I don't know if you care, but I'm wanking in the bathroom right now. The door barely locks, so I lean against it. My jeans are scrunched at my knees, and my hand is working the bone like it owes me money. I just can't wait. The air smells like sanitized piss, and there's this small, dirty mirror opposite me, so I watch the whole thing through it. It feels like an out-of-body experience. My thighs twitch, my breath shortens, then the train rattles under me, and I come. This slow, lazy, stupid goo pools in the crease of my fingers. It's warm for a second, then just wet and cold, and I feel dumb and empty. I flick it onto the floor, watch it land near the wall, and smear it flat with the toe of my shoe.
Back in my seat, acting like nothing happened, the flash of the whole act comes back into my head and feels bigger--enough to make me grin proudly. It's like I'm marking my territory--the territory being this train, mine for a few more hours before some cleaner with a mop scrapes it away.
There's a woman sitting across from me. She's older, wearing ugly fake pearls tight around her rooster throat, and on her head, a hairdo sprayed into sculpted submission. She looks at me like I'm some golden retriever in a hoodie. I glance back at her, slow, like what the fuck are you staring at? and she asks if I can help with her bag. I do, because of course I do. Then she thanks me and calls me a "lovely young gentleman."
When she's gone, I finally stretch my legs. My reflection in the window stares back at me--this faint, ghosted expression over the blur of trees and warehouses sliding past. It judges me. I don't blink.
An hour later, the train jerks into the station. I step off into warm late-spring air, and it's literally a slap--sharp enough to remind me I'm not in the middle of nowhere anymore, but I like it. The strap of my bag bites into my shoulder, and it makes my teeth clench in pain.
It's true. I'm here. I'm far from my parents, my sisters and brother, their small-town habits. Far from the dirt and grime of endless fields. Far from the guys I went to school with--boys with no pulse, no hunger, rotting in the same place until the ground takes them. Far from my gas station job by the highway, selling sugar and nicotine to strangers who vanish in minutes, under the lazy eye of a manager who always smells like fryer grease and cheap aftershave, even though he hasn't shaved in days.
My phone buzzes. It's a text from JD. He asks where I am.
JD is a thirty-one-year-old stallion who owns the apartment I'm moving into. From what he's told me over the internet and a few calls, it's less a conventional "apartment" and more of a male den with plumbing. Three men--JD included--no boundaries, no privacy, just a kind of feral brotherhood seeking a fourth. So here I am. It's everything I've been hungry for.
I text him that I'm standing in the station hall, and seconds later, he calls. His voice is melodic but raspy--the kind that makes you want to be his friend instantly. He talks me through the crowd, past the smell of coffee and luggage, out into the parking lot, right to his car.
It's a battered Honda Civic, rusty at the edges, with a dent on the hood shaped like someone once sat on it and it gave up. He steps out, and it's like a piece of the car broke off and decided to come alive.
His grin is instant, warm, contagious. His jaw's all stubble and heat. Short hair, spiked crazy but right. I can't make myself look away. He's in a washed-out tank top with armholes cut so deep they reach his hips. As he moves, his ribs, intertwined with muscle, flare into view. He walks wide, like he's been walking that way since he was fifteen and never thought to change it.
When he shakes my hand, his grip is firm and eager, his palm hot. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by his frame--the way it fits together, the exact right amount of body hair, the way his shoulders carry themselves. We're the same height, but he's built like a blueprint for what a man should be. Next to him, I feel like I've been sketched in pencil.
He asks about my trip. I tell him it was good, very good, but my voice sounds smaller than I want it to. He grabs my bag off my shoulder and swings it into the trunk like it's a pillow. Then he shoves me toward the passenger seat as if we've known each other since we were kids, and amusedly tells me to get in.
I do as he says, excited. It's easy to follow him--like he's bewitched me. My ass sinks into the old seat, and I smell sun-baked upholstery and stale gum. He fires up the engine, yanks the clutch, and the Honda growls like a beast shaking off sleep. We roll out of the lot, and he leans back, one hand on the wheel, the other loose on the gear stick, grinning like he owns the road.
I grip the edge of my seat, and my heartbeat syncs with the engine's thumps. He glances at me, smirking, and says we need to pick up some beer--that we're out.
I uh-uh agreeably at him, and I rewind that we part in my head. So I'm already part of the crew. It's already we. Me, JD, and two other guys.
One's named Tomasz--a Polish dude who, according to JD, works as a forklift driver in a distribution center on the edge of the city. He's supposedly twenty-nine, but in the picture JD sent, he looks older, roughed up, like he's seen things. He's sprawled on the couch, legs wide, arms folded over his stomach. A hard look in his eyes says he's ready to fight. But maybe it's just a pose. Still, the little imperfections in his face make me slightly wary. But I have to admit--the thought of him excites me every time I think about it. Just like JD, he's the kind of guy--a grown man with a physique and a presence--who would never befriend me, let alone call me his buddy.
