Chapter 21
the twenty first chapter
MARK
And then there’s Olsen.
O for Olsen. O for orgy.
O for orientation week.
If I’m gonna behave, I should probably swerve all three.
It starts on the second day of semester.
As per tradition, the university campus is hosting a Club Day.
Every imaginable student organisation has pitched a stall.
I stroll along the grassy verge of the quad.
Dessert club, cinephile club, paddle boarding club.
Too many to count.
Astronomy club piques my interest.
I circle back to grab a flyer.
“Blonde!” squeals a girl behind me. “We got us a blonde!”
It takes me a second to realise that she’s pointing my way.
My hair is more of a golden brown.
But I guess it’s lightened quite a bit over summer, now that I’m a beach guy.
Blondes Have More Fun, says the banner above their table.
“Blondie. Blondie. Blondie,” her friends chant.
I join in awkwardly when they form a conga line.
But it’s not the girls who turn my head.
“Who is this gorgeous man?” asks a tall handsome stranger with a clipboard.
“Tell me your name at once.”
He’s eyeing me up and down.
Definitely a more-than-friends vibe.
How does he know I'm… I whisper the word to myself... gay?
Is there a rainbow neon sign above my head?
“Don't be shy,” his voice softens, “I only bite if you ask.”
Such a tease.
Porter used to flirt with me like that.
Am I allowed to like it?
“Olsen, by the way.”
Clipboard Guy reaches out to shake my hand.
“Hey,” I stammer, forgetting to say my name.
“Mystery man, huh?”
“Oh... sorry. I’m Mark.”
I was too caught up in those eyes.
“Newbie?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little. Studying commerce?”
“Event planning.”
“Oh, snap. I just switched my major. Turns out, accounting is boring.”
He leans closer, words hushed for my ears only.
“Guess I'll see you in class then, Mystery Mark.”
I’m too flustered to reply so I just drift away awkwardly.
One of the conga girls presses a piece of paper into my hand.
Blonde Bangers, scrawls the title.
Saturday 11am, Hadley Dorms.
BYO sausage + swimsuit.
Beneath that is a picture of a barbecue next to a pool.
Not usually my kind of thing, but for some reason I pocket it.
Some reason starting with O.
◆◆◆
A few days later, I still can’t shake the encounter from my mind.
He was definitely flirting with me.
So openly too, in front of everyone.
And… I don’t care at all.
Why would I care? I don’t care.
I didn’t even think he was that cute.
Okay, that’s a lie.
Olsen is hot as fuck.
But none of that matters.
Because I have Porter.
Or at least, Porter has me.
And I’m gonna be loyal.
Thoughts swirl in my mind for a moment.
I toy with the zipper on my backpack.
It’s still important to make friends though, right?
I should be social.
It’s college after all.
“I've got a uni thing, midday Saturday,” I lie to Franko. “Group project.”
“Can you work a double next Sunday?”
“Yes, chef.”
“Good lad.”
◆◆◆
Group project, indeed.
I’ve never seen so many blondes in one place.
Against my better judgement, I keep looking for one in particular.
Just as a classmate, I tell myself.
Nothing more.
Study buddies are essential.
We have the same major, after all.
And the truth is, I’ve been kind of lonely lately.
Through no fault of my own.
“Can't stay away from me, can ya?”
The voice behind me is deep and gravely.
Unmistakably his.
My heart is racing.
“Guess not,” I reply.
As a friend, I add silently.
“I want you to come.”
Olsen takes my hand.
Come?
That’s something I haven’t done for a while.
“Come meet the rest of the gang.”
He tugs me along the curved rim of the pool.
A cluster of patio sofas form a U-shape beneath two enormous umbrellas.
“Everyone, this is Mark. Mark, this is almost everyone.”
“Almost?”
“Roz and Pip were too lazy to buy wigs.”
“Those are wigs?” I grin.
“Shhh, they'll kick us out,” says a blonde dude on my left.
“We’ve been kicked out of parties for less,” smirks the guy one seat over.
“And more.”
As if to prove their point, the two men start kissing.
Right there in front of everyone.
I’m not sure where to look.
But nobody else seems to care.
Are they used to seeing men pash?
I’m certainly not.
Not other men, anyway.
My world tilts slightly on its axis.
“Why is that hand empty?”
A girl whose hair is definitely real perches next to a large tub of icy bottles.
“Our new friend Mark needs a beer.”
“I'm okay,” I insist. “I actually…”
A cold Corona is handed to me anyway.
I hold it politely.
“Not a drinker?” Olsen whispers.
“Not really,” I shrug.
Good one, I cringe.
Now they’re gonna think I’m boring.
Some loser from the middle of nowhere.
“No more booze for me tonight, kids,” Olsen announces.
“I volunteer as your sober driver.”
He takes the bottle from my hand and places it back in the esky.
Once again, nobody thinks anything of it.
You do you.
That’s the vibe.
