I sank down one last time, feeling Andres’ dick bury itself deep as his hips jerked and stuttered against the smooth, skinny curve of my butt. It felt like I could feel heat inside me, even with the latex of the condom providing a protective layer between his seed and my insides.
“You good?” I asked him, smiling down with my hands gripping his shoulders.
“Uhhhh-mazing, god, Bennett. You’re amazing.” Andres grinned up at me with these soft, sweet eyes. I’d already orgasmed ten minutes ago but had kept riding him until he finished, growing a little bored but never wanting a reputation on campus of being someone who didn’t please their partner.
I hopped off his wiggly, hard dick and swung my 145 pound, 5’10” frame of smooth, lean muscle and skin off to the side of the bed. My light brown hair was a wrecked, flowy mess across my forehead, the dramatic middle part completely destroyed from how he’d gripped it earlier. Without any gel on hand, I used some sweat from my skinny boy abs to readjust my head; my hair was my mojo, after all and I couldn’t leave with it a disaster. Stretching like a cat, with my arms overhead, I let him get another look at the tiny dusting of hair between my pecs, which trailed down into a defined, narrow happy trail.
“Well, that was fun!” I said with a pep in my step. “Very fun!” I’d been looking for a little kick of energy to finish out the day and sex was always the best mood booster.
He peeled the condom off carefully, tying and tossing it toward the trash can in the corner of his tiny Toronto apartment bedroom. For a second he just looked at me, that usual post-fuck smirk on his face, but then it softened into something more serious. Suddenly, I wanted to throw some clothes on and get the hell outta there. I knew that look. He sat up at the top of his bed and reached out a hand, interlacing his calloused hand around my smoother and smaller one.
“Bennett,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “I think I might love you.”
My brain short circuited. I slowly pulled my hand away, trying to be easy and kind in my movements. My uncut dick, which was pretty thin but usually about 6.5” (16 cm) hard, had retreated down to just about two inches (5cm), resting soft and exposed against my lightly trimmed pubes. My little guy probably felt as awkward and exposed as I did right now.
My heart gave a weird, uncomfortable lurch with confusion. “Andres…what…are you talking about?” I asked, keeping my tone gentle. I reached back over and squeezed his hand because I wasn’t one to be rude or careless, but my head was spinning. We’d just met at a college party two weeks ago and had fucked a few times, but I couldn’t even remember if we’d hung out fully sober yet.
I waited for him to laugh it off with a ‘psych!’ because this dude couldn’t possibly be serious. “I mean it, Bennett. These last two weeks have been so special. I love your laugh so much and I can’t stop thinking about you.” He paused, waiting for me to say something but my face probably looked frozen with shock. “And I know it’s stupid, but when you speak in French, it’s so cute.”
I swallowed hard and tried to remain calm and open, but my pale cheeks now felt warm from nerves rather than sex. “Dude, it’s been two weeks…” I said softly. “You’re a cool guy, but I don’t know anything about you. I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea, man.”
He pulled his hand back slowly, like it hurt to do it, and his shoulders slumped. “Don’t be an asshole. We’ve been hanging out for two weeks. I know you feel it too!”
“Woah, woah, woah. Chill out. I’m not trying to be rude,” I cut in. “We don’t even know each other enough for you to realize that I’m leaving in two days for a spring semester abroad in London! I thought we were on the same page. I never said anything about more.”
His jaw dropped. “You’re…leaving me?”
The next twenty minutes were me trying to calm him down through tears, while also looking for any possible opportunity to get the hell outta there. When I finally stepped out into the Toronto night, I felt guilty, but I wasn’t even sure if I needed to? The guy was sweet, but way too attached for two weeks of hooking up. I had a plane to catch. London and adventure were waiting. New cities, new people, new mistakes.
Note to self: make sure the next hookup understands the stakes!
