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Chapter 2: Bathroom Break

The pizza came about forty minutes after the TV went back to normal, and for a while it helped having something to do with my hands. Eating helped. The conversation shifted to whatever show Mark had put on, something with car chases that nobody was really following, and for maybe twenty minutes I was a functioning member of the group again.

Then I'd look over at Grant and the whole thing would start up again in my head, and in my body.

I was hard as a rock in my pants, holding it tight between my thighs, and I started cataloguing everyone’s bulges in my head subconsciously, thinking about their dicks, what it looked like when they squirted. It wasn't a decision I made intentionally. I just couldn’t get it our of my head after the show Grant had put on. My eyes just kept moving on their own, landing on laps, on the fronts of shorts, on the specific topography of the five guys sprawled out in the basement, and my brain kept storing information without asking my permission first. Tyler was sitting cross-legged so there wasn't much to read, but every time he shifted or scratched his leg I would catch it in the corner of my eye. Derek had his legs wide open and I could tell he was at least half hard still from the porn, because the outline was obvious against his sweats, thick and pointing down his left thigh. Mark was impossible to clock because he had a hoodie on his lap, and he was sitting half under a big pillow. I looked anyway, just imagining what was underneath.

And then there was Grant.

Grant was the actual problem. He'd tucked himself back in after his performance but the shape of him was still visible, and I don’t think it ever actually went all the way down. I even saw it flinch a few times, a small pulse of blood flow before the weight of it rested back against his thigh in a way that his shorts did nothing to hide. I could still see the circumcised head of it. Every time my eyes went there, which was often, I thought about what it looked like at full size, the deep red color of it when he squeezed it tight at the moment of orgasm, the heft of it, the specific measurement he'd thrown out so casually, “seven inches, maybe almost eight”. 

I'd said "me too" when Tyler said it was bigger than him, which was true, and I sat with that fact and felt the comparison in a way that was thrilling and uncomfortable at the same time.

He shifted on the couch and I looked.

He stretched his arms above his head, shirt riding up, and I looked at his stomach and the tiny bit of pubes sticking up, then back at his lap and then back to the TV, which I couldn’t focus on.

He reached down and adjusted himself while he chatted to the guy on the other side of him. It was just a quick repositioning, fingers pressing the shape of himself to the left, and I looked and then looked away and then looked back.

He caught me once. Just a flicker of eye contact, half a second, and he didn't say anything and neither did I and we both looked at the TV. But he shifted slightly so his knee was touching mine and he left it there, and I left mine there too, and we watched a car explode on screen while our thighs touched.

This happened a few more times over the next hour or so, while I fought an aching erection. His arm rested against mine on the shared cushion. His foot nudged mine when he stretched out. Small things like that, totally deniable, just five guys sharing a tight squeeze on two couches with not enough room. But the frequency was different than normal and I noticed every single one, and my body kept responding with little tingles up my side, and a deep sensation down in my balls.

Grant adjusted himself again, longer this time, and slower. His hand went to his crotch and he groped himself slowly, more deliberate than an adjustment, digging his fingers below his balls like he was scratching an itch on his taint, making his shorts ride up a bit. His fingers wrapped around the shape of himself through his shorts. Then he moved his hand deeper between his muscular thighs, his knuckles grazing the cushion beneath him, and he scratched under his balls with the backs of his fingers, slow and unselfconscious, like he was alone in the room.

I was staring.

I looked up and he wasn't looking at me. He was watching the TV. But his chin dropped slightly as I watched, and I followed his eyeline down, and the head of his dick had worked its way out from the leg of his shorts. Just the tip, flushed and round, sitting against his inner thigh.

I stood up suddenly.

"I gotta piss," I said, to no one specifically.

The bathroom was down the short hall off the basement, small and lit by a fancy fluorescent system recessed into the upper corners of the room. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as I locked the door behind me and stood in front of the sink. I looked at myself for a second, just to confirm I was ok, and then I turned around to lean back against the edge of the sink and got dick out.

