Julien barely waited me outside. The moment he saw me at the swimming pool's entrance, he told me he had to go elsewhere, running a hand through his damp blond hair:
“Gotta bounce,” he said, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder. “Got rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal?” I blinked.
“Yeah, I play guitar. We’ve got gig coming up in a few weeks. Small bar near République. Nothing crazy really.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, then grinned. “Plus I promised I’d help Léa with her notes.”
"Oh... OK then. See you tomorrow, I guess?"
Before I could even comment, he added:
“You good to make it back alone, Steph?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll survive.”
He gave me a quick clap on the shoulder and jogged off, earbuds already back in, like he had three different lives running in parallel.
And I was left there. Sore. Damp. Slightly confused.
- - -
The walk home felt longer than usual. My shoulders were on fire, my thighs trembling every time I went down a curb. Seems like I had lots of progress to make if I wanted to follow Julien's inane rhythm in the pool. But that wasn’t the only thing bothering me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The ease. The way he cut through the water. The stupid confident grin. The way his back flexed when he demonstrated the crawl. The way he grabbed my arms to adjust my movement.
And the locker room.
God.
I had seen other guys change before. Obviously. Sports in school, my brother, whatever. It wasn’t new.
But this felt… different.
I’d sucked another man's cock. Not just jerking it, that already felt great in a weird way. I actually swallowed some of his thick precum. That sour taste was still in my throat. I had this guy's juice on my tongue!
And the weirdest part? I hadn’t felt disgusted. Or embarrassed exactly. Just… aware. Hyper-aware of hos his long dick felt in my mouth. How bigger it was from mine and looked intimidating. Like something inside me had quietly shifted, a few inches only, barely enough to let me sink into that situation.
You're fucked dude.
That was a terrible idea. Things are going to be super awkward in the future with Julien!
I shook my head while climbing the stairs to the apartment.
Well...
Maybe it means nothing?
Julien seemed to not care about all that once we left the place. Like if nothing happened? Maybe I was the one over-thinking it.
You’re just tired. Your brain’s low on oxygen. That had to be it.
- - -
When I pushed open the front door, the apartment was quiet. No music. No rugby commentary.
Just me and my gay panic.
I dropped my bag near the entrance and leaned against the wall for a second, stretching my aching arms.
It's fine...
That was just a one time thing, right?
Around 7p.m I went in the kitchen to cook my first proper meal, with my own ingredients. Cooking is always a nice activity when you want to focus on simple tasks and forget the rest. I really enjoyed trying new recipes or adjusting old ones. It felt satisfying improving your skills like that.
I was halfway through do cook some onions and zucchini when I heard a door creak open behind me.
Heavy steps. Slow. Slight drag on the floor.
I didn’t even need to turn around.
Greg.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway like some exhausted titan, bald head slightly shiny from a recent shower, wearing nothing but loose gym shorts, a black tank top and his stupidly high rugby socks. The green stripes at the top were slightly twisted, like he’d pulled them on without caring.
He sniffed once.
Then again.
“…That’s not pasta,” he said, voice still gravelly from either sleep or training.
“It’s not,” I answered, trying to sound casual while flipping the vegetables. “It’s a sort of stir-fry thing. With chicken. And soy sauce.”
He stepped closer. Slowly. Like a bear approaching a campsite, curious about the food:
“You cooked yesterday too.”
“Yeah.”
“You do it every day?”
I glanced at him:
“Yeah well, sometimes I cook for a few days worth. Depends.”
He nodded once, impressed in a very Greg way (barely visible).
“Smells good. Seems you know what you're doing.”
There was a small pause. I could feel him behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, and especially his package near my ass.
Their was the scent of shower gel mixed with something more… musky (like post-training sweat that hadn’t fully disappeared) and it kinda reminded me of Julien's smell before the swim. Not a bad smell by any means.
“Went swimming,” he added.
I froze mid-stir:
“Ho”
“Chlorine bro. Thought it was Julien coming back.”
Oh. Of course.
“Yeah. He kind of forced me to be honest.” I laughed.
A corner of Greg’s mouth twitched:
“He does that.”
I dared a look at him. He seemed tired, probably just back from rugby practice.
“You train today?” I asked.
“Yeah. Contact drills.” He rotated his neck slowly, as if testing it. “Got smashed a few times.”
“That sounds dangerous aha”
“It is man.”
Silence again.
Then something strange happened.
Greg walked around me, grabbed a fork from the drawer without asking, and (before I could react) speared a piece of chicken straight from the pan.
“Hey!” I protested.
He blew on it once. Tasted it.
We locked eyes.
He chewed thoughtfully. Way too seriously for someone stealing food mid-cooking. Then, he stepped closer, took my wrist gently but firmly, and rotated my hand toward the pan.
“Add some mustard,” he said.
“I... really”
“Trust me.”
His hand was warm. Big. Rough fingertips. He held my wrist for a second longer than strictly necessary before letting go. He snored, his chunky nose really close to my ear, making me jolt.
“O… okay.”
"Take mine in the fridge, 3rd row."
I obeyed. That seemed like a good idea actually. Maybe Greg was
He leaned over my shoulder, practically caging me between him and the counter as he grabbed another piece. That's when I felt some of his chest's hair brush my back, and something warm and fat bouncing against my right cheek.
Shit...
Your must be kidding me right?
