Top Secret

LUKE

I’m questioning all my life choices tonight. And all because of a vending machine.

Here I stand, starving in the student center at eight o’clock on a Thursday. I don’t work another shift at the club until tomorrow night, so cash is tight. So I put my last two singles in the snack machine and punch the button for the peanut butter pretzels. The metal coil turns, and the bag begins to move.

My stomach gurgles in anticipation. Skipping dinner to geek out in the statistics lab wasn’t my smartest move, I suppose. But I’m trying to save both money and time—two things in short supply in my life.

I’m not a lucky guy, though. So before my meager dinner has a chance to fall into my hands, the coil stops turning. And my pretzels are caught there, drooping from the rack, hanging by a corner of the plastic bag. Stuck.

“Shit,” I mumble. I give the vending machine one swift thunk with my fist. And nothing happens. Figures. “Fucking shitty luck!”

“It is unlucky…” a faint voice agrees with me. “…but not statistically unlikely.”

I turn around to see a skinny girl in giant glasses waiting for her turn with the goddamn machine. “Any chance you were going to buy peanut butter pretzels, too?”

She shakes her head. “Peanuts put me into anaphylactic shock.”

“Bummer. That’s also bad luck, but not statistically unlikely.”

She grins. “Want to borrow a couple dollars?“

“No thanks,” I say quickly. I make it a point to never borrow anything from the rich kids I go to school with. That way, when I graduate summa cum laude and then snag the best possible job, nobody will be able to say that I won it because of their help.

I wish her luck and leave the library. My only choice is to go home to Alpha Delt and make myself yet another cheese sandwich. So I hike my backpack strap a little higher on my shoulder and head for the door.

Crossing the leafy campus always makes me feel like a guy on a movie set. The red bricks. The vintage gas lamps casting yellow circles of light on the pathways. The young Rockefellers and Carnegies, and whoever-the-fuck-else-is-worth-a-mint, crossing past me in their preppy dock shoes.

I love it and hate it at the same time. I’ve spent my whole life on the outskirts of this town. Nobody from the college ever leaves the campus unless they’re headed for the airport. For them, it’s like the town doesn’t exist off the flagstone pathways.

It exists. And it ain’t pretty. Darby is an old mill town that fell on hard times about a century after the college was founded. It used to be quaint and wholesome. Now it’s a total shithole.

When I turned eighteen, though, I found a golden ticket in my chocolate bar. Seriously, it was almost that magical. The high school counselor told me to fill out a Darby College application. “The fee is waived by the school for locals. Just roll the dice, kid. You never know. With your test scores, we already know you’ll get into State. This application is just for fun.”

I’d submitted it and then forgotten about it. But that April, I got a fat envelope in the mail.

“Welcome to Darby College, founded 1804. Here is your scholarship award.”

A free ride for the townie. I didn’t even believe it when I read the letter. Apparently the state of Connecticut had put pressure on the college to improve their town/gown relationship. And scholarships for townies were the upshot.

Tuition is free. If I can just keep my life from crumbling for three more semesters, I’ll have a degree from one of the most celebrated colleges in America.

Unfortunately, the scholarship doesn’t cover room and board. It’s assumed that locals wouldn’t need a spot in the dorms. And up until last year, I was fine staying at my mom’s place.

But living at home isn’t an option for me anymore. So my sophomore and junior years at Darby have been all about fending off homelessness and starvation until I can graduate. Dorms and meal plans are expensive, so I rushed Alpha Delt and took the cheapest room. Problem solved.

Sort of.

Last year I worked two shitty jobs until I found a better gig at a club. The new job pays me more for twelve hours of work than I used to make in twice that much time. But the late hours are killing me.

Come senior year, my school workload will be even more brutal. So I’ve been brainstorming ways I could cut back on my work hours. Two weeks ago, during a drunken movie marathon with a couple frat brothers, one of them revealed something I hadn’t known.

Fun fact: the president of the fraternity doesn’t have to pay rent. He gets a free room.

A. Free. Room.

So guess who’s running for president?

The Alpha Delta house is a big old Tudor mansion on the outskirts of campus. I strut into the front door like I own the place. Because I do—at least as much as anyone else. It doesn’t matter that I’m not third generation Alpha Delt like some of the pretty boys who live here. My dues checks don’t bounce, and that’s really all that matters.

“Hey, boys,” I greet four of my brothers. It’s eight p.m. and since none of these guys have jobs, they’re playing poker.

“Bailey,” grunts Jako, my closest friend in the house. “How’m I doing?”

I move to stand behind him and consider his hand. He has a pair of queens, and there’re two tens and an eight on the table thanks to the flop. Two-pair isn’t a bad hand, but it wouldn’t do to go crazy. Judd just needs one ten in his hand to have three-of-a-kind. As I watch, Judd raises and Jako calls.

I study Judd’s face for a second and determine that he’s not holding three tens. He’s bluffing. But of course I’m not dumb enough to say anything. Judd hates me. So I just wait and watch. After the turn—the queen of hearts—Jako has a full house. He bets again, and everyone else folds.

“You called that mostly right,” I say to Jako as he rakes in his winnings. “Probably coulda squeezed Judd for more cash if you’d bet that last round.”

“No way,” Judd argues, because that dude can’t stand me. I unknowingly hooked up with his ex last year at a toga party, which is a serious violation of the bro code.

