I didn't want a boyfriend.

 

Hadn't wanted one when I'd got to university. Hadn't wanted one when I'd met him that same night, the one, measly box of my possessions upended on the fading and tattered carpet of my dorm room. And I still hadn't wanted one when he'd asked me out, three weeks later.

 

When I'd opened my door to find him standing on the landing, timid and shy with a single, shabby yellow carnation he'd picked from the parking lot flowerbeds between his thumb and index finger, I'd been dumbfounded.

 

What the fuck is this?

 

Three weeks had been barely enough for me to scope out the bars, clubs, saunas and Grindr talent of the new city I called home, let alone consider starting a relationship with my next-door-neighbour whose name I couldn't remember.

 

Harrison? Henry? No, Harry?

 

And I'd told him. Made it crystal clear how I'd felt: I'd come to uni to be free. Free from school and the shackles of a small town of small minds, which, surprise surprise, didn't include tying myself to a jobless student as badly off as me: scraping by on government loans and racking up debt by the tens of thousands, regardless how cute he was.

 

And it had worked. For a while. The dejection in his face had been clear and he'd sulked off with his head low, no doubt kicking himself for being so stupid. But, after the initial ego bruising resulting in four days of blissfully uninterrupted peace and quiet, he'd come knocking again.

 

One Friday evening after lectures, I'd been rolling a joint in bed and had heard a soft knock. When I'd opened my door, there he was, but this time with a bottle of vodka in-hand.

 

He'd apologised. Said he'd got caught up with the excitement of having another gay guy next door. Said that, where he was from, there "weren't many of us" and when he'd seen me on Grindr less than five metres away, he'd thought it had been "a sign".

 

I hadn't told him that I'd thought it had been a warning when I'd logged on to see his handsome yet gormless face staring up at me from my screen. That, if the boys my age I'd known back home had taught me anything, it was that they were competition and couldn't be trusted. Avoided at all costs, not embraced.

 

Once they're done with me they turn to each other. Bye, bye, Oscar.

 

But my neighbour, Harry, had argued a decent case. He'd said, if I didn't want to be his boyfriend, then we should be friends. Go to bars and clubs together. Help each other pull.

 

Naturally, I hadn't believed him. Thought it had been an excuse to get close to me. But, in his defence, Harry was sweet and good-looking and it had been obvious, even then, that he would make a decent wingman.

 

Hot enough to draw attention but not enough to outshine me.

 

Plus, he was the kind of boy that attracted a certain type. Slim and toned, baby-faced and youthful: just the kind of lad to catch the eye of older daddy types or curious straight men looking for a young hole to use and lose.

 

My type, through and through.

 

So, after some self-deliberation, I'd agreed, and we'd quickly become friends. Or, to be precise, whatever you call someone you go clubbing with until a fuck comes along. That night, and every Friday and Saturday night after for a month, we would get ready in either my or his room, drink cheap spirits, snort lines and go hunting.

 

Nine times out of ten, I would make a kill and he'd go home alone, but he never seemed to care. Always replied to my texts after I'd disappeared with a thumbs-up or smiley face or some kind of congratulatory message. And he had always been there the next morning. To make me tea, roll me a joint and listen to my stories from the night before.

 

Until one night.

 

One night when the club had been painfully dry of potential: the only guys previous, sloppy shags I had no intention of touching again, or fugly cunts with no chance lurking in the shadows. Among the dismal crowd of faces and torsos there'd been nothing.

 

Nothing but Harry.

 

Which hadn't been a problem: Harry liked to dance as much as I did so, within seconds, we'd claimed the dancefloor as our down. Then we'd done shots. More shots and more dancing. And then, as the thumping music around us surged to a harmonic climax, we'd kissed, inebriated on the dancefloor like the teenagers we were. But, before I'd known what was happening, he'd led me to the toilets.

 

Up against the wall, the scent of piss in the air, he'd been ravenous. Kissing my neck and grabbing at my belt, asking me to take him into the cubicle. Begging in my ear, over and over in breathy, irresistible whimpers. Pleading until I'd had no choice but to grab a free condom and lube packet, pull his jeans down and fuck him inside an empty stall.

 

The rest had been a blur.

 

Naturally, when I'd woken up the next day to find him in my bed, I hadn't thought it would be a big deal. He'd been a good fuck. Great even: nice and tight and able to take me all the way without too much of a fuss. And he'd known where I stood.

 

He knows the score.

 

Wrong. When he'd stirred, within seconds, it became blatantly obvious he'd thought there was more to it. He'd smiled wide and started talking about how he'd known I'd "fancied him all along" and how he'd been waiting for weeks for me to "see the light". He'd believed that after a messy drunken fuck, somehow, I'd suddenly developed feelings.

 

I'd wanted to tell him. Every fibre of my being had wanted to verbally slap some sense into him. That it had meant nothing and the last thing I'd needed was an irritating nobody hounding me through the paper-thin walls dividing our rooms.

 

But, before I'd been able to set him straight, he'd ducked his head under the covers and blown me. So slow and deep and tight and warm that I hadn't been able to do anything but succumb to the rumble in my balls, simmering like lava in an active volcano.

 

Four months later, I still hadn't set him straight. Told him I wasn't interested in a relationship. Truth is, I'd made a dent in the club scene, so giving the dancefloor time to accumulate new talent hadn't seemed like a terrible idea. Especially when there were hundreds of clandestine potentials on Grindr waiting a thumb away.

 

Like Richard.

 

But, mainly, the convenience of having someone next-door to not only satiate my carnal desires, but cook, clean and smoke weed with, was too good to pass up. And even though his childish excitement and apparent naivety about seemingly everything got on my nerves like a screaming infant on a long-haul flight, he had a twinkle in his eye that said he wasn't as angelic as his blond hair and blue eyes and lineless, creamy skin made him out to be.

