Miles - My Fleshlight Friend

Bro.

Here’s what nobody tells you about having a fag for a best friend.

It’s not complicated. That’s the part that fucks with people’s heads, I think. They want it to be complicated. They want there to be guilt and shame and some big dramatic reckoning where I break down and realize I’ve been a monster. That’s the story they’re comfortable with.

But you’re not here for comfortable, are you, bro? You clicked on this for a reason. Maybe you’re like me—some straight dude who stumbled into an arrangement he doesn’t totally understand and wants to know he’s not the only one. Maybe you’re like Gil and you want to hear what it sounds like from the other side, the side that doesn’t have to care. Or maybe you’re just curious, just morbidly fascinated by the shape of something you’ve been told your whole life shouldn’t exist.

Whatever. I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to tell you how it is.

Right now, for instance. Right now it’s August in Ohio and my AC is a piece of shit and I’m lying on my back on top of my sheets in nothing but basketball shorts, which I’m not even wearing anymore—they’re chucked on the floor, because Gil took them off for me about ten minutes ago without me having to ask. The air in the room is thick and wet and smells like three things: the microwave popcorn we made an hour ago, the Axe body spray I put on this morning that’s long since died, and me. Specifically, the me that just got back from the skatepark. The me that spent two hours in ninety-degree heat doing kickflips and eating concrete and sweating through every inch of fabric I had on.

I smell like a locker room. I smell like salt and testosterone and the specific sour tang of a body that’s been steeping in its own juices since noon. And Gil—Gil is on his knees between my legs with his mouth wrapped around my cock. Dude’s inhaling me like my sweat’s got nicotine in it.

You want to understand the arrangement? That’s the arrangement. Right there. In one image.

My laptop is propped on my bare chest, screen angled down so I can watch this redhead get railed doggystyle in 4K. Premium 4K, by the way. Gil’s been paying for my subscriptions since month two—Pornhub Premium, Brazzers, the full lineup. Didn’t ask me. Didn’t make some big announcement. Just logged into my laptop one afternoon while I was at class, and when I got back, everything was crystal-clear, no ads, full access to every scene those studios have ever shot. I looked at him. He just shrugged, this sheepish little smile creeping across his face like he’d gotten away with something. “You deserve the best quality,” he said. My fag, paying thirty bucks a month so I can see every freckle on this redhead’s ass in crystalline detail. I didn’t argue. Didn’t even pretend to feel guilty about it. If dropping his cash on premium porn makes the experience even one percent better for me, then that’s money well spent as far as I’m concerned.

She’s got freckles on her shoulders and the kind of ass that makes your back teeth ache, and the sounds she’s making—these high, breathy, desperate little moans—are piped directly into my ears through my AirPods. Gil can’t hear them. Gil doesn’t get to hear them. The porn is for me. Everything is for me. That’s the point. That’s the whole goddamn point, and neither of us has ever pretended otherwise.

My hands are in his hair. Long hair, dark hair, silky hair that slips between my fingers like it’s oiled. He grew it out for me. I didn’t ask him to—not directly. About four months into this thing, I made some offhand comment about how it’d be easier to pretend if he didn’t look so much like a dude from the neck up. Didn’t even look at him when I said it. Just tossed it out there and forgot about it. Two months later, he’s got this whole indie-band mane falling past his shoulders, and I’ve got two perfect handlebars attached to the head bobbing in my lap.

That’s my fag. You don’t have to tell him twice. You don’t even have to tell him once. You just have to exist in his general vicinity with a preference, and he’ll reshape himself around it like water around a stone.

I should probably describe him, huh? You’ve been imagining some faceless shape down there, some dark blur in your peripheral vision. But he’s got a body. He’s got a face. He’s just not—and I mean this with no malice at all, bro, just as a statement of fact—he’s not the kind of person you’d notice in a room. He’s five-seven on a good day, with this soft, rounded build that isn’t fat exactly but definitely isn’t athletic. No jawline to speak of. His face is pleasant enough in a forgettable way—brown eyes, brown hair, the kind of features that slide right off your memory the second you look away. His hands are small. Delicate, almost. Girl hands. They look right gripping my thighs.

