“What’s weird is that you make such a big deal out of it. It’s a boner, Gavin. Half the world’s population gets them. What do you say, we whip ‘em out and have a race to the finish line?”
Before I can even answer, he reaches into his sweats and pulls himself out. Just like that. A big, hard cock curves up toward the navy-blue fabric of his T-shirt.Fuck.That’s a nice dick. The thought flashes through my brain so fast I barely register it, but it’s there. And now I can’t unsee it. Thick and flushed, it stands straight up from a patch of dark hair. When he wraps a fist around it, a clear bead of fluid pearls at the tip.
“You’re not gonna let me beat you, are you?” he says, a competitive glint in his eye.
My brain is a dial-up modem trying to connect to the internet. Screeching. Grinding. Error. I cannot compute this. I’m looking at my best friend’s dick. And I’m hard. And he’s looking at me expectantly, like this is just another thing we do, like tossing a football around or arguing about movies. Part of me wants to flee, grab my sketchbook, and hide in the library until this room has been thoroughly sanitized. But another part of me is... well, horny, I guess.
“Come on,” he coaxes. “I’ll even let you have a head start.”
With a trembling hand, I unbutton my jeans. The sound of the zipper is unnaturally loud in the small room, cutting through the porn actress’s shrieks of exaggerated ecstasy. I shove my jeans and tighty-whities, as he so lovingly calls them, down to my knees. My erection springs free and slaps against my stomach.
North’s eyes go wide.
“What?” I say, self-conscious.
“Dude.” His voice is pure astonishment. “That is the biggest fucking dick I have ever seen in my entire life.”
3
North stares.
For a long moment, he just stares at my dick, then at my face, then back at my dick.
“Holy shit, Gav,” he breathes. “You’ve been walking around with a fire hose in your pants, and you’ve never told me? You never bragged about it? Nobody fucking knew. The FBI’s gonna want to talk to you. That’s a concealed weapon.”
“It’s notthatbig.”
“Not that big? Bro, I feel inadequate.”
“What? You have a great dick. You have, like, a perfect dick.” I’m instantly embarrassed I said it out loud. Am I really sitting here complimenting my best friend’s penis? But it’s true. His is sculpted, aesthetic, perfectly proportioned with a slight upward curve. Mine is just big.
“You think so?” He grins, puffing up his chest a little. “Yeah, it’s a good one. I’m not gonna lie. But I’m six-five. Not to be rude, but you’re, like... what? Five-nine? You’re carrying two-thirds of your body weight in your cock. How are you even standing upright?”
“Jesus, North. Talk about hyperbole.”
“I’m not exaggerating. You have a goldmine between your legs. And you’ve been hiding it under those sad grandpa briefs? You know if you went freeballing in sweatpants, you could rule this campus, right? You’d be drowning in pussy.Drowning.You could do porn.”
“I don’t want to do porn.” I instinctively try to cover myself with my hands. This is too much. Too much attention on a part of my body I usually try to forget about.
He bats my hands away. “Don’t you dare hide that beast. Grab it. Be proud of it. Let’s see it in action.”
His own erection hasn’t flagged one bit. If anything, it looks harder. The head is a deep, angry purple. The sight of it does something to me. Something confusing and alarming.
“I’m not having a race with you,” I mutter, but my fingers wrap around my own shaft. “Not everything is a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition,” he says, spitting into his palm. “And you, my friend, are about to find out you could have been playing on easy mode your whole life.”
He starts stroking himself in earnest now. Long, slow pulls, twisting at the head. He watches the screen, where the pizza guy is now on the kitchen floor, baseball cap still on, and the woman is riding him like a mechanical bull. But every few seconds, his eyes flick back to me. To my dick.
I start moving my own hand. It’s awkward. I’m too in my head. The room feels too bright. The fake moans are too grating. But the friction is real. The heat building in my groin is real. My hand glides easier with each pass as I leak onto myself. I glance at North. His arm is moving faster, his bicep flexing.
He has so much strength. His thighs are thick and powerful where they sprawl across the bed. I can see the outline of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. It’s such a different body from the one I see in the mirror every day. Mine is lean. Stringy.His is built for impact. Built to stand tall in the pocket with three-hundred-pound linemen charging at him.
My eyes follow the trail of dark hair that starts below his navel and disappears beneath his fist. His knuckles are white where he grips himself. He’s breathing harder now, little huffs of air that sync with the rhythm of his strokes. I match him, unintentionally. The same pace. The same crescendo.
He catches me looking. Grins, all teeth. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Doing this together.”
I can’t argue with that. Itdoesfeel good. But the ‘together’ part is what’s messing me up. Because it feels good in a way it probably shouldn’t. The heat from his thigh searing into mine. Our shared breathing. The scent of his deodorant, sweat, and arousal, all mingling. The sight of him, so unguarded, so lost in his own pleasure. I’m getting closer, faster than I ever have on my own, and it’s not the woman on the screen pushing me there. It’s the man beside me.