---
Two Days Later
I could barely contain the excitement racing through my veins the entire flight over the Atlantic. So much for sleeping on the redeye; even if I’d wanted to, there was no fucking way I could’ve risked dozing off and missing the descent. The green countryside and little villages stretching out in the distance as we approached Heathrow were my first glance of a continent other than North America. I actually called it Europe to my neighbor on the plane, an older woman, but she not so respectfully assured me this was ‘no longer Europe’. Geopolitics weren’t my strong suit and I wanted to retort with some kinda snarky comment, but decided against it given I wasn’t sure I even knew what I was talking about to argue with her.
I was twenty years old, fresh out of my sophomore year back at the University of Toronto, and bound for the best four or five months of my life. I’d been planning to be abroad since middle school and the UK seemed like the perfect home base for a season of travels. Easy airport access, hot guys, and cheap flights awaited me!
I grabbed my two massive suitcases from baggage claim, listening to the old, tattered wheels rattle loudly on the shiny floor as I wheeled them through the arrivals hall. People rushed past in every direction: businessmen in sharp suits who’d rolled right off an overnight from the States to meetings, families trying to wrangle kids sprinting in every direction, and people like me; kids experiencing a new land for the first time. I was grinning so wide that my cheeks ached; my brain felt alive despite the sleep deprivation.
Taking the Heathrow express straight into London, the train glided smooth and fast while I pressed my forehead to the cool window, watching London unfold. Green fields gave way to endless rows of brick houses, double-decker buses, and eventually the distant skyline of the city teasing me. I switched to the tube once I got to the city, easily navigating the complex but simple transit system and dragging my suitcase onto a crowded line toward Mayfair, where I’d be staying this spring.
I couldn’t help but feel like a main character in a movie. What would the needle drop have been in my own film? Maybe something by the Beatles, given we were in London? No, better yet, a more modern British artist like the 1975 or Harry Styles? Why not all of them? If I had my way this spring, I’d be making so many memories that I’d need hundreds of songs to light up the soundtrack of my life to come.
People my age, kids, and tourists much older than me spilled out of restaurants and shops in every direction. It was cold and gray out, but given the improvement over Toronto weather this time of year, I was ready to treat late January like it was the summer already. I finally reached an unmarked door matching the address of the email I’d received and used a code to enter, venturing up the two flights of stairs with my bags and finding my new home. This was the flat I’d be sharing with my new roommate. The building was part of a new program that the university was piloting with students like me, pairing a local student with one studying abroad for the semester, as a means for cultural exchange in both directions.
The email was blank on instructions of how to actually access my new flat, so I knocked on the door and hoped someone might be inside. I stopped dead when it finally creaked open.
He stepped back towards a shelf on the wall that was already filled with picture frames of guys rowing crew in rivers around the world. He had to be a few inches taller than me and…those broad shoulders! Jesus Christ! It didn’t take much to imagine him rowing those longboats up and down, with sweat pouring off his brown, short hair. The white v-neck tee was stretched tight, fitting firmly over his chest but bulging around his muscles. My mouth went dry and my stomach instantly flipped with an undeniable crush.
“You must be Bennett,” he said, voice smooth and proper, that crisp British accent wrapping around every word. When he reached out his hand, his grip was firm, warm, and confident. He clearly had his life together and it even felt safe to assume that maybe even came from money or power. “I’m George. Welcome to London, mate. I’m your host for the semester.”
I kept my usual charming, flirty grin in place. “Bennett, yeah. I’m uhh, I’m from Quebec City. Toronto for university. God, you’re…uh…this place is unreal already. The dorm, the city, you…uh, I mean the whole setup.” Smooth, Bennett. Real smooth. “Putain, pourquoi je continue de parler…”
“Oh.” He just smiled wider, that proper grin crinkling the corners of his eyes, and helped me haul the suitcases fully inside like it was nothing. “You’re a francophone, mate?”
“Oui. It’s my heritage.” I rubbed my scalp. My mom had told me growing up that I had the bad habit of switching over to French any time I got nervous…she wasn’t wrong.
