My Friend Showed Me How Big It Gets (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: He Only Whips It Out For Me

I have compared myself to every guy I have ever stood next to at a urinal or in a locker room, for as long as I can remember. It's not even on purpose. It's like an instinct. When I went to my friends' water polo games in high school, and then later when I joined the swim team, I naturally looked down at the guys' speedos every time we passed, just a quick glance at each one. I didn't necessarily feel anything from it. It was just a natural focal point, like ants emitting pheromones when they pass each other. From middle school gym class through the senior year swim team, there was a running number in the back of my head that updated itself without my permission, comparing them together and to myself, and it all stopped when I became friends with the most hung dude I had ever met, Finn.

Before Finn, my social life was basically two people. Alex sat on the steps behind the gym most afternoons with a vape. He had a little scruff along his jaw that he kept trimmed to exactly the same length every week, and he had been out as bi since he was fifteen, and nothing in our town ever impressed him. He was an alternative guy, and even though we only hung out on occasion, he was kind of the only person I could be fully open with. Because he didn't care enough to judge. 

Then there was David from my English class, a nice enough guy who laughed at the stuff I said under my breath during grammar units and kept saying we should hang out sometime. I always said yeah, sometime. But we never hung out that much.

I met Finn in second week of semester, AP Bio Lab.

They actually paired us alphabetically, and he was new, which is how I ended up on a stool next to a guy I'd never met before who took up about a stool and a half, with his big, muscular body expanding outside the standard range of an assigned student space.

Finn was somewhere over six-three and built like a model, or an Olympian. But he acted a little shy, for whatever reason. That actually made him more approachable to me. He had a lab manual open flat on the bench and he kept his finger under the line he was reading. He read the protocol, then he read it again, then he mumbled it back to himself under his breath before he touched anything. It was kind of endearing to see him struggle, however slightly, and it made me want to help him out a bit.

"Two microliters," I said, looking at an error on his notes. "It's two. Not twenty."

"Thanks," he said nervously, without even bothering to introduce himself.

The micropipette vanished in his hand. It's a skinny plastic thing, about the size of a pen, and in his fist it looked like a toothpick, his thumb tight on the plunger and the tendons in his forearm shifting every time he dialed the volume. I found myself looking for a tanline up his dense arms, and my eyes stopped halfway up his biceps where his sleeve ended. He would set the tip against the tube wall and hold his breath, and this enormous guy who could have picked me up with one hand was scared of putting the wrong number into a plastic tube.

I did not do a lot of pipetting that period. I wrote down the numbers he called out and I watched his hands.

Neither of us talked to anyone else. The rest of the room was loud, girls in the back trading section notes, two guys arguing about their experiment going wrong. We were the two quiet ones. He asked me what the buffer was for and I told him, and he said "okay" and wrote it down. That was the most we talked to each other that whole first class together.

At the end he said, "You wanna be lab partners for real? Like the whole semester?"

"Yeah," I said, a little too quickly. "Sure."

Finn was different than other guys. I was rinsing pipette tips into the sink at the end of lab, hot water running over my thumbs, and I worked it out standing right there. It was a man-crush. Everybody gets those sometimes, you meet somebody who seems cool and also accessible and suddenly your whole week is arranged around whether he texts back. That was all I thought it was. I felt a little pang in my stomach when we talked, but there were going to be more chances to get over that.

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The second lab he showed up with his manual already flagged with sticky notes, and he slid it across the bench so I could check his dilution math before we touched anything. It was right. I told him it was right and he nodded tentatively, like he didn't fully trust either of us yet.

We talked while the samples ran. There's a lot of dead time in a bio lab, waiting on the centrifuge, waiting on the water bath. He asked what part of town I lived in. I asked why he'd transferred in, and he said his dad's job moved, said it flatly, no story attached, and then asked what my "deal" was. I told him about the swim team. He told me he had an older sister at State who called him every Sunday whether he wanted it or not, and that he liked it. He had a semi-girlfriend from his old school, they were on-again-off-again. He laughed once that period at something dumb I said about the teacher, one short huff through his nose, and I spent the rest of the class trying to get another one out of him.