There. Now you can picture him. And me? I’m not some model either, bro. Six-three, blonde, gangly as hell—all elbows and doorframe shoulders and shaggy hair that hasn’t seen a barber in months. It works, somehow. The whole lanky package has gotten me enough attention that I’m not complaining. But I’m no Chad or whatever the internet calls those dudes with the chiseled abs and the 10K followers. Just a guy who stumbled into a weird-ass deal. Which, honestly? Makes the whole thing even funnier. Because I’m sprawled out like a king on my own bed. Gil hunched over my crotch like I’m some kind of god and he’s waiting for a blessing. And that’s not me being poetic. That’s just what it looks like.

Anyway. Where was I.

Right. The porn. The redhead. The fag’s throat.

I tighten my grip in his hair—I feel the strands pull taut against his scalp, feel the way his whole body shudders in response—and I yank him down. Hard. My hips snap up at the same time, driving my cock deeper, and the sound he makes is this perfect little squeak, high-pitched and strangled and almost musical. He trained himself to make that sound. I told him once, months ago, that the deep gagging noise was killing the vibe. “Sounds like a dude choking on my dick, Gil. Kinda defeats the purpose.” He fixed it within a week. Practiced in the bathroom, I’m pretty sure. Came back with this whole new register, this breathy, feminine thing that slots right into the fantasy and doesn’t disrupt it.

That’s the level of dedication we’re dealing with. You can’t buy that kind of commitment.

The redhead on screen is getting close—I can tell by the way her moans are pitching up, the way her back is arching, the way the guy behind her is gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. My own rhythm is matching his now, deep and steady, and the wet sounds coming from Gil’s throat are so obscene they’d make a porn star blush. Glk—glk—glk—that slick, rhythmic percussion of a throat being used for its intended purpose.

And the thing is—the thing you have to understand, if you’re going to understand any of this—is that I’m not thinking about Gil. Not even a little. My eyes are on the screen. My mind is on the redhead’s freckles and the way her tits are swinging and the guy’s cock disappearing into her over and over. Gil is just ... a sensation. A warm, wet, willing sensation attached to my groin. A fleshlight with a heartbeat.

This whole thing exists for exactly one reason: my pleasure. Getting me off as efficiently and intensely as possible. Gil’s feelings, Gil’s comfort, Gil’s jaw ache, Gil’s anything—completely irrelevant. He’d be the first one to tell you that. In fact, he has told me that. Multiple times. With my cock in his mouth. The words come out garbled and desperate and utterly sincere.

And that’s not cruelty, bro. That’s the arrangement. That’s what he asked for.

“Take it,” I mutter. Not to Gil. To the screen. To the redhead. To the universe. “Take all of it, you fucking slut.”

I shove him down until his nose is pressed flat against my pelvis, buried in the sweat-damp trail of blonde hair below my navel. He can’t breathe. I know he can’t breathe because I can feel his throat convulsing around me, those involuntary spasms that happen when your airway is blocked and your body is panicking. That feels so fucking good—that desperate fluttering of muscle around my shaft, like his body is fighting itself, trying to survive and trying to serve me at the same time, and serving me keeps winning. His hands are on my thighs, fingers digging in, knuckles white—but he’s not pushing me away. He’s holding on. Like a roller coaster. Like something terrifying that he never wants to end.

That’s the power, bro. You don’t understand it until you’ve felt it. A fag throat wrapped around your cock, voluntarily. Someone on their knees, voluntarily. Someone who could leave, could stop, could say no—and doesn’t. Won’t. Can’t. That’s the thing people don’t get. He could stop. Door’s right there. He doesn’t. He comes back every single time I need to nut or even if I’m just bored. Every single fucking time. Day in day out he keeps showing up and putting his mouth on it like it’s his fucking job. That’s what makes it funny.

I let him up. Just for a second. His head comes off me with a wet pop and he gasps, this desperate, ragged inhale, but he doesn’t rest—he drops lower, starts lapping the sweat off my balls. He loves doing that, by the way. Has told me it’s his favorite part. The raw, unfiltered taste of me after a long day. Most girls won’t even look at a guy’s balls unless he’s fresh out of the shower. This fag buries his face in them like he’s scavenging for gold.

“Thank you,” he whispers. Hoarse. Broken. Grateful. “I love ... the way you ... taste after the park...”

I don’t respond. I just shove him back onto my cock and keep going.

But you’re probably wondering how the hell I got here. Fair question.