While I unpacked, pulling out hoodies and shirts to hang in our shared closet, George sat down at his desk and maintained a perfect, upright posture, typing away on his laptop. The screen was dark from the side, like he had a privacy covering on it, but given how intent he seemed, I imagined he was either working or doing something for school.
Eventually, he refocused on me and explained our setup as I organized my new British life. His voice was ‘posh’ when he spoke and he seemed a natural at making strangers feel welcomed. “I signed up for this hosting program last summer. I had a study-abroad mate in here in the fall and now it’s you. It keeps things interesting and I have the benefit of getting more from my own experience.”
“Versus what?” I pushed, without taking my eyes off the closet.
“Well.” He steadied his voice. “Instead of some boring British piss head.”
I could get behind that. Meeting new kinds of people was pretty interesting, after all. “Who was the ‘me’ of the fall?”
“An Australian bloke. He was a lot of fun. I couldn’t always keep up in the pub with him, but I certainly tried. You seem like you’ll keep me on my toes too, with that pup energy you’ve got.””
I tossed a pair of my slim black jeans into the drawer, glancing over my shoulder at him. He looked like a proper male lead in a 90s rom-com. My crush was already in full swing; I could feel it. “Is that the vibe I give off? I’ll try not to disappoint,” I said, voice light and flirty without trying too hard. “I’m planning on making the most of every single day here, so it shouldn’t be hard.”
“Any big plans while you’re here?” George asked.
“Tons of travel lined up! I thought London was a good home base.” I tossed a stack of hoodies, unfolded, in the back of the closet
He raised an eyebrow, that handsome face lighting up with genuine interest as he leaned forward. “Oh? Where to first, then? Got a list?”
We kept chatting while I finished unpacking, the conversation flowing easy as I folded shirts and arranged my toiletries in our tiny ensuite bathroom. “I’m hitting all the big touristy ones first. Rome, Madrid, Amsterdam, Paris. I want tapas, clubs, weed and…” I trailed off. When do I come out?
“What about history?” George nudged back with a cheeky grin. He either missed how I ended my sentence or was too proper or innocent to care.
“Yeah, history too. Which’ll be more fun with some weed!” I beamed and flipped my hair.
George took it all in, nodding slowly, his muscular frame relaxed but attentive. He stood up eventually. “You sound very free-spirited,” he said. “I’m used to more structure, even if I don’t love it. My family raised me that way. Posh lot, rowing crew every morning at dawn, all the proper expectations. But I do love a good spur-of-the-moment decision now and then. In another life, I think I would be more like you.”
I wondered if he meant it in a conceiting or pitiful manner, but he seemed genuine despite his clear status. “I hear that, man.” I did my best ‘bro’ impression.
“Would you like to go to the pub? Food and pints on me.” George offered and I nodded.
The afternoon had slipped into early evening by the time we wrapped up the unpacking chat. My side of the room felt like home now with posters of hockey players dotting the walls and my suitcase shoved under the bed, ready for the next adventure. George clapped his hands together once 6PM hit, eschewing us out into the dark streets of London.
The walk to the pub was only five minutes, but it felt like stepping into a living postcard. The streets around Mayfair were alive despite the rougher weather and the hustle and bustle of tourists reminded me that this was a truly world-class city. George walked beside me, his 6’1” frame easy and confident, pointing out little details about restaurants and shops he liked (or as he kept putting it, the ones he ‘fancied’.). I stole glances the whole way, my crush deepening with every proper laugh he gave.
The pub itself was classic perfection: dark wood beams, low ceilings that made everything feel cozy and intimate, a football match playing softly on the TV in the corner, and locals laughing over pints at the bar. We slid into a booth in the back, the worn leather seats creaking under us. George ordered us two proper pints of lager; cold, foamy, golden perfection, and we clinked them the second they arrived.
“Cheers to your first night in London,” he said, that nice smile flashing. “May it be the start of many unforgettable ones.”
“Here, here, ay!” I clanked back.