After that things sort of snowballed. He found me before class the next day and we walked all the way across campus together to the lab. Over the next couple days I started to explain the readings to him in the hallway before class because he took it in better if it was spoken out loud, and he paid me back in food, granola bar, bananas, half a sandwich one time, pressed into my hand without discussion. We traded numbers over gel electrophoresis. By the end of the first week he was texting me about nothing, just to say hi, a photo of a random dog that showed up outside his house, a question about the homework he already knew the answer to.

Me: You know that one already

Finn: Yeah. Checking you knew it

At some point, we stopped just being lab partners and started being friends. He just began assuming I'd be available to chat, and I made sure I was.

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Finn played on a club ultimate frisbee team. It wasn't a real school sport, but it was a real club and it had practices after last period on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and he brought me along the second week without asking whether I could play.

I could not play. I am five seven and I ran a mile once, in middle school, and I almost threw up. I survived the practice by standing near the sideline holding things that people handed me, which turned out to be water bottles and notebooks. I passed the time watching Finn become a different person than the guy I had gotten to know.

The simple minded dog lover who mumbled to himself at the lab bench went absolutely feral out there. He laid out flat, full horizontal, for a disc that was already past him and came up with what I'm pretty sure was grass in his teeth. He spit it out intimidatingly and didn't even say anything about it. He did not talk while he played, except shouting to his teammates. He just kept ending up wherever the disc was, knocking dudes out of the way with his oversized body and sharp elbows.

"Nice one," I said when he came off, handing him his water.

"It was okay," he huffed, and he tilted his head back to drink three quarters of the bottle in one long swig, his throat working intensely, before he handed it back to me.

Then there was a brief attempt at debate club. Finn signed us both up without asking me first, explaining that he wanted to get better at talking in front of people. He got to the podium at the one practice round we went to, put both hands flat on it, and produced maybe thirty words in ninety seconds. His ears reddened down to the lobes.

"That was terrible," he said as we walked home afterward.

"That was terrible," I agreed.

We never went again.

Lunch turned into a standing arrangement without either of us proposing it. We stopped texting about where to meet and just showed up at the same table near the windows. Sometimes his frisbee guys sat with us. I got good at timing it so they didn't. I'd float that we should get in line early before it got insane, or take our trays out to the courtyard where it was quieter, and Finn always said sure, he wasn't picky, and I'd sit down across from him with the whole cafeteria roaring twenty feet away and it stayed quiet at our table.

Movie night was at Finn's house, in a nice den you get to through the kitchen at his house, with a big worn couch and an oversized TV. He had only been at our school a month or so and somehow already had a whole group of buddies, guys I only knew by their face even after going to the same school for years. There was Danny and a few other guys from the frisbee team, and he invited all of them over, but I noticed I was the only one he'd texted directly instead of through the group chat. His mom set out a tray of pizza rolls and chips, told us to yell if we needed anything, and disappeared upstairs. Danny and the others grabbed the good spots on the couch before I got there, so I ended up wedged in beside Finn with about a foot of cushion between the armrest and his hip, his thigh against mine from hip to knee and his shoulder pressing into my shoulder every time he laughed.

Partway through he put his arm up along the back of the couch, almost touching my neck.

I did not move after that, for like two hours. Not to scratch my face, not to shift my leg when my foot fell asleep, nothing. The movie was some heist thing and I could not follow a single plot point from it.

I tried not to read too much into it. Finn was pretty touchy with everyone. I had watched him do a standing wrestle charge on Danny, and I had watched him sling an arm over guys he'd barely met at the frisbee field. But I could breathe easy next to him better than I could next to anyone else I knew, and I'd only known him for a month.

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Danny lived four houses down from Finn and started to treat Finn's driveway like his own. He talked constantly. He talked over the morning announcements, he talked at the vending machines, and he had noticed, out loud and more than once, that Finn and I were always together.

