Daniel and James had been roommates for about six months, sharing a cramped apartment with peeling paint and a fridge that hummed too loud. They got along well enough--both in their mid-20s, both single, both prone to late-night beers and dumb bets. Daniel was the quieter one, wiry with dark hair and a habit of overthinking shit. James, on the other hand, was loud, broad-shouldered, and always the one pushing them into stupid adventures. Tonight was no exception.
"C'mon, man, it's Friday," James had said earlier, tossing a crumpled flier onto the coffee table. It was for some dive strip club called The Pink Pony, promising "live girls, cheap drinks." Daniel had rolled his eyes but didn't argue much--James had a way of wearing him down with that cocky grin. So there they were, piling into James's beat-up Honda, the promise of tits and neon lights pulling them out into the night.
The club was exactly what Daniel expected: sticky floors, dim lights, and a bassline that rattled your teeth. The girls were hot, though--writhing on poles, glitter on their skin, all fake smiles and arched backs. James whooped and tossed dollar bills like he was some big shot, while Daniel nursed a beer, feeling half-turned-on, half-awkward. One dancer, a blonde with thighs like a vice, gave Daniel a lap dance that left him red-faced and shifting in his seat. James laughed, slapping his shoulder. "You're too fuckin' tense, Danny Boy. Loosen up!"
They stumbled out around midnight, buzzed and laughing, the cold air hitting their faces like a slap. The drive back was a blur of James's shitty playlist and half-shouted stories about the redhead who'd winked at him. Daniel's head was spinning--not just from the beer, but from the way the night had his blood pumping. Something about the club, the raw energy of it, stuck with him.
Back at the apartment, they crashed onto the sagging couch, still riding the high. James kicked off his shoes, sprawling out like he owned the place. "Man, those girls were somethin' else," he said, cracking open another beer from the stash under the coffee table. Daniel nodded, staring at the ceiling, still picturing that blonde's ass grinding against him. He was horny as hell, and it was messing with his head.
Then James got that look--the one that meant trouble. "Yo, you know what'd top this off?" he said, leaning forward, eyes glinting. "Some good ol' porn. C'mon, let's fire up the laptop. Keep the party goin', Danny Boy." Daniel laughed, nervous, but didn't say no. It wasn't the first time they'd watched something dirty together--just dumb guy shit, right? He shrugged. "Yeah, whatever, man."
James grabbed his laptop from the floor, flipping it open with a flourish. A few clicks later, the screen was alive with moans and skin, some hardcore flick with a busty brunette getting railed. Daniel slouched back, trying to play it cool, but his dick was already stirring in his jeans. He snuck a glance at James, who was grinning like a kid on Christmas, adjusting himself through his pants without a hint of shame.
"Fuck, look at that," James said, pointing at the screen as the guy in the video started pounding harder. Daniel nodded, but his eyes drifted. James had unzipped his jeans, letting his cock spring free--thick, hard, and unapologetic. Daniel's breath caught. He'd seen it before, quick flashes in the bathroom or whatever, but now? Now it was right there, throbbing, and he couldn't look away.
