The Jock Next Door #2
I wanted to know who they were. What they were doing.
Why it was so forbidden for them to be doing it with other guys.
They were graphic, breathless, dirty little scenes where a college boy who looked not coincidentally like me got pinned down, stretched open, and pounded by men who looked like every jock I’d ever wanted and could never have.
I remember the first time I finished one of those projects. My heart was pounding, and my dick was leaking pre-cum like a faucet. The second I touched myself, I shot the biggest, hardest load of my life.
I ruined those first few drawings, covering them in cum.
But it was worth it.
The notebooks lived in the bottom drawer of my desk, beneath a stack of textbooks, and I only pulled them out late at night, after the hallway went quiet.
Earbuds in.
Lamp on.
Pencil and pen in hand, my other hand eventually migrating onto my dick as the scene on the page got hotter, until I was sketching with one hand and touching myself through my boxers with the other, my lip caught between my teeth, my pulse hammering, the dorm room shrinking to nothing but the small circle of light on my desk and the images and words spilling out of me.
Maybe it was pathetic. A nineteen-year-old virgin getting off to his own drawings—drawings and stories featuring himself and the kinds of jocks who would never get caught in bed with another guy.
Alone in a cinder-block dorm room the size of a parking space, while real life—real men, real touch, real skin—existed just beyond the walls he was too scared to walk through.
Because walking through them would mean taking the risk.
Putting himself out there. Telling the world—and himself—that he was actually gay.
But it was mine. My secret. My only outlet. The one place where I could want what I wanted without apology, without consequence, without getting caught or drowning in shame. It was the only time where I could feel good without feeling wrong.
And then one night in early September, not long after I’d arrived at college, my earbuds died, and everything changed.
I was working on a new sketch when the battery icon blinked red and the music cut out mid-song, leaving me in sudden, jarring silence — the kind that makes you realize how thin the walls in a college dormitory really are. I reached for the charging cable, and that's when I heard it.
A moan.
Low. Deep. Masculine. Muffled by drywall and distance, but unmistakable.
It was coming from the room next door.
From his room.
From the room belonging to Trey “Tank” Van der Meer—the six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound football tight end I had never spoken to, never made eye contact with, and spent the past four months trying very, very hard not to think about.
And failing.
Because Trey just so happened to be the star of most of my drawings and stories. Calling him my muse would have been putting it lightly. It was his face, his muscles, his tattoos that filled the pages of my sketchbooks.
And his name that filled my notebook stories—the big jock fucking the pretty boy for hours and hours.
I’d already been obsessed with my jock neighbor. From the first time I saw him on move-in day freshman year, I noticed him. It was impossible not to.
Not that I ever let myself talk to him or tried to get close to him. I already knew his type, and I knew enough to stay away before I ended up crammed into a wastebasket or shoved into a locker.
The first time I heard the moaning from his dorm room, I sat at my desk with my pencil frozen in midair, my mouth dry and my skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the broken air conditioning.
I imagined him on the other side of that wall.
Naked.
That enormous, hairy body slick with sweat, muscles flexing, hips driving forward while some lucky sorority girl dug her nails into his tattooed back.
And then, naturally, I imagined what his cock must look like.
Before I could stop myself—before common sense, self-preservation, or even the faintest whisper of caution could intervene—I flipped to a blank page in my spiral notebook and started to draw.
After that, I filled notebook after notebook with naked imaginings of Trey. At first, I felt filthy for it. Ashamed.
But I got over that once I’d emptied my balls a few times.
Then it became something else. In my fantasies, anyway, Trey was mine. Anytime I wanted him to fuck me, I could put it on the page. I could draw him. Write him. Make him want me in all the ways he never would in real life.
It wasn’t perfect.
But I was a good enough artist to make him look like himself, and at the time, that was enough.
It seemed like every week, he got bigger on my sketchpad page. His dick grew larger and larger until it became a hulking, fat nine-inch monster hanging between his legs—exactly how I imagined it, and how I desperately hoped it might look in real life.
And hey, since I knew I’d never actually get to see it, I could tell myself it was close enough to true, right?