That dicks is like.. thick as an eggplant!
"Taste test number two." He said casually.
I nodded, too afraid to move or do anything.
Again, he took maybe a full minute to really chew on the food.
I felt his cock twitch against me, like bouncing on my ass in a teasing way.
Didn't he have any self awareness?
“Yeah. That’s better.”
I could feel my ears heating up:
“You like... cooking too?” I asked.
“Not really. But I enjoy eating well. Pretty much the best moment of the day.”
Then he did something even weirder.
He reached down, grabbed the hem of one of his rugby socks, and pulled it up properly — but instead of letting go, he used my shoulder to steady himself. One large hand pressing briefly against my upper back while he adjusted the sock like I was a piece of furniture.
"Taste it bro. You'll see mustard was the right move."
Casual. Unbothered.
My brain short-circuited.
“You’re sturdy,” he commented.
“I... OK.”
“For a history guy.”
“I didn’t know historians had that reputation.”
He huffed a small laugh. Barely audible:
“Swimming any good?” he asked.
I hesitated.
“It was… intense.”
“He push you?”
“Yeah. Gonna' be sore tomorrow I fear.”
“Good.” Another pause. “You’ll get stronger.”
It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t teasing. It sounded… genuine.
"I'll try."
Greg seemed to ponder on something for a while, before asking:
"How about you take some of that as a side?" He threw me a big bag of Thai rice. "And we share dinner."
"Sounds good. Should be good in like ten minutes."
He nodded and walked back toward his room. So I guess I was doing everything now, right? Cooking for my new roommates was the norm apparently. I didn't mind sharing food or cooking for them, not at all. But you could tell the dynamic was a bit weird.
We ended up eating on the couch. I guess this was their usual space to eat.
Greg dropped heavily onto the couch, legs spread in a way that took up half the available space, plate balanced on one thick thigh.
I sat a little more… compactly.
The TV was playing some absolutely brain-dead reality show: people yelling about who stole whose boyfriend on an island somewhere. Greg watched it like it was a tactical documentary.
“This is so stupid,” I muttered.
He shrugged:
“That’s why it’s good.”
He took a large bite of the food I’d made, chewing slowly, eyes still on the screen.
“Still good,” he said.
“Glad it passed the fork test.”
A low grunt that might have been a laugh escaped from him.
We ate in relative silence for a few minutes (he seemed pretty invested in the show). I was very aware of his presence beside me: the heat coming off him, the size of his shoulders stretching the fabric of his tank top, the way the couch dipped slightly under his weight.
I cleared my throat, trying to find some subject for a conversation:
“So… the girl from the other day.”
He didn’t look at me immediately. Just kept watching the TV while he finished chewing.
“Yeah?”
“She wasn’t… like, your girlfriend?”
That got a side glance:
“Girlfriend?” he repeated, like I had said a word in a foreign language.
“Well. Yeah. Like the girl you're going out with?”
He huffed, eyes returning to the screen.
“Nah.”
“No? Nothing serious then?”
“Nope. Not like that.”
He stabbed another piece of chicken with his fork.
“I don’t do serious.”
The show erupted into dramatic music. Someone was crying.
I tried to sound neutral:
“So it’s just… casual?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“I’ve got a couple regulars.”
Regulars.
“They know the deal,” he added. “I train a lot. I’m not home much. I’m not… built for romantic dinners and all.”
"I get that yeah..."
He shifted slightly, leaning back, one arm spreading along the back of the couch. For a second I wondered if he’d drape it behind me — he didn’t — but the possibility alone made my face turn a bit warmer.
“They don’t stay long,” he said after a moment. Not bitter. Just factual.
“Because you don’t want them to?”
“Because I've got my own goals.”
I nodded slowly.
“I see.” I paused, thinking about the best thing to say next. "Guess it must be fun to fuck around like that. No strings attached."
He shrugged again. That massive, casual shrug that made his whole upper body move.
“Easier this way.”
I studied him from the corner of my eye. The serious expression. The calm. No bravado. Just simplicity.
“You ever get bored?” I asked.
He finally looked at me properly.
“Of chicks?”
“Of… that.”
A faint smirk appeared.
“Nah, it's close to training or eating, it's a habit.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
He nudged my knee lightly with his own.
“You worry too much Steph.”
“I do not.”
“You do.” he frowned. "Know dudes like you. Bet you only fucked one or two chicks right? Always while dating?"
We both looked back at the TV as someone started screaming again about loyalty.
"Yeah... that's pretty much it."
After a few seconds, he said, more quietly:
“You don’t have to be intimidated, you know.”
My stomach dropped.
“I’m not.”
“Mm.”
He took another bite, unconvinced.
“Doesn’t mean I’m judging you.” He continued. "That's just facts. You guys don't know how pent up I am from training. I've got some basic needs, you know? Girlfriends can't deal with that."
“OK... good for you I guess.”
“Good yeah.”
Silence again.
As I finished the dish, I couldn't help but be disturbed by the proximity of his large, muscular arm just above my head, a faint smell of musk escaping from his very bushy armpit. Even though he was a bit shorter than me, he was right: I was still intimidated by his body and masculine presence. Greg was...
Greg was just that sexy...
Wait!
...
No!
First Julien and then that idiot rugby player. Why did it have to be me?
I wasn't gay, damn it!
So why was I starting to have more and more perverted thoughts about my housemates?
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