Temporary Guest
The fucking heat hit me like a slap. Toronto in June was gross—sweaty, thick, sticky air that clung to my skin before I even made it to the front steps. I stared up at the apartment building Marco said I could crash in. Brick. Busted mailbox. Graffiti that looked like it’d been pissed on. It was ugly as hell.
I didn’t care. It wasn’t home.
Two fat-ass duffel bags. One water bottle. A dream and a leftover blunt in my pocket. I dragged it all up the stairs that reeked of weed, piss, and burnt something. Maybe rice. Maybe plastic.
Third floor. Unit 308. I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder.
Marco opened the door in boxers and a gamer headset, yelling, “Shoot left! No, your other left!” before seeing me and grinning like I was his long-lost puppy.
“Daaaamn,” he said, pulling me into a one-armed hug. “Pedro fucking Garza. The legend.”
“I told you I was coming.”
“I didn’t think you meant it.”
I stepped inside, dropped my bags, and threw myself on the crusty couch like it owed me rent. “You said I could crash.”
“Yeah, yeah. You good though? Like… for real?”
I shrugged. “Chill as fuck.”
Which was my way of saying, Not even close, but I’m too tired to unpack that.
Later that night, I sat on the couch shirtless, scrolling my phone, legs stretched out like I paid bills here. I had just showered. My hair was damp, my boxers were clinging to my thighs, and Marco was in his room yelling into his mic again.
Then I heard the front door click open.
Footsteps.
Not Marco’s.
I looked up—and there he was.
Jake.
I knew it was him instantly. Marco had told me about him: “My roommate? Big guy, quiet, scary hot. Huge dick too, not even lying.”
He was taller than I expected. Thick arms. Veins running up from his hands to his shoulders like he’d just gotten back from bench pressing God. Black tank top. Sweat on his collarbone. A towel slung over one shoulder and a Gatorade in his hand.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
He said, “Didn’t know we had a new roommate.”
I leaned back, cool as shit. “You must be Jake.”
“Yeah,” he said, eyeing me like I was a bug on his remote. “And you’re half-naked on my couch.”
“It’s Marco’s couch.”
He sipped his drink. “He stole it from me.”
I smirked. “You always this friendly, or am I just special?”
He gave a dry-ass snort and walked into the kitchen without answering. The muscles in his back flexed every time he reached for something.
I watched him without even pretending not to. His ass looked heavy. I wondered what it’d feel like if he sat on me. I wondered if the third-leg rumor was true.
I hated myself for how fast I wanted to find out.
That night, Marco passed out early with his mic still on. I laid on the futon in the living room, blanket thin as hell, one leg out, phone in hand, scrolling past everyone’s perfect fake lives.
My boxers felt too tight.
I opened my camera roll. Nothing good. A few old shirtless pics of me trying to look confident. I stared at one for too long, then flipped to a video—one I’d saved from some random hookup page on Twitter. Guy with a grip like iron, stroking thick and slow.
Fuck it.
I slipped a hand under the waistband, adjusted myself, started jorking with a lazy rhythm. Not because I was horny exactly. Just… restless. Touch-starved. Fucked up in the head a little.
I thought about Jake’s arms. His voice.
“You’re half-naked on my couch.”
I imagined his mouth saying other shit. Rougher shit. Saying my name. Pushing me down.
I came fast. Pathetic. Quiet. Wiped off on my shirt.
Then I just laid there, eyes on the ceiling fan that didn’t work, breathing like I’d just confessed something.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
Then I turned over and tried to forget I existed.
