Chapter 24
JACKSON
The problem with having a perfect auditory memory is that some sounds become permanently etched into your brain, whether you want them to or not. Drew’s broken gasp when he came is one of those sounds.
I’m sitting in my Advanced Macroeconomics lecture, attempting to take notes and failing because my brain is helpfully supplying a highlight reel of Drew’s face when he lost control. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, that vulnerable sound escaping his throat, ripped from somewhere deep.
My pen stops moving across the page as I realize that I’ve written Drew three times in the margins.
This is getting pathetic.
It’s been a week since the roller disco, and I’ve become a walking hard-on. Every night follows the same mortifying routine: Ryan announces he’s taking a shower, I give him a two-minute head start, then jerk off to the memory of Drew Larney coming undone against me.
Last night, I nearly bit through my knuckles trying to stay quiet while my body shook with the second most intense release I’ve had in months as I remembered it all. The desperation in his movements. The way he’d growled, “Come on, Jacky, let go,” like my orgasm was something he needed to survive.
“Mr. Monroe?”
I jolt back to reality. Professor Abernathy is staring at me expectantly, along with half the lecture hall. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you could explain the relationship between interest rates and investment spending.”
My face burns as I scramble for an answer. My brain is still stuck on my hands gripping Drew’s ass. Drew’s hips grinding against mine. Drew’s mouth being hot and demanding.
“Inverse relationship,” I choke out while crossing one leg over the other. “Higher interest rates decrease investment spending because the cost of borrowing increases.”
“Correct.” Professor Abernathy moves on, but I catch a few classmates exchanging glances. Great. Now I’m the guy who spaces out in class, when really, I’m just chronically horny for my fake boyfriend.
The lecture ends eventually, and I pack up my things with shaking hands. My phone buzzes as I exit the hall.
Ryan
Stop masturbating so much. You’ll go blind.
I nearly drop my phone.
Me
I’m not!
Ryan
Sure. That’s why I had to buy more tissue boxes this morning.
Me
I hate you.
Ryan
No, you don’t. Because I pretend not to notice when you wait exactly two minutes after my shower starts to beat your meat.
Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks like wildfire, turning me into a human furnace that could probably melt the snow outside if I stood near the windows long enough.
Me
We’re never speaking of this again.
Ryan
Whatever helps you sleep at night. Or not sleep, as the case may be.
Meet me at The Brew?
Me
Sure. As long as we don’t discuss my penis.
Ryan
I make no promises.
The Brew is blessedly warm after the arctic tundra that is February in Berkeley Shore. I spot Ryan immediately, sitting in our usual corner booth, the one with the slightly wobbly table.
“You’re forgiven for the tissue box comment,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him.
He pushes a latte and a sandwich toward me—turkey and avocado, no tomato.
“We need to discuss last Saturday night. I’ve been analyzing the biomechanics and psychological implications of the performances.
” He pulls out his phone, and I see he’s taken notes.
“First up, Kyle and Jonas. The angular momentum required suggests a coefficient of friction between—” He catches my blank stare.
“Right. Layman’s terms. It was really fucking athletic. ”
I snort into my latte. “That’s one way to put it.”
“But here’s what’s interesting,” Ryan continues, warming to his subject.
“The performance wasn’t just about physical prowess.
The synchronization of their movements and the maintained eye contact during high-stress maneuvers indicate a deep psychological attunement.
In astrophysics, we’d call it phase-locking, like binary stars orbiting a common center of mass. ”
“They were definitely orbiting something,” I mutter, remembering where Jonas’s face was when Kyle flipped him upside down.
“Exactly!” Ryan points his sandwich at me.
“Now, Gerard and Nathan—that was fascinating from a completely different perspective. Nathan was clearly the submissive partner in their routine. The way he allowed Gerard to manipulate his body position, the visible physiological responses—flushed face, dilated pupils, involuntary muscle tension—”
“He was mortified,” I interrupt. “His face was purple.”
“Mortification and arousal often present with similar symptoms.” Ryan takes a thoughtful bite of his sandwich.
“The vasodilation causing the facial flushing could indicate either emotional state. But the way Nathan kept returning to proximity with Gerard, despite multiple opportunities to create distance…”
“Nathan’s not into Gerard,” I protest. “Gerard’s with Elliot. Everyone knows that.”
“Physical attraction doesn’t always follow logical parameters.” Ryan’s using his professor voice now. “In my observations of celestial bodies—”
“Please don’t compare Nathan to a celestial body.”
