[ 5 ]
Had I done something wrong? Had I said something? I hardly said anything. Half of me wanted to run after him, but I can’t imagine myself acting so desperate. Was the whole thing a ploy to fuck with my head? Maybe he’d been listening more than I thought he had during all our research on manipulative psychology. Maybe this whole diabolical cock-torture was his plan from the start. Talk about applying what you learn. Fuck.
The rest of Friday night I spent sulking in front of the TV, watching a rerun of some bullshit something. I didn’t even eat dinner so my stomach sang sweet grumbly songs of misery all night to match the drumming of my heart. Saturday went much the same. I kept my cellphone close, as if he’d call or text or something. We had each other’s numbers. I ate in the dorm cafeteria for lunch and dinner that day, thinking there was some small, stupid chance he’d still be around and I’d catch him. I didn’t even know where he lived, whether in another dorm on campus, or off-campus in some fraternity-riddled subdivision or maybe he even had his own apartment. For all I knew, these dumb little efforts at trying to run into him on a weekend would prove fruitless.
Saturday night I jerked off. I don’t even remember the porn I watched. Sunday was no different, though it was filled with remarkably less hope. How the fuck am I going to face him Monday? That was the question I couldn’t stop asking myself. I’ve seen him naked, I kept thinking, over and over. I’ve seen Andrew Knudson naked and his cock, his cock, his cock was pressed against my face.
My cheek was more intimate with Andrew’s cock than my mouth was, and that made no sense to me whatsoever.
Monday hit me like a storm and I worried in the morning I’d not have the balls to go to class. When I finally coaxed myself into some clothes and heaved my heavy textbook-filled backpack over a shoulder, I trekked across campus to the psychology building. Every step threatened to buckle my knees. Pushing open the door to the psychology building made me lose my breath. When I reached the door to the classroom, I had to stop and shut my eyes. My face was on fire, I could feel it. I don’t think I can do this, I realized, trembling and wanting to cry.
Then I pushed into the room and, without paying mind to anything or anyone else in the class, I blindly stumbled to my seat. There I remained, breathing slowly and horribly, counting imaginary minutes until the class would be over.
The professor began to talk and if a million dollars were laid down I still couldn’t tell you what the hell today’s lesson covered. Twice, only twice, I looked up from my hands and brought my eyes to his desk—to Andrew’s desk. He sat facing forward, a striped blue and white shirt hugging his body. I couldn’t even quiver with excitement at the sight of him; I was much too scared, too anxious, too worried of things that had happened, of things that hadn’t happened. Look back at me, I begged, but he didn’t so much as flinch. Only twice I looked.
At ten minutes left, the professor released us to discussing the project with our partners. For the third time, I looked up, but only Andrew’s backside greeted me.
I took a deep, deep, deep breath. It was a jagged breath, but it gave me the strength to rise to my feet. I clumsily put one foot in front of the other, brought myself to the side of Andrew’s desk.
Then, he turned to look at me. His grey-blue eyes seemed lazy, almost tired. “Hey,” he said.
I lowered myself into the seat next to him and said nothing for a while, trembling. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly.
“You look sick,” he said.
I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again to speak. “Are we okay? You and I?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
I felt my breath become more even. I felt my chest relax. My fingertips were tingly and icy cold, all the blood having retreated from my limbs, apparently. “I just, uh …” How the fuck would I put it into words? “After I … I lost the game, I …”
“This your way of saying you want to do another one?” His voice was almost gentle.
No, I didn’t want any games. I just want to know what your cock feels like inside me. In my mouth. In my body. I want to give you a reason to lose all your cool, to drop the stoicism and the hardness and adopt, instead, another hardness below your waist. I want to give you reason to moan like a bitch and cry out so loud all my hallmates hear and wonder whose buck is getting banged. I want to get you and your beefcake body naked again without the permission of another fucking game.
“Yes,” I said instead.