"Do you two share a phone plan," he said, walking home from school with us. "Genuine question."

Finn said nothing. I said, "We're bio lab partners."

"You have bio," Danny said. "For six hours a day..."

At Finn's driveway he started to come inside with us, hands already moving as he told an animated story about some guy on the frisbee team who'd bought a karaoke machine.

But Finn said, "I gotta shower, man," and Danny looked annoyed and then peeled off toward his own house. I took the porch steps two at a time behind Finn, before Danny changed his mind and followed us.

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Alex was on the steps behind the gym one afternoon, vaping little puffy clouds, and I sat down next to him and got through three separate stories about Finn before he put his hand up.

"That's like, three stories about this guy," he said.

"So what?"

"You talk about him a lot." He hit the vape and squinted at the parking lot. "And you've brought up his forearms twice, I think."

"They're frisbee stories."

"One of them was about a pipette."

I picked at the concrete between the steps with my fingertips.

"Also, why'd you blow off David again," he said. "He asked about you."

David had finally stopped saying "sometime" and asked me to hang out, twice, actual plans, and both times I'd had something to do. One time was just hanging out with Finn doing nothing in his room.

"I was busy."

Alex just looked at me.

So I admitted what he wanted me to, because otherwise he was going to keep looking at me like he was. 

"It's a crush," I said. "Obviously it's a crush. I'm aware."

"Okay."

"But I'm not gay. It's a man-crush." I was fully aware of how I sounded. "And he has a girl from his old school. It's on and off but it's a girl and it's from his old school."

Alex sat there with his elbows on his knees while I got all the way through it, and he did not believe one syllable, and he was decent enough not to say so.

"Sure," he said.

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Finn had a bunch of stuff figured out already, and I admired that. He worked out in his own room, no gym membership, no protein powder, no routine or advice from other people. Pushups off the floor between his bed and the closet, a small set of heavy dumbbells, and resistance bands he anchored in the door hinges. He wore basketball shorts and boxer briefs that actually had support to them, nothing showing off, gray and normal, the waistband pulled up so he didn't look like a fuckboy. He did not seem to want to show off to other guys, which I found strange for a guy as physically peaked as he was.

He was doing pushups one day, when he updated me about the girl.

"We're taking it slow," he said, on the way down. "I don't like to move too fast. I'd rather know somebody first."

He said it into the carpet. I was on his desk chair with my feet up on the bedframe and I took that note internally. In my head I thought, I want to be exactly this guy. I watched his back tense under his shirt while I thought it, the two slabs of muscle beside his spine sliding out and in.

He kept going. He got past thirty and stopped counting out loud.

"How often do you jerk off?" I said.

I heard it leave my mouth before I even thought to second guess asking that question. He didn't stop the pushups.

"Couple times a week I guess," he said, down, up. "Depends. You?"

"About the same," I lied, unable to admit my twice daily habit.

"Yeah."

We moved on to the next thing to talk about. That was the first time we talked about anything close to sexual, and part of me wanted to ask more, but I held myself back. He kept doing pushups and I sat there three feet from him, starting to get hard, just watching him breathe.

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His parents drove up to see his sister at State one weekend, so it was just us in the house Friday night, and Finn had his shirt off, chillin on a warm night. He was up on his high bed on his stomach with his phone, feet hanging off the end. I had the desk chair again, feet on the bedframe, spinning myself a quarter turn each way.

We talked about nothing, this and that, for an hour. He talked about his old town, and a kid in our grade who'd gotten suspended, whether the old librarian lady was old enough to remember before the drinking age was twenty-one.

Then the conversation moved onto bodies, which didn't feel weird, late at night with two guys in a room. We talked about height. He said he'd stopped growing at sixteen and I said I'd stopped at fourteen and that was a joke for a minute. We agreed I had one more late growth spurt hopefully coming my way, and then talked about hand size, and he put his palm flat against mine over the edge of the loft rail and mine only came up to his second knuckle, and he laughed at that, actually laughed, and I felt it through our hands, up my arm.

"My ex said something to me," he said.