We settled back into some banter, catching up on our respective fall semesters and what we were studying. It turned out that he was the captain of the crew team, so I had a feeling he was more than just big muscle.
“What are your hobbies?” George asked me. He sounded a bit like my parents. Every word he chose was the most traditional, conservative synonym: ‘hobbies’, ‘goals’, ‘ambitions’. It was a bit like being stuck next to a guidance counselor.
“Ehh.” Should I say drinking, smoking, fucking around, and literally fucking? I decided against it. “I play hockey for fun. I like movies. I dunno, man. Pretty normal guy, I guess. I don’t have much experience with travel though, so trying to change that this spring.”
“Right, the travel.” George nodded again. “You should sprinkle in some new places you hadn’t considered.”
“Like?” I questioned him.
“My favorite place I’ve ever been was Iceland. Gorgeous country.” George seemed excited when he talked about it and downed the rest of his pint with ease. Apparently, he’d learned a thing or two from the Australian that came before me.
“I’ll do Iceland,” I said, locking eyes with him. “But only if you come with me on some of these trips. Deal? I could use a proper European guide who knows how to row a boat if we end up in trouble.”
George’s nice smile widened into something warmer, almost flirty in that very posh and proper way of his. “Gladly,” he said without hesitation, his deep voice making the word feel like a promise. “I could use a break from the books and the crew schedule. Sounds like a plan, Bennett.”
Over the next couple of hours, the beers kept coming; round after round, light and easy, the conversation flowing like we’d known each other for months instead of hours. The pub noise wrapped around us like a warm blanket; laughter from the bar, clinking glasses, the occasional cheer for a goal on the screen. I leaned forward on my elbows, my light brown hair falling dramatically across my forehead as I got more animated, telling him all about my travel dreams in detail.
George listened intently, his muscular forearm resting on the table, short hair catching the warm pub lights as he nodded along. He took a slow sip of his pint, that dashing, gentlemanly smile never fading. “You really don’t plan far ahead, do you?” he repeated, but this time with a little more warmth, like he was genuinely impressed by it.
“The fact that I have a trip booked to Venice almost four months from now is probably the farthest scheduled out thing I’ve ever had…” I tilted my head, flirting just enough to test the waters. “Enough about me, man! Got any wild stories of your own?”
“Afraid not.” George said. But I couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth. “Just a couple sloshed nights here with my mates.”
I laughed along, sharing my own wilder Toronto nights. He said he wasn’t above going out, especially if the right crowd was involved, and that his crew mates sometimes even dragged him to clubs. The beers loosened us both, the conversation dipping into deeper but still light territory; his family’s expectations versus my free-wheeling, blue collar parents’ hopes that I just stayed out of jail. Every time he smiled that nice, proper smile, my crush flared hotter. He was straight, obviously, I had to remind myself.
Eventually, after our fourth or fifth pint, which had done quite a number on my much smaller size, I figured it was time. I set my glass down, looked him right in those warm, handsome eyes, and said it straight. “Look, I should probably tell you something before we get to know each other better. Sorry to be forward, this is never not-awkward, but just so ya know, I’m gay. Hope that’s not going to be an issue with us rooming together all semester. I don’t want it to be weird or anything.”
George settled back in the booth and for the first time tonight, took a second to process what I’d said before responding. It suddenly dawned on me that he was so practiced in small talk and networking, that every other topic of conversation since we’d met had just been him on autopilot. It wasn’t that he was insincere, but he was just simply so polished in the art of meeting new people because of his privilege that he always knew the right thing to say.
But I’d finally whipped a slap shot at him that he hadn’t expected. “Oh. Uh. I don’t care, that’s fine,” he finally said. His voice was more natural this time, lacking the superfluous adjectives or perfect wording. Then he quickly regained his polished tone. “As long as you don’t fancy how I look, of course.”
I froze and my face went red in an instant. Had it been that obvious that I was crushing on him? And did he really expect any living human to not be attracted to him!? Straight or not, was he really insinuating he didn’t stare at himself in the mirror and realize he was a fucking god!?
