Something Almost Happens
Waking up the next morning, Charlie thought back to masturbating about getting fucked. By a guy. In the ass. By his best friend. He’d fucked it all up. Their easy rhythm of gym sessions and runs, the comfortable studying—obliterated by one moment of transparent, desperate need. He was a freak. He’d stared at another guy’s dick in a shower. He’d made his friend so uncomfortable he’d run.
For three days, his phone was silent. No texts about lifts, no suggestions for a run. The grounds, which had felt full of potential, now felt like a minefield. He walked to class with his head down, terrified of turning a corner and seeing Rob’s familiar gait, his light brown hair.
The invitation was a lifeline. Two sisters from Kappa Delta, girls he and Mark knew from an intro econ class, were throwing a Halloween bash. “It’s gonna be huge,” Mark said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You need to get out of your head, man.” Damn – even Mark could tell he was a mental mess. Charlie agreed, too quickly. Anywhere was better than his own spiraling thoughts. The text from Rob came an hour later, a simple, “You going to the KD thing?” It felt like a truce, a return to normalcy. Charlie typed back, “Yeah. You?” The reply was instant: “Yep. See you there.” The relief was so potent it felt like weakness.
Halloween night buzzed with a frenetic energy. Charlie’s Tarzan costume was simple—a faux leather loincloth over brown shorts, a plastic vine, and no shirt. He stood in front of his mirror, slapping some bronzer on his chest to accentuate the definition, his fingers trembling slightly. This was another performance, another costume.
The party was a crush of bodies and bass. Charlie arrived with Mark and Nick, who were dressed as generic zombies. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer and pot. He spotted Rob almost immediately, and his breath hitched. Rob was a speedskater, his costume a skin-tight, royal blue lycra body suit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. It zipped up the front to his neck, clinging to every curve and muscle. The fabric was so thin it shone under the strobe lights, outlining the powerful swell of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the pronounced curve of his ass, and the unmistakable lump between his legs.
“Holy shit, Andersen, looking ripped!” a voice shouted. Charlie turned to see a guy from his calc class, his eyes raking over Charlie’s bare chest. He forced a laugh, accepting a red plastic cup of something pungent. He drank it fast, the vodka burn a welcome distraction from the heat flooding his face, his gut. He couldn’t stop looking. Everywhere Rob moved, the lycra stretched and shifted, highlighting the dense muscularity of his thighs, the way his back muscles rippled when he reached for a drink.
His date for the night, a sweet Kappa Delta named Chloe, appeared at his side. “You make a great Tarzan,” she said, her hand coming to rest on his bare arm. Her touch was pleasant, expected. He smiled down at her, trying to focus on her sparkly cat ears, her cheerful smile. “Thanks. You’re a very cute… cat.” He was painfully aware of how his loincloth felt, how exposed he was. Across the room, Rob was laughing, surrounded by a group of friends. A girl dressed as a nurse was running her hand down the blue lycra covering his arm.
Charlie watched Rob throw his head back, his throat working as he swallowed a drink. The lycra pulled tight across his chest. Charlie’s own cup was empty again. He got another. Chloe was talking about her sociology midterm. He nodded, making sounds of agreement, but his eyes were tracking the blue suit through the crowd.
Rob’s friends were teasing him. “Dude, is that thing painted on?” one of them yelled, giving Rob’s ass a slap. The fabric jiggled slightly. Rob just grinned, a wild, unselfconscious thing, and struck a ridiculous pose, hands on his hips, chest thrust out. “Gotta be aerodynamic!” he shouted back. The nurse girl whispered something in his ear, and he laughed again, but his eyes scanned the room. They found Charlie’s. Held for a second. The grin didn’t fade, but it changed, softened at the edges into something more private, more charged. Then Rob was pulled into a dance by his friends, the movement pure, fluid muscle under shining blue.
Charlie’s date was talking, her lips moving. He leaned in, catching words: “…so then I said to him, that’s not how standard deviation works!” He laughed, too loud, and took another gulp. The alcohol was a warm fog in his brain, softening the sharp edges of his panic, fueling a reckless, hungry stare. He let himself look. Every time Rob turned, the lycra molded to the crack of his ass. When he bent to pick up a dropped cup, the fabric stretched across his back and shoulders, and Charlie could see the indentations of his spine. It was obscene. It was magnificent.
Chloe followed his gaze. “Wow, your friend’s costume is… something.” Her tone was light, teasing. “Think he’s cold?”
Charlie snorted, almost choking on his drink. “Doubt it.” He was painfully hard, the rough edge of his loincloth digging into his erection. He adjusted himself subtly, turning his hips away. This was agony. This was all he wanted to look at for the rest of his life.
The party swelled around them. A slow song came on, and Chloe moved closer, her body pressing against his side. He put an arm around her, his hand resting on her waist. It was nice. She was soft, she smelled like vanilla. His eyes closed for a second. When he opened them, Rob was dancing with the nurse, his hands on her hips. But Rob wasn’t looking at her. He was looking over her shoulder, directly at Charlie, his gaze dark and intent. Rob’s hands slid lower on the girl’s hips, pulling her closer against the prominent bulge in the lycra.
