John lies on his bed with eyes open. The ceiling has a crack in it that he has never noticed before. It runs from the light fixture to the corner, thin and crooked like a river on a map.
He is not thinking about the crack.
He is thinking about the exam.
His body does not let him forget it. Every time he shifts on the mattress, there is a ghost of the feeling. It sits in his gut like something warm and heavy, something that does not belong to him but has crawled inside and made a home there. His face is hot. The pillow under his head feels damp with sweat.
He rolls onto his side. Then onto his stomach. Then onto his back again.
The dorm room is quiet. Mark is in the other room. John can hear the faint sound of a basketball game playing on a TV, the squeak of sneakers and the buzzer and the muffled commentary. Mark watches basketball the way other people watch breathing. It is just something he does.
John stares at the ceiling crack.
The doctor's finger had gone inside him yesterday and pressed on something. Something inside him that John did not know existed. And then his whole body had lit up like a power surge, every nerve firing at once, and he had cum harder than he has ever cum in his life. Not on his own. Not from his own hand. From the inside out.
He pulls the blanket over his face.
"Stop," he says to himself. His voice is muffled by the fabric. "Stop thinking about it."
He does not stop thinking about it.
---
The next day is better. John goes to his classes. He sits in the back of the lecture hall for Intro to Data Structures, his laptop open, his fingers typing notes that he will not remember typing. The professor talks about binary search trees and John's mind drifts to binary search trees and only binary search trees and nothing else.
It works. Mostly.
He eats lunch alone in the dining hall. A sandwich and an energy drink. He reads an article on his phone about a new graphics card. He goes to the library and studies for two hours. He walks back to the dorm with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his baggy hoodie, his shoulders curled inward, his head down.
He does not think about the exam.
He does not think about it when he passes the building where the nurse’s office is. He does not think about it when Mark says hey to him in the hallway. He does not think about it when he sits at his desk and codes a homework assignment, his fingers moving across the mechanical keyboard with a rhythm that is steady and safe and completely his own.
He does not think about it.
Not once.
Not until he is in bed.
---
The lights are off. The room is dark. Mark is not in the dorm. He was staying over at his girlfriend’s place.
John is laying on his back with only his boxers. He is wearing his glasses even though there is nothing to look at.
He is hard.
It happens sometimes. It happens every night. He is eighteen. His body does what it wants. He ignores it for a while, staring at the ceiling, that same crack that he can barely make out in the dark. But it does not go away. If anything, it gets worse. His dick strains against the cotton of his boxers, pushing up, aching.
He gives in.
He pulls down his boxers to his thighs. His dick springs free and stands there, rigid and flushed. He wraps his hand around it. The grip is familiar. He has done this a thousand times. Tens of thousands of times. Since he was thirteen and discovered that his hand could make things happen that felt better than anything else in his miserable, awkward life.
He strokes. Slow at first. Then faster.
His mind goes to the usual places. Girls. Boobs. The girl in his data structures class who sits three rows ahead of him and wears crop tops that show a strip of her stomach. The porn he has watched. The compilation videos. The thumbnails he has clicked on. All the regular stuff. The stuff that works.
He strokes and he thinks and his breathing gets heavier and his hips move a little and his hand tightens.
It feels good. It does.
But it does not feel like that.
His hand moves. And then his mind goes where he does not want it to go.
The exam table. The cold of the paper sheet. The doctor's gloved finger pressing inside him. The moment of contact. The jolt. The way his whole body had seized up. The way cum had shot out of him without his permission, without his hand, without anything but that one spot being touched.
His hand stops.
He is still hard. His dick is twitching in his fist.
"Fuck," he whispers.
He starts stroking again. Faster now. Harder. Trying to push the thought away. Trying to get back to the crop top girl. Trying to get back to normal.
He cums. It is fine. It is a normal orgasm. Cum spurts onto his stomach, three or four pulses, and then it is over. His grip loosens. His breathing slows.
He lies there.
It was not the same.
It was not even close.