George quickly let out the most genuine, deep sound I’d heard from him all night, bellowing a full laugh and taking another massive sip of his beer. “I’m just kidding, Bennett. Relax, mate. I don’t care if you’re gay. Or if you check me out. I’m not barbaric, nor am I naive!”
I let out a breath and laughed too, my charming side kicking back in full force. “Thank god,” I shot back, leaning in with a wink, “you really got me worked up and worried for a second. Cause you definitely have to realize you’re hot. Anyone with eyes would think so. But don’t worry. I’m not gonna make it weird.”
He laughed again, cheeks flushing just a touch under that handsome face, his muscular shoulders shaking. “That’s fine,” he said, warm and easy, with no weirdness at all. “Really. No issue here. I think we’re going to have quite a bit of fun this semester.” He finished with one final line that threw me off for the first time all night. “And go ahead and make it weird, for all I care. We’ll have some fun.”
Oh?
We clinked our glasses one last time and my mind swirled with the promise of what was to come: London, adventure, new cities, and a roommate who already felt like a lifelong friend.
That first week of classes delivered exactly what I needed: easy living. I’d worked my butt off the first 3 semesters of uni in Canada to set myself up for a cake walk of a semester abroad and those initial sessions had come through big time. The hardest part seemed to be understanding the thick British accents of my professors, so I started pushing George to ratchet up the ‘Britain’ in our room to improve my listening skills.
Mornings always started with me waking up at 4:30am to George heading off for the gym, me drifting back off, lazily snoozing my alarm at 8am, and then finally dragging my skinny ass out of bed by 9:30.
There was an adorable coffee shop right outside our flat that I frequented twice a day with a cute barista named Jessica who opened the cafe. By Wednesday, she knew me by name, and I’d subtly withheld the fact I preferred dick, playing dumb and gladly accepting a free latte Friday morning after batting my eyes at her.
Hey, I wasn’t a liar, but I wasn’t above staying quiet!
I’d adjusted to the gray and rain quickly, getting a ton of use out of my bright yellow, long jacket, and loving the whirl and dryness of the tube. This was what I’d signed up for! A real city with real public transit! I didn’t even mind the packed mornings, cramming in next to strangers and crying babies.
By Thursday night I was wrecked, sprawled on the sofa with my laptop open to a web-based discussion group prompting me for my thoughts on a reading. I was already checked out and ready for the weekend, but just had to get through five fucking sentences until freedom!
George had come back from his second time in the gym by 6pm, looking like a chiseled, masculine model. I couldn’t tell if his hair was damp from sweat or a fresh shower but either way I would’ve been happy to rub my nose in it. That was a man I would’ve gotten on my knees to serve any fucking day of the week…
“Bennett,” he said, voice warm and friendly, like always. “First full weekend. Let me take you around London tomorrow.”
I looked up. “Is that a date?”
He laughed with a rich chuckle. “Keep your expectations low. But I think we can do a pint and a meal along the way.”
“Je te mangerais comme mon repas…” I mumbled back.
“Come again?” He rose the side of his mouth with a tiny grin.
“I’ll cum for you any time, Georgey.” I teased.
He’d grown used to my little, mysterious French barbs and probably even knew they were a little dirty. Luckily, I figured out fast that we were aligned on our flirty nature. Underneath the post shell was a regular old kid just like me.
For once, I didn’t snooze my alarm Saturday morning (granted, it was set for 10am). George was out, likely wrapping up his workout for the day, but I wanted to show him I was excited for our day together, so I quickly started getting ready. I stood in front of our long mirror and took a look at myself, feeling good after week one, and finally having adjusted to the time change. My hair was a bit of a disaster but that was pretty standard, and thankfully I still looked just as slim as back home (for now). Even though my package was pretty small when it was soft, it still bulged in my tiny, size small black trunks because of my slim frame (lucky me for good genes!). I pulled on my favorite jeans, a soft green hoodie, and sat on my bed scrolling until George finally returned home around 10:30.
