I Never Expected It To Go This Far

Hi there! Here you’ll find a true story. My story. Or at least a chapter of it.

I first noticed Patrick during my freshman year of university. Nearly shoulder-length blond hair fell around the outside edges of thin wire-frame glasses through which he concentrated on a laptop screen, sitting upright—good posture, as I recall—at a study table in a student common area outside the classroom where I attended calculus. Although not assigned to the same calculus, I soon noticed we shared some science classes. Chemistry and then later biology.

I never intended for anything physical to happen. He was just a kid in some of my classes. Still, though, he caught my eye. I don’t know what your sexual orientation is, but perhaps you yourself can relate to the feeling of finding a new friend, classmate or coworker attractive. Someone of the same sex as you, that is. Well, Patrick was cute. To me. Taking my seat in chemistry, digging through my bag for my notebook, I would look up and see Patrick entering the room amidst a group of other kids, and well, butterflies. Or no Patrick. Nuts! I mean sometimes you don’t see someone in class that day, in which case, I guess I’ll have to wait till Monday to see him and say hi. But the occasional “hi” or small-talk about our courses was as far as it went.

It took a while to actually strike up a proper conversation. He kept to himself. Quiet. Maybe shy, even. Our first shared biology class came in our second year at university. Unlike in chemistry, where we could get by on our own, our first shared biology course featured a class project. A partner project. A large project, spanning several weeks of working one-on-one with another student. One day I took my seat before class, in the same row as Patrick, during the same week in which we needed to pick a partner.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I said, or something like that, trying only to get a conversation started. He responded in a similarly small-talky kind of way. “Did you happen to have a partner already?”

“No not yet actually.”

“You want to work together?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure!” That was quick. If I didn’t know better I’d say that was the first time I heard something that sounded to me like a tone of friendliness from this guy.

“Oh cool. I’m Ben, by the way,” I added.

“Patrick.”

Not only partners on a class project, but we became study partners, having ultimately taken several classes together, due to us having picked overlapping majors. Following a particularly annoying class session one time (one loud student during a video hangout that featured the whole class), he would run over to where I was studying so we could share a moment of venting to each other about the experience and our annoyance with this other kid.

Then a horror movie night happened. I mean this was near Halloween, so why not? The whole spirit of, well, religiously neutral Fall Harvest Festival and all that, it put us in a mood for a spooky movie. We were piled on the living room couch with some other friends. Patrick and I had become roommates by this point. Not only did we rent the same house, but we literally shared the master bedroom (five guys shared a three-bedroom house, so some of us had to double up, including Patrick and I).

So there we sat, watching Nosferatu, a classic vampire flick from the silent movie era. I recall the titular character being single-handedly the reason for the movie being creepy as anything we’d ever seen, even for a movie more than a century old by now.

But that’s not mainly why I remember this movie night. Somehow things became cozy. Patrick sat on the couch with his typical good posture, facing directly toward the television, while I sat with my side facing the tv, my back against the armrest of the couch and my legs resting across Patrick’s lap. Hmm, this felt kind of nice.

I wish I could share more that happened that night. But nope. It was a pleasant, if spooky, movie night with some good friends, but otherwise uneventful.

A short time later—the same fall semester—Patrick and I went upstairs and got ready for bed, while still carrying on conversation. Eventually the conversation turned to some comedy reference that came up frequently, as a sort of inside joke. One show, which we mutually enjoyed, comments on the whole monopolistic nature of cable companies in a gratuitously blunt manner: the clerk at the cable company customer service counter would overtly massage his own nipples while giving bad news to customers. You know, the normal cable-company runaround. In any case, this quickly became a favorite reference among the group of us guys renting a place together; whenever one of us had to give mildly bad news, like that the tv was unavailable for gaming because one of us was about to watch tv, the moment would almost invariably involve the bearer of bad news rubbing his nipples while lending a sarcastic tone, with words like, “Oh, why don’t you use the other tv? Oh we don’t have another one? That’s too bad…”

So here we were, Patrick and I, gently rubbing and squeezing each other’s nipples, making verbal references to the same comedy scene I told you about. Two clerks rub each other’s nipples at the cable company, too, so nothing Patrick and I were doing ventured away from a joking reference to a funny scene in a tv show we both enjoyed. We were just laying in bed, our own beds, although we were still in arm’s reach because our beds formed an L shape in the same corner of the room (it provided more space that way for desks and bookshelves and so forth).

I don’t even recall what started it. Somehow the comedy scene came up in conversation, and next thing we knew, our arms reached over toward one another and we spent a brief moment making physical and verbal references to the scene. And then things got quiet. Very quiet. Pretty soon we were just silently rubbing and pinching, our hands still concentrated on each other’s nipples. Oh God it felt nice. I had never thought of myself as much of a nipples guy. I don’t typically sexualize them. But something about a close friend—someone I secretly found attractive—rubbing and squeezing them. I could barely stand it.

