Just Ask Ch. 05

She checks the message herself, nodding as if making a philosophical breakthrough. "Did he say where or when?"

I text him back, and he promptly responds.

"He says it's at the football frat house," I say, "it's supposed to start at ten but there's a house-only pregame."

"And he wants you to come to the pregame?" she asks.

"Yeah," I answer.

"Damn, he must be serious about you," she says.

I punch her, lightly. "Shut up."

"Well did you RSVP? Can't keep Prince Charming waiting, you know. You gotta get on the damn pumpkin."

I sigh. "I dunno. A football party sounds fucking awful. I'd rather stay in my room and smoke."

She slaps my phone out of my hands and snatches it before I can grab it. I struggle to regain it but she types a quick message and then throws it back.

see you at 9 hot stuff ;;;;;;))))) she wrote. What a bitch.

My phone vibrates immediately. See you soon :). My chest flutters and I get that weird feeling in my stomach. It's not for a while, and I still have rehearsal, so I just gotta deal with it.

"Now," Ellyn says, reaching for the bowl, "since that's settled, we can run through the choreography. I always lose my place after the partnering section."

"It's the fucking turns, bitch!" I yell, and we hop off the bed to start reviewing for rehearsal.

* * * * * * * * *

We smoke ourselves into a magical stupor before we leave for rehearsal. As usual, it's a soul-sucking process of waiting in the green room, stretching and marking our choreography in between our numbers. The concert, an annual dance festival held at the school, features mostly student work. Ellyn and I are in a duet together choreographed by our friend Dee, among a solo each and a few larger ensemble pieces, but tonight it's all about our duet. Dee makes us run it about a thousand times before she is satisfied and we finally get to leave.

I text Jackson, 'Out of rehearsal, heading back to get ready.'

'See you soon,' he replies.

Ellyn and I get back in our dorm and walk into the shower. It's technically the girls' shower, but it's a small dorm and I'm the only boy on the floor. Some girls complain about me using the lower floor bathroom, but most of them don't have a problem with it, especially once they get to know me.

We steam up the bathroom and chat about what we're planning to wear and how rehearsal went and what may happen tonight with Jackson, but my mind is somewhere else. I'm nervous to see him, since we weren't separated for the whole wonderful, hazy, 36-or-so hours we spent on our first date. I try not to worry, obviously he's interested in me, why else would he invite me to his party? I'm nervous to meet his friends- not because I can't handle myself, but because they're all jocks. Jocks make me really nervous- they bring back middle and high school memories I worked rather hard to repress; but I'm bigger now and older, and I've grown a spine. If college is practice for adulthood then I won't let anyone bully me now.

I've also fucked like four of the players on the football team. So that doesn't really inspire tranquility in my head, either. I'm positive Jackson already knows, because teammates talk, but I err on the side of optimism and decide not to care how detailed his knowledge of my sex history may or may not be.

Despite these affirmations, my worries privately gnaw at me. Jocks are violent, and jock parties get pretty wild, much wilder than the parties I'm used to. All we do is sit and smoke or drink and dance. I check my appearance in the mirror as I put the finishing touches on my face and outfit, both purposefully a little challenging to typical perceptions of gender roles, as if to say fuck you big fucking jocks, I'm here and queer as fuck and just as fucking tall.

My phone buzzes, a text from Ellyn. 'Meet you there late tonight, I'm going to entertain a caller before I arrive,'

I snort and shoot a quick 'pig,' back, and she leaves me on read.

My phone buzzes again. 'Are you here yet?' from Jackson, along with a shit ton of emojis, I guess so I know he's kidding. I smile.

'Otw, can't wait,' I send. I take one last look at myself. "Remember bitch: you are Mary Poppins, so get it the fuck together and chill the fuck out. He likes you. He may not like you tomorrow, but he likes you today. And hopefully, he'll like you tonight," and then I wink at myself, a little game of self-assurance, close the door on my room and my worries, and set off down the unnecessarily twisty path to the location of the party.

* * * * * * * * *

I arrive at the Kappa Sigma Omega house, the residence of the fraternity that most of the football team pledges. It's a rundown old house, one of those big estates that was once a glorious testament to its owners' wealth but now shows the wear of years of students living rough on it. The lawn is big and patchy and the porch wraps around the whole house. The pillars are in desperate need of a new coat and a dingy swing creaks in the breeze. The sun is just set and the sky is that purply-gray of twilight.