“Ready, Bennett?” he asked, flashing that handsome, easy smile. “Surprised you woke up.”
“I can get outta bed if I have something, or someone, who’s worth it!” I shot back. “I’m ready for my tour, your majesty.”
We only had to walk out our front door for George to figuratively drag me along to start our adventures. We worked through all the touristy stops nearby, like long shopping streets and Leicester square, where street performers played live music and tourists mingled around their guides. We took our time, and George gave me an in-depth lesson about the history of sites that today held fast food restaurants or fast fashion brands, but were once great buildings of historical consequence.
Three hours later, after a coffee, our second afternoon stop was ‘Neal’s Yard’, which George described as a not-so-hidden technically-hidden courtyard full of tiny shops, colorful bricks, and a wine bar he loved. He admitted it was a bit touristy, but reminded me that sometimes places became famous for a reason!
The little courtyard was pure magic; brightly painted buildings and hanging flower baskets spilling greenery even in late winter; all of which made me forget we were in the middle of the busiest part of one of the biggest cities on earth. We ducked into his beloved tiny wine bar and with a wave of his hand, a girl our age ushered us to a high top in the corner that had a ‘reserved’ place card on it.
“What’s your deal with her?” I asked him.
“What do you mean?” He smiled wryly, knowing what I was getting at.
“I feel like there’s a story there. How long have you known her?” I pushed onward.
“Well.” He held up two fingers to her from across the bar and mouthed ‘red’, signaling our wine order. “We’ve been mates since primary school. But the relationship has changed a bit through the years.” George flashed me his first ever wink and my stomach swirled.
She appeared a second later with two tall flutes of something sparkling. “Here you go. For your celebration.” She winked at George and disappeared in an instant.
“Champagne?!” I picked it up, questioning. “For what?!”
“Does one need a reason for champagne?” George was clearly of a different social class.
When it touched my lips, I was hit with the bubbliest, most delicious nectar I’d ever tasted. This was no $5 sparkling Prosecco and now I was praying George was picking up the tab, otherwise I was fucked with a trip to Paris on the horizon.
The wine loosened us both up and set way for what was to be a long night of drinks. The champagne turned into those two glasses of red, which in turn became another two. By the time we left, almost two hours later, we were both feeling hungry for an early supper.
“Alright,” he said finally, standing and stretching. “Soho awaits. Try to keep up.”
“Un dur à cuire.” I winked at him.
“I will assume that translates to ‘thank you for paying the bill, George, you are the best.” He chuckled.
“Exactly!” I playfully retorted, feeling a little flushed from the buzz I had going.
We spilled back out into the courtyard and bopped our way through Soho. The streets were narrow and alive, with rainbow flags moving in the breeze, vintage shops spilling clothes onto the sidewalks, and music blaring from bars that were coming alive in the 6PM hour. George knew every corner. We ducked into a tiny record store that I was surprised he knew about, then he took us into a vintage shop, where he made me try on a two-hundred pound leather jacket, that I dreamt of being able to afford one day.
Next came a cheese shop on the corner, which reminded me of home. The place was tiny and full of smells, wheels, and wedges stacked on wooden shelves, and a chalkboard menu listing dairy that I didn’t recognize. We sampled everything; sharp cheddar that made my eyes water, creamy brie that melted on the tongue, and a smoky spread that George fed me on a little cracker.
“Open,” he said softly, and I did, letting his fingers brush my lower lip as he placed the bite in my mouth. The taste exploded and I groaned around it, eyes half-closed.
“God, that’s good,” I moaned, licking my lips slowly. “You keep feeding me and I’ll do whatever you say.”
He smiled but didn’t fully take the bait. “Careful what you wish for.“
We had fun, living out my fantasies of a movie montage in a legendary neighborhood, but our stomachs kept begging us for more food.
“What would you like to eat?” George asked around 7PM.
