There were certain aspects of myself that I'd kept hidden in the shadows all my life.

I'd played the good son for so many years, going on dates with several girls growing up just to please my overbearing parents. I'd followed my father to business meetings and listened to him try to instill corporate knowledge into my unwilling little brain. All while the real me watched from the inside, waiting for someone like John to open the door and offer me a hand.

I was under the impression that he and the Poets lived on the strange, bright side of carnal knowledge, and I aspired to be like them, walking into a room with that loose confidence and charm worn like an expensive shawl around their shoulders. Anyone they wanted was adored, showered in love, and quickly taken to bed.

John and I quickly make work of our clothes once I'm on board with the whole affair, but instead of crawling into bed like I expect him to, he goes over to the large window in our dorm and stares outside. For a second, I wonder if he'd lost his mind, then he crouches down quickly and gestures to me with one hand. "Dante! Get over here!" He hisses excitedly.

I quickly hurry over, almost trip over his loafers, and join him at the window. "John, good Lord!" I kneel beside him and smother my laughter with one hand. "What are you doing?"

"Do you know what voyeurism is?" 

"A delicious French pastry?"

"Voyeurism—no, don't just stand there in front of the window like a fool!" John pulls me down beside him so that we're both peeping over the edge of the windowsill. "See that idiot in the red sweater standing by that tree?" He giggles like a schoolboy. "That's Francis Bean. We've been rivals for the last two years and we may have screwed around once or twice. The little bastard's test scores always beat mine in microbiology."

I stare across at the scrawny man eating an apple in the yard, wondering how someone like him snagged a man like John because Francis was in no way a looker. Though John seemed to be enamored easily with whoever walked into his nearby vicinity, so it wasn't hard to imagine.

I look over at John to ask him what Francis Bean had to do with voyeurism and beating our meat in front of a cold window, only to see John's hand working his already semi-erect cock to attention. He was intact, like me, so he glides his sheath up and down his swollen glans and moans softly. "Oh, fucking hell, that's good." He whispers, eyes closed, "Is he looking at our window?"

I look down at Francis Bean and see him staring right at our window.

"I think so," I reply. "He's looking right at us!"

John's hand works up and down faster now. He'd grown considerably in only a matter of seconds, his erection straining in his fist, which in turn made me just as hard at the sight of him huffing and puffing. He was making these little noises too, almost like grunts, but not exactly.

I'd never seen another man erect before, except for myself and in passing porn magazines, so I'm fascinated and a little bit frustrated because I'd allowed myself to fall behind while John, like a wild hare in heat, was already a few minutes into finishing. 

"Look at this, Dante!" John stands up and turns so that his ass-cheeks fully press against the window. "You like that, Francis, you little fucker? How's that for genetic analysis?"

I'm in total awe of his boldness as I stare up at him from the floor, my own hand working up and down at the sight of John masturbating in front of a shocked Francis Bean. Then I absolutely lose it when I see Francis drop his apple at the sight of two white dots with a mole on one cheek appearing in the window when John moons him, my laughter filling the dorm room.

"Oh, Christ!" John shudders and gasps, and I abruptly stop laughing when the beautiful man reaches his climax and his hand slows, spurts of hot semen splattering on the tile floor before slowing to a dribble. "Ahh..." John sighs in relief, his eyes cracking open. "Is he still there?"

I peek over the edge of the windowsill and spot Francis retreating just as fast as he can go. Instead, there's another figure standing there, hands on her hips, as she stares up at us.

"John! Get away from the window!"

"What?" John demands, "Why? There's nobody out there but Francis, isn't there?" He turns around to see, his ass leaving two steamy prints on the glass when he pulls away, and promptly spots his girlfriend glaring daggers at us from the yard. "Oh, hell, Dante! She's coming around the corner! Put your fucking clothes back on, mate!"