NICK
CHAPTER NINE
Why do I always have to mess things up?
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching my bedroom grow lighter. If I’m being generous, I got maybe four hours of solid sleep last night, after running home with my tail between my legs and wondering why life chose me to be weird and overly complicated.
Hell, I can’t even kiss a guy I like without freaking out, and kissing is fun.
Then again, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it’s almost like these interactions are scripted. Guy likes me back. Guy gets me alone. I lead the guy on, and he makes a move.
The few times I went past that third step with someone else, elation turned to strange, unwelcome discomfort. Always somewhere between us making out and taking our clothes off, because that’s the way things naturally progress, irrespective of how I only want the first part.
Jesus, and the way Dean kissed me? He can fucking kiss. But the way he looked at me and touched me like I was a jug of crisp, clear water in the middle of the desert?
Yeah, that, and the way he told me straight-up how he wanted to suck my dick.
What kind of guy gets turned off when he’s offered a blowjob?
The kind of guy who doesn’t feel so much as a tingle of attraction down there when he makes out with someone he likes. Otherwise known as me.
Groaning, I roll over and wince as my body pins my morning wood into the mattress. I roll my eyes again—it’d be one thing if my sex drive matched my intimacy habits, but no. As luck would have it, I’m one horny-ass fucker who overthinks sharing this so-called gift with anyone else.
Maybe that makes me a not-fucker.
God, the pressure in my nuts has been building up to something astronomical, and it hasn’t even been twelve hours since I last jerked off.
I let out a thick, labored hiss as I cup my aching balls through the coarse fabric of my flannel PJ pants, straining my ears to hear if Jeremy is still at home, or if he’s already left for Thanksgiving break.
When I get nothing but silence and remember he had an early flight out of Manchester, I sigh, pushing my pants off and leaning over to pull my nightstand drawer open.
There’s quite the collection inside, built up over a while to give me a little more variety than my fist, and I reach for my trusty little dildo.
Jesus, I want to be fucked again.
Screw it—I crave getting railed like nothing else, but that doesn’t make up for how empty my head feels when I get someone else to try.
But damn, it was so freaking amazing when Josh had done it, and even then, he had to drag me into eventually feeling excited about anything.
“Come on,” he'd said. “You said it yourself—you need to get off all the time. Why can’t we do it together?”
I couldn’t argue with that, or the hand he slipped into my jeans right after.
And a few weeks later, he was vindicated after things clicked for me, so I just…
ignored the unease I had at the beginning.
A year and a half of relative normalcy, of screwing each other’s brains out every chance we got, but getting to that point was too damn uncomfortable for me to stomach it for a second time.
Besides, what reason do I have for risking it again? If my history holds true, I’d get tossed aside like I’m disposable. I might have friends, but for anything serious beyond that, I’m just not worth the work.
If it was just my parents, I could maybe write them off, and for the most part, I don’t care about them in isolation anymore.
But someone I chose, and who was supposed to choose me back? That’s harder to come back from, and it’s not clear if I ever will.
Hence why I’m slicking up a dildo and easing it into my hole, alone.
The pleasant throbbing of my ass as I slide in the lubed-up rod serves as a handy, paltry replacement for getting railed.
The thing vibrates, too, sending a tantalizing jolt of arousal up my spine when I hit the button at the base.
Then I lie on the bed, bracing myself against the sheets and relaxing around the fullness in my rear. My half-hard cock leaks a steady trickle of precum, begging me to give in and bring a hand down, but I hold out.
I have a day with the house to myself, and hell if I won’t spend a good portion of it coming my brains out.
My core burns with sweet, tight ecstasy with every passing second.
I bite my lower lip to silence myself before releasing it in a moan, losing track of time and relishing in blissful, brainless pleasure as I give in and run a couple of fingers up and down my shaft.
I’m only skimming the surface, not even moving any skin or touching the head, but yeah, this fucking rocks.
Slowly, I ease the silicone further into me, wincing in pleasure as it stretches me open even more, until I bottom out and let the vibrations do their thing. With my toes curling, I relax once again and let bliss consume me as I lie on my back, sinking into the mattress.
I wonder if Dean would fuck me on my back or on all fours?
What the hell?
Groaning, I shake my head and reach down to flick the button on the bottom of the plug, kicking the power up a notch. My breath hitches and my legs flex as the vibrations slam my prostate.
That only serves to give me an answer, one I wasn’t looking for: the imaginary Dean in my brain has me on my back, giving me a view of him thrusting faster, in time with the buzzing inside me.
If I wasn’t already messed up about the guy, this takes the fucking cake.
He’s great. He’s nice, he was my friend until yesterday, and I know he’s hot.
His height and those long, toned arms, mixed with the pretty-boy smile he flashes at everyone would make a normal, red-blooded gay guy’s mouth water, but I get nothing, at least not in real life.
Except for a stupid little curiosity I had no business pursuing, because it screwed things up, and even if I didn’t let myself get curious again, it wouldn’t have been fair to Dean if I made him wait for who knows how long—
But if he did wait, maybe he’d hold me down and screw my brains out.
