by Daryl Banner
Of course, half an hour later found me seated on the opposite side of the commons, watching as he pushed a fat burger into his big, sexy lips. He was all by himself. No one sat with him. No one approached him. No one walked past to say hi. For some reason, the seeming lonesomeness of his character drew me in. I felt like I related to him, just in that solidarity factor, that … aloneness. I wanted him to be just like me, somehow. I wanted all the obvious differences in our appearances to be nothing compared to some deep inner sameness about the two of us. That isn’t so improbable, I reasoned, desperately hopeful.
Desperately horny.
Chewing on my lame, tasteless sandwich, I knew how stupid I sounded. We’re nothing alike, I told myself, bitter, nor will we ever be. You should go back to your dorm and your boring roommate and give up this creepy obsession of yours. Still, I stayed there to watch him until the bitter, delicious end.
My roommate was going to move out the following year. That meant some random cat they pulled from the sophomore or junior bowl was going to be shoved into the vacancy in my room. Staring hungrily at Andrew across the food court, I wondered what it’d be like to be his roommate. Would we work out together? Would he be embarrassed of me? Maybe we could help each other study. Yes, I really, truly thought that, even then, sitting there with my sad sandwich and the dream boy within my view, not knowing a thing that my future would hold, I sat there and pondered a life with Andrew for a roommate.
He got up unceremoniously and moved to the trashcan with his empty bag of chips and a crumpled up napkin. I flinched, daring myself to follow, but half of my sandwich remained, and suddenly I lost the nerve to keep up with him. Doesn’t matter, I thought, trying to comfort myself. I’ll see him Friday. He walked toward the exit of the food court, shoved his way out of it, and the muscular walking orgasm was gone.
That night, as I rested in bed with my eyes to the ceiling and a textbook opened at my side that I’d given up on an hour ago, I listened to the gentle hum of my roommate talking to his girlfriend on a cellphone in the bathroom. For a moment it sounded like arguing, then it became pleading, and finally I heard the echoing ring of laughter.
Really, relationships are so strange to me. The only guy I’d ever been sexual with was some fruit ball my junior year of high school whose voice was two octaves higher than mine, but his hair was always done up really fucking amazingly. One day afterschool he’d insisted on coming over to “give me a makeover” or something, and I agreed even though I and the whole school knew he was gay. In the bathroom, he turned my hair into something half-amazing and half-scary, then grabbed my face with two oily palms and cried, “You’re hot shit!” When I tried to thank him, he planted his lips on my face, and somewhere between the hairspray and two a.m., half a handjob and some clumsy kissing happened. The next day he told his two best girlfriends that we were boyfriends, and I denied it, and then there was an argument and a lot of ugly words were thrown around, and suddenly I had nothing to do anymore with him or anyone he knew. It was a very confusing and painful week.
I just never grasped the concept of boyfriends or lovers or whatever. My right hand sufficed.
And when my roommate finally got off the phone and mumbled something at me about staying at his girlfriend’s that night, he threw a bag over his shoulder and took off. The room all to myself, I spent exactly twenty minutes reading the same sentence over and over again in the psych book before giving up, pulling up a porn site on my laptop, and feverishly searching for something that reminded me the most of Andrew. I settled on some puffy muscled guy flexing, then unzipped my pants. His face was all wrong and his shirt didn’t fit him as tight as I wanted it to, but he pulled the thing off too soon anyway, and I jerked until the stars were traded for a wash of morning sunlight.
I was officially, irrevocably crushing hard on the muscle god from Psych. So, naturally, that Friday when the prof announced that we would be partnering up for a joint research paper and project, my stomach fell through the floor.
[ 3 ]
Excitement thundered into me like a horrid sickness and my legs turned to overcooked fettuccini. To my left, I saw boys partnering up. To my right, boys and girls and everyone partnering up. Straight ahead, Andrew sat there, bored, tight-shirted and muscular and … waiting.