“Are you picking up that tab, too?” I shamelessly asked. It was becoming quite clear that money wasn’t an issue for my roommate.
“I am. If you’re a good boy.” George smirked.
My mouth watered. He knew what he was doing. I knew it was just a fun ruse but the banter was what I lived for. “Fuck you. Don’t tease me.”
“I have no idea what you mean!”
“I want French food. The food of my people.” I requested, knowing I could run up quite the bill on French in a neighborhood like this.
“In Quebec? Isn’t the food of your people fried cheese curds?” George taunted back.
“Poutine…” I replied. “And even your stuck-up, royal ass would love it.”
He shook his head, smiling, and nodded me toward a tiny cafe. “I don’t think you’d like my royal ass if I ate a bowl of poutine.”
I laughed hard, respecting the play between flirty and ‘straight’. He’d gotten me good, there.
Inside the restaurant, I noticed a table full of queer people drinking wine, who immediately glanced in our direction. George put his big hand lightly on my lower back to guide me toward the bar, and their eyes went up in surprise, probably jealous of my position. “Am I your side piece?”
“You could be more than that, Bennett. Don’t sell yourself short.” George whispered back. I knew he was joking; just trying to hype up my confidence, but what he still didn’t realize was that confidence was not an issue I had. If anything, my ego had gotten me in trouble more times than I could count.
“See that bloke over there?” George murmured across the table, nodding to a guy around our age at the table. “He’s been eyeing you since we walked in. Reckon you’ve pulled him in already.”
Time to ratchet up the heat. “Too bad I’m here with the hottest tour guide in London. Eyes only for you tonight, George.”
He just chuckled softly and actually reached across the table to ruffle my hair like I was a kid. “You’re drunk. Finish your pint and let’s get you home before you cause trouble.”
Unfortunately for him, we stayed longer than we planned after that, with yet another round of drinks. He did in fact end up needing to help steady me on the walk back.
As the sky reached its full darkness and the city lights started to sparkle, we wandered toward the Thames. The river path was quieter now, lit by those classic ornate lamps that made things feel cinematic, with Big Ben looming in the distance like a postcard someone had brought to life. We walked slowly, as my head turned to a warm, fuzzy glow. My hand kept finding excuses; brushing his arm when I pointed something out, playfully shoving his shoulder, or stumbling a bit (genuinely) and using him as a crutch to stay upright. He never pulled away, instead gently redirecting me. He even let a soft laugh when I pretended to stumble for the second time, so I could lean into his side.
“You know,” he said after a while, voice thoughtful and a little thick from all the drinks, “I wasn’t sure what to expect when they told me I’d have a Canadian roommate for the semester. I wondered if it would be a bit boring but you’re different. In a good way. Easy to be around.”
I bumped his hip with mine, the alcohol making me brave. “Different how? Cooler? Cuter? Funnier? Making you question your sexuality?”
He snorted, the sound turning into a full laugh that echoed over the water. “All of the above, probably.” My heart skipped a beat for a second. “Oh, except for that last one.” He winked yet again as I bit my lip in frustration. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
The walk back to Mayfair felt endless in the best possible way, as every step made my world and the actual one tilt just a bit more. I knew George was off limits but these were the sorts of gray lines that I loved to toe. I often wondered if I ‘got off’ more from this relentless, impossible chase than if I’d actually caught the dashing prince. And while that may have been a bit fucked, I was more than happy to ride that rush of a pursuit.
It was pretty clear that we were both piss drunk when we got back into our room. I couldn’t stop laughing, feeling the high of finally fulfilling my adventure dreams abroad. Unfortunately that laughter was a bit too strong because the second I stepped into our room, I tripped on something and started falling face first…until a hand gripped my arm, stopping me.
“Woah, mate!” George single handled pulled my lanky self back to my feet. “Shoes off and into bed, you’re a proper mess!”