 

There's a devil inside.

 

That's why I still let him pester me. Invade my personal space whenever he heard my keys in the lock or footsteps outside his door. I knew, given the right opportunity and the correct persuasion, this boy was going to let me act out some of my most sordid fantasies. Things I'd been wanting and yearning to try for years.

 

One of which had been brewing in my mind and balls for almost twenty-four hours. Since the night before, when Richard had fed me coke and champagne and told me what he'd wanted to do to me: "I'm sure I could rustle up some friends."

 

`These look fancy!' Harry exclaimed, following me into my room and picking up my shopping from the floor.

 

Sitting on my bed, he began to rifle through the laminated paper bags; tissue paper rustling as my gifts from Daddy Dick were laid out on top of my duvet. First the Ted Baker t-shirt, then the Levis and then the Burberry sweater.

 

Taking a seat at my desk, I watched his eyes widen at the price tags still attached. Watched his hands run up and down the soft wool of the most expensive item; his fingertips gently bunching slate grey.

 

`Wow,' he said. `Is this cashmere?'

 

I nodded, pulling open my top desk drawer and lifting out my wooden box of rolling gear.

 

`Where did you get it?' he said.

 

Placing a king skin rolling paper flat on the desk and rolling a small piece of torn off cardboard into a roach, I said, `Selfridges.'

 

`Alright, moneybags,' he said. `Feeling flush, were you? Which one's for me?'

 

`The Ted Baker t-shirt,' I said: it was the cheapest.

 

`Really?' he said, a wide, smile spreading from ear to ear.

 

`Really,' I said, almost done rolling my joint. `Got a lighter?'

 

`Of course,' he said pulling out a purple Bic and throwing it at me.

 

`Ta,' I said catching it, lighting my joint and taking a long drag.

 

Heaven.

 

Standing from the bed, he walked over and sat on my lap. Three or so inches shorter than my six-foot, and more toned than muscular, he wasn't heavy. Wrapping his arms around my shoulders, he squeezed me tight and kissed me on the cheek.

 

`No, thank you,' he said. `I love it.'

 

`Good,' I said. `Now get off me, I need to lie down. I'm shattered.'

 

Laughing, he stood up and moved out of the way so I could throw myself onto my bed. After I'd bounced, shuffled up the bed to the headboard and turned to look at him he said, `How was it?'

 

`Last night?' I said, fresh memories of everything Richard had done to me spinning through my mind like a beautifully sordid merry-go-round.

 

`Yeah. Did you cram hard?'

 

`So hard,' I said, my cock pulsing as the deep, wet, primal moans of Richard unloading inside my arse echoed in my head.

 

`When's the exam again?'

 

`Next week,' I lied: there was no exam.

 

`You'll nail it.'

 

I smirked at his choice of words. Said, `I'm sure I will.'

 

He smiled back. Then I said, `What did you get up to?'

 

`Nothing. A few of us from the block played ring of fire, but I didn't feel like getting wasted so I got stoned and watched Grand Designs on my laptop. Either way it was far more exciting than doing an all-nighter in the library like you,' he said.

 

`Ain't that the truth,' I said, still smirking.

 

`You're so good for doing it, though,' he said, taking his t-shirt off and picking up the new one; his fatless six-pack almost gold in the artificial light of my box room. `You wouldn't catch me studying as hard as that. Not in first year: fuck that noise ... What do you think?'

 

Obviously, the t-shirt was going to be too big. It had been picked by me for me. And it was. The arm holes were too large and the fabric bordered on swamping his slim frame. I was by no means a beef cake, but I had the biceps and pecs to fill it.

 

`Shit. It's too big,' I said, acting surprised.

 

`Yeah,' he said frowning and turning his body in the thin, full-length mirror screwed to my wall.

 

`It was the smallest size they had. I'll take it back and get you something else,' I said, my joint now half-smoked and already filling my head with a delicious fog of total body relaxation.

 

`No, don't be stupid,' he said, taking it off and bringing it over to me. `You have it. It's more your size than mine.'

 

`You sure?' I said.

 

`Of course. It's the thought that counts.'

 

`Ok,' I said, forcing a frown to hide a smile.

 

`You look tired,' he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.

 

`Fuck you,' I said, playfully kneeing him in the side.

 

`You know what I mean,' he said, his t-shirt still off. `Guessing you don't have the energy to?'

 

`To what?'

 

`Fuck me.'

 

Reaching over I ran my palm over his shoulder, down his pec, his abs and then rested it on his leg. Thinking about his proposition, I idly smoothed his skin. Reaching over he began to massage the mound of fabric and flesh of my crotch.

 

But no matter how much he tried, there was no response. My balls had already been emptied twice that day and my cock was having none of it.

 

`Sorry, sexy,' I said. `I'm too tired. Later?'

 

Beaming bright and then kissing me on the lips, softly and delicately, he said, `Anything for you.'

 

`Anything?' I said.

 

`Anything.'

 

To be continued ...

 

Want more?

 

The first in my Australian series, Oscar Down Under: Part One, is out now. Find my tales on Amazon US here, Amazon UK here and Amazon Australia here. Or simply search for `Jack Ladd' on the Amazon homepage. Also available on iBooks, Barnes & Noble and more.

 

Want a FREE book? Download my prequel novel, Oscar, from Smashwords for absolutely nothing here.

 

Or head over to my website to learn more, including exclusive content on my series, Oscar Down Under.

 

Copyright Jack Ladd 2017

 

Please, please, please consider donating to Nifty. As a volunteer-run organisation, every penny/cent helps!