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I stared at the photo, a printout he gave me for my birthday all of a year ago. It was a selfie he took of himself at the beach, no shirt, and it was cut off just below his nipples, but I presume he was wearing those navy blue striped shorts. He looked good, I can’t deny, he was effortlessly pretty. Probably why the girls gawked at him in the hallways, they never gawked at me, and I followed what the girls did.
Just then, I pulled on the strings of my shorts and tugged them down once loose, eventually kicking them off my ankles. Then I messily pulled my boxers down, meeting my shorts on the floor. The cold air nipped at my member at first, but quickly warmed up to the cupping of my palm. I retreated my hand and gave a quick spit.
Sloppily, I stroked. Spit and precum mixing into one another to form a sticky, wet residue in my hand. But it felt nice. While self-pleasure was something I didn’t do often, when I did do it, his face was always what I stared at. Call it creepy or weird, but you’ll understand when you get there. The simple thought of him had me flustered for hours. And yes, it’s weird to think Sam Golbach, the all-star, perfect son was getting off to his best friend, and on another note, gay.
I shot my head back and arched my back as a muffled groan escaped my lips, at some point, I had dropped the image to cup my mouth while the other hand still worked relentlessly. In the dark, I patted my sheets, feeling for a printout. Finding it, I gently brought it back into my view, Colby, I couldn’t help but let out. When all you can ever think about, look at, yearn for is that one person, they’ll escape your lips many times.
Colby Colby Colby was all I could whisper out, or think in moments like these. That noir hair and bright blue eyes, the contrast provided an inevitable fate for me. My blonde hair and blue eyes were a simple pairing that every white chick in town had, something I hoped Colby would like. His type, I guess.
Many nights I spent thinking about Colby. Whether it was stroking, ruminating, or helplessly weeping into my pillows, there was a common theme. Eventually, I stopped really thinking and just rubbed my member up and down. It was slick and easy at this point, muscle memory from countless nights of built-up tension. I ended up jacking off most nights because a gay dude in Kansas was never going to find another, especially if he wanted his best friend.
I shook my head once more, I couldn’t think about that for another night. So instead, I ground harder and thrusted my hips up into the motion. I didn’t bite my lips anymore and I simply, just, enjoyed it. With the thought of Colby’s body heavy on my mind, I tried not to think about everything else that came with Colby, and it was. nice.
So nice, that I relentlessly moaned and grunted in the depths of my room. I let go of everything for the first time in a while. It was nice, yes, that even after I came with white spurs leaking onto my palm and thighs I didn’t cry. Usually, I’d cry, thinking about what I’d done. Not this time. This time, it was freeing, it was love. A word I dared to use when Colby was involved. Because it wasn’t love, it was always just admiration.
As I thought about it more, I realized that night was love. It was love and in fact, it was the first time I admitted that I loved Colby. Something no man dared to say. But I dared to, and today as I lay next to Colby, I listened to his shallow breaths and deep snores. And I listen with love.