Page 9 of Proof By Contradiction
I stop breathing.
It’shim. Barefoot. In a faded navy t-shirt.
Then the beach. Mediterranean light. Hugo bare-chested, and behind him, a man’s torso cropped at the neck—the body: swimmer’s build, dark hair on the chest, sun-redded skin. I know that body.
I shouldn’t.
The laptop closes. Palm flat on the lid, pressing it shut. The room goes dark again. Breathe. The stain overhead, Italy-shaped, the one I’d mapped last week when I couldn’t sleep.Count to ten. Think about proofs. Think about Ronan booting the kitchen window at age thirteen. Think about anything.
My hand opens the laptop. I didn’t tell it to.
I’m hard. All because of that beach photo, which my dick insta-liked, way before my brain finished processing the image.
I prop the laptop against the pillow and take myself in hand. The beach photo fills the screen. The faceless torso, the V. The shadow beneath.
I wonder how that hairy chest would taste.
I think about those hands. On the whiteboard, then on me. Around my wrist, pinning it to the mattress. He pressed me into the bed, thirteen years older, broader, heavy enough to keep me there.
I think about his voice losing the lecture-theatre steadiness. His Lancashire vowels are cracking. My name breaking on those careful lips, Carrick, probably, not Ewan. Whether his control would snap and he’d stop holding back.
My hand speeds up. The angle’s right. I’ve done this enough times that the mechanics are automatic, but the image is burning.
I think about being under him. The stretch. His cock fills me, and the angle hits right, and those glasses are knocked sideways.
I come.
Hard, sharp, starting at the base of my spine and detonating upward. My whole body locks, then releases, and I’m left gasping at the ceiling with streaks on my stomach and the laptop still glowing next to me.
I’ve wanked over blokes before. Plenty. Random lads from house parties, the hot bloke at the bus stop, that barista in Lewisham who always gave me extra foam. Background noise.
I reach for a tissue, clean up, routine.
But nothing holds.
The image is sharpening instead of fading: the torso, the swim shorts on those hips.
Friday, ten past nine. The theatre hasn’t changed—same carpet, same deodorant disaster four rows down.
Femi’s already sat. Pen lined up. Notebook open to a fresh page withW2: Lec 4in biro across the top and a date, because Femi dates his notes like they’ll be inspected. I drop into the seat next to him with my hood still up and fists in my pockets.
The front row’s already stacked with the gunners. Girl with the highlighter array. The bloke who printed the lecture slides out in colour and stapled them. I clock them, and then I clock the door at the front, which hasn’t opened yet, and I feel the thing in my stomach tighten by a notch.
I’ve been keyed up since two in the morning on Thursday.
Since the departmental page on the laptop:Dr L. Haldrey, Office Hours: Tuesdays, 14:00–16:00. Open to all students, in a blue hyperlinked serif that shouldn’t do anything to anybody, I’ve replayed the line more than I’ve replayed any actual lecture content—theL.Full stop. The staff profile gave me the rest. I read the first name once and closed the tab like it was something I wasn’t allowed to have yet. In my head, he’s Haldrey. Mr Haldrey, because the title fits better. Because the first name is a door I haven’t earned.
Thirty-one hours of this.
Pathetic.
The door opens at nine twelve, and he comes in like yesterday’s going to be today and tomorrow, all the days the same weight, and he sets his bag down on the lectern. No wave, no warm-up patter. Just glasses on, marker uncapped, a nod atthe front row asI see you, relax. Then he turns his back on the theatre and writes the title across the top of the board in small, tight letters.
The Squeeze Theorem.
Femi snorts. ‘Sounds like a nightclub.’
Answering requires looking away. The shirt stretches when he lifts his arm to write. One fold on the sleeves today instead of two.