He reaches for the tissues on his nightstand and wipes himself off. He balls them up and drops them in the trash. He pulls his boxers back up and rolls onto his side.
He does not fall asleep for a long time.
---
Two nights pass. Two nights of the same thing. John lies in bed. He gets hard. He strokes himself. He cums. It is fine. It is adequate. It is the orgasm of a person eating a saltine cracker and calling it a meal.
He does not touch himself anywhere else. He does not let his hands go anywhere near the place that the doctor touched. He keeps his hands on his dick and only his dick, the way a straight guy is supposed to.
But on the third night, his mind goes back.
He is stroking himself. The laptop is on the bed next to him, playing a video. Some girl with fake tits getting railed by a guy with a big dick. The audio is low, coming through the laptop speakers because he cannot find his earphones. The girl is moaning. The guy is grunting. The bed is squeaking.
John watches. He strokes. He is hard. It is fine.
But his mind is not on the screen.
His mind is on the exam table. On the feeling. On that one moment when the doctor's finger had pressed on something inside him and his whole world had turned white.
His hand slows.
His other hand, the one that is not on his dick, is resting on his thigh. It moves. Not much. Just a little. Down his thigh. Toward the inside.
He does not decide to move it. It just moves. Like it has its own plan.
His fingers travel past the base of his dick. Past his balls. They are in the space between his balls and his hole now. The skin there is sensitive. He has never touched it like this. His fingertips brush over it and there is a small tingle, a warmth.
His hand keeps going.
His middle finger touches his hole.
He yanks his hand back.
It is like he has touched a hot stove. The finger snaps away and his whole arm jerks and his hand grips the sheet beside him. His heart is hammering. His dick is still hard. His face is burning.
"No," he says. Out loud. To the empty room.
He is straight. He is straight. Straight guys do not touch themselves there. Straight guys do not finger themselves. That is not a thing that straight guys do. That is something that other guys do. Guys who are into that. Guys who are not him.
He pulls his boxers up. He closes the laptop. The porn video shuts off and the room goes dark and quiet.
He rolls onto his side. His heart is still racing. His dick is still hard but he ignores it. He will not touch it. He will not touch anything. He will go to sleep.
He does not go to sleep for a very long time. But eventually he does. And when he wakes up the next morning, his hand is nowhere near his ass. It is on the pillow beside his head, curled loosely, innocent.
---
The next night.
John is in bed again. The lights are off. The laptop is closed. He is not watching porn. He is just lying there.
His dick is hard again. It is always hard. He is eighteen and his body is a traitor.
He strokes himself. Slow. His hand moves up and down. His breathing gets heavy. He tries to think about the girl from data structures. Her crop top. Her stomach.
His mind goes to the exam table.
"Stop," he whispers.
He keeps stroking. His eyes are closed. His other hand is on his thigh.
It moves.
Down. Past his dick. Past his balls. Into that space.
His fingertip touches his hole.
He does not pull back.
His finger stays there. Just resting on it. Just touching it. The skin around his hole is different from the rest of him. Softer. More sensitive. He can feel his own pulse there, a tiny throb against his fingertip.
He starts rubbing circles around his hole.
It is a small movement. A circle. His finger traces the rim of his hole, slow and careful. The skin moves under his finger. It is warm.
It starts to feel good.
His eyes open. He did not expect that. He did not expect it to feel good just to rub. It is just skin. It is just his hole. Why would rubbing it feel good?
He rubs again. A wider circle this time. His finger traces the outer edge, pressing lightly. The muscle there twitches under his touch. It clenches and unclenches. Like it has its own heartbeat.
His hand on his dick slows. He is distracted. His attention has shifted. The feeling from his hole is different from the feeling from his dick. It is deeper. Slower. It is not the sharp, urgent pleasure of stroking. It is something else. Something that sits in his gut and hums.
He keeps rubbing.
His finger circles. Presses. The muscle gives a little. Not much. Just enough that his fingertip dips into the center, into the soft warmth of the opening.
He pushes slightly. His finger does not go in. It is too dry. The skin catches and pulls and it is uncomfortable.
