I heard one of the guys from down the row yell, “Hey, save some romance for the honeymoon!”
Laughter broke out, and I wanted to melt into the tile. Dear God, please don’t let me be gay, I thought, repeating it like a mantra. He walked away, towel slung low, big frame relaxed like none of this was out of the ordinary. I could feel his eyes on me, burning a hole through my quivering body. He paused, picking up on my expression, then gave a half-smirk. My legs trembled, my breath came in shallow gasps, and my mind was a whirlwind of sensations and conflicting emotions. And apparently, it wasn’t subtle. I tried to focus on my own chest, scrubbing at it like it might somehow transform into something worthy of comparison. But I didn’t. My cock twitched uncontrollably, still leaking pre-cum, as his thumb continued to work me open. “Sup, freshie?” he said, catching my gaze with a quick grin. My body had reacted before I could even process what was happening. I had crossed a line, one I hadn’t even known existed, and there was no going back. I was screaming internally. Not just because of him—but because I realized I wasn’t sure what I was more nervous about: the exposure, or how much I didn’t want to look away.