That first sketch was supposed to be the end of it. It wasn't.
I kept hearing his moans through the other side of my dorm-room wall, and just when I thought I could stop drawing filthy sketches of Trey, I’d hear one of those deep, booming groans, and my dick would go hard all over again, aching for me to bring another dirty little story of the two of us to life.
Over the months that followed that first night in September—the night I heard Trey moaning through the wall and decided to sketch the two of us together in the filthiest marathon of gay sex I could imagine—Trey Van der Meer became my obsession.
And he never even knew I existed.
I studied him the way I studied anatomy for my figure-drawing elective, except no professor had ever assigned a subject this… exciting.
I catalogued him in stolen glances across the dining hall, on the campus shuttle where he sat in the back with his headphones on and his massive legs spread wide enough to claim two seats, on the quad where he threw a football shirtless with the other guys on the team—his dark, hairy chest glistening in the Alabama sun, his anchor tattoo flexing across one thick pectoral, the naval compass inked on his ribs stretching every time he cocked his arm back to throw.
He had these steel-grey eyes flecked with brown. A jaw that could've been cut from granite. And a smile—ugh, that smile—wide and white and cocky, the kind that made you feel like you'd won something just by being in its vicinity, even though it was never, not once, directed at me.
I was invisible to Trey. A ghost in the hallway. The skinny blond freshman who slipped past his door with his eyes on the carpet while Trey filled every corridor, every room he entered, stealing everyone’s attention without even trying.
But in my notebooks, we were anything but strangers.
The drawings evolved. That first rough sketch of his imagined cock became a full rendering—every vein, every ridge, every inch of the thick, monstrous shaft I'd conjured for him.
Six inches. Then seven. Then eight. Nine, on the nights when I was especially horny.
Until eventually, it was always nine. A cartoonishly large cock, long and thick, with a fat, sculpted head and big, low-hanging balls drawn nestled between the kind of massive, hairy thighs I'd watched carry him across the quad a hundred times.
Sure, I knew it was probably a wild exaggeration. Most guys weren’t built like that. In fact, I remembered reading somewhere that only about one in four million men had a nine-inch dick.
But in my fantasies? They all did. And Trey had the biggest.
Trey was enormous everywhere else—his shoulders, his arms, his chest—so why not have a big dick, too?
Not like it mattered. I told myself I was drawing a fantasy, not a blueprint. That the Trey in my notebooks was a fictional character who happened to share a face and a set of tattoos with the real one.
But late at night, alone at my desk with my boxers shoved down to my thighs and my hand wrapped around my own five-inch dick, it didn't feel fictional. It felt real.
I'd stare at the drawing—Trey's body, Trey's cock, Trey's face twisted in the kind of pleasure I wanted to be the cause of—and I'd stroke myself slow and tight until my toes curled against the cold tile floor and my breath came in shallow, shaking pulls and I came so hard my vision blurred.
Often, I did it while Trey was moaning on the other side of the wall. I’d moan when I came, too—loud enough to make it feel almost real, like for one brief, impossible moment, we were actually together.
Then I'd clean up, close the notebook, slide it back into the bottom drawer, and lie in bed staring at the ceiling while the shame and the satisfaction wrestled each other to a draw.
Every night, the same ritual. Every morning, the same careful blankness when I passed his door.
The stories got longer.
The drawings got more explicit.
I wrote scenes where Trey fucked me so hard I couldn’t walk for days.
Scenes where I dropped to my knees in his doorway so that anybody walking down the hallway would the filthy things I was doing to him.
Scenes where he bent me over my own dorm-room desk and gave me every inch of the cock I'd built for him on the page.
I used his name. And I used mine. I drew his tattoos with the care and precision of a cartographer charting sacred ground.
And not once—not for a single, stupid second—did it occur to me that any of it might find its way into the wrong hands.
When it happened, the irony was almost poetic.
I'd spent months studying Trey Van der Meer from a careful distance—tracking his movements across campus like a stalker, always making sure I knew exactly where he was so I could look without getting caught.
And the one afternoon it actually mattered? I didn't even notice him sitting three rows behind me on the shuttle bus back to the dorms.
It was early July.