The late August air in the dormitory hallway was thick with the scent of industrial cleaner and the anxious energy of a new academic year. It was a familiar cocktail, one I’d breathed in for the past two years, but this time it was different. This was the junior/senior building. The air felt heavier, more serious. The freshmen, with their wide-eyed terror and parent-sponsored IKEA furniture, were relegated to the other side of campus. Here, we were supposed to be adults.
My side of the room, 312B, was already a fortress of organized chaos. Textbooks, still shrink-wrapped, were stacked neatly on my desk. My clothes were hung in the closet with military precision, and my bedding, a sensible navy blue, was pulled taut over the extra-long mattress. I’d been here since yesterday, eager to escape my parents' house and claim my small patch of academic real estate. The only thing missing was Barry.
Barry and I had been roommates since the start of our junior year, a pairing born of the bureaucratic roulette of campus housing. It had been a stroke of luck. We were compatible in all the ways that mattered: we respected each other's study time, we maintained a similar standard of cleanliness, and we had an unspoken agreement that our shared space was a sanctuary, not a hunting ground. No girls brought back to the room. It was a rule that worked for me, though not for the reasons Barry probably assumed. My interests didn't lie in the direction of the female population, a fact I kept carefully guarded. College was hard enough without adding another layer of complication.
This new room was a significant upgrade. It was bigger, for one, with an actual living area that wasn't just a cramped pathway between two beds. But the true glory, the piece de resistance that made this room feel like a penthouse suite, was the private bathroom. No more shared showers, no more waiting for a stall, no more awkward encounters with hungover classmates. It was a small, tiled haven of privacy, and for me, it was heaven.
My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Barry.
On my way up. Got here early. And I have a surprise.
I smiled. Barry was full of surprises. Last year it was a vintage synthesizer he'd bought at a garage sale and spent six months trying to tune. The year before, it was a pet tarantula that he kept in a terrarium on his dresser, a fact I had learned to live with but never to love. I wondered what it would be this time. A new guitar? A collection of obscure vinyl?
A moment later, the key turned in the lock. The door swung open, and there he was. And my world tilted on its axis.
It was Barry, but it wasn't. He was the same height, the same lanky frame, the same easy-going slouch to his shoulders. But his face was different. He was sporting a mustache. It wasn't a wispy, adolescent attempt at facial hair; it was a thick, well-defined, dark mustache that sat squarely above his upper lip. It was a statement. His hair, always a dark, almost black shade that had a faint bluish sheen under certain lights, was the same color as the mustache, creating a stark, dramatic frame for his face. I’d heard guys refer to this style as a "porn stache," usually as a joke, but on Barry, it was no joke. It was… transformative. He was hot as fuck.
I felt a sudden, undeniable tightening in my jeans, a physiological response that was both shocking and immediate. I was seeing my roommate, my friend, the guy I'd lived with for a year, in a completely new light. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, illuminating a part of him I'd never allowed myself to see.
"Well?" he asked, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. He dropped his heavy backpack by the door with a thud. "What do you think?"
My mouth was dry. I tried to form a coherent sentence, something witty, something casual, but all I could manage was the truth. "You have the most beautiful blue eyes," I blurted out. "Have you always had them?"
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "About the stache?" he asked, running a thumb over it, a gesture that was both self-conscious and incredibly sexy.
"Very sexy," I admitted, the words escaping before I could stop them, before I could run them through the filter of my carefully constructed friendship. "And you have a little cleft in your chin. I never noticed that before."
Barry closed the door, the click of the latch echoing in the sudden silence of the room. He took a step closer, his blue eyes, which I was now noticing were the color of a deep, calm ocean, locking onto mine. "Are you looking at me for the first time?" he asked, his voice softer now, more intimate.
"No," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "But I'm seeing you for the first time."
A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. It was a vulnerable, endearing sight. "And?" he prompted, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm wondering," I said, taking a step toward him, closing the small distance between us, "what it must be like to be kissed by a mustache like that."
His breath hitched. I could see his pulse beating in his throat. "Stop, Devyn," he said, his voice strained. "You're giving me a boner." His face suddenly went slack as he realized what he’d just said, what he had just admitted.
I thought for a second, my mind racing. This was it. The moment of truth. I could laugh it off, make a joke, and retreat back into the safe, comfortable confines of our platonic friendship. Or I could leap. I decided to leap.