The other guy's named Ivan. He's my soon-to-be roommate. Works as a barista in the city center. In the picture JD sent--probably taken seconds after Tomasz's, judging by the same dim lighting and same background--he's crouched shirtless on the living room rug, long legs folded under him. He looks his age, which JD says is twenty-four. His tongue's out, flipping the middle finger at the camera, his best attempt at a good first impression, JD said. Ivan's hair falls to his shoulders in loose waves, probably from being in a bun all day. His frame is narrow, veiny but almost fragile-looking, which calms me a little--at least I won't be the only beanpole among these bulls.
When JD turns a corner, my mind is back in his Honda. The windows are rolled down halfway, and JD shouts that the guys are at home, not working this Saturday, and they're expecting a little party to celebrate my arrival. He adds, joking, that Ivan was finally kind enough to take all his crap off my bed--a bed that, until now, wasn't really used much. JD just couldn't find a guy who'd be fine with their way of living.
That little detail--their "way of living"--was mentioned in the ad only briefly but made me curious nevertheless. I made it clear in my first message to JD that I was into it, not really hoping to get a reply. I screenshotted the ad, just to remind myself that Heaven exists somewhere. It said JD was looking for a guy to rent a bed in an apartment with two other guys who lived freely--often no clothes, no shame, sometimes even a little wank or two. Maybe more than two and maybe not so little. JD answered my message seriously, and it made me really think about moving out there. I thought maybe this was life's final call, a chance to be in the city and find my tribe. Every time I look at that screenshot, my cock wakes up--even now, in JD's Honda. Just the thought of seeing this guy behind the wheel naked--casually or hard--makes my brain rot and my balls boil. Same for Tomasz. And even Ivan.
After more messages over the next few days, JD and I had a call. He talked about the apartment, the guys, and again about the way of living--nudity, masturbation, no doors, just a communal male den where needs and freedoms get embraced. I was hooked. He asked if I was down. I said yes, maybe too fast, but still. Then he asked if I was a fan of porn. I told him some would consider me an addict--a confession that surprised me the moment it came out, because I'd never been this open with someone so soon. He didn't make a big deal of it. Said I'd fit right in.
He also asked what I was looking for--if I wanted sex. I told him I wanted a cool, cheap place to live, and some friendly bros to hang out with and be myself after work. No need to have sex with them. JD said they didn't have sex, but they wouldn't stop me if I wanted to look for it.
We exchanged photos. After that, I was officially invited. A week ago, they even gave me a group call one night. They were obviously drunk and said they were saving me a spot on the couch, that they couldn't wait to get man-crazy with their youngest brother--a little angel, Benny.
I found the call hilarious. They were talking over each other--Ivan the loudest, probably the drunkest, saying how he planned to annoy me in my sleep, already calling me "bro." JD tried to be the adult--though "adult" is a stretch--calming him down while telling me to save up my loads for den parties. Tomasz jumped in, saying they should stop or they'd scare me off. I couldn't help but shout back into the phone that I couldn't wait to get my ass up there, then I quietly admitted I'd already been jerking off to those parties. They erupted into this animalistic roar of surprise. I laughed so hard at how dumb they were, how dumb I was, and how we were already on the same wavelength.
When JD stops his Honda by the curb in front of a little roadside shop, the sudden silence of the engine and wind pulls me out of my memories. I reappear in another dream--the present this time--stepping out of the car, following JD, watching his back. I wish I had a back like that someday. The shop smells like old popcorn and cigarettes, and even in bright daylight, fluorescent lights hum overhead, singing like sirens. JD's walk is lazy, but his arms move alive, excited. He asks what beer I fancy. I admit he won't get any snobbery out of me, that I'll crush whatever lukewarm piss they're selling here--another sentence I'd never say back home. JD bites his lip, smirks, says Tomasz will like that, and adds that I'm cool, making my ego melt in ways I hadn't expected.
He grabs a six-pack off the rack and throws it into my arms, not considering I'm a skinny guy who only started doing push-ups a week ago. I stumble, but he catches me by the arms, steadying me like a doll, and asks if I'm good. I shake it off and play cool, just like he said. He takes two more six-packs, one in each hand, light as feathers, and heads to the register.
The cashier doesn't even flinch at the amount of beer, rattles off the total lazily, and JD pays without hesitation.
Back in the car with the trunk loaded with beer, he steps on the gas again, the world blurring in front of my eyes. JD catches my glance for a second, grinning, and something unspoken passes between us--like we're already a team. I feel a sudden tightness between my thighs. I slide my hand down as we move closer into the city, closer to the apartment, closer to a future that--as I can feel--excites me so, so much.