As soon as I popped it out of my shorts, I recognized a piece of meat that was in dire need of attention. It was so red it was almost purple, harder than ever, and leaking pre-cum out into a string that attached to a puddle in my underwear, even when I dropped them down to mid thigh.

I'd been hard for the better part of two hours. Getting a hand on it was an immediate relief, the pressure dropping by half the second I wrapped my fingers around myself. I kept the water running for noise. I tried to think about something other than what I'd been thinking about all night, which didn't work, so I stopped trying and just let the thoughts go where they were going.

Pictures of Grant’s thick, veiny rod squirting out onto the table ran through my head, and I had maybe ninety seconds before the door suddenly opened, and Grant stood there in the doorway, bathroom light spilling into the dark, empty hallway behind him.

I hadn't locked it properly. Or Grant had a way with locks. Either way, the door had swung open and Grant was there, and I spun and covered myself with one hand, the other reaching to pull up my shorts, which got caught and took an extra beat. He saw everything and I was busted, if that even mattered. There was a delay, and from the way he paused in the doorway I could tell the delay was long enough.

"Occupied," I said through a shaky breath as I pulled the shorts back over my ass.

"I know," Grant said, and closed the door behind him.

He leaned against it with his arms crossed, looking at me with a small expression that wasn't quite a smile. I had both hands in front of the tent in my shorts, and I was doing a poor job of looking casual.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

"You're good," he said. "Relax."

"I was just," I started.

"I know what you were doing." He tilted his head slightly. "Same thing I was going to do."

I paused for a second. “Again?”

“Well, I just thought,” he said, hesitating, "you want to see it again." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, which was the weakest sentence I had ever produced in my life.

Grant smiled. "Okay." He reached into his shorts.

The room was small enough that he was less than three feet away when he pulled himself out, already three quarters hard, and I stood against the sink with my hands in front of myself and watched him get fully hard in about fifteen seconds. He knew I was watching. He held it at the base and gave it a slow rotation, letting it swing, then helicoptered it a little, lazy and unhurried, the way he'd done it in the other room but slower now, more deliberate. In the small bathroom under the bright lighting, it looked even bigger than it had before. The light caught the vein along the top of it.

"You want to touch it," he said.

"Grant."

"You do or you don't. It's fine either way."

I looked at it and I looked at his face and I looked at it again.

"I'm not gay," I said.

"Okay," he said, in a tone that meant he was done arguing about it.

He just stood there holding himself, not pushing, not moving toward me, just standing in front of me, a buffet of cock waiting to see what I would do. He wiggled it once more. I watched it move.

I didn't say yes. I just reached out slowly and he didn't move, and my fingers made contact with the side of it first, just the backs of my fingers grazing the shaft, feeling the heat of it before I'd fully committed to touching it. Then I turned my hand and wrapped my fingers around the middle of it and just held it for a second, feeling the weight, the pulse of it, the way it was harder than it looked.

Grant exhaled slowly through his nose.

I moved my hand once, just to see, running it from the middle up to where the head started. The skin moved differently than I expected, looser over the shaft, tighter at the top. I did it again, slower.

"Yeah," Grant said quietly, just the one word.

I looked up at him and then I looked back down at what was in my hand and I got on my knees on the tile floor and I didn't think about it past that because thinking about it wasn't going to help me.

I started slow, just my mouth on the head of it, getting used to the weight of it on my tongue, the specific taste of him, salt and bitterness, remnants of recent cum, the same thing I'd had a trace of on my finger earlier but fuller now, more of it, the actual thing instead of a sample. My jaw had to open wider than I expected. I worked my way down as far as I could go comfortably and then a little further, finding the limit of it, my lips stretched tight around him.

Grant's hand came to the back of my head. Not pushing, just resting there. Then after a minute, when I'd found a rhythm and he could tell I had, he started moving his hips slightly to meet me, small controlled movements, and his hand applied a little more weight.