I couldn’t believe it. No one was going for him and no one was approaching me. Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe I should wait. Maybe someone was headed for my desk right now and as soon as they’d ask, I’d weakly agree to be their partner while longingly staring at Andrew from across the classroom and swallowing all my what-ifs. What is it about a sick concoction of courage and horniness that drives us to do stupid things? Was I about to do the stupidest thing of all?
I was up from my seat and began to move. The world was falling to my left, falling to my right, and the classroom was a blur of noise and voice and colors. As I approached his desk, I felt myself getting sicker and sicker, shaking all over. I’ve never been this nervous before, I remember thinking. Still no one approached him. Why? Didn’t anyone else see this beautiful hunk of beefsteak just waiting to be claimed?
Halfway to his desk, he turned. That’s when our eyes connected for the first time in my life, and I stopped. He just sat there, fierce and beastly, his blue-steel eyes pinning me in place. He made no effort to move or get up, even while we stared at each other, both of us waiting—waiting for what?
He wanted me to finish my walk toward him. He wanted me to humiliate myself. Even this early on, teaching me that he always gets what he wants.
I started moving again. The rest of the walk to his desk took seven forevers. Walking toward him, he neither spoke nor smiled; he just sat there, his bright eyes locked on me, waiting, almost bored.
And then I was in front of his desk. He hardly made the effort to lift his chin. I felt the throbbing of my nervous system in my fingertips and if I didn’t get the words out soon, I was going to faint.
“Do you …” Already ran out of breath. I braced myself, noticed I had put a hand on his desk—perhaps to ensure that I wouldn’t fall over—then finished: “Do you want to b-b-be partners?”
He regarded me lazily. The muscles in his shoulders flinched. His arms twitched deliciously as he shifted his body around to have a better look. I was breathing funny and my palms were so sweaty I thought they’d fall off.
After what might have been the length of a sentence to hell, he finally said, “Alright.”
Oh fuck, his voice. Deep, smooth, strong. Involuntarily, I lowered into a seat next to him. I didn’t even check to see if anyone was sitting in it and I’m super glad no one was because I’d be in their lap now. “Cool,” I finally allowed myself to say, grabbing my fingers, unsure what to do with them, resting them on my thighs. “I’m Michael.”
“Andrew,” he said back, but of course I already knew that. Every day’s roll call told me so, again and again: Andrew Knudson.
I took a second to peer across the rest of the class, surveying all the other partnerships that had been formed. I still couldn’t believe no one else thought to approach Andrew. He had no friends in the class, I figured. Maybe he intimidated everyone else just as much. Maybe he was put in this class just for me.
I was self-centered and horny, I don’t care.
“So?”
I returned my attention to him, realizing I was losing myself in my own head. “Yeah, okay,” I said, bringing myself into focus. “So, uh … next we need to, uh … we need to figure out a subject for our paper.”
“Yeah,” he grunted, playing with a pencil in his hand. The way his fingers moved, making the pencil dance between them, among them, under and over them, I should’ve known right there how expert he could be with his fingers. He has clever fingers. Wicked fingers. Playful fingers …
“So … do you have any ideas for … um …?”
He shrugged his big muscular shoulders and focused his bright, cold eyes at the ceiling. I couldn’t tell if he was in thought, or just so horribly unin
terested that he was counting the minutes until class was over. Was this a mistake? I wondered. Did I steal him away from someone else? Was he hoping some hot chick would’ve asked to pair with him? I felt guilty instantly.
But despite my guilt, I also felt lucky as fuck. I felt special. I felt like I’d won something. Yeah, he’s probably straight, and I had half a mind to sneer at all the girls that could’ve partnered with him, even the other dudes in class, anyone that could’ve come between me and the object of my desires. I had a sudden and hungry possessiveness take hold of me.
It was a game of partners and I’d won.
Noting his clear lack of enthusiasm for the tedium of work, I began to suggest ideas for our psychology project. Andrew was very, very little help. He wants me to do all the work, I realized, but somehow I wasn’t annoyed by it. If the price of being within his proximity was doing the work, I’d pay it happily. I’d pay it all year long, just to make sure we’re partners every time.
