My new roommate never jerks off - Chapter 1

I jerk off a lot.

Like, probably more than I should. Morning wood? Gone before breakfast. Showers? That’s just code for edging with the water running. If I’m home alone, forget it—I’ve got my playlist, my lube, my sock, and at least two tabs open. Call it a hobby. Call it an obsession. Whatever.

It used to be simple. I had my room, my space, my rituals. My dad never bothered me, and I never had to explain why I was taking twenty-five minute showers with music on. Life was chill.

And then Damien showed up.

My dad’s new summer intern.

He’s some art school kid my dad took on to “learn the ropes” in his studio, which sounded fine—until I found out he’d be living with us for a couple of months. And not just in the house. In my room.

Now there are two twin beds, side by side. Two nightstands. One shared closet. And me, trying not to get a boner when Damien walks around in nothing but boxer briefs.

It’s like the universe decided to throw me into a slow-burn goon hell.

Because Damien? He’s hot. And I hate that I notice it.

He’s tall, but not too tall—maybe just an inch under me. Sharp jawline, dark hair that falls just a little over his eyes, this smooth tan skin like he’s just always summer-ready. Defined, lean, like he does crunches for fun. The kind of guy who looks good shirtless without even trying. Not that I was looking.

Okay, I was.

I don’t even know what I am. I’ve hooked up with girls. Watched porn of all kinds. But being around him… it’s confusing. It’s not like I want to date him. I just wanna… see him cum.

That’s it. Just that. One time. Just proof he’s not a fucking alien.

Because here’s the thing: Damien doesn’t jerk off.

At least not in any way I can detect. And I’ve been looking.

At first, I thought maybe I was just missing it. Like maybe he was subtle. But I’ve been sharing a room with him for weeks now. And I’ve noticed shit.

His showers? Ten minutes, tops. Just shampoo, rinse, done. No heavy breathing. No water pounding against the wall while he grunts. Nothing.

At night? He lies in bed like a corpse. No rustling, no covers shifting, no suspicious hand movement under the sheets. He just lies there, still, breathing slow, lights out. Sleeps like a fucking monk.

And me? I’m dying.

I’ve gone from jerking off two or three times a day to sneaking into the bathroom just to rub one out silently into a tissue. I edge under the blankets when he’s asleep, biting my lip so I don’t make noise. And meanwhile, he’s over there sleeping peacefully with zero indication that he’s even human.

I was trying to ignore it. But then one night, I couldn’t anymore. We were both lying in our beds, the lights were off, and we were talking about dumb shit. Music, classes, TV. He was actually being kinda chill. He doesn’t talk much, normally. Just gives these small nods and one-sentence replies. Like he’s always thinking about something else.

But that night, he was answering stuff. So I took the chance.

“Hey,” I said into the dark. “You got a girlfriend or something?”

Damien shifted in his bed. “Nah.”

I waited. “You’ve had one before though, right?”

“Yeah. A few.”

I stared at the ceiling, heart suddenly pounding for no reason. “So like... what’s your type?”

A pause. Then: “Don’t have one.”

I let out a small laugh. “Okay, mysterious.”

He didn’t say anything.

I turned on my side, facing his shadowy outline across the room. “What about guys? You into guys?”

Another pause. I could hear the quiet breath he took.

“No,” he said. “I just don’t have a type.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, almost laughing again. “Like… you don’t get turned on by anyone?”

Damien shrugged. “I guess I just don’t think about it like that.”

That made no fucking sense.

“So what do you do when you jerk off then?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Silence.

I swallowed. I felt my own face getting hot, like maybe I’d pushed it too far.

But then Damien said, flatly: “I don’t really do that.”

I blinked into the dark.

“What do you mean you don’t do that?”

“I just don’t,” he said. “Never really got into it.”

“Like… ever?”

He didn’t answer.

My brain short-circuited. For real. Like, who the fuck doesn't jerk off? He was twenty. He had to get horny. His body was perfect. His voice was hot. He had to be jerking off.

I wanted to ask a hundred more questions, but I kept quiet. We stopped talking after that. He rolled onto his side. The room went silent again.

But in my head?

Something started spinning. And I couldn’t stop it.

Since that night, I’ve been watching him.

Not like a creep. Okay—maybe a little like a creep. But I’m curious, alright? I’m a naturally curious person.

When Damien leaves the room, I do a little investigating.

I check his side of the closet. I look in his drawers. I check behind books, under shirts, even in his backpack. I examine his underwear when it’s in the laundry—all clean. No crust. No stains. Nothing that screams “I came in this and didn’t clean it up.”

I started timing his showers. Listening at the door. Nothing. It’s like he’s a monk or something. Or a robot.

And that’s when I realized:

I have to find him in the act.
Even just once.
I need to see it. Hear it. Know for sure he does it.

This isn’t about being gay.
This is about the truth.
And I’m gonna find it.

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This is the second of the three possible stories :)