He pulls his hand up. He looks at his finger. He spits on it. A thick wad of spit. It is not elegant. It is not sexy. It is a guy spitting on his own finger in a dark dorm room.
He brings his finger back down.
He presses again. The spit helps. His finger slides. The muscle resists and then gives. The tip of his finger goes in. Just the tip. Just past the first knuckle. The heat inside is immediate. It is like putting his finger in a warm mouth. Wet and tight and alive.
His dick jumps.
He pushes a little more. His finger slides in to the first knuckle. The muscle clamps around it. Not painfully. Just holding. Like his body is gripping his finger and does not want to let go.
He does not need to go further.
The feeling hits him. It is not the exam. It is not that white-hot, body-seizing explosion. But it is something. Something more than stroking. Something deeper. His hips move on their own. His ass pushes against his finger. His dick throbs and then he cums.
Cum shoots out of him. It hits his stomach. One pulse. Two. Three. His ass clenches around his finger and the clenching makes the orgasm ripple through him in waves. His back arches and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
It lasts longer than a normal orgasm. That is the thing he notices. The peak is not higher. But it is wider. It stretches out. It fills his whole body instead of just his groin.
Then it is over.
He pulls his finger out. It comes free with a small wet sound. He wipes it on the sheet. He lies there. His chest is heaving. Cum is cooling on his shirt.
And then the shame comes.
It rolls over him like cold water. What did he just do? He just put his finger in his own ass. He just came from having his finger in his ass. He is a straight guy. Straight guys do not do this. Straight guys do not finger themselves. Straight guys do not lie in the dark with their own spit as lube and their finger inside themselves.
He wants to throw up.
He wants to shower.
He wants to forget this ever happened.
He rolls onto his side. He pulls the blanket up to his chin. He does not shower. He does not move. He just lies there with drying cum on his shirt and the ghost of his finger inside him and the shame sitting on his chest like a stone.
He falls asleep like that.
---
Two days.
He does not touch himself for two days. He does not masturbate. He does not think about it. He goes to class. He codes. He eats. He plays video games. He is normal. He is a normal straight guy who does normal straight things.
Mark is around. They talk sometimes. Small talk. Mark asks about classes. John gives short answers. Mark does not bring up the doctor. Nobody brings up the doctor. John's secret is safe.
But on the third night, it is too much.
John is lying on his back. He is wearing only a T-shirt. His boxers are off. His legs are bare. The air in the room is cool on his skin. His laptop is open on the bed next to him, propped against the pillow. A porn video is playing. A girl is on her knees. A guy is standing in front of her. The girl's mouth is full. The guy's hand is in her hair.
John has his earphones in. The sound fills his head. Wet, sloppy sounds. Moaning. The slap of skin on skin.
He is playing with his dick. His hand moves up and down. He is hard. He has been hard for ten minutes. He is taking his time. He does not want to rush. Rushing leads to finishing and finishing leads to lying in the dark with his thoughts.
But his mind is going places.
The exam table. The finger. The press. The jolt.
His free hand moves down.
He spits on his finger. A thick glob. He brings it down between his legs.
He presses.
His finger goes in. Slowly. The muscle resists. Then yields. The tip goes in. The first knuckle. He pushes more. The second knuckle. His finger slides in deeper. The heat wraps around him. Tight. Wet. Alive.
He stops.
He just sits there. His finger inside him. His hand on his dick. The porn playing in his ears. He is overwhelmed. The feeling is so much. Not just physically. It is the idea of it. The fact of it. His finger is inside him. Inside his body. In a place that is not supposed to be touched.
He breathes.
He starts moving his finger. Not in and out. Around. He curves it. He is looking for his prostate. The walnut-sized thing that sits there, that the doctor had pressed, that had made him see God.
He moves his finger. He curves it toward the front. He presses against the wall of his rectum. He feels tissue. He feels warmth. He feels the inside of his own body.
He cannot find it.
He moves his finger left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. He pushes deeper. His finger goes in past the second knuckle. He curves it more. He presses harder.
