straight gym buddy texted me a pic asking if his new compression shorts were too much. i jerked him off in them in the assessment room

Friday · October 2

Evan texted me a photo from the gym bathroom at 6:12 on a Wednesday with no warning and one line of caption, and I stared at it for thirty full seconds before my thumbs worked.

He was in the mirror, phone held low, face cropped out like that made it anonymous. Gray hoodie shoved up under his chest. Black compression shorts, brand new, the tag probably still itching his hip, and they were so tight that every single detail of him was right there for the world to see. I’m not exaggerating. You could have drawn a diagram.

Evan’s my gym buddy. Straight, as far as I’ve ever been told. Has a girlfriend-shaped hole in his life that he blames on his schedule, says “bro” unironically, owns exactly one cologne. I’m the one in the gym with the painted nails and the thigh-high socks under my sweats, and he has never once made a thing of it, which is how I ended up as his shopping consultant for a pair of shorts.

Two minutes later my phone buzzed again, and I put it face down on my chest and looked at the ceiling of my apartment and said, “oh, you’re doing this, okay,” out loud, to nobody.

That was the second I stopped pretending the conversation was innocent. I typed the next one three times before I sent it.

weight room corner · last set, compression shorts

The gym rents out a little private room for physical assessments, behind the front desk, with a lock on the door and a bench and a mirror on one whole wall. I got there first. I leaned on the wall with my arms crossed and my heart going like I’d just done a set of squats.

He came in still sweaty from his workout. Same gray hoodie. Same shorts. He shut the door behind him and locked it, and I heard the little deadbolt go and felt it in my stomach.

“Well?” he said.

He stood in the middle of the room with his arms out a little, like a guy getting measured for a suit. And I looked. I looked on purpose, slow, top to bottom, no pretending, and let him watch me do it.

I want to explain what the shorts did. They hid nothing. They were skin-tight, cut high on his thigh, with a seam running right up the middle, and the fabric was stretched so tight over his cock that I could see the head, the ridge under the head, the thick line of him lying along his hip. Everything. And he was soft, I think, or half, and getting less soft every second I stared.

“You know exactly what the problem is,” I said.

His ears went red. They always do, it’s my favorite thing about him. “Say it.”

“You like being looked at.”

Silence. The little fan in the ceiling ticked.

“Maybe,” he said, quieter. “By you.”

I pushed off the wall. Crossed the room. Stopped about three feet away, close enough to smell him, the fabric softener and the sweat and the gym.

“Still straight?”

“Probably.”

“Not my department.”

He laughed, a big relieved breath of a laugh, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Good. Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?” I said, because I’d been wanting to for fourteen months.

“That is your department. Yes.”

I kissed him.

He tasted like cold water and protein bar. His mouth was clumsy for about a second and then it wasn’t, his hand came up and wrapped around the back of my neck, and he kissed me like somebody who’d been thinking about it in the shower for a while. He made a tiny sound against my lips. I took hold of his hoodie with both fists.

When we broke apart he was breathing hard.

He looked down at himself.

“Still too much?”

I laughed right in his face. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

“What should I ask?”

“Ask if I want to keep looking.”

His face went red. I watched it climb from his throat to his hairline. He looked at the mirror, at his own reflection, at me standing next to him, and I watched him swallow.

“Do you want to keep looking?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Yeah.” It was almost a whisper. “Yeah, me too.”

I stepped back. Two feet. Three. I stood against the mirror and I looked at him, just looked, taking my time, and his dick got visibly harder under the fabric while I did it. I watched it fill, the head pushing up toward his waistband, the line of it lengthening along his hip. He saw me watching. And he watched me watch, and that was half of it. That was the whole thing. Evan wasn’t turned on by me touching him yet. He was turned on by me noticing.

“Touch me,” he said.

“Where?”

He took my hand by the wrist, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and put it flat over the front of the shorts.

Heat. That’s what I remember. Heat and stretched-tight nylon and underneath it the shape of him, rock hard, throbbing against my palm. No speech. No big discovery. Just my hand and his cock and about one layer of fabric that didn’t hide anything.

I moved my thumb up the length of it, once. He sucked in a breath and his hips jerked.

I pressed harder.

He backed up into the wall and let his head fall back against it. Each little movement showed through the shorts. Every twitch, every pulse, every time I squeezed. I felt him leaking through the fabric, a dark wet spot spreading under my palm.

