequate time to find parking and locate your hockey player acquaintances.”
“They’re your acquaintances too now, buddy. You’re stuck with us.”
“A fact I lament daily.”
I grin at him. Despite his formal weirdness and his inability to dress like anyone born after 1955, Ryan’s become one of my closest friends at BSU.
He puts up with my chaos, makes sure I eat my vegetables occasionally, and never judges me for the truly concerning amount of time I spend discussing a certain hockey player.
The beach parking lot is already packed when we arrive. My eyes scan for one particular figure, and even though I can’t spot him yet, a familiar flutter kicks up in my gut. The one reserved exclusively for moments when Drew Larney might be within a hundred-foot radius.
Sophomore year was supposed to help me figure this shit out.
After spending all of freshman year pretending I wasn’t checking out guys in the locker room, I decided to experiment.
The sex was fine. Good, even. I knew what I was doing, where everything went, and how to make my partners leave satisfied.
But there was always this nagging sensation, as if I was going through the motions and playing a part in someone else’s script.
Then Raymond from my econ class happened. Everybody loved him, me included. We were study partners turned beer partners turned guys who pressed each other against a wall at a house party and kissed. My entire body lit up like a Christmas tree, and my brain—the star on top—exploded.
This was it, the thing I’d been missing. The electricity that everyone talked about.
We stumbled back to his dorm, hands roaming everywhere, ripping the clothes from our bodies.
But when he pulled my pants down to my ankles and watched my dick spring up to say hello, I froze.
All I could think about was what my teammates would say if they found out.
So, I redirected, using my hands on him instead.
I watched his face contort with pleasure.
I watched his balls draw up tight. I watched him come undone on my face.
That became my pattern. Make out with a guy, get them off with my hands, then make up an excuse about early practice and bolt before they could reciprocate.
Xavier from the swim team. Fred from my philosophy seminar.
That TA from the chemistry department whose name I never learned, but whose broken moans still echo in my dreams sometimes.
Each encounter left me more confused, more frustrated, more…
desperate. And now, what’s been even worse is having to watch Drew Larney navigate his sexuality as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
He’ll stroll into The Brew with a girl on his arm on Tuesday, show up to Thursday’s party with a guy from the lacrosse team, and leave the next morning with both.
No shame. No second-guessing. Just Drew being Drew.
“How do you do it?” I’d asked him after way too many beers on New Year’s Eve. “Be so open about everything?”
He’d stared at me with bloodshot eyes, and his head tilted as though he was seeing right through my bullshit. “Life’s too short to pretend to be someone you’re not, Jacky.”
Easy for him to say. He didn’t grow up with friends and teammates who’d made “no homo” their catchphrase. He didn’t spend countless nights staring at the ceiling, desperately trying to categorize the butterflies in his stomach as something other than what they obviously were.
“You ready for this?” Ryan asks, pulling me out of my funk.
I kill the engine and give him a megawatt smile. “As ready as one can be for voluntary hypothermia.”
We climb out of the Jeep, and I’m grateful that the briefs have finally stopped trying to castrate me. I throw my arm around Ryan’s shoulders, pulling him into a side hug that makes him squawk indignantly. “You ready to be introduced to the gang?”
“I suppose I have no choice in the matter,” Ryan says, adjusting his scarf.
We start the trek toward the beach, sand already creeping into my sneakers. The January wind whips off the ocean, carrying salt and the promise of frozen balls.
“Okay, so let me give you the rundown before we find them.” I steer Ryan around someone setting up beach chairs. “First up is Gerard Gunnarson. Think golden retriever in human form. Big, enthusiastic, probably too nice for his own good.”
“The one with the posterior that achieved internet fame?”
“That’s the one. The Ice Queen wrote a whole blog post about his ass last semester. Thing went viral. Gerard didn’t even mind—he thought it was hilarious.” I shake my head. “The guy’s impossible to embarrass.”
Ryan nods, filing away the information.
“Then there’s Oliver Jacoby. He’s the team’s big brother. Works at The Brew, makes a mean latte, and will absolutely destroy anyone who messes with his friends. Built like a brick shithouse, but secretly a teddy bear.”
Ryan’s shoulders go rigid beside me. His jaw tightens, and his gaze fixes straight ahead with sudden intensity.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine.” The word comes out clipped. “The wind is rather biting.”
I glance at his face, noting the way his cheeks have gone from their usual pale to almost translucent. Must be the cold. The wind is brutal out here.
“Then there’s Drew.” I try to keep my voice casual, but something warm blooms in my chest just saying his name. “He’s, uh, kind of a playboy. Dates everyone. Very confident. We’ve gotten pretty close since our friend groups merged.”
“The hockey player you mention approximately seventeen times per day?”
“I do not mention him seventeen times per—”
“Yesterday alone, you referenced him while brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, walking to class, during class, after class—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” Heat crawls up my neck that has nothing to do with physical exertion. “He’s my friend. Friends talk about friends.”
Ryan’s eyebrow arches in that knowing way that makes me want to shove him into the sand.
“And lastly, there’s Kyle Graham.” I barrel forward before Ryan can psychoanalyze my Drew situation any further. “Grumpy as hell. Looks like he wants to murder everyone in his general vicinity. But the guy’s brilliant—he has a 4.0 GPA. Don’t let the death glare fool you.”
“A tetrad of fascinating personalities,” Ryan observes. “The golden retriever, the big brother, the playboy, and the curmudgeon. It sounds like the setup for a sitcom.”
“Trust me, living with them is a sitcom. A really chaotic, occasionally homoerotic sitcom.”
Another gust of wind slams into us, and I instinctively hunch my shoulders. My sweatpants flap against my legs, but underneath, everything stays secure.
“Hey, Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for the underwear advice.” I adjust myself through my pocket as subtly as possible. “My penis is snug as a bug in a rug right now. No frostbite for these family jewels.”
“I’m thrilled to have contributed to the preservation of your reproductive capabilities.”
“You should be. Future generations of Monroes depend on it.”
We crest a small dune, and the beach opens up before us.
A registration tent flaps in the wind, volunteers in bright orange vests directing participants.
Beyond that, the ocean stretches gray and angry, waves crashing against the shore with the enthusiasm of someone who really wants to ruin your day.
And there, clustered near a lifeguard stand, I spot them. The hockey team. At least a dozen guys in various stages of undress, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air.
Gerard’s impossible to miss—he’s doing lunges in nothing but those ridiculous pink swim trunks.
Oliver stands beside him, arms crossed over his impressive chest, looking like a bodyguard at a particularly cold nightclub.
Kyle lurks at the edge of the group, already in his black swim shorts, scowling at the ocean.
And Drew is…pulling his shirt over his head, revealing abs that have no business existing outside of a magazine. His skin pebbles in the cold, and when he tosses the shirt aside, my stomach drops to my knees.
Ryan makes a small noise beside me. When I glance over, he’s staring at Oliver with an expression I can’t quite read.
Fear? Recognition? Indigestion?
“Come on.” I grab his elbow and drag him toward the group. “Time to meet the chaos.”