Bromosexual

I see the uniform the moment I pop open the lid. It’s right at the top. All of it. I even remember placing the pieces there when I packed this bin so long ago and shoved it into the back of the closet underneath all the winter wear.

My heart flutters excitedly. Whenever I see the blue and white colors, I see him.

I pull them out—and I mean every single piece—and shove away the bin like I’ve already forgotten about it, then bring the uniform to my bed and lay it out.

Yes, it’s going to happen.

Listen. I live home alone. No one’s here to judge me. I’m in a very vulnerable state of mind right now, especially after Stefan’s impromptu visit and sleepover. I don’t know what to do with my feelings or where to put them or how to get them—and him—out of my system. An army of zombie emotions have awakened from the dead, and they all look like sexy-zombie versions of Stefan. I’m also sexually overcharged, since it’s been at least three (maybe four) days since I’ve had any time to hunker down and give my chicken a proper choking.

I need to do something. And I need to do it now before I lose my nerve. I have Stefan to thank for the weird shit I’m about to do.

I peel off my clothes—shirt, pants, and underwear—then ditch them in the chair by my bed. I swipe the jockstrap from the bed and pull it on. It’s both impressive and disheartening that I’m the same size I was in high school.

Not the case with my baseball uniform. The white top fits me a bit tightly at the shoulders, but I commit to getting it on anyway. Same with the baseball pants—white with blue piping down the side—which I grunt to get over my ass. I leave the front open because, well, restricting access to a certain throbbing something would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?

I pull on the baseball socks all the way up to the knee followed by my blue stirrups, after which I pull on my cleats.

The blue cap is last. I give it a long, wistful look. Sitting here in my high school baseball uniform—which does carry a certain stale smell about it, as it’s been living untouched in a bin for many, many years—I feel my mind transporting. I feel Stefan at my side in the dugout while we’re cheering on whoever’s up to bat. I look his way. He looks my way. We chuckle about nothing in particular.

It was all the things we didn’t say that built this unspeakably potent glue between us. Like a language only Stefan Baker and I knew. It made me feel special, like we were on an elite crew. With just a look over the two stripes of eye black on his cheeks, I knew what was on his mind, and he knew what was on mine.

I don’t even realize I’m rubbing myself through the jockstrap. Standing in the middle of my room, I close my eyes and keep rubbing myself. Each time I rub, I feel myself sitting next to Stefan in that dugout. I feel his warmth by my side.

I’m already hard within seconds.

That’s how badly I need this.

In my mind, when I turn my head, it isn’t high school Stefan sitting there. It’s adult Stefan, the one who just crashed on my bed last night. He’s buffed up, sparkly-eyed, and garbed in full baseball gear, too. Side by side, teammates, we look at each other while I continue to rub away.

Good thing I left out the hard cup inside the jock.

No need to literally cock block myself.

I feel our shoulders and arms touching—meat against meat—as our sides press against one another in this tiny dugout. No one else is around, or else literally no one on the whole team is paying attention to us. They all know there’s some deep, underlying connection between us since the day we met and all I saw him as was a cocky, good-for-nothing show-off. They let us have our space while we stare heatedly into each other’s eyes.

Even in the shade under the curved bill of his cap, his blue eyes glow, the whites of his eyes made all the more glorious by the black stripes dabbed beneath them.

His dick is out.

I breathe hard, imagining all of this.

“Bro,” he whispers—the dream Stefan, imaginary Stefan, the Stefan who would never in a million years do this. “I’m so hard.”

“I’m so hard, too,” I echo, rubbing my raging boner trapped and flexing against the confines of my jock.

He doesn’t smile or smirk or anything. His lips are parted and his eyes bleed with urgency. “We gotta do something about it.”

“I can help you out, bro,” I promise him.

“Really?”

“Let me help you out.”

He grips his dick and points it my way.