I pound on the door, and after a while it swings open and a big, burly jock who goes by the name Slim is staring at me. His wide, angular jaw drops a bit in surprise (and recognition), and his dark brown eyes twinkle at me. They don't call him Slim because of his body- it's because of his fingers. And I know those fingers rather well. Or, I should say, they know me...

"I didn't think you'd show," he smirks, blocking the doorway with his huge frame, muscles bulging in his tight tee and snug jeans.

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, and attempt to shove my way past him only to find that he is even more solid and sturdy than I remember. I bounce off him and take a step back, face flushed, embarrassed to be kind of turned on by the brief contact, glaring at him. "May I enter, please?" I quip, challenging him.

He flashes a wicked grin. "The toll is a kiss, princess," he teases, and cups his ridiculously large bulge.

"I don't barter with river trolls," I say, and he laughs. He offers his hand to me for one of those masculine greeting rituals, and I slap his hand and join him in a mutual hug. His hand slips down my back and grabs a handful of ass before he lets me go. I raise one eyebrow, not dignifying him a response.

He swings the door open for me and holds it, allowing me to pass. "Glad you could join the pregame, baby. Don't forget about the afterparty," and he winks at me.

"I'm here as someone's guest tonight, Slim," I call over my shoulder.

"Everyone's welcome," he replies.

I walk the hallway until I find the living room. It's not my first time here, but the décor has changed since I was here last. Then again, the last time I was here the group of guys was different. I am silently grateful that graduation happens every year and certain people leave. Slim is the only other guy in this house I've fucked- the others have moved on.

I can hear the sounds of a small gathering behind the living room door. Time for action. I take a deep breath and push it open and before I can size up the room I am handed a beer by a short, stocky blonde with no eyelashes and a snaggly red-tinged beard.

"Wassup dude," he says, "the entry is either chugging this whole beer or taking a shot. What's your poison?"

I spot Jackson at the far corner of the room and nod at him- he nods back, beer in his hand. "What's the shot?" I ask.

"Tequila," replies the blonde.

"Then I'll do both," I say, and a chorus of ayys and yeah boys erupt the room. There are already several people here, a pretty big pregame if you ask me, but I can smell the dankness so I know weed is close by. I've also got some in my pocket but if there's free weed going around I'ma take a hit, y'know?

I tip the beer and guzzle it, trying my best not to taste it. I make quick work of it, maybe ten or eleven gulps, and hand it back to the blonde, who crushes it on the side of his head. Another round of affirmations fill the room. The blonde hands me the shot and a wedge of lime and shaker of salt. I ignore the salt but take the shot and knock it back without thinking, not shuddering or otherwise betraying what is a very intense mouthful of alcohol, then I take the lime and swallow it whole, chewing to rid my mouth of the taste of fermented agave.

"Thanks," I say, and the room cheers again and everyone takes a swig. Jackson opens up a spot for me next to him and I make my way over, gingerly stepping over jacked jocks and their absurdly tiny girlfriends, who all have the same length of straightened hair, only they're all different colors. I finally get to Jackson and I plop down next to him, and he wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses me, on the lips, right in front of everyone and I smile and enjoy it and kiss him back. It's a chaste kiss, but there a few hoots and catcalls and a couple of the girls get that 'omg-a-for-real-gay' look in their eyes.

I look at Jackson's deep brown eyes and say, "What's up?"

He smiles and says, "It's circle of death. We're up soon," he says, and I turn my attention to the circle of cards at the base of the beer can on the pitiful excuse for a coffee table. About half are gone, so there are a lots of chances to make a gap in the ring, which would cause the game to end and the unlucky (or lucky, depending on how you look at it) card drawer to have to down the beer in the circle.

I chat amicably with the other players while we get drunker with every draw. The girl on my left, Molly, a cute little redhead on the soccer team who I had algebra with freshman year, talks my head off but I enjoy it. Every now and then one of Jackson's bros interrogates me about myself- I don't see why, it's a small school so we all sorta know each other, but I answer dutifully and with a quick tongue. Eventually I am proclaimed 'cool' in passing by one of the boys, and just like that I am no longer out of place.