I kicked them off, giggling like an idiot, then turned and wrapped my arms around his waist, face pressed right into the solid wall of his chest. He smelled like beer and I could feel the huge muscular wall of his back. “You’re the best,” I mumbled against his shirt. “Best roommate. Best tour guide. Best everything.”
His hands settled lightly on my shoulders, not pushing me away but not pulling me closer either. The touch was gentle, almost tender. “You’re very touchy when you’re drunk, you know that?” There was no judgment, just fond amusement laced through the posh accent. “It’s charming, honestly. Flattering, even. But hands to yourself, yeah? Let’s get you sorted for bed.”
He turned the harsh overhead lighting off and flicked on the soft bedside lamp, which barely illuminated our room. As I plopped onto my bed, trying to get myself together, he started unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric parted to reveal the solid planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button, and dense, thick abs. His core was actual muscle, unlike mine, which only really showed because I was thin. I watched openly, no filter left, and stared slack jawed at his body.
He caught me staring and just smiled, then turned slightly, unzipped his chinos, and let them drop to the floor. Damn, he was hot…
His underwear, a simple pair of black briefs that clung to the rock solid curves of his glutes, shockingly followed a second later. He bent to step out of them, giving me a wide open view of his ass in all its glory. Big and muscular, with the cheeks rounded, powerful, and sculpted from endless hours rowing crew. A coat of soft brown fur dusted the perfect curves, and I was suddenly left realizing that my whiskey dick had still somehow found enough strength to stand up in my pants.
His ass was so unmistakably masculine; strong, firm, furry, and alpha. I wanted so badly to drop to my knees right there and press my face into that perfect, manly crack.
He straightened fully, completely naked now, and turned his head to catch me staring, perfectly and cruelly hiding the front view from my sight line. A surprised laugh rumbled out of him. “Enjoying the view, are we?”
I didn’t even try to hide it. Instead I yanked my shirt off in one clumsy motion, stood up, and shoved my jeans and briefs down together, stepping out until I stood there completely naked too. Except I didn’t bother to hide anything, letting my lean, tight, toned body be on display. I was slim but I was no pushover, falling somewhere between twink and twunk. I looked down as George also did, at my 6.5” (16 cm) uncut dick standing out and curving up and to the left. We both shared a small grin and he finally looked a little shy for once.
“Why don’t we put that away, tiger.” George said as he finally pulled on athletic shorts and turned fully around, covering his front. “I don’t need to see that, buddy.” He was mature enough to not be grossed out but he, without a doubt, wasn’t interested in it either.
“Fineeeeee.” I pouted, turning as he had been and scrounging around in my dresser for pajama pants.
I was still trying to show off a bit, just to make sure he didn’t have a single bit of interest. My ass was small and tight; boyish next to his, but I knew it looked good. It was perky, smooth, and probably wouldn’t have freaked a straight guy out like his own might’ve.
George bursted out laughing again as I pulled pants on. “Christ, Bennett. You’ve got the most adorable, little butt I’ve ever seen on a man.“
Cockiness flared through my drunken haze. I planted my hands on my hips. “You should fuck me then,” I shot back, voice edged with real frustration but still light and playful. Once again, I wasn’t even that serious, but the back and forth flirting fueled my entire being. “If my butt is so adorable, you should see how good it feels to put your dick in it.”
He laughed harder, shaking his head as he climbed into his bed. “You think you’re so bad, but you’re nowhere near as much trouble as the Australian was. He was actual chaos. This is easy. I can handle the gay banter all season long, mate. You’re just torturing yourself.”
I had to smile, having met a bit of my own bullshit in my new friend. “I can push harder, if needed.”
“Go to sleep. Before you say something you’ll regret in the morning.”
I flopped onto my own bed with an exaggerated sigh. The room spun gently, the distant hum of London, a city that also never slept, ringing out through our window.
“Night, George,” I mumbled, already drifting, the day’s adventures still buzzing pleasantly in my veins. “Today was so much fun. Thanks for doing it.”
“Night, Bennett,” he replied softly. “Sweet dreams.”
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