"It seems only fair," I said, my voice steady. "You gave me one." I took a deep breath. "I'm gay, Barry. And I've just been made aware that you're hot as fuck."
He looked up at me, and the uncertainty in his eyes was replaced by a fire, a burning intensity that made my knees feel weak. His arms shot out, grabbing me, pulling me to him. His body was firm against mine, and then his lips were on mine.
His mustache didn't quite tickle, but a tickle is the closest word I know to the sensation that I felt. It was a soft, abrasive caress against my upper lip, a new and thrilling texture that sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin. I got rock hard. My mouth opened as did his, and our tongues met, a tentative, exploratory dance that quickly deepened into something more urgent, more demanding. I could taste him, a faint hint of mint and something uniquely Barry.
I'm not sure how long we spent kissing, lost in the newfound territory of each other's mouths, but when we finally took a pause to catch our breaths, our foreheads pressed together, the room felt different. The air was charged, humming with unspoken possibilities.
"We should," I said, my voice husky, "bring the rest of your stuff from your car. Grab something to eat. And then," I looked him straight in the eye, "we should consider spending the evening fucking our brains out."
Barry's grin was pure, unadulterated joy. "I concur," he said. "I wholeheartedly concur."
And that's what we did. The trip to his car was a blur of stolen kisses and fumbling hands. We grabbed a couple of greasy pizzas from the place down the street, our fingers brushing as we reached for the same slice. We ate quickly, our eyes locked across the cardboard box, the anticipation building with every bite.
When we were back in the room, the door locked and bolted, the real exploration began. We started on the couch, a clumsy, frantic tangle of limbs and clothing. His shirt came off first, revealing a lean, toned chest with a light dusting of dark hair that narrowed as it disappeared into his jeans. I ran my hands over his skin, feeling the warmth, the solid reality of him. He reciprocated, his fingers tracing the lines of my stomach, his touch sending shivers through me.
More kissing. We couldn't get enough of it. We kissed standing, we kissed lying down, we kissed until our lips were swollen and our bodies were on fire. I pushed him back onto his bed, my hands working at the button of his jeans. I slid them down, along with his boxers, freeing his cock. It was beautiful, long and thick, with a slight curve, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
I knelt between his legs, my own arousal a demanding ache. I took him in my hand, feeling the weight of him, the velvet skin over the steel-hard shaft. I leaned down and took him in my mouth, tasting the salty, musky flavor of him. I heard him gasp, his hands tangling in my hair as I began to move, my tongue swirling around the head, my lips sliding down his length. I took my time, exploring him, learning his responses, the way his hips bucked when I did something he liked, the low, guttural moans that escaped his lips.
He pulled me up after a while, his eyes dark with desire. "My turn," he said, his voice a low growl. He flipped me over, his body covering mine, his mouth finding mine again in a deep, demanding kiss. Then he began to kiss his way down my body, his mustache a delicious torment against my skin. He lingered at my nipples, biting and sucking until I was writhing beneath him, my hands fisted in the sheets. He moved lower, his tongue tracing a path through the trail of hair that led to my own straining erection. He took me in his mouth, and the sight of him, his dark head bobbing between my legs, his lips stretched around my cock, was almost enough to send me over the edge right then and there. He was as skilled as he was eager, his mouth a hot, wet vortex of pleasure. I had to stop him, my hands gently pushing him away. "Not yet," I panted. "I want to be inside you."
He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a fire that mirrored my own. "Yes," he breathed. "God, yes."
I reached into my nightstand, fumbling for the bottle of lube and a condom I kept there, more out of hope than expectation. I slicked my fingers, my hands trembling with anticipation. I knelt between his legs, gently turning him over onto his stomach. He complied willingly, his ass rising to meet me, an offering I was more than ready to accept. I drizzled the cool lube over him, watching as it trickled down his cleft. I pressed a finger against his entrance, feeling the tight muscle resist for a moment before yielding. I worked my finger in, then a second, scissoring them, stretching him, preparing him for me. He pushed back against my hand, his breathing ragged, soft moans escaping his lips.
"I'm ready," he gasped. "Please, Devyn. I'm ready."