“You really bought these for feedback,” I said.

“Professional consultation.”

“Very professional.”

I stroked him through the nylon. Slow, slow, deliberately slow, dragging my palm up the shaft and cupping the head on the top stroke, and he started to push into my hand.

“More.”

“More pressure?”

“Yeah. God. Yeah.”

I gave him more. I closed my whole fist around him through the fabric and squeezed and pulled, and he groaned out loud, the sound bouncing off the mirror. His eyes were half shut. He kept them on my face, though, watching me watch him, and I swear that’s what was getting him there. He liked being the evidence. He liked that his own body was being read out loud.

“Still straight?” I said against his jaw, just to be mean.

He opened his eyes. They were black. “Probably.”

I smiled. “Still not my department.”

“Good,” he said, with his whole chest.

I slid my fingers under the waistband. I stopped there, with the elastic biting the back of my wrist and his belly jumping under my knuckles, and looked at him. He looked down at where my hand was. Then back at me.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Do it.”

I touched skin.

His breath went out of him like I’d punched it loose. His cock was slick and hot and heavier than I’d imagined, and I wrapped my hand around it and felt it throb. I pulled the waistband down just far enough to get him out. I left the shorts under his balls, stretched tight around his thighs, the whole picture still framed in black nylon. That mattered. That was the point. His dick lying in my hand, red and wet, with the compression fabric cutting across the top of his thighs like a frame.

“Look,” I said.

He looked down.

“Look at what you did.”

“God,” he whispered.

His hands landed on my waist, tight, clumsy, holding on. No hiding anymore. No joke left in his mouth. I jerked him slow and tight and I kept my eyes on his face, and he kept his eyes on mine, and the sound in the room was just breathing and the wet, slick noise of my hand.

“Good visible?” Evan said. His voice cracked in the middle.

I laughed against his temple. “So fucking good.”

That nearly killed him. His hips snapped forward. I tightened up and sped up, a steady rhythm, flick of the wrist at the top, thumb catching under the head, and he made a sound like I’d stepped on something fragile.

“Drew,” he said. “Drew, hang on.”

I slowed down.

“Don’t stop,” he said immediately. “Don’t, don’t, I’m just—”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna come.”

“Then tell me what you want.”

He swallowed so hard I heard it. “Keep going.”

“Say it right.”

“Keep going. Please. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t stop. I jerked him faster, my own cock aching hard against my thigh, the zipper of my gym pants digging in. He fell forward and put his forehead on my shoulder and I held the back of his hot damp head with my free hand, and he came. It shot up between us, hot and thick, striping the front of his hoodie and the back of my hand and dripping over my knuckles onto the floor. Pulse after pulse. He groaned into my collar, a long ruined groan, and his knees buckled and I held him up against the wall until his body stopped jerking.

The shorts were still on. Still stretched under his balls. Still proving the original point, covered in come now, black fabric shining.

He lifted his head. Looked down at himself. Started laughing, helpless, bracing a hand on my chest.

“Oh, my God. I bought these today.”

“I know. I watched you.”

“You did not.”

“I could see the tag in the first photo.”

“Drew.” He was wheezing. “I am so fucked.”

“Hey,” I said, “you didn’t forget about me, did you?”

He stopped laughing. His hand slid down my stomach. His ears went red again, all the way down his neck, and he fumbled the drawstring on my pants like a guy opening a lock in the dark. I didn’t help. I let him find me. When his big warm hand closed around my cock I put my head back and hit the wall and he said “okay, okay, I got you,” soft, like I’d told him something.

He did not know what he was doing. He did it wrong for about ten seconds, too light, too fast, and I told him how, “slower, squeeze at the bottom, yeah,” and he listened. Like it mattered. He watched my face the way I’d watched his, with that same dark attention, and when I came, shaking, against his wrist and the wet front of his hoodie, he said “fuck, that’s hot,” like a man discovering something about the weather.

bench · hand on thigh, evidence visible

Afterward we sat on the assessment bench with our shoulders touching. His hoodie was ruined. Mine was fine. He wiped his hand on a paper towel, then wiped mine, and neither of us looked at the other one.

He reached into his gym bag and came out with a crumpled receipt.

“Think they’ll take them back?”

I looked at him. At the shorts, still half down his thighs, black and wet and shining.

“Absolutely not.”

Evan smiled. A slow, goofy, private smile I hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” he said.