“—gravitational pull exists regardless of current orbital commitments. Nathan’s reaction to Gerard’s gluteal proximity—”
“His what now?”
“Gerard’s ass, Jackson. Nathan’s reaction to being that close to Gerard’s ass suggests an involuntary attraction response.”
I shake my head. “He wanted to die. That’s not attraction—that’s trauma.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that interpretation.” Ryan takes a precise sip of his tea, and I notice something interesting. He’s been systematically breaking down every performance except…
“What about Oliver and Mason?” I ask, watching his face carefully.
Ryan’s eye twitches. “Standard public display of intimacy. Nothing particularly noteworthy from an analytical standpoint.”
“Nothing noteworthy?” I lean back, a grin spreading across my face. “They had clothed sex on roller skates. I’m pretty sure I saw someone cover their eyes.”
“It was…athletic.”
“Just athletic? Not worth analyzing the biomechanics of Mason’s leg on Oliver’s shoulder? The coefficient of friction between their bodies? The phase-locking of their hip movements?”
Ryan’s cheeks redden slightly. “I didn’t think it warranted the same level of scrutiny.”
Holy shit. Ryan’s jealous. My perfectly composed, analytically minded roommate is jealous of Mason grinding on Oliver Jacoby in public.
“You know,” I say casually, “Mason’s pretty flexible for a defenseman. The way he arched his back when Oliver dipped him? That requires serious core strength.”
“I suppose,” Ryan mutters.
“And the trust required for those moves? They must have practiced together a lot. Probably spent hours working on their…synchronization.”
Ryan’s jaw tightens. “Jackson—”
“I’m just saying, from an analytical standpoint, the intimacy of their performance was notable. The way Oliver’s hands mapped Mason’s body, the—”
“Alright!” Ryan sets his cup down harder than necessary. “Yes, fine, their performance was…effective. Oliver clearly has experience in partner-based activities, and Mason is adequately flexible for someone of his build. Happy?”
My cheeks ache from the shit-eating grin stretching across my face. “Ecstatic. This is payback for all the masturbation jokes, by the way.”
“I don’t want to be your roommate anymore.”
“Lies. You want me to be your roommate because I pretend not to notice when you analyze Oliver’s game footage for academic purposes,” I say, parroting what he texted me earlier.
Ryan’s face is now the color of a ripe tomato. “That’s completely different. I’m interested in the statistical—”
“You’re interested in his ass.”
“Sports analytics is a legitimate field of study!”
“So is anatomy.” I take a smug bite of my sandwich. “Want me to ask Drew if Oliver’s single?”
“Don’t you dare.” Ryan is genuinely panicking now. “Besides, you can’t even talk to Drew without turning into a walking hormone.”
And just like that, we’re back to my disaster of a situation. The smugness drains out of me like air from a punctured balloon. Because he’s right, I can’t even think about Drew without my body responding as though I’m thirteen and finally discovered the pleasure that can come from my dick.
“That’s different,” I mumble.
“Is it, though? Let’s examine the evidence. Increased masturbatory frequency directly correlates with your new relationship. Inability to maintain focus during academic activities. Physiological arousal responses to mere mentions of his name—”
“Okay! Jesus, I get it.”
“You’re exhibiting all the classic symptoms of severe infatuation complicated by sexual frustration.” He pauses, studying me over his glasses. “The question is: what are you going to do about it?”
I stare at my half-eaten sandwich. What am I going to do about it? Keep jerking off to memories while pretending everything’s fine? Wait for Drew to realize this was all a mistake? Hope the Ice Queen loses interest before I completely lose my mind?
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly.
As much as I try, I can’t shake the nagging thought that I’m just another body to Drew. A convenient one, perhaps, but temporary, nonetheless.
Beaches look different in the winter darkness. The same stretch of sand where Drew and I took the Polar Bear Plunge is now a monochrome landscape under the star-studded sky. The ocean is angry tonight, waves crashing against the shore with enough force to send spray into the frigid air.
“This is where it all began,” I say, pulling my coat tighter as Ryan and I sit down on a military-grade thermal blanket.
“And if it weren’t, you’d be, what? Masturbating a normal amount?” Ryan adjusts something on the telescope, then sits back on his heels. “Jackson, can I ask you something?”
“Since when do you ask permission?”
“Fair point.” He pulls out his star charts, unfolding them carefully in the dim light of his red flashlight. “What exactly are you afraid of?”