Charlie’s breath left him. He looked away first, down at Chloe’s smiling face. “Wanna get some air?” he mumbled. She nodded. He led her through the French doors to the crowded balcony, grateful for the cold night on his burning skin. He tried to listen to her, he really did. But his mind was back inside, with the blue lycra and the dark, knowing eyes.
Later, he saw Rob stumbling near the kitchen, supported by a lacrosse teammate. Rob was laughing, but it was sloppy, unfocused. His words slurred together. The tight blue suit was now damp with spilled beer, clinging even more desperately. Charlie excused himself from Chloe. “Gonna check on my friend,” he said. She smiled, understanding.
Rob was a mess. “Charrrlie!” he boomed, throwing an arm around Charlie’s shoulders. The weight was solid, warm. The smell of him—sweat, beer, and something uniquely Rob—hit Charlie like a punch.“ My main man. Tarzan. Look at you. No shirt. Fuckin’… brave.” His hand patted Charlie’s bare chest, the touch lingering.
“You’re wasted,” Charlie said. He tried to shrug the arm off, but Rob clung like a limpet.
“Am not. I’m celebrat… celebratin’… aerodynamics.” Rob’s head lolled onto Charlie’s shoulder. “You should feel this stuff. So smooth.” He grabbed Charlie’s hand and pressed it against his own stomach, against the slick, tight lycra.
Charlie jerked his hand back as if burned. The image from the shower flashed: Rob hard, naked, wet. “Okay, time for bed, Olympian.”
Getting Rob back to his dorm was a struggle. Rob leaned heavily on him, his breath hot against Charlie’s neck. Every few steps, Rob’s thigh would press between Charlie’s, or his hand would slide down Charlie’s back. He could swear Rob grabbed his ass a few times. Charlie was on fire. The cool night air did nothing. He half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs, grateful Rob’s roommate was apparently out for the night.
He dumped Rob onto his bed. Rob sprawled on his back, a long, blue-clad line of intoxicated muscle. He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “The room is spinnin’, dude.”
“Serves you right,” Charlie muttered, but there was no malice behind it. He stood there, breathing heavily from the exertion. The only light came from a streetlamp outside the window, casting the room in deep shadows and streaks of pale orange. It painted Rob in monochrome: the dark hollows of his eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw, the shocking, full outline of his body in the skin-tight suit. Charlie should leave. He knew he should. But his feet were rooted to the floor. The silence was heavy, broken only by Rob’s ragged breathing. Charlie’s gaze traveled from Rob’s sprawled legs, up the muscular thighs, to the pronounced mound at his groin. The lycra was stretched taut. Charlie could see the clear outline of the head of his cock, the thick shaft angled to the side.
He was moving before he consciously decided to. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Rob didn’t stir. His chest rose and fell slowly. Charlie’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and need. This was wrong. This was so fucking wrong. Rob was drunk, vulnerable, out cold. Charlie’s hand lifted, trembling violently. He held it in the air, suspended over that blue-clad bulge.
He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
He did.
His fingertips brushed the lycra. It was slick, cool from the night air. He pressed down, just slightly. Beneath the thin fabric, he felt it: the hot, hard, dense length of him. A full, thick cock, even soft in sleep. A shockwave of pure desire tore through Charlie, burning away the last of his conscience. He extended his fingers, tracing Rob's dick through the suit. He was big and getting hard. Charlie’s own cock throbbed in his shorts, painfully confined.
He began to rub, slow, tentative circles with his palm. The lycra provided a maddening, silken barrier. He could feel every detail—the prominent head, the pulsing vein along the shaft. He grew harder under Charlie’s touch, filling out even more, straining against the blue fabric. Charlie’s breathing became ragged pants to match Rob’s. He leaned closer, his other hand braced on the bed by Rob’s hip. He was fully hard now, achingly so, his own need a brutal ache. He increased the pressure, his hand moving in a firmer, more deliberate stroke, up and down the trapped length.
He was so lost in the sensation, in the filthy, secret thrill, that he didn’t notice the change in Rob’s breathing at first. It hitched. Then a low, sleepy groan rumbled in Rob’s chest. Charlie froze, his hand still covering Rob’s cock. Rob’s hips gave a tiny, unconscious upward thrust, pushing his hardness into Charlie’s palm.
Panic detonated in Charlie’s skull. He snatched his hand back as if electrocuted, scrambling off the bed so fast he almost fell. He backed toward the door, his blood roaring in his ears. Rob had moved. He’d made a sound. Oh god, he was waking up. He’d felt it. He’d know. Charlie’s mind raced with images of disgust, of accusation, of Rob’s friendly eyes turning cold. He fumbled for the doorknob, yanked it open, and fled into the hallway, pulling the door shut with a soft but definitive click. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his own dorm room, lungs burning, his whole body shaking with terror and shame.
His dick hard as a rock.
The dam breaks next chapte