Some coy comments were exchanged, about how it was going to be difficult to sleep on our stomachs. Not long after that, though, we quieted down and started to drift to sleep, or at least I did. Patrick lay quiet but, well, although to this day I don’t recall if this part was a dream or if it really happened in my half-awake state, I possess a hazy memory of casually letting my hand drift down, from his nipples to his belly. His flat, smooth belly that rose and fell with his breaths. Down further, my hand delicately grazed the front is his boxers. If this wasn’t a dream then there was no mistaking at this point that my good friend, Patrick, was hard! And all because of a gesture that started as a joke between him and I.

That was it. I didn’t want things to get weird. I certainly didn’t want to ruin his trust or our friendship. Again, I only barely remember letting my hand casually fall from his chest to the front of his boxers. And for all I know I could’ve dreamt the whole thing. In either case, my eyelids started to get heavy. For a brief moment I ventured into slumber before returning, unsure of what woke me or how long I had been out.

Silence. Darkness. Those peaceful moments you spend in bed when uncertainty fills your mind. That’s what I recall when I felt Patrick’s hand return to my body. I was so nervous and unsure of where this would go. I lay quiet, not moving. It must have been 2 or 3 in the morning at this point. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe I was dreaming again. Nope. A second movement of his hand left no room for doubt.

Patrick had reached over from his own bed to put a hand near me, in soft but unmistakable contact with my underwear. I desired so badly for wherever this was going, but I was frozen, too nervous to do or say anything. He must have known I found him attractive, and he was such a socially reserved, gentle spirit that I wonder if nothing ever would have happened, had it not been for enough layers of pretense, with mutual touches in a joking manner or while pretending to be asleep. In any case, I don’t recall how long it took, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hundred years (really only a minute or two, but when your heart is pounding out of your chest) before his hand had found the tent on the front of my boxer-briefs. Hard would be an understatement. A few brief seconds of fumbling and he had managed to free my erection from the opening in the fabric. Oh. My. God. Patrick’s smooth, gentle fingers were now touching my own bare skin. Tingling like a mild blanket of static electricity shivered through my body, centering around my shaft where Patrick’s hand began to squeeze. I concentrated on trying not to explode in his hand as it slid up and down. The effort not to explode was a losing battle of course, no matter how many unsexy thoughts I silently tried to summon.

It only took a moment, before that familiar bolt of lightning surged through my body, every nerve ending from my thighs, to my balls, to my abdomen had lit up like a Christmas tree. Everything was connected. The butterflies in my stomach, the pins and needles crawling through my muscles and nerves, from my perineum back to my ass and forward to my balls, shaft, and abdomen. My pounding heart. My quickened breaths. Everything swirled around the touch of Patrick’s hand. I gave up trying to hold back the floodgate as he picked up the pace without recoiling or even pausing as I surrendered to the experience, covering my stomach along with his hand.

He disappeared briefly to the bathroom, I’m guessing to wipe his hand, before returning to my bedside. Of course at this point I wasn’t going to leave a buddy hanging. So after briefly catching my breath I invited him to join me in my bed so I could return the favor.

For the first time, I got a close-up view of his naked body as he peeled his boxers down to his thighs, then to his ankles before flinging them with one foot onto the floor. He lay on his back while I lay on my side facing him, propped upright on my elbow. Reaching with my other hand, I tentatively wrapped my fingers around Patrick’s shaft. His skin was hot to the touch, soft and smooth but hard as a diamond under the surface. After a moment of softly exploring his shaft and head with my fingertips, I grasped him between my thumb and fingers, gripping him the way you would grasp one half of a pair of binoculars, so that the front and back of his shaft felt the pressure of my squeezes more so than the sides. I don’t know about you but that’s the technique I often enjoy on myself. Alternating between sliding my hand up and down his shaft and tickling his balls with my fingertips, it only took a few minutes before his face scrunched up and his breathing quickened. The tell-tale signs. And sure enough, before long I got to feel Patrick pulsing in my own hand, sending wave after wave of cum shooting up towards his face, chest and stomach. I grabbed something, I don’t know maybe a t-shirt or some tissues, to wipe him up. We lay there for a moment but I don’t remember much more that night. We must have fallen asleep very soon.

Little was said when we woke up later that morning, after the sun had risen above the trees. Although Patrick lay in bed next to me, his head on my shoulder, nothing seemed to be very different. We were still just friends and roommates. Except now I had experienced the depths of sharing mutual orgasms with him. It almost felt spiritual in a way. Before long we were sharing a bathtub together, in a hotel room on spring break, me jacking him off with one hand while using my other hand to slide a finger inside him. But that’s a story for another time.

This was how things escalated between Patrick and I, from classmates to friends to masturbation partners. Let me know what you think and if you’d like to hear more about where things go next.