You’re mesmerized by the way black leather clashes with the paleness of his hand... and his cock. He’s wearing his sunglasses, you can’t see his eyes, but maybe he’s watching you.
You doubt it.
The phone is cradled between his ear and neck and he murmurs softly into the receiver and then licks his lips. He’s wearing a t-shirt, his fingerless gloves, and nothing else. His nipples are taut, stiff beneath the white cotton fabric. He moans, whispers a name you hate to hear, and cums. It spills down his hand, along his glove, a vibrant contrast that makes your dick twitch and strain against your jeans. He speaks gently, laughs softly, and reaches down for his discarded boxers. He uses them to wipe his hand and dick, quietly hissing when he grips himself, probably due to sensitivity.
You walk away.
You’re in the bathroom now, letting the hot water and steam massage you. Your rigid cock glides back and forth along the slick shower wall. You want to cum, but as punishment, you don’t allow yourself to. Instead, you continue to let the water pour over you. You think about making the temperature hotter, but there’s no point in that, really. When the burning pain subsides, your desires will be stronger than ever.
You hate this.
When you step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your waist, he’s there in the living room. He asks you if you’re interested in watching a movie with him. It’s one you haven’t seen before, but you have seen the previews--an action packed drama riddled with irony and a soundtrack pregnant with the phattest of beats--hell fucking yeah, you’re interested.
You make your way into your bedroom and collapse onto your bed. You press your face against the mattress and inhale. Your mind drifts to two days prior when he unexpectedly close-lined you and then proceeded to kick your ass, shoving you into the bed and holding you down until you gave up and acknowledged him as your superior. You remember how warm his skin felt, how muscles tensed and pressed against your struggling body. It was nothing. Just two bros wrestling.
How you wish it’d been more.
Before you know it, you’ve fallen into a dreamless sleep, but you awake to the sound of a familiar thump against your wall. You can hear their voices, more specifically you can hear his voice. Bro isn’t too loud, but he always is.
You’re an American. Born and raised in the Lone Star State of Texas. You motherfucking hate English.
And you don't mean the language.
You roll onto your stomach and force yourself to fall back to sleep. When you awake a second time, it’s from of the light pouring in through your bedroom window. You climb out of your bed and step out into the hallway. You smell the delicious aroma of a home cooked breakfast. You know English cooked it because the smoke alarm isn’t on.
You step into the kitchen. Bro is at the table pouring syrup on a waffle. He’s not wearing his glasses, so when he looks up at you and smiles you can see his eyes.
“Well, good morning there, young Strider,” English says in a tone so cheerful that it actually makes you cringe. “If you’re hungry, feel free to help yourself to whatever Dirk hasn’t shoved into his mouth.”
“Better be quick. I can get a lot in there,” Bro says.
English’s presence annoys you and the smell of his cooking makes your stomach growl. “I bet you can,” you say to Bro. You don’t politely decline the offer of good food. Instead, you grab a box of cereal, a bowl, a spoon, and the milk from the refrigerator and say, “Covered.” You’re rude and asshole.
You don’t fucking care.
“It’s good,” English says.
Bro gives you a look as you pour your cereal, but you pretend not to notice. After you’ve added the milk to your bowl, you use your spoon to crunch around the sugary flakes. You’re unnecessarily and obnoxiously loud, but neither Bro nor English says anything to you about it. Just as you begin to eat, English comes over to the table and sits between you and Bro. You furiously grip your spoon, stand, and then move into the living room. Bro doesn’t call for you to come back and he doesn’t follow you.
You’re not surprised.
Your cereal grows soggy and disgusting and you can’t bring yourself to eat anymore even though you’re still hungry. Your stomach growls again, angrily demanding that you appease it.
You should’ve had a fucking waffle.
You go back into the kitchen holding your bowl of soggy bullshit cereal. You glare at the thick, sugary, sludge as it plops into the garbage disposal. From the corner of your eye, you glance at the table and watch Bro playing a disgusting game of tonsil hockey with English. You humor yourself with the idea of throwing the ceramic bowl at their heads, but you know better than to actually act on it. Bro would kick you ass and you’ve witnessed English sitting in your backyard with Bro. You’ve watched him shoot empty bottles of booze with his Glock 19.
You respect his aim.
You walk back to your bedroom just in time to hear your cell phone ring. There’s no mistaking who’s calling you. You have customized ringtones and hearing Nicholas Cage’s ridiculous voice telling someone to, “Put the bunny back in the box” can only be one person.
You snatch your phone off your dresser and answer it.
“I’m shocked you managed to stay alive this long, Egbert.”
“There you are,” John slurs into the phone. “I called you twice already.”
You shake your head. He’s clearly drunk. One of the perks of doing a year long internship in a country with a younger legal drinking age. “Well, here I am.”
“Dave I... I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You roll your eyes. You’ve been down this path several times before. Whenever John drinks he feels the need to express all these feelings that he isn’t sure he’s really having. You’ve clearly heard him tell someone else that he isn’t a “homosexual” but that never stops him from getting drunk and blabbering on and on about how much he wants to kiss you.
“The last time we talked,” John begins. “You said I could kiss you. Does that...” He pauses and you guess it’s to take another sip of whatever it is he’s drinking. “Does that offer still stand.”
It’s pretty pathetic when he gets like this, but you can’t stop yourself from letting him continue. “If that’s what you want.”
“Get online. Skype. Dave, get on Skype.”
“Just...” He pauses again. “Just do it.”
You get on Skype.
John immediately sends you an invitation for a video chat. You accept his invitation. You wait a few seconds while he adjusts his monitor. When he stops, you see him. He’s grinning, eyes glazed over behind his glasses.
“Hey, Dave” he says.
“Can I show you something,” John says. He’s smiling and breathing heavily. He looks pleased with himself, like he’s about to let you in on a major secret.
“I don’t want to see another single one of your shit posters.”
“It’s not a poster,” he says. He’s still smiling and for a second you think he sort of looks like English when he smiles like that. It kind of annoys you, a lot.
“Get on with it then. I’m a busy man, Egbert.”
John nods his head and licks his lips. You frown when the camera travels away from his face and further down. Like really further down. Like, seriously, all the way fucking down. It moves past his chest, his abs, and settles just at his...
The video feed pauses, goes black, and then signs you out of Skype.
“What the fuck?!”
“Sorry!” You hear English shout. “Tripped over the modem cord!”
Your name is Dave Strider. You’re eighteen-years-old.
And you motherfucking hate Jake English.