God, I can’t do this anymore. My damn horny brain is going off the rails and sending me into a damn tailspin. I reach down and pump my cock, letting the divine sensation build and travel down into my balls. Then I tighten my fist, making hard, frustrated strokes to coax my eager body toward climax.
It doesn’t take long for me to come with a clipped yell, spasming around the toy and shooting all over my torso. I lie there for a while, switching the vibrations off and sinking into the bed, letting myself bask in the sheer relief.
Groaning, I force my arms and legs to prop my heavy body up to wipe my chest down with a handful of tissues. Hoo boy, I made a damn mess of myself, but hey, it’s all part of the fun.
And I’m not fantasizing about Dean anymore—the mental image of him banging me is nowhere to be found.
Look at me, getting some much-needed post-nut clarity.
Then the other part of clarity slams down on me.
It should be easy for me to do this with someone else.
But it isn’t. I get horny so easily from fantasizing or watching porn, but the second someone’s real? No dice.
I run a hand through my bedhead and groan. Fuck my life. Genuinely, fuck my life.
It’s Thanksgiving break, and I’m gonna be alone for a whole week, and this is the first holiday I’m spending by myself. Ever.
Letting out a huff, I roll my eyes and sit up, slipping my pants back on and leaning back against the wall.
When one parent disowns you for dating a guy, and the other blames you for the ensuing divorce, that’s already a bad hand.
What makes things worse is having friends who are all coupled up, which means I can't impose on their own family visits anymore like I did for the last two years.
And the only person who’s staying in town, and who I’m remotely close with, is none other than the guy I shoved off of me last night.
If self-sabotage is auditioning for a mascot, move me to the front of the line and turn everyone else away. I’d get the part, hands down.
Ian
Hey
I wanna hang out before heading out
My first instinct is to turn him down and wallow in shame, but I have a whole week to do that. Besides, Ian’s the kind of guy who somehow always knows what to do and what to say, his hyperactive chaos aside.
Sounds good. Let me shower and I’ll head over
I wrap my dildo in more tissues and walk to the bathroom, cleaning it off while I wait for the shower to warm up. It isn’t long before I’ve dried off and bundled myself into too many clothes, and then I drag my tired body over to Ian’s apartment.
When I walk in, he’s sitting on his couch, his eyes on the TV and his hands in a napping Callum’s hair.
Jesus, those two are inseparable, even when they live together, and hell if I don’t want what they have.
Although that entails me not being fucking broken.
I give Ian an upward nod, which he returns, trying to slide out from under Callum, who wakes up.
“Oh, hey, Nick,” Callum says, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “What’s good?”
I give him a weak smile—Ian’s slang is really rubbing off on that formerly sheltered ball of nerves. “Nothing much. I’m just here to hang for a bit.”
“Cool, cool.” He’s helped upright by Ian, who motions for me to sit in the armchair across from them. “You want a drink or anything?”
“Fuck, yeah.” I shoot him a grateful look. “I need one.”
“Dude, are you okay?” Ian asks when Callum bumbles into the kitchen. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”
Groaning, I run a hand across my face. “I kinda fucked things up with a guy last night.” I pause to reconsider. “Nope, I majorly fucked things up.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Shaking my head, I lean back in the armchair. “It’s whatever. I tried hooking up but chickened out as usual. Felt like crap.”
“If you didn’t want to, you didn’t have to do anything. Don’t beat yourself up.”
If only it were so simple.
“I’m used to it,” I say, “so I’ll be fine. But it’s still fresh.”
“Okay, gotcha.” He purses his lips. “Would…getting drunk tonight maybe cheer you up?”
Callum comes back right when Ian says that, handing us each a beer.
I chuckle. “Again? I went out last night, which is where the fuck-up happened. I took him to Kappa’s sex room and—”
Ian sputters. “You took him to the fucking Boom Boom Room?”
“It has a name?”
He nods. “Oh yeah. Maybe burn the clothes you wore yesterday, and we definitely need to help you forget. Nothing good happens there. It’s like a curse.”
I already have a curse, and it’s not like I need any more of those.
Groaning, I slump back in my chair. “I don’t know if I have it in me to go out twice in a row.”
Callum turns toward me. “It’s the weekend, we have a week off, and you aren’t that old.”
I scoff and throw a stray coaster at Ian, which he catches. “Stop teaching your boyfriend to be a smartass. I miss when he was polite.”
Callum huffs and smacks my head, which is yet another habit he’s picking up from Ian the Shithead.
“He’s a fast learner. Not my fault.” Ian cracks his beer, thinking. “Let’s go to The Barrel? Steve is initiating the team rookies tonight.”
All two of them?
I haven’t kept up with the group chat, but I vaguely remember something about an outing. “Fine, let’s do it,” I say, opening my own beer. “It’s not like we have another option since you baby juniors refuse to get fake IDs.”