I internally noted that he called her his "ex", and hid my smile as I tried to remain nonchalant.

"About what."

"About like." He rolled onto his side. "Nothing. She said something about me being big. Down there. Whatever."

"Oh."

I spun the chair a quarter turn. My mouth ran ahead of my brain, again.

"How big is it?"

"I mean, compared to the other guys I've seen, it's normal, except when it gets hard."

"Yeah, I think hard is all that counts."

"Yeah."

"So... How big?"

"I don't know like, in inches," Finn said. "I can show you."

I did not move. He did not move either. Neither of us did anything for four or five full seconds. The last ten percent of this was mine to move or not.

"Okay," I said.

He swung down off the bed. He landed on the carpet in front of me and hooked both thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down with the boxer briefs, one motion, to mid-thigh.

It was soft and it was already bigger in girth and length than mine gets at its maximum size. That was the first thing, sitting there thick and heavy over his balls, slightly touching his left leg, with a real weight to it.

"It's big," I said, unable to take my eyes off of it.

"It's not, like, up yet," he said, and took hold of it.

I made my face try to look less enthusiastic. I aimed for looking scientific as I watched him take hold of it. My heart was racing, and I have no idea if I succeeded at seeming normal. He gripped the base and worked his fist over the shaft slowly, up and back and up, standing right in front of the chair facing me, with the ceiling light on and his dick and balls right at my eye level with me. He lifted his shirt, and his abs were tensing as he tried to work himself toward arousal, the muscle there tightening and letting go with each pull, a flat vein running down over his hip and disappearing under his arm. 

The meat sausage filled out in stages. It got heavier and longer and more and more red, the end of it was getting closer to me with each passing second as his hand hypnotically moved up and down the length of the thing. He kept his fist moving, and it kept coming.

The head came out from his grip. Then more of it. He had a whole hand on it and there was still a hand's worth left over past his thumb, and when it went completely rigid it stood up and out from him at an angle and gave a small bounce on its own when he took his fist off.

When he took his hand off of it, it looked even bigger, and thicker.

"That's as big as it gets," he said, like he wasn't totally sure that was a good thing to admit.

I was rock hard in my sweatpants and had been since roughly the words "down there". My heart was racing so loud I thought I might pass out. He gave it two more pulls with his hand, which I don't think he needed to, and then he tucked himself back into the briefs and pulled the shorts up, and he had to arrange it to get it to lie down under there. It made a shape anyway.

"So like eight inches?" he said.

It took me a second to be able to speak again, after trying to swallow with a dry mouth.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You'd need a ruler."

"You'd need a ruler," I agreed.

He climbed back up into the loft.

That became a joke for a bit. Within ten minutes we had decided it didn't count without a ruler, that measuring it against a hand was not a standard unit, and that anybody could claim eight inches. We talked about various forms of male inadequacy for several hours before I finally had to go home.

Then in the morning as we walked to class together, his mouth full of a banana he was eating, he said, "It might be a grower situation." and I said we hadn't controlled for temperature, and he pointed his half banana at me like I'd made a good point.

"It was warm last night," he said.

"It was."

By that afternoon it was going in the lab notebook. We met in bio, so anything we did had to be documented, and on the walk to English on Monday we worked out that we needed a control group, and Finn said with a totally straight face that the control group would be me, and I said absolutely not, and he shrugged like his hands were tied.

"It's the scientific method, man. Peer review... of dicks."

Danny caught the tail end of our conversation.

"Okay, hold on, what," he said. "What are we peer reviewing."

"Nothing," I said.

"What're you guys up to?" 

He looked at Finn, then at me, then back at Finn, and seemed to put it together in his head.

"Ok wait. Show me too."

Finn didn't laugh. He didn't deflect or hedge or turn it into a bigger joke to get out from under it. He looked up from his phone about halfway and said, "I don't whip it out for just anybody, man."

Then he went back to his phone. Danny said something after that. I have no idea what it was. I suddenly felt like the most special boy in the world. 

He only whips it out for me.