There wasn't much choice as far as off-campus housing went. I knew I didn't want to stay in the dorms, no matter how much my friends ribbed me for becoming a recluse; no amount of college camaraderie made up for shitting in a stall next to a complete stranger for four years. I also didn't want to get a boner in front of some hot guy passing through who had the confidence (and body) to flaunt what he had. I felt certain that it was easy to pick me out as gay by my voice and face—aforementioned friends like to call it "gayby face"—and I didn't want to deal with accusations of coming onto straight guys. (Mostly it was the horrific idea of having explosive diarrhea in what basically equated to a public restroom.) So, off-campus housing it was. Unfortunately for my parents, a lot of the "living experiences" tailored for college students seemed on the higher end of acceptable living expenses. I searched high and low for ads from people in and around town who were looking for roommates. That's how I came across Russ.
I called him up, we chatted a bit, and then he invited me over to have a look at the apartment. He explained that his current roommate had graduated the semester before and he had gotten way in over his head by assuming he could just take on the rent by himself for the rest of undergrad. I thought, "Oh hey, cool, another student." I thought maybe I could have the best of both worlds: a private bathroom and swapping college life stories with another undergrad, albeit a slightly older one.
My jaw dropped when he opened the door.
Russell Wyatt looked like he could eat me for dinner and that still wouldn't sate his appetite. His arms (delightfully furred in black) threatened to rip his T-shirt sleeves apart, and I wasn't sure how he even managed to get it on over his chest. His torso tapered into his waist, and gray sweatpants rode low on his hips. I could see the black waistband of his underwear and my inner slut wanted to be that pair of briefs (or boxer briefs, maybe he liked those instead) hugging that crotch. Even better: in them. Not only did his clothing tantalizingly hint at untold treasures underneath, but his five o'clock shadow and steel gray eyes accentuated his drop-dead handsome face and completed the package of the man I would build at a Build-a-Stud Workshop.
I was fucked, and likely not by him.
He welcomed me in with a warm smile, offered me a bottle of water, and showed me around the apartment. It was a decent two-bedroom one-bathroom setup; I wasn't sure if the clean presentation was a result of having to show me the living space or if he was actually that tidy. I liked the laminate flooring. The furniture was okay. He already had a TV. Nothing screamed "serial killer," and by any measure I should've jumped on the offer immediately, but what held me back was the prospect of living with Russ for at least a year, if not more. I didn't know if my dick could take all the furious fapping I would have to indulge in just to be an ordinary human being around a living, breathing embodiment of Adonis.
Russ sat me down at the table and we talked some more. He was charming about the small talk but I could tell he was using it as a roommate interview. We liked some of the same TV shows, diverged slightly on video games (him: action shooters; me: not action shooters), and agreed that most vegans were doing it for the profile likes as opposed to needing that strict diet for dietary concerns. (Him: majoring in nutrition; me: undeclared.)
I liked him too much from the half-hour with him that I knew he would be a constant source of blue balls for me; it's easy to deal with someone's attractiveness when they're an asshole, and not so easy when they're the total package. Russ could sense my hesitation. He quirked an eyebrow, turned his head quizzically, and asked, "What's the deal?"
I couldn't tell Russ that I wanted to throw him to the ground and ride him like a bucking bronco, so I said the next best thing: "I'm gay."
"And, what, you think I'm not gonna be okay with that?"
I meekly nodded, and thought maybe that would get me off the hook, that he would toss me out and he would just star in my nighttime fantasies. Instead, he grinned. "I just care if you're clean and if you can pay rent."
My friends, or at least the straight girls and gay boys, thought I had lucked into the perfect situation. Erica begged me to come up with an excuse for her to show up, makeup perfectly done and wearing the sexiest ensemble she could throw together, and have a shot at bedding him. The more resourceful ones of our group quickly located one of his social media profiles and had a little too much fun scrolling down his page filled with shots highlighting his gym-perfect physique, various meals, and his girlfriend, Paige.
I deflated slightly at Paige's existence. Then I reminded myself that it was another sorely-needed roadblock between me and Russ. I didn't need to subconsciously flirt with him, or do anything that would jeopardize my newfound living situation. I just needed to be a good roommate, no matter how much I fucked him with my eyes.
Paige, however, enabled me to live vicariously through her by way of being an extremely responsive—and at times vocal—girlfriend. The first time I saw them scamper into his room, I figured they would respect that I was also there and keep it quiet; can't blame a red-blooded male for wanting sex, especially if his girlfriend was in the exact same mood. I don't know what he did to her but I swear she hit high notes like she was Mariah. I cringed and turned up the volume on the TV, hoping that would give them the message—only to turn it down when I could hear his grunts. I imagined him standing at the foot of the bed, holding her legs in the air as he thrust powerfully into her, sending tingles all over her skin that caused those high-pitched gasps and cries for more. My dick thickened in my jeans and I shifted, trying to focus on a dead body dissolving in a barrel of acid instead of my horniness.
They quietened after a low, desperate grunt from Russ. I knew that meant he had finished, whether inside her or on her, and it took every fiber of my being not to run into my room and jerk off at the image. I turned on the subtitles on the TV, staring intently at every word on the screen in the hopes that it would distract me enough to forget about what I just heard.
Not long after, I heard the door open and close. I willed myself to concentrate on the TV, alternating between wanting to see what a freshly-fucked Russ might look like and preferring to avoid seeing Paige in the same state. The sound of a cupboard, a clink of glass, the faucet running. Then, a soft "hey, Joe" to my right. Russ—wearing only a pair of gym shorts—grinned sheepishly at me, a half-empty glass in his hand. I knew he had a hairy chest and abs from creeping on his profile photos, but photos and reality aren't the same; he looked good, way too good, in front of me instead of on my phone's screen. I wanted to nuzzle into his chest and inhale what I was positive would be his intoxicating musk.
"Sorry about that," Russ said. "Paige can be enthusiastic."
"It'sokay," I quickly replied, then took a breath to calm myself. "It's okay. It, uh, happens."
"I just want you to know that you don't have to avoid bringing a guy home because of me. You live here too."
"You don't have to worry about that," I blurted. I could feel my face redden. "I mean, I'm not seeing anyone right now."
"Maybe you'll get lucky one of these Friday nights." He winked and I could feel my dick become as hard as steel while the rest of my limbs felt like jelly. "I'm going to bed now. See you in the morning."
I think I rubbed myself raw that night.
This pattern—Paige moaning, me hiding, Russ apologizing, me masturbating—continued for a couple of months, and my balls began feeling like they would soon produce nothing but puffs of air at the rate I was emptying them. Until at last, a glorious respite-because they broke up.
As much as I enjoyed feeling well-hydrated now that all the liquid in my body wasn't going towards producing semen, it contrasted with the low mood Russ displayed. From what I could tell based on continued social media creepery, Paige decided to break up with Russ because she wanted to live out the rest of her college experience untethered to any one man, and the feeling wasn't mutual. I understood Paige's reasoning but thought she was insane for giving up Russ. He was definitely the kind of guy who would fuck your brains out then give you a tender after-sex massage on a bearskin rug in front of a fireplace.