Patting the seat next to him, Olsen invites me to sit.
As the afternoon unfolds, the drinks flow freely.
Couples grow noticeably more affectionate.
Shirts scatter across the floor.
Hands explore inside pants.
I can’t decide if it makes me uncomfortable or horny, the guys in particular.
I try but fail not to look at them from the corner of my eye.
But I can’t pretend it doesn’t fascinate me.
I’m kind of jealous of their openly confident partners.
Topless men kissing in front of everyone.
Hooking up to the point of… well, they aren’t fucking yet.
Just a hand job under the towel, from what I can tell.
I haven’t had one of those in so long.
Fuck, I miss that kind of touch.
My breath deepens.
Desire blooms between my thighs.
Then Olsen curves an arm around me.
Friends do that, right?
I make a power point presentation in my head, titled:
Reasons I'm Definitely Not Attracted to The Hot Guy From My Class.
And when that doesn’t work, I try to think about the least sexy man in Brisbane.
Franko.
Beer gut. Yellow teeth. Chain smoker.
Probably got a swamp butt.
Yep, it’s working.
I rest a cushion on my lap until the erection fades.
Reaching for my phone, I send a message to Porter.
Will be home soon x
No reply.
◆◆◆
Three hours later, he leaves me on read.
The dinner shift will be clocking on in less than ninety minutes.
I’ll need to get going soon.
“Stay…” Olsen pleads, when I stand to leave.
The warmth of his hand pulling me back to the couch?
It sends a wave of elation through me.
Damn, it feels so good to be wanted.
Unashamedly.
In public.
Let go, I tell myself. You have a boyfriend.
But deep down, I have to admit that it isn’t really true.
Porter has never once said the word boyfriend in my presence.
Or any four letter word starting with L.
Not even two summers ago, when we house-sat in Noosa.
And things have cooled dramatically since then.
We barely talk these days.
I blame my studies, but I know it’s more than that.
The drift has very little to do with me.
So I deserve to enjoy myself.
“Have to go, sorry. I'm working tonight,” I explain. “Kitchen slave.”
“Let me walk you out,” Olsen insists.
We meander across the courtyard and through the dorm lounge.
As we pass an open door, I freeze on the spot.
Four, five, six, I count.
Six guys my age, completely naked.
Mouths around cocks.
Asses being fingered.
Blonde wigs strewn across the carpet.
“Fuck yeah…” one of them moans. “Bounce on it. Ride that dick.”
I can’t move. My feet are glued to the tiles.
Heart thudding in my chest, I force myself to look away.
But not before Olsen sees the hunger in my eyes.
The way I wanted it.
The way I want him.
“It's not usually this intense,” he murmurs, with a hint of apology.
“O week can get a little wild. I should have given you a heads up.”
“It's okay,” I lie.
The toe of my shoe draws a circle on the rug.
“Nothing I haven't seen before.”
Idiot, I think.
Why the hell would you say that?
“Really?” His ears perk up at this. “Have you ever...?”
“Gotta go,” I blurt quickly. “Someone's waiting for me.”
Another lie.
Because nobody is.
Not in that way.
◆◆◆
By the second half of the year, Olsen's persistent flirtation has deepened.
And so has my resolve to remain faithful to Porter.
At least when it comes to reciprocating.
Something inside me yearns for validation.
For the arousal.
For the way it makes my body and soul come to life again.
I miss the feeling of being wanted.
But I won’t let myself cave.
Not worth it, I decide.
Keep things platonic.
Sadly, platonic describes things at home and work.
Porter and I have drifted more than ever.
But here with Olsen?
Platonic is easier said than done.
We spend a lot of time in the library.
It seems more productive to study here than in my bedroom.
Far more peaceful without the clatter of pots and pans beneath the floorboards.
The library is a place for soft voices.
For leaning close.
For learning new things.
“You make it so fucking hard…” he whispers.
“Make what hard?”
I answer my own question as soon as the words roll off my tongue.
“Hard to behave. When you look at me like that, with your shirt half undone.”
“Olsen…”
I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss him.
And it’s not the first time I’ve thought about it.
But I would never hurt Porter like that.
So instead, I fasten my buttons.
“What's the next chapter?” I ask, fixing my attention on the assignment.
“You keep saying there's someone else, but I don't believe you,” he sighs.
“I would have met this chef by now if he were real.”
“He is real,” I huff. “He's just... busy.”
Olsen draws a slow steady line across my knee with his pencil.
I hold my breath, but I don’t shift away.
“Too busy for you?” he guesses.
Ouch.
It’s uncomfortably close to the truth.
So I ignore the question.
“I'm right, aren't I? You and Porter are a one way street.”
“Stop it.”
“Okay, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did.”
“I just... you're his dirty little secret, aren't you?”
“I said, shut up.”
“That's why we never see you two together.”
“Enough!” I hiss quietly.
Olsen hushes at last.