Bromosexual

“Fantastic. Went for a jog, got lost in your neighborhood, and now getting a workout in. Found some weights in your garage. I put them to use.”

My eyes drift down to the two dumbbells on the floor by the couch. I haven’t seen those things in years.

“Uh, no, that’s fine,” I stammer. “You … could’ve just gone to the gym, y’know. It’s still around, believe it or not. The one we used to go to. Same guy even manages it.”

“No shit?” Stefan chuckles at that. “Good to know.”

I shrug. “Maybe tomorrow.”

We stare at each other awkwardly after that, as we likely are waiting for the other one to speak. I pray he doesn’t say anything, ask anything, or even look at me in a certain way.

He doesn’t.

Somewhere in the awkward silence swelling between us, I feel those annoying voices and doubts poking at the outer walls of my mind. They repeat the words of his little brother Rudy, who I met today for the first time as a teen.

And I feel like I’m carrying some dirty, dark secret now. I feel like Stefan would be so pissed if I didn’t tell him. But if I did, wouldn’t that be just as bad? I have a duty to Rudy to protect and respect our student-counselor confidentiality.

I feel like I’m doing the right thing.

At least, I sure as hell hope I am.

I finally give Stefan a short nod, then head for my room. As I go past him, his voice stops me by the hall. “Hey, Ryan.”

A cold front to my chest. My jaw tightens, and I turn my head. “Yeah?”

His face is frozen with something he wants to say, hovering in suspension with his lips parted, yet nothing comes out. For a hot minute, I’m terrified he’s finally about to voice his deep objections with what went on last night, give me a long speech about how we can still be buddies, then finish with the dreaded words I’ve been waiting to hear all day: It can never happen again.

Instead, he asks me, “How’s Chinese sound?”

I blink. “Sorry, what?”

“For dinner tonight. I was poking through the take-out menus you keep stuffed in that one drawer.”

So this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to just go along like nothing at all happened last night. Chinese delivery, chilling on the couch, and no acknowledging the fact that not one tiny day ago, I had my face buried between his juicy cheeks.

I’m almost insulted at the downright lack of freaking-out from Stefan.

That’s a lie. I’m fucking relieved to play denial with him, too. “Chinese sounds great.”

“Fuck yeah.” He grabs his phone off the counter to order.

As he does, I just stand there like a specter and stare at his sweaty, muscled back. My eyes drag down his tapered form to his small waist, which then explodes with two ass cheeks that are being gloriously hugged (and cleaved) by his shiny silver-gray gym shorts that make his butt look like a Christmas ornament.

“Yeah, I’d like to place an order for delivery,” he mumbles, turning around and leaning back against the counter.

And then I’m gifted the sight of his chiseled abs, wide smooth pecs, and the bulge of his biceps as he folds his arms, the phone wedged between his neck and shoulder. My eyes trickle down his chest along with his droplets of sweat—the luckiest droplets of sweat to be existing on a body like that and tracing lazily down its shapely contours.

I’ve never wanted to be a bead of sweat so badly.

I can’t help it. I’m still charged from last night. Whether we’re going to pretend it never happened or not, I can’t calm down, not after I’ve gotten a taste. I’m going to bed with a boner every night for the rest of my life if I don’t get another.

“Sure thing,” he mutters, flips open his wallet on the counter, then pulls out his card. “Ready?”

As he spouts off his numbers, I finally peel myself away from the sight of him, taking my pervy self into the bedroom to get out of my work clothes and put something more comfortable on. I kick off my shoes by the closet, then slip off my tie. Next comes my dress shirt and undershirt, followed by my belt and slacks.

And then a voice: “Changing?”

I jump and spin to face him. “What’s with you always catching me in my bedroom in just socks and underwear??”

“It’s cool,” he mumbles with a shrug.

No, he doesn’t leave; he slouches against the doorframe as he folds his arms and stares at his phone, scrolling with a thumb.

It would be annoying and invasive if it weren’t for the fact that I’m enjoying the view. Oddly, I’m not uncomfortable around him in this state of undress. The comfort built from all of the years of us changing around each other must be fully revived, since I don’t even have an instinct to cover myself in his presence.