I rolled the condom on, my cock so hard it ached. I positioned myself at his entrance, my hands gripping his hips. I pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The feeling was incredible, a tight, hot sheath of muscle that enveloped me, pulling me deeper. I paused, letting him adjust, letting myself savor the moment. The reality of it was so much better than the fantasy. This was Barry. My Barry.
"Fuck me," he groaned, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Please, now."
I began to thrust, a slow, deep rhythm that built in intensity with every stroke. The room was filled with the sounds of our lovemaking, the slick slap of skin on skin, our ragged breaths, the low, guttural moans that were torn from our throats. I watched myself disappear into him, watched the muscles in his back tense and flex with every thrust. It was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.
I wanted to see his face. I pulled out, gently flipping him over onto his back. I lifted his legs, draping them over my shoulders, and entered him again. This angle was deeper, more intimate. I could see his face, see the pleasure and the pain and the raw, unadulterated desire in his eyes. I leaned down, my body covering his, my mouth finding his in a deep, possessive kiss. His mustache was a delicious friction against my skin, a constant reminder of the new, thrilling reality of our relationship.
I began to thrust again, harder this time, faster. I could feel the pressure building, the familiar tightening in my groin. I reached between us, wrapping my hand around his cock, which was hard and leaking against his stomach. I stroked him in time with my thrusts, my thumb swirling over the head.
"I'm close," he gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head. "So close."
"Come for me, Barry," I growled, my voice strained with my own impending release. "I want to see you come."
With a final, guttural cry, he arched his back, his body convulsing as he came, his hot, sticky seed spurting over his stomach and my hand. The sight of him, lost in the throes of ecstasy, was all it took to push me over the edge. With a final, powerful thrust, I buried myself deep inside him, my own orgasm ripping through me like a tidal wave. I collapsed on top of him, my body spent, my heart hammering against his chest.
We lay there for a long time, our bodies entwined, our breathing slowly returning to normal. The room was quiet, the only sound was the distant hum of the campus. I felt a sense of peace, of rightness, that I had never known before. This was where I was meant to be. This was who I was meant to be with.
Eventually, we stirred, our bodies sticky and sated. "Shower," I said, my voice a sleepy mumble.
Barry just grunted in agreement. We stumbled into the bathroom, our arms wrapped around each other, our legs still weak from our exertions. The hot water was a welcome relief, washing away the sweat and the evidence of our lovemaking. We washed each other, our hands gentle, exploring, learning the contours of each other's bodies in a new, tender context. There was no urgency now, only a quiet, intimate affection.
We fell asleep in my bed, our bodies wrapped together, the scent of our sex still lingering in the air. It was the best sleep I had had in years.
The next morning, I woke up to the feeling of Barry's mouth on my neck, his mustache a soft, tickling sensation against my skin. I was already hard, my body responding to his touch before my mind was even fully awake. He was behind me, his body pressed against mine, his cock a hard, insistent presence against my ass.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper.
"Good morning," I replied, my voice still thick with sleep. I drug myself up and into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Barry followed me. With one hand, he held his brush; with the other, he held my dick. I made faces at him. After rinsing his mouth, he disappeared for a moment without saying anything.
He reappeared a moment later with the bottle of lube from the nightstand, his movements sure and confident. He prepared me quickly, his fingers stretching me, his touch sending shivers through my body. Then he entered me, a slow, deliberate penetration that made me gasp. He fucked me from behind, his hands gripping my hips, his body moving against mine in a steady, powerful rhythm. We were standing in front of the bathroom sink, our eyes locked in the mirror, our expressions a mixture of pleasure and intense concentration. I watched his face as he moved inside me, saw the raw, unadulterated desire in his eyes. It was a profoundly intimate, incredibly erotic experience.
When we were both spent, we showered again, the hot water a welcome balm to our well-used bodies. We dressed in comfortable silence, the easy, unspoken understanding between us a testament to the new reality of our relationship.
"We should probably get our schedules," I said, as we were heading out the door. "The Internet's still not working; I hear it will be up this afternoon, but who knows?"
Barry grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. "Yeah," he said. "We should. But first, I think we need to christen the other bed. You know, for symmetry."
I laughed, a real, genuine laugh that came from deep within my chest. "You're insatiable," I said, pulling him in for a quick, hard kiss.
"Only for you," he replied, his voice soft and sincere. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this was just the beginning.
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