Of course, every idea I had Andrew shot down. “Dumb,” he said to one. “Lame,” he said to another. Then finally he cuts me off and says, “Games.”
“Games?”
“The psych behind them,” he said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice, as if I ought to have followed his train of thought perfectly with just the few unhelpful words. “Games we play.”
“I don’t get it. Video games?”
“You think I’m hot?”
My mouth was opened with my next words on my tongue, but his question froze me in place. A hundred thoughts raced through me and my heart was in my throat. Was he onto me? Did he, all this time, know that I was some horny, lonely, drooling guy in the back of the classroom waiting for this one sad moment to throw myself at him? Did he know I was stalking him that whole time, following him to math and then to the food court?
I realized even now, he could still decide not to be my partner and go find someone else. I could lose him.
“What—What—What do you mean?”
“You hoping this project’s gonna get us close or something?” he asked, his voice so low I could swear his words were being submitted to me by telepathy. He’s inside my head, I told myself. I was shaking so bad, I could feel my pulse in my fucking eyeballs. Still, he went on, almost gently: “Wanna touch me, Michael?”
“I don’t—I don’t know what you—why you—”
“I’m playing with you, get it?” His eyes burned with their furious hot-blue irises. “The games we play with each other. Teasing. Button-pushing.”
“Oh. The … the psychology of games,” I said back, studying him uncertainly. Question was, was he still fucking with me, or was he serious? My pulse blinded me, making my eyesight unclear. I wondered if my vision was the only thing all this excitement was making unclear. “I … I don’t think they have a study specifically for that.”
“That’s what I want our project to be.” The way he said it, I got the feeling there was little room for negotiation. It’s always been Andrew’s way or no way. It’s Andrew’s game or no game at all.
“Games, it is,” I agreed.
[ 4 ]
This was how I met him. In a clumsy joining of partnership one unassuming day in Intro to Psych, we were bonded forever. The so-called questions he threw at me about how hot I thought he was, they weren’t again resurrected. I was equal parts relieved and unsettled by that. Every class period thereafter, the prof would kindly give us ten minutes to discuss projects with our partners, and those ten minutes were the only ten that I began looking forward to. Even lunches and other classes and sleep got in the way; Intro to Psych was the only thing that mattered. Games, he had chosen for us. He must be into games …
Through the course of our research, I would learn precisely how into it Andrew Knudson was. His affinity for playing was apparent in almost everything he did, from the intimidating way he’d stare at me knowing he’d get his way eventually, to the aggressive, almost-competitive attitude he’d take in making all the decisions with our project. I constantly felt like there was a competition going on, whether of brains or brawn I couldn’t tell. The playing was endless. Once, he even bet that he could find something in the appendix quicker than I could. There were no stakes, but he’d make the bet anyway and he’d always win. Sometimes he’d be so cocky, he’d give me a head start … and still win. What an expert he is with those fingers.
When the class times apparently weren’t enough to speed our progress, Andrew decided the two of us should make a workspace of my dormitory. No discussion about it, just a decision, and at once it was set in stone. He always gets his way. My roommate was often not there, so Andrew always sat on his bed as if he owned it. That’s the way Andrew approached anything, as if it were already his to do with as he pleased. It’s a quality I both admired and found furiously annoying.
When my roommate took off for a weekend, that’s when the relationship between Andrew and I became something more than just a study in manipulative psychology.
“We need to be more specific,” I pointed out that Friday night, scrolling through notes and bookmarked Wikipedia pages. Of course, I was the one doing all the work; he just sat there most of the time looking pretty, offering one-word responses, and only now and then bothering to crack open the textbook. “Our notes are, like, everywhere. We might as well be doing a paper on the whole field of psychology. Psychology is all manipulative when you think about it.”
“Let’s play a game.”
I frowned at him. He was wearing a baby blue polo shirt. It was a size too small for his body, which gave a gift of his meaty, muscular form to my hungry eyes. Also the way he sat on my roommate’s bed, it showed the crotch of his jeans in perfect view, as if taunting, deliberate. Even his clothes knew how to play with me. “A game?”
