“Ok you’re the resident gay guy here right?”
I peer up from an issue of GQ. “Uh. Unofficially I suppose since Campy Steve transferred. If you’re going to ask me if your dick is the wrong size, don’t bother. Your dick is fine as it is.” I return my attention to the article on handmade boots when he pipes up again.
“No no not that…it’s my ass.”
“What about your ass?” I tilt my head.
“I just wanna know if it’s flat. I was looking in the mirror and it has like, no definition. My sister says men should have a butt because it implies they’re masculine, and I’ve become self conscious about it.”
Well, I’ve spent enough time secretly eye-fucking him, I should be able to write him an essay on his ass. Instead I non-nonchalantly pop my gum and respond, “You need to get your pants tailored. They sag in the back and I can’t see your ass at all. Tailored clothes are the trick to lookin’ good.”

I was expecting a perky response and the subject to be dropped. Art Pearson was quiet for a moment so I try to find where I left off for the second time. Just when I locate the paragraph, I hear the rustle of fabric.

“Ok what about now? Just tell me if it’s flat."My jaw drops and my gum falls onto my lap. My roommate was standing by the window with his pants around his thighs like a little boy at a urinal. Ok, everything I suspected about his ass was wrong. How had navy wool hid such a soft bubble butt from me for four months? It was lovely, the curve, the tone, how it was perched on his solid thighs. The apricot flesh was warm and dotted with freckles.
It wasn’t the ass of a boot-camp hardened sailor and gym rat. It was the ass of a man that participated in boot-camp for a career in administration so he’d always have a reliable source of income to fund a ravenous appetite for romance novels and eating after-dinner chocolates snuggled under a plush blanket. The urge to squeeze it is overwhelming. The words will not come out of my mouth; I have to pull my knees up to hide a half hard erection.

"You’re not saying anything,” Pearson laments. “Is it that bad huh? You can’t even find it can you?”
I put my gum back in my mouth, “No it’s uh… ok now do I say this? If you were my boyfriend, you’d never be allowed pants in the house.”
Pearson glances over at his shoulder, “…Really?”
“Oh yeah your ass is flawless. Please put your pants up you’re giving me an erection.”

Blush spreads on his cheeks, the flattery all over his face. “My ass is turning you on?” he gasps.I shut my magazine and shove it over my lap. “Yes! Dammit, stop that.”
Art drops his hands and bends over to pull up his pants, in the process flashing just a peek of his balls at me. I suppress a groan. He doesn’t even notice and says with a casual air, “I suppose being given a compliment by a gay man is the highest compliment I could have received on my butt.”
I rub my jaw and jest. “I don’t know if we can continue being roommates now with you knowin’ my secret weakness for cute asses ‘n’ all.”
Art considers this. “Well now I’m curious about what you think of my package too…”

I am so close to throwing the magazine at his head. His innocence is making me crazy. How has he survived the machismo-heavy Navy mentality? “Art if you show me your cock I’m going to want to touch it,” I warn. “I’ve had a crush on you for like forever, and if you’re straight I don’t think it’s a good idea to bait me like that.”

Pearson just stares at me. I think I broke his brain. I know zilch about his sexuality or his type – he’s a bookworm, not a Chatty Kathy – so my default hunch is that he’s hetero. Assuming anything else in this barrack is a terrible idea. “Art…” I begin, but he interrupts me.

“Well…I was just thinking, in an abstract sort of way,” he says, considering each word. “If you’re a gay man, you know your way around the male body pretty well…”
Oh dear god, I’m in a real live porno.
“…so in theory wouldn’t you give better handjobs than a chick? Cause all the girls I’ve done them with have given me rug burns and blue balls.”
Cue the bow-chicka-bow-wow music. “Um.” My brain is refusing to participate in providing in an articulate answer. Little did I know, Art had been wondering such a thing since he found out about my preference for my own gender and was excited to have found a chance to bring it up in a discussion.
“I’m sorry that was weird, forgot I said anything,” Art murmurs, reacting to my underwhelming response. He motions he’s about to button up his pants.
“No no! I just…all the blood is no longer in my brain Pearson, Christ, I feel like I just fell down the rabbit hole. Lock the door and get over here. I’m going to give you a special foray into my talents as a gay man and give that neglected ass some long needed attention.” I instruct before pausing, “If this is some sort of bizarre wet dream I just hope it lasts.”

Art holds up his britches while scooting over to secure the door, “No it’s not a dream…but it’s exciting isn’t it? My first gay experience as a straight man…”
“Honey I’m pretty sure your Kinsey rating is an even number.”
He blinks at me. “My what now?”
I toss the magazine onto the nightstand and pull out the bottle of massage oil slash lube. “Oh Art,…I am going to be the best thing to ever happen to you. Now come here, I’m going to rock your world.”