Page 5 of The Jock Next Door

I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The last thing I need is for him to hear me through the wall.

The thumping next door is frantic now. His grunts are closer together, building. He has to be alone. No girl could stay this quiet with him going at her like that. It’s just Trey. And I’m right there with him, fist flying, breath coming in ragged gasps. Two guys on opposite sides of a wall, chasing the same release in the dark.

It’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to him. A depressing thought, but it’s also what pushes me over the edge. The idea that we share this, even if he doesn’t know it. That we’re both pumping our fists at the same frantic pace, only separated by a thin wall.

My whole body locks up. I clamp my free hand over my mouth as I paint myself in warm, wet ropes. My cock pulses in my grip. My toes curl. A wave of dizzying pleasure tears through me, and I’m shaking with it, biting down on my palm, trying not to make a single sound.

On the other side of the wall, Trey is finishing too. I can’t make out the words over the ringing in my ears, but I hear the final groan. Deep, hoarse, the sound of a guy letting go. If I didn’t know what he was doing, I’d think he was in pain. It goes on long after my own spasms have faded. I want to record it. Play it back later. The sound alone would be enough to get me hard again.

Then silence.

I lie there, cum cooling on my stomach, chest heaving. The fantasy dissolves, replaced by a creeping wave of shame. I’m sticky and gross and alone in my dark room, and I just got off to the sound of my neighbor jacking off. He was just being a guy. I’m the one who turned it into something twisted.

But the shame doesn’t erase what came with it. The undeniable, gut-punch truth: I’m not straight.

Not even close.

4

I’ve left my room four times in the last couple of days. Twice to shower, once for food, once to grab a package from the mailroom. Each trip was a surgical operation—ear to the door, listen for footsteps, check the hallway, then scurry to the destination and back. I have successfully avoided running into Trey so far.

The shame is bad enough. But underneath it is this new awareness. The fact that I’m into a guy. That maybe I’ve always been into guys and never let myself see it. That all it took was one conversation and a pair of gray boxer briefs to make me question everything I thought I knew about myself. And I can’t face him, because I’m sure he’ll see it on me, like I’m wearing a sign around my neck that says “I jacked off to you.”

My room is my fortress. I have my desk, my supplies, my blackout curtain. I’ve been drawing nonstop, and it’s the best work I’ve ever done. But I’m only drawing him. Page after page. His hands, the veins on the backs of them. His jaw, the dark shadow of stubble. Close-ups of his eyes, his mouth. The sketches are spread across my desk and pinned to the wall above it.

Right now I’m in the middle of the biggest one yet. It’s on my easel, the only piece I’ve given that treatment. Trey leaning back in his gaming chair, that half-smile on his face, wearing nothing but those boxer briefs. I need this one to be perfect. I’m using my best paper, the expensive stuff. I’ve spent an hour shading his chest alone, trying to nail the muscle definition.

It’s starting to feel less like art and more like an obsession. An entire wall dedicated to a guy I’ve talked to for fifteen minutes. A guy I’m now actively hiding from. But it’s my way of processing it, I guess. My way of being close to him without actually being close to him. Safe, contained, on paper. I can look at him all I want. Study him. Trace every line of him with my pencil. And he never has to know.

But I need a shower, bad. My hair is greasy, and I can smell myself. I’ve been in the same clothes for two days. The problem is the communal showers are down the hall, past Trey’s door. I can either wait until 3 AM and hope he’s asleep, or suck it up and go now.

Sucking it up is the mature thing to do. The chances of walking out at the exact same moment as him are slim. I’ll be quick. In and out.

Why am I being like this? A twenty-year-old hiding in his room because he’s afraid of a hallway encounter. It’s pathetic. This is what I get for skipping classes. Too much time in my head with nothing to do but spiral.

I’m going. Right fucking now.

I gather my toiletries and a clean towel, put on my bathrobe and tie it tight. Then I press my ear to the door. Silence.

Surprisingly, I’ve barely heard him the last couple of days. No gaming marathons. No thumping against the wall. He’s either decided to be considerate, or he’s been out. And I know that’s what I wanted, to work in silence, but now that I have it, I miss the noise. It was proof he was there.

I crack the door and peek out. The hallway is empty. I take a breath and step out, flip-flops squeaking on the blue carpet. Trey’s door is closed. I hurry past it, eyes fixed on the bathroom door at the end of the hall. I’m practically speed-walking, my shampoo bottle slipping in my grip.

My hand is on the bathroom handle when I hear a door open behind me. My blood goes cold. I know who it is before I turn around.

“Yo, Nico. Thought I heard you out here.”

I turn. There he is. All six-whatever of him in gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, showing the sharp V-lines that disappear below the waistband. A tight white T-shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders. He looks even better than I remembered. I’ve been drawing him for days, but my memory didn’t do him justice.

“Hey,” I manage. My voice cracks.

He squints at me, then a slow grin spreads across his face. “You been hiding from me?”

“What? No.” Too fast. Way too fast. “Why would I⁠—”

“I’m playing.” He walks toward me, and I have to fight the urge to step back. “For real though, I haven’t heard a peep out of you. You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just been busy.”