“We try to guess what the other’s thinking.”
I vividly remember feeling my heart quicken. My mouth was dry in an instant and I couldn’t even swallow. Something about the way he suggested the game made me think he was already perfectly aware of the dirty thoughts crossing my quivering, ever-distracted mind. At this point, with his eyes locked onto mine and awaiting my answer, I found it excruciatingly difficult to not look down at the shape of his pecs in that tight baby blue polo, at the bulge his faded pants made below.
“Are you … Are you trying to apply what we’re learning about manipulative psychology to … to …” I tried to act all cool, tried to act casual, calm, easy.
But Andrew pressed on, ignoring me. “If you guess right, nothing happens. If you guess wrong, then you lose a piece of clothing.”
“Wait, what?”
“Same applies to me. If I guess wrong, I lose a piece of clothing. My choice of clothing, always.”
A game, he’d said. Let’s play a game. This is how it all started. “You’re really into this, huh?” I asked, but I knew I was projecting onto him because, to be honest, I was really into this. My cock was bone-hard in my pants to the point that it ached.
Did I really want him to see me with my clothes off? I considered that this might be a trick, a horrible prank. He’s the one with the goods, after all. He’s the one with the muscles and the demigod body. “How do we know we’re telling the truth? I could just … lie.”
“Oh, you’ll tell the truth,” he said, though it sounded more like a threat. “Ready? You go first.”
How far would this game go? Did we stop when we got down to our underwear? And if we were stripped naked, what would we have left to wager for every wrong answer?
My cock throbbed thinking of an answer.
“Well,” I said, feeling smart, “you’re obviously thinking about winning this game.”
He squinted. I remember thinking, You look so sexy when you squint. The ice in your eyes burns furious when you squint. My heart clenches with longing when you squint those fierce steely eyes. “You sure?”
The way he asked those two words, it made me doubt everything. His voice was so powerful, his tone so persuasive, I was confiden
t he could make me uncertain of my own name if he applied enough dominance. He is so strong, I knew right then. This was a horrible mistake, to engage in a game of psychology with Andrew, the beauty from Intro.
“Y-Yeah,” I got out, annoyed at the dryness of my mouth.
Andrew grinned. I wondered if it was the first time I ever saw him smile. It took a game to get a smile out of him. His cheeks blushed feverishly and his eyes melted with hunger. I realized this is the way lions look when they’re luring in their prey. “Correct.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Your turn.”
“You’re thinking how relieved you feel,” he said at once.
I couldn’t argue with that. “That’s cheating,” I said, annoyed. “Obviously I was thinking that.”
“So I’m right,” he declared, the grin never leaving his face. Even his teeth shone with the saliva of a lion winning, lips wetted. “Your turn.”
I shifted my legs, swallowing again despite my mouth having nothing whatsoever to swallow. “Can we get back to the paper? I’m concerned that we’ve spent a week or two on this and still have, like, nothing done.”
“What is it?” he taunted me. “Afraid to lose your clothes?”
I steeled myself, lifting my chin. “No,” I lied.
“Yeah, you are,” he spat back, grinning.
“You’re thinking about me losing my clothes.”
Andrew’s grin was gone. He snorted, annoyed. Apparently I had guessed right, because the beast in him withdrew.
“Really? I’m right?” This tickled me greatly. “Why are you, Andrew, thinking about a guy like me losing my clothes? You getting gay on me?”
“You’re thinking about me with my clothes off,” he snapped back.
“Nope.” When a wash of surprise came over his fierce, sexy face, I felt myself smiling. “But now I am.”
This became my goal now. He wanted to play the dorm game? We’re going to play. And my goal was getting Andrew Knudson out of his tight, body-hugging clothes, watching them drop piece by piece to the floor. I wanted to see the goods he’d been hiding, the goods that only through tight fabric had I received hint of, every class long since the turn of the semester. I’d waited long enough.
