Get a grip.
6: I AM JOE’S JOCK STRAP…’INTO YOU? WHO ME?’
Likely my decision to put on my jock made no real difference in the subsequent unfolding of events, but I like to think that my deciding to pull up that jock as I went to grab my gym shorts was the decisive factor in the events that followed, events that allowed me to forget about texting and, consequently, fucking, Bambi - ever again, as it turned out.
I am sure that not banging Bambi that night saved me weeks of delay in understanding and accepting that, at my core, I am meant to be a cocksucker. I would have gotten there eventually, of course, regardless of what I was wearing. But if I had not been wearing that jock, it seems more likely to me that when I popped out of my room and literally bumped into John, who was also (oddly) wearing only a jock strap, I would have brushed right by him, collected my shorts, gone for a run and then texted Bambi an S.O.S. demanding an emergency application of her vaginal poultice…
Instead, my head-on jock-cock collision with John, and then both of us standing there looking at each other in only our jock straps, was just strange enough to cause both of us to start laughing our asses off. And that laughter helped immeasurably in breaking the ice and hitting the re-set button on our friendship. I had probably been less than an hour away from letting Bambi claw her way back into my life when I literally stumbled into the relationship that made me forget for a long, long time that vaginas even existed.
After our laughter subsided, John spoke first. “Look, man, I owe you a huge apology…I know you must think I’m batshit crazy and the way I spoke to you a few minutes ago, that was unforgivable.” “No, I —” I started, but John cut me off. “Let me just tell you that I’m not nuts, and now that I’m through with my psych project—”
"What fucking psych project?" I asked, suddenly feeling vey confused as I recalled his notebook. John launched into a long discourse including some bullshit about "the acclimitazation of urban dwellers to shocking or unexpected events," eventually explaining (I think) that his yawping and public displays of nudity had been part of his field work, collecting data on the reactions of the people he had accosted. I admit that while he was droning on about "statistical anomalies" and the like, I was checking - visually only - his package. "Would you believe that 93% of —"
"Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me what you were doing?" I interrupted. I didn’t give a rip about what 93%, or 99.9% thought. He and I were still standing in our jocks in the hall. "Oh, I couldn’t do that…it would have skewed your reactions…see, you were just as much a subject as the stranger on the street—" "Fuck Heisenberg," I said, showing off, "What do YOU think?"
Maybe I should have been mad at having been unwittingly made a psych study subject but, truthfully, all I felt was relief. My well-hung roommate wasn’t - probably wasn’t - a sociopath after all. For a split second I considered that maybe with his pencil down John would show a little more interest in the idea of me disinterestedly jacking him off.
“Why didn’t you just hit on me?” John asked suddenly. “What…why…I’m not…” I stammered. That had come out of left field, and I really wasn’t prepared to address questions about my own sexual ineptitude. “What are you talking about?” I finally asked. “Oh, man, ‘bros with benefits,’ are you fucking kidding me? I dunno, maybe that shit works for you [it had not, ever], but if you’re into me, why not just tell me that you’re into me—” “Into you?” I tried hard to sound incredulous. I felt like I was losing the high ground. “Joe,” he told me in a mock-solemn voice, “one of my scientific observations - and this one won’t be in my paper - is that whenever I disrobed, which was frequently, you couldn’t take your eyes off my cock.” I was speechless, but that was for the best, because any denial from me would have been a flat-out lie, and one that he had already seen through.
"Next time, try something more like this," John said, as he gently pushed me up against the wall, my back toward him. I’m not quite sure how he spun me around like that, but I had the unambiguous feeling that I was being hit on - properly. John put one arm loosely around my waist, his opposite hand on my ass, as he nuzzled my neck with his nose and lips. I think John’s right hand was rubbing my ass while his left hand was sliding down my belly, but that right hand was very quickly overshadowed by the sensation of his jock-enclosed cock pressing against the crack of my ass…until I felt his left hand close around my own bulging male pouch. As he gave my package an intense squeeze, John whispered in my ear, "Joe, I am so into you…"
John’s hand slipped inside my jock and his fingers closed around my very aroused cock. There I was, hard as I could be, with my dick throbbing in my roommate’s hand, which was (almost) all I had ever wanted, intermittently thinking ‘why the fuck didn’t I do this two months ago?’and ‘God, don’t let him stop…’
“What about fucking?” John purred, “do the benefits include fucking?” I didn’t miss a beat. “Hell no, that’d be queer,” I said, as I turned and pressed my half-opened mouth against his and found his cock with my hand.