Love-All

I have a confession

Art

Ever since Patrick and I were young, we had done everything together. We would watch the same movies, read the same books, eat the same things, help each other on homework, and fall in love with tennis at the same time. Now, we've done something else together. The other night, Patrick taught me how to jerk off. Which was weird. Yet, it was almost a wholesome experience between the two of us, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I think our understanding for each other has only deepened.

I'm going to be honest. I've heard Patrick jerking off from the first night he started doing it. The ruffle of his blanket, the peeling off of his clothes. The motion of his fapping and those grunts- almost the same grunts that he makes when he hits a tennis ball with a racket back at me. Our room is small, and I sleep only a few feet away from him every night. There were times where I wondered if he wanted me to hear him, or if he didn't care if I did or didn't either way. For whatever reason, I never thought to confront the issue until that night Patrick taught me something new. On the very first night I heard Patrick, I simply laid there, horrified. Frozen, and in shock. I sort of had a feeling of what was going on- I knew what jerking off was, I just never had the balls to try it myself.

Yet, something started to happen to me once I kept on hearing Patrick on those nights. I started getting hard, really hard, listening to him. It was hard not to listen to the stroking, spitting, and sucking of his dick and fingers. It turned me on and as guilty as I felt, the boner I felt growing in my sweats became more and more unbearable each time. A couple times, the small area of my briefs grew damp in my precum. Every night it happened I would die to sneak a look at Patrick, yet felt that it was a violation of his privacy to do so without his knowledge- despite that he was fully masturbating right next to me- so I stuck to my imagination instead. Each time it happened, I would attempt to muster up the courage to say something. To do something.

Maybe:

"Patrick? What the fuck are you doing? I'm trying to sleep."

Then, he'll say something like:

"Jerking off. Sounds like you need to try it."

Or he'll be completely embarrassed and stop in his tracks.

"Sorry Art. I'll keep it down."

Then I might never hear him do it again. So really, what do I do? Something impulsive. That night I heard Patrick doing it again, I just turned around and watched in the dark. It was dark, yet I could make out his outline as he pleasured himself, and as he sucked on his finger. Despite the many times I've pictured the entire thing in my head myself, I was shocked to see it actually happening right in front of me. I've seen Patrick's body before, I've been lucky enough to appreciate his top half. The protrude of his chest through his compression shirt that he wears to practice, the slight tone of his abs that are visible every time he lifts his shirt to wipe his face of sweat, the line of hair that trails under his belly button down, down, down ... connecting to what I'm seeing for the first time. I don't know what compelled me that night, either stupid bravery, a curious urge to see it all, or a combination of both which led my hand to the lamp. My fingers betrayed my will to not call out Patrick's name, not turn the lamp on, yet I don't regret a single part of that night. Not one bit.