I’ll tell you. It’s not some big dramatic origin story. No lightning bolt. No crisis. Just a drunk night and a confession and two people clicking into the roles they were always gonna play.

Eight months ago, party at some guy’s house off-campus. Cheap beer, red cups, the usual. I’d struck out with every girl there—not my finest night—and by 2 AM I was sprawled on my bed in my dorm, still drunk, staring at the ceiling and bitching about women. You know the speech. “They don’t get it, man. They don’t understand what guys need. It’s all games and drama and you gotta jump through fifty hoops for maybe five minutes of action.”

I was lying there in just my boxers, still sweating off the cheap beer, this gangly six-three frame stretched across a twin mattress that was too small for me. Body hair? Basically none. Smooth chest like a fucking dolphin, legs that looked waxed even though I’d never touched a razor in my life. The only blonde wisps worth mentioning were that little trail below my navel, the bush around my seven incher, my balls, and—if we’re being thorough—a bit between my ass cheeks. That’s it. That’s the rundown. Nothing special. But Gil was definitely staring at this exact body and I was too drunk and too pissed off about women to notice.

Gil was on the floor with his back against my dresser. He’d been hovering around me all night, like he always did, like he’d been doing since we were kids. We met when we were eight—third grade, Mrs. Patterson’s class, he let me copy his math homework and I let him sit with me at lunch. Been friends ever since. Through middle school and high school and now college, same dorm, same room, same everything.

I didn’t know he was gay until freshman year of high school. He told me in a Denny’s parking lot at 1 AM, shaking like he was confessing to a murder. I said “okay” and ordered another stack of pancakes. It wasn’t a big deal. He was still Gil. He was still the guy who laughed at my dumb jokes and covered for me when I was late to class.

But the hovering. The hovering was always there, now that I think about it. I just didn’t have a name for it until that night.

“I’d suck your cock,” he said.

Just like that. Flat. Calm. Like he was offering me a soda.

I laughed. Because what else do you do when your best friend since third grade offers to blow you? “Dude, you’re gay. That’s different.”

“So? A mouth is a mouth. You’re straight. I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m asking you to let me do something for you.”

“Nah, man. I like tits. I like pussy. Your mouth ain’t gonna do it.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“No, because I’m straight.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

I remember rolling my head to look at him. He was just a shape in the dark, lit faintly by the streetlight through my blinds. I couldn’t see his expression. I didn’t need to. His voice had that trembling edge it always got when he was nervous—I’d known him long enough to recognize it.

“You really want to,” I said. Not a question.

“I’ve wanted to since we were fourteen.”

Fourteen. Five years. Five years of wanting to suck my cock and never saying a word. I did the math in my head, sluggish and beer-slow, and it hit me like a punch to the sternum. That’s prom. That’s my driver’s license. That’s my first girlfriend, my first breakup, every hangout, every party, every time we crashed on each other’s couches. And through all of it, Gil was just waiting. Nursing this thing like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

“Say it again,” I told him.

“Say what?”

“That you want it. Say exactly what you want.”

He swallowed. I watched his throat bob. “I want to suck your cock, Miles. I’ve wanted it for five years. Please.”

Please. That was the word that did it. The crack in his voice. The surrender.

“Alright,” I said. “Get on your knees.”

You want to know what it felt like, that first time? It felt like someone had been rehearsing for five years and wasn’t about to waste their shot. His mouth was hot and wet and his tongue moved with this desperate, methodical focus—not sloppy, not rushed, but intentional. Deliberate. The little sounds he made, these choked, grateful noises in the back of his throat, like he was the one receiving something. Like my cock in his mouth was a favor I was doing him.

And maybe it was.

My hand found his hair without me telling it to. I grabbed a fistful and pulled, hard enough to make him gasp around me, and the vibration of it shot up my spine like electricity.

“You like that?”

His answer was a moan that I felt more than heard.

I don’t remember deciding to fuck his face. But I remember doing it. I remember my hips finding a rhythm, my grip tightening, Gil’s hands braced against my thighs like he was holding on for dear life. I remember the wet, obscene sounds filling the room, the kind of noises you can’t ignore and can’t pretend aren’t happening. I remember looking down and seeing the top of his head bobbing, his shoulders shaking, and feeling this strange, dark surge of something that wasn’t quite power and wasn’t quite disgust but lived in the ugly space between them.