Jackson rubs my shoulder, PDA I tolerate but am secretly thrilled to receive, and I snake my arm around his waist. Every now and then he kisses my cheek or my ear or my lips, but they are less passionate kisses than they are little whispers of affection that make my temperature rise and my skin blush, against my will. The game goes smoothly until Molly breaks the circle, stands before her audience, and chugs the beer like a champ. By this time the party is getting started for real, people are walking in, and things are happening in other rooms so the game shifts. Some people stay and set up for a second round, and Jackson takes my hand and leads me to the back porch.

The stoners are all gathered here. I'm surprised to see so many athletes, aren't they afraid of random drug tests? They are on the floor, slumped low in chairs, strung up on a swinging bench, or leaning against the wall. Jackson hops up onto a porch railing and lean against a column, next to him. We both have drinks in our hands, him some shitty local craft beer growler, me a bottle of convenient store red wine I brought along. Hands fumble in bags and pockets and a few blunts and joints and bowls are produced, and suddenly everyone is passing smoke.

I barely have time to puff puff pass the blunt before I am handed a bowl, which I hit real quick before someone shoves a one-hitter in my face. Cigarettes are lit in the spaces between rotation, and the usual stoner chatter commences. We talk shit about The Man, philosophize on Life, and laugh at stoner stories. So far, none of the violent jock party behavior that I had heard about. I wonder if maybe I don't have these people pegged after all.

I roach what was originally a very fat blunt and shotgun the rest to Jackson, lips making unabashed contact as I exhale into his lungs. My hands find their own way to his body and I hunger for contact with his skin, and my cold fingers find his flesh beneath his t-shirt and jacket. I'm not the only horny bitch here tonight, lots of the crowd are already way past me.

"I'm cold," I whisper in Jackson's ear, and he chuckles.

"C'mon, let's go inside," he says, "Sounds like the dj's finally here."

I follow him inside, led by his hand, which fits so well with mine and is very warm, and he takes me to the den. A dj is indeed set up in a corner, with ridiculously big headphones and a station full of equipment that looks very expensive. The room is set up with blacklights, and I can see my pants and shirt glowing. Jackson's clothes don't glow, but his teeth do. How the fuck are they so white? Jesus.

The music is loud and thumping, and so are the people. Everyone is dancing with everyone, drinks in every hand, and I am very high and feeling it. Jackson dances against me and I give him a run for his money, matching him grind for grind and grinning as he attempts to show off by spinning or dipping me. I do most of the work myself, but he's clearly had a few lessons because he's a damn good leader. The music escalates and I lose myself in the sensations, in the sounds, the energy of the room, the feel of Jackson's rippling body against mine.

I am suddenly aware of his thick hard-on rubbing against my ass and I realize I am hard, too, and everyone would be able to see it but we're all drunk so it really doesn't matter. I deliberately rub against it and am rewarded with his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. He directs my grinding, and I aim to get him to bust a load in his pants, and we are moving so obscenely together. I totally forget about my boundaries and reservations and basically have standing sex with him, fully clothed, right there in front of everybody. I lock lips with him and we continue our strange, needy dance and I don't feel any eyes on me, just Jackson's body and his intoxicating scent.

I come up for air and Molly catches my eye, grinding on her man just as obscenely as I. She grins and drops it very low, waggling her shapely ass all over the guy she's dancing with, and his face is a hilarious mix of ecstasy and lust. I laugh, knowing she and I look exactly alike, and continue dancing, Jackson's hands burning my body all over.

Eventually I turn back to Jackson, pull him in for a long liplock, and release him. I lean into his ear and shout, "I need to use the bathroom," and he nods.

"I'll get you some more to drink," he says, gesturing to my almost-empty bottle. I turn away, blitzed as fuck and very drunk, and gracefully stumble out of the den. The hall is dimly lit but still brighter than the blacklight cave I just emerged from, and my eyes have to adjust even more when I arrive in the brightly-lit bathroom, busting down the door to pee.

"Ocupado," says Slim, nonchalantly shaking out his massive monster cock, "But I don't mind if you join."

My eyes are wide as I watch his freakish length thicken and expand, and he slowly jacks it. I haven't forgotten how big it is but I also kinda did, and I literally can't tear my gaze away from blunt force object that is Slim's fat fucking monster.