I gagged once and pulled back and caught my breath and went back.

"Sorry," he said, and I could hear in his voice that he meant it and also that he was close.

He told me he was close. I didn't move back. His hand pressed more firmly and he pushed forward into my throat and held there for a second, long enough that my eyes watered, and then he groaned once, quiet, and I felt the first of it hit the back of my throat.

I swallowed what I could. Some of it I didn't manage, and it leaked out with my saliva down my chin, onto my shirt. He held my head still while it finished, his whole body rigid, and I could feel him pulsing against my tongue as it came out of him in stages.

When he was done he stepped back and I stood up and we both looked at each other in the mirror above the sink.

My eyes were red. Not dramatically, but enough that it was visible, the whites of them pink at the edges from the effort of it. My throat felt used up, a specific raw soreness running from the back of my tongue down, the kind of ache that would still be there in the morning. I ran the tap, and bent over to rinse my mouth, and swallowed the water and felt the taste change but not disappear, a little trace of him still on my tongue and in my throat. It sat at the back of my palate, warm and distinct, something that was going to be with me for the rest of the night whether I wanted it to be or not.

When I rose back up, he was behind me in the mirror, surprising me. His eyes met mine in the mirror. 

“I owe you one,” he said, his breath on my ear from behind, as he reached for my waistband and quickly pulled down my shorts and underwear, letting them fall to my ankles. I stood and braced as he grabbed my aching hard-on and started wanking me quickly, aimed at the sink. 

I gasped as he pressed his body against mine from behind, his bare dick, still hard, pressing into my ass as he gave me the first handjob of my life. 

“Fuck,” I groaned lightly, but I guess it was too loud, because he reached his other hand up to cover my mouth tightly, holding me back against him. 

I reached back and braced myself on his hips while he held me tight and wanked my slimy, pre-cum covered dick, staring me in the eye through the mirror.

I moaned and groaned into his hand, completely letting go in my moment of ecstasy, I thrust his hips against me, and I swallowed, noting again the taste of his essence remaining in my mouth, and I reached nirvana. 

I squirted forward, and he barely aimed my dick, getting my spunk on the faucet and the handles as I released the biggest load of my life. I felt the heat rush to my head and I almost thought I would pass out, but life began to enter my brain as my orgasm faded, and he slowly released his grip on me as I found my footing again.

I caught my breath for a second, and pulled up my shorts. I quickly cleaned my cum off the sink as best I could, then turned around. 

Grant tucked himself in. He looked completely normal. He looked like a guy who had just used the bathroom.

"Ready?" he said.

"Give me a second."

He waited. I looked at myself in the mirror for another few seconds, at the red in my eyes and the looseness in my jaw and the general fact of what I had just done in Tyler's basement bathroom on a Friday night, and then I dried my hands on the towel by the sink and turned around.

"Ready," I said.

We walked back down the hall together and into the basement and four heads turned toward us at the same time.

There was a beat of silence.

"Oh my god," Tyler said.

"What," I said.

"You were gone for like fifteen minutes," Mark said.

"I was in the bathroom."

"Together," Derek said.

"He had to go too," Grant said, dropping back onto the couch like he'd just stepped outside for air.

The silence held for another second and then everyone started talking at once, the jokes coming fast and overlapping, gay this and gay that, the specific vocabulary of males in groups. I sat down and looked at the TV and my ears were warm and my throat still ached and the taste was still there, faint now but present, and I didn't say anything because there wasn't anything to say that was going to help.

Grant sat next to me, as close as before.

He didn't say anything either. But he was smiling at the TV, and after a minute he reached over without looking at me and put his hand briefly on my knee, one squeeze, and took it back.

The jokes from the guys kept going, venturing toward getting serious, and Grant sat right next to me, thigh to thigh, and I still couldn't stop thinking about all the other bulges around me.