Nothing.
"Come on," he mutters.
He moves his finger in a circle. He presses. He prods. He is searching for something that he cannot see and can barely feel. It is like trying to find a light switch in a dark room with one hand behind his back.
He pushes his finger in different directions. Up. Down. Left. Right. He presses on the wall. He presses on the sides. He is inside himself, reaching for something that he knows is there but cannot find.
"Fucking—"
He grunts. His finger moves faster. He is frustrated. The porn is still playing in his ears. The girl is moaning. The guy is grunting. John is grunting too, but not from pleasure. From irritation.
He curves his finger harder. He presses. He can feel something that is different from the rest. A slightly firmer spot. He presses on it.
It does not feel like much.
He presses again. Harder.
Nothing.
He groans. It is a groan of frustration. A low, guttural sound that comes from his throat. His face is scrunched up. His glasses are fogging. His finger is still inside him, still moving, still searching.
He moves his finger in a sweeping motion. Left to right. Like he is wiping a windshield. He presses on different spots as he goes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Another grunt. Louder this time.
He does not hear the knock.
Mark is standing on the other side of the door. He has been there for a few seconds. He knocked. He knocked twice. He heard John's grunts through the wall. They did not sound like pleasure grunts. They sounded like pain. Like something is wrong.
"John?" Mark says. His voice is muffled by the door.
John does not hear him. The earphones are in. The porn is playing. The girl is screaming. The bed is squeaking. John's ears are full of someone else's sounds.
Mark knocks again. Harder.
No response.
He tries the handle.
The door is not locked.
John forgot to lock it. He was in a hurry. He was distracted. He did not think about it. The door is unlocked and Mark turns the handle and pushes it open.
The door swings.
Mark's eyes find John's face first. John's face is turned toward the door. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. His glasses are crooked. His expression is frozen in a mask of surprise.
Mark's brow furrows. "John, are you—"
His eyes travel down.
John's T-shirt is bunched up around his waist. His legs are spread. His dick is hard against his stomach. His hand is between his legs. His middle finger is inside him. It is obvious what he is doing. There is no way to misinterpret the position. There is no way to explain it away.
Mark's expression changes. The concern drops. The surprise stays. And then something else. Something that pulls at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite a smirk. Something amused. Something that says oh without saying anything at all.
The room is silent for one second. Two. Three.
John's brain catches up.
He follows Mark's gaze. Down. Past his own chest. Past his stomach. Past his dick. To his hand. To his finger. To the place where his finger disappears inside his own body.
His face goes from white to red in the space of a heartbeat.
"GET OUT!"
The words come out like a gunshot. Loud. Sharp. Cracking in the quiet room. They snap Mark out of whatever trance he is in. The amusement drops from his face. His eyes widen. His hand is still on the door handle.
He steps back.
"I—sorry, I—"
"GET OUT!"
Mark pulls the door. It swings shut. The bang is loud in the hallway. The sound of it echoes. Then footsteps. Fast ones. Mark is leaving.
John is alone.
His finger is still inside him.
He pulls it out. Fast. Like it burns. Like it is the thing that caused this. Like if he gets it out fast enough, he can pretend it was never there.
He pulls his T-shirt down. He pulls his knees to his chest. He grabs the blanket and pulls it over his head. He is shaking. Not from cold. From something else.
His laptop is still playing. The girl is still moaning. The guy is still grunting. He yanks the earphones out and the sound dies. The room goes quiet.
He lies there under the blanket. His knees are against his chest. His arms are wrapped around his shins. His face is buried in his knees.
Mark saw.
Mark saw him.
Mark saw his finger inside him.
John wants to disappear. He wants the bed to swallow him. He wants the floor to open up and drop him into the basement and then drop him through the basement into the earth and then keep dropping him until he is at the center of the planet where no one can find him.
He does not move.
He does not sleep.
He just lies there, in the dark, under the blanket, with the taste of shame in his mouth and the sound of the door banging shut still ringing in his ears.
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