"Remember this?" he grins wickedly, knowing full well I remember it. I remember it and the two other guys I took that night, in various positions and couplings, but I couldn't fit his and another in at the same time. I'm not sure I could fit him in again. His cock is as thick his wrist, lighter and round at the top, wider all the way down to the base. A challenge for any power bottom- and a milestone for many.

"I remember just fine," I breathe, my cock still hard from dancing with Jackson but not any less hard from Slim's display.

"You can help yourself any time you like," he says huskily, hoping I'll take the bait.

But I don't. "Sorry Slim, I'm not here to be a whore," I say dismissively. "I just need to pee."

"Want some help?" he asks innocently, hand jacking that fucking beast, and I shake my head no. "Doesn't seem very convincing..." he says, and walks toward me, beast in hand, and reaches out for mine. "Touch it," he says, pleading soft, "I want to give it to you." He places my hand on his shaft and I cannot close it around it. He moans slightly and pumps my fist. I am out of it for a second, the power of that massive fucking tool bewitching me, then I remember who I am, who I was, and who I am not. I yank my hand away and gently but firmly push him off me.

"No. No, no no. No. No way. No way, Jose. Thanks but no," I say, just to make absolutely clear I don't want that cock. But I do. Last time I couldn't walk for two days, and I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't hop that bitch again. But I'm here with Jackson, for Jackson, and though he has made no formal commitment to me, I don't want this- not here, not now, not this way.

Slim chuckles. "Just checking," he says, and he tucks that beast back in where it is obvious and unable to hide despite the thick denim. He leans in close to my ear, "But it wouldn't be the first time Jackson and I shared a hot piece," and he walks away, leaving me to my pee. I shudder, thinking maybe that day will come, knowing I probably wouldn't say no if it was consensual and cool on all sides. And I probably wouldn't be able to walk, either, ever, but who am I to decline?

I finish my business and stumble out of the bathroom. I find my way to the kitchen but have no time to take in the room, because I hear a familiar call.

"BITCH YAS!" Ellyn screams at me, and we drunkenly maneuver through our very complicated friendship handshake.

"When did you get here?" I ask her.

"Like literally just now," she says, face flush and hair showing evidence of having been fixed. I reorganize a rumpled patch of voluminous curls and blend a spot on her chin. She swipes a finger at my eyeliner and then slaps a hickee, freshly given me by Jackson.

"You fucking slut!" she shouts, "Do some fucking drugs with me!" and we giggle and make our way to the counter, where her current man-friend is cutting lines on the counter.

"What's this?" I ask, wary of ambiguous white powder.

"Pure MDMA," says the older man, probably in his thirties. "Good shit from overseas." I nod as he bends down and expertly snorts a line, then raises his head, eyes unfocused, and snorts a second with the other nostril. He takes a step back and runs his hands through his hair.

"My turn!" exclaims Ellyn, and she bends down to take her two lines. They turn expectantly to me and I feel Jackson run a hand down my back. I shiver, the contact spiking goosebumps all over my body.

"Turning up?" he asks with a grin. I turn back and kiss him.

"Where's my drink?" I ask, and he produces a bottle of prosecco split. "Champagne?" I question, and hear the man snort again.

"Since you're too classy for beer," he teases, and pops the top off the bottle.

I take a generous swig, and say, "We're doing molly if you want to join."

"Sure," he shrugs, "I love molly."

"EVERYONE LOVES ME!" shrieks Molly suddenly from the doorway, slamming a line at the invitation of Ellyn's friend. She lets out a whoop and dashes out of the kitchen, a little ball of drunk party.

"Wanna split a line? I wanna be able to wake up tomorrow," I say, and Jackson nods.

"It's another snow day though, so you don't have to wake up if you don't want to," he says, "Plus, I was kind of hoping you'd stay the night in my room again."

Well shit, how can I say no? I knock back half a line and Jackson finishes it off, then I scoop up the remainder with my fingers and apply it to my gums.

"Before this kicks in, I just wanna say," I lean into Jackson, "I was already trying to have sex with you tonight."

Everyone laughs and I am surprised because I didn't think I was being so loud. Oh well, it's a party.

The molly kicks in, I forget about the bathroom episdoe, and we go back to the blacklight den and really get down. I'm not sure how much time passes by, but it's all a blur of music and dancing and Jackson and Ellyn and her man-friend and Jackson and the wonderful pulsing in my body and Jackson and fire in my veins and Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.