"Yeah," I nod, still feeling off-balance, like the ground has shifted under my feet. "Me too."
Asher turns to leave, then pauses. He looks back at me, his expression softening slightly. "For what it's worth," he says, his voice lower, more intimate, "you're not the first straight guy to enjoy a blowjob from another man. It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to."
The words are clearly meant to be reassuring, to give me an out if I need it. But they land wrong, striking a discordant note. Because it did mean something. I just don't know what yet.
Before I can respond, Asher is walking away, his footsteps fading among the shelves. I watch him go, a complex mixture of emotions churning in my chest—satisfaction, confusion, and something that feels dangerously close to longing.
As Asher disappears from view, I lean back against the shelf, letting the ancient books support my weight. My body feels like it belongs to someone else, someone braver and more adventurous than I've ever been.
Maybe that's who I'm becoming. Maybe that's who I've always been, beneath the labels and expectations I've wrapped around myself like armor.
I remain frozen in place long after Asher's footsteps fade away. My body feels boneless, satisfied in a way I haven't experienced in a long time, but my mind is a hurricane of conflicting thoughts.
You're not the first straight guy to enjoy a blowjob from another man.
Is that all this is? Just physical pleasure, divorced from any deeper meaning? The explanation feels too convenient, too simple to explain the complexity of what I'm feeling.
I straighten my clothes mechanically, tucking my shirt back in, zipping my jeans, buckling my belt. The book that fell earlier catches my eye—a leather-bound volume with faded gold lettering: "Metamorphoses" by Ovid. How fitting. I feel like I'm undergoing my own metamorphosis, transforming into someone I don't recognize.
I shelve the book and walk back to the elevator on unsteady legs. The ride down to the third floor gives me time to compose myself, to put on a mask of normalcy before facing the other students.
My table is still there, my books and notes untouched. I sit down heavily, staring at the pages without seeing them. How am I supposed to focus on economics after what just happened?
I can always find someone else to take care of it.
The thought of Asher with someone else gnaws at me. Which is ridiculous—we're not together, we're not even friends. I have no claim on him. So why does the idea bother me so much?
Maybe because it highlights my own cowardice. Asher gave me pleasure without hesitation, while I couldn't bring myself to reciprocate. Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe I'm just jealous.
The realization tastes bitter. Jealousy. Over a guy. Over Asher.
It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to.
But what if it does mean something? What if these feelings aren't just about physical pleasure? What if they're about Asher specifically—his confidence, his directness, the way he seems completely comfortable in his own skin?
I close my textbook with a snap. I'm not going to get any studying done today. My mind is too full, too chaotic.
I pack up my things and head for the exit, nodding absently to the librarian at the desk. Outside, the late afternoon sun is blinding after the dim light of the library. Students mill about on the quad, laughing, talking, going about their normal lives. I envy them their certainty, their clear paths.
As I walk back to my dorm, I replay the events of the past twenty-four hours in my mind. The party. The terrace. The library. Each encounter with Asher pushing me further into the unknown.
I've always defined myself by simple labels: straight, ambitious, logical. But those labels feel inadequate now, unable to contain the complexity of what I'm feeling.
Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I've been trying to fit myself into boxes that are too small, too rigid. Maybe there's freedom in the uncertainty, in allowing myself to explore these new feelings without immediately needing to categorize them.
By the time I reach my dorm, I've made a decision. I pull out my phone and create a new contact entry. I type in a name—Asher—but leave the number field blank. A reminder of unfinished business, of questions still to be answered.
I'll get that number eventually. And next time, I won't let Asher walk away so easily.
For now, though, I have a paper to write and an identity crisis to navigate. One step at a time.
Chapter 9
THE AFTERNOON STRETCHES endlessly as I sit at my desk, staring blankly at my laptop screen. The cursor blinks mockingly at me, a reminder of the paper that's due tomorrow—a paper I've written exactly two sentences of in the past three hours.
My mind keeps circling back to the library, to Asher on his knees between the dusty shelves. The image burns in my brain, a persistent ember refusing to die out.
I can always find someone else to take care of it.
