Page 4 of The Jock Next Door

“Okay.” I give him a pathetic little wave.

Then I’m back in my room with the door shut and the silence rushing in. The silence I wanted. But now there’s a ringing in my ears and the sound of my own heartbeat. I stand there for a full minute, just breathing, replaying the whole conversation in my head.

Finally, I sit down at my desk. The crying girl stares up at me. I flip past her to a blank page.

My pencil moves on its own. A jawline. The curve of a brow. Full lips, slightly parted. A neck, a shoulder, a torso, all lean muscle. My hand flies across the page, shading and smudging.

I keep going. I don’t think about what it means. Why there’s a weird fizzy buzz in my chest. Why my jeans feel tight.

I just draw.

3

Iwake up covered in sweat.

My room is dark. That’s how I like it. I have a blackout curtain that blocks out even the sliver of moonlight that sneaks past the dorm’s shitty blinds. The shapes of furniture emerge slowly from the gloom. The clock on my desk reads 2:17 AM.

I lie there, blinking at the ceiling, trying to figure out what pulled me out of sleep. I was deep in it, too. I don’t even remember undressing and getting into bed. The last thing I remember is being hunched over my desk, the scratch of my pencil, Trey’s face taking shape under my fingers.

Then I hear it. A rhythmic thumping.

It’s coming from the wall. Trey’s wall. Is he gaming again? No, it’s too steady. And there are no yells, no trash talk, no outbursts. Just a thump, thump, thump against the wall in a slow, even beat.

I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist. My heart picks up, falling into step with the rhythm next door. I know what this is. I’m not an idiot. Anyone who’s ever lived in a dorm knows the sound of a bed frame hitting a wall.

Trey is having sex.

The image is instant. That massive body over some girl, dwarfing her, those broad shoulders rolling with each thrust. Her legs wrapped around his waist, or trying to. Her hands on his chest, fingers spread across the solid muscle. The look on his face. That intensity he was talking about. Going after what he wants.

An acidic twist in my gut. I don’t know what to call it. Jealousy? But of who? Him? Her? Them? The fact that they’re doing it and I’m alone in the dark, listening?

I’ve always assumed I was straight. Default setting, right? You grow up, you like girls. Simple. But I’ve never felt it. Not how other guys seem to. The way they lose their minds over a pair of tits or a nice ass. I notice pretty girls, sure. I can appreciate them aesthetically. Like I’d appreciate a well-composed photograph or a nice piece of architecture. They’re pleasing to the eye. But they don’t make me feel fizzy. They don’t make my jeans feel tight.

I’ve had sex once. With a girl named Gemma from my freshman orientation group. It was clumsy and awkward and totally forgettable. My dick never even fully cooperated. I spent the whole time wondering if I was doing it right, if she was enjoying it. I never thought about what I wanted. What I wanted, mostly, was for it to be over.

I told myself I was just nervous, that first times are supposed to be weird, that it would get better. But I never wanted a next time. Gemma texted me a month later asking if I wanted to hang out. I ignored her, too embarrassed to face the fact that I didn’t want anything from her.

I still feel guilty about that. But I’ve never drawn Gemma from memory. I never lay in the dark replaying the sound of her voice. I never felt this hot, restless ache just from being in the same room as her.

The thumping picks up, faster now. A low groan leaks through the wall and my whole body tightens. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, in my clenched fists. I close my eyes and I can see him. His back, the muscles working under his skin. Those brows knitted together in raw concentration.

I don’t hear a girl, though. Only him. Grunting. A hoarse “fuck” that sounds like it was punched out of him. Maybe she’s quiet. Or maybe she’s not there at all. What if he’s alone? My mind goes to the bulge in his briefs, and my face burns. I picture his hand, that big calloused hand, wrapped around himself. Eyes squeezed shut. Bottom lip caught between his teeth.

My fingers slide down my stomach. Under the waistband of my boxers. I feel like the biggest creep in the world, but I can’t stop myself. I’m already hard. Achingly so. I wrap my slick hand around myself, and start to move in sync with the sound from next door.

I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s my neighbor. He was nice to me. He invited me in. But the guilt feels distant, buried under a wave of pure need. The image behind my eyelids is too vivid to fight. His head thrown back, a vein standing out in his neck. His abs tight. Those thick fingers fisted in the sheets.

“Fuck,” I whisper into the dark. Why do these walls have to be so damn thin?

My thoughts are a mess. I’m replaying our conversation, how he stood there in his underwear like it was nothing, leaning against the doorframe with that grin. But in this version, I don’t stumble over my words. I walk right in, push him onto the bed, and straddle him. Hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat against my palm. “Show me,” I’d say if I weren’t me. “Show me how intense you get.”

Precum spills over my fingers, and I use it to slide faster, breath catching in my throat. I’ve never been this hard this fast. I didn’t even know I could get this hard. My cock feels like a weapon in my hand right now. My hips move on their own, thrusting into my fist. The fantasy is so vivid. Trey’s hands on my body, grabbing, pulling, squeezing. The deep timbre of his voice right against my ear, saying my name.

How would it be, with a guy like that? All that strength. He could pin me down with one arm. His weight on top of me, pressing me into the mattress. I bet it feels like heaven to lie under that warm body, to have him cover me, fill me. He’s a lineman. He’d know how to drive. All that forward momentum, all that power, aimed right at me.

Thinking about a guy like this feels forbidden and thrilling and terrifying all at once. I’ve never let myself go here. Never considered it as a real possibility. It was always a fleeting thought, an abstract curiosity, easy to dismiss. But now, with Trey’s grunts leaking through the wall, there’s nothing abstract about it. This is what gets me off. Not a girl. Not Gemma. The image of the giant next door, lost in pleasure.

How big is he, I wonder. The bulge in those boxer briefs was one thing, but hard is another thing entirely. I’m more of a grower than a shower myself, and my cock feels enormous in my fist right now, swollen and throbbing. But Trey. God. How much bigger does he get? That outline was already straining the fabric, and he was soft. Fully hard, he must be...