In my defense, it really wasn’t malicious. Therese was cute, I was a bit buzzed, and not once did she mention Judd’s name to me. Needless to say, that was the last Alpha Delt party I ever attended. Now I only go to the mandatory events.

According to Jako, the whole disaster could’ve been avoided if only I was more “engaging.” Uh-huh, apparently I don’t engage.

This is true, but it’s not all my fault. I wish my life at Alpha Delt were more like a Hollywood comedy, where my besties and I crack jokes together into the wee hours and enjoy the camaraderie of our crazy college years. And maybe the other guys are living that dream. But I’m working like a dog and trying to keep all the proverbial balls in the air. The guys here have no idea what it’s like to be me.

And I don’t tell them, because that shit is both dark and boring.

So I haven’t gone out of my way to get to know each and every brother, and I guess that’s a huge crime. Jako says I would’ve known about Therese if I’d spent even thirty seconds conversing with Judd.

But why would I converse with Judd? He’s been obnoxious to me since the first minute we met. In life, not everyone is going to become BFFs. Some personalities pull you in, others repel you. So I’m friends with the brothers I get along with, and I ignore the rest.

Or I used to, anyway.

Sadly, this perfectly reasonable strategy needs to change if I’m going to be elected president of the frat. I can’t afford to have enemies. Which is why I swallow my pride and address Judd. “You played that really smart,” I praise him. “Solid bluffing skills. Didn’t reveal a tell at all.”

There’s an awkward silence while he eyes me, his brow furrowing suspiciously. “Thanks?”

I shrug and head for the stairs.

“Play a hand?” Jako calls after me.

“Can’t. Got a paper to write.” It’s not a lie. Although a single compliment for Judd is all I’m able to muster. Besides, I’m starving.

I climb a flight of stairs, and then I climb another one. The third-floor suite consists of a big bathroom and two oddly shaped bedrooms—one giant, one tiny.

Mine is the closet-sized room, obviously. It’s the cheapest room in the house, and the one that nobody ever picks. “It’s, like, the servant’s quarters,” one guy had said during last year’s rooming draw.

I’d pretended to do them all a favor by claiming the miniscule room, but I can barely afford even this. When I reach the top of the stairs, I pause on the landing, keys in hand. I don’t hear any voices. Or any sex noises.

Sweet, sweet silence! Keaton must be at his girlfriend’s place.

Yes, my neighbor’s name is Keaton. It’s worse than that. He’s Keaton Hayworth III. And even worse than that?

He’s my opponent in the race for frat president.

Most of the other guys think he’s a shoo-in to win. And fine, he does tick off all the presidential boxes—on paper. He’s well liked by almost everyone. His father runs a multinational pharmaceutical company, so he fits the wealth criteria. He’s a football player, so he has the athlete thing going for him.

But like I said, it’s all on paper. Off the page, he’s a bit—fine, a lot—self-absorbed. The frat president has to put the needs of everyone else before his own. I don’t think Keaton is capable of doing that, and the others are going to notice as the campaign unfolds.

“Dumb” and “selfish” will definitely be the descriptors I use if I decide to run a smear campaign against Mr. Jockface.

“Seriously hot” also works, although it kills me to admit that. Still, even though the guy’s good-looking, he’s not my type at all. I don’t go for preppy jocks. When I’m in the mood for a guy, I like ‘em a little rougher around the edges. But, hey, if you like handsome rich dudes, Keaton is your man.

I lock our door behind me. My stomach is growling like a beast.

You’d think that the kitchen would be a good place to keep my sandwich ingredients. But you’d be wrong. The guys I live with help themselves to whatever is in the refrigerator, because they have no shame. And they can’t conceive of a world where those last four cheese slices are all I’ve got to eat.

I learned that lesson the hard way. Now I keep my food in my room. I have an ancient dorm fridge under my desk. The compressor is loud, but it keeps my cheese and mayo cool. And there’s a loaf of bread on the desk.

Making my sandwich takes only a minute. I put it on a paper plate and sit back on the bed, my phone in one hand to entertain me while I eat.

I still have more studying to do. But I can burn a few minutes on a game. Or—and this can be even more fun—scrolling through the Kink app.

It’s been a while since I had a hookup. There’s been too much schoolwork and too many weekend hours at the club. Lately, I fall into bed in the wee hours of the morning and try to sleep a few hours until Mr. Jockface starts playing loud classic rock while he does sit-ups and pushups in his room. At home I’ll bet he has an entire wing to himself. Keeping quiet for others has probably never occurred to him.

The app’s home screen loads, offering me a tantalizing question.

What are you hungry for today?

As if sex is a handy buffet table I could sidle up to whenever I feel the urge.

Actually, it’s a viewpoint that fits my sexual appetites pretty well. Some people use Kink to find partners who will fulfill a precise sexual fantasy. But I’m more of a variety seeker. Sometimes I’m in the mood to party with curves and the lighter touch of feminine hands. But guys are a whole lot of fun in bed, too.

Sometimes I don’t have to choose at all. Kink also has a section for couples looking to add someone to their bed. That’s what I tap on now. Threesomes waiting to happen.

It’s not waiting for me tonight, of course. I have to finish homework for two classes before a weekend of late-night club shifts. But a guy can dream. Besides, it takes time to cultivate a threesome. You have to be sure that everyone is on the same page.

I flip past a couple of images that are familiar. One pic shows a hot couple that I’ve already partied with. They were fun, but the guy is too much of a Dom for my taste. He wanted me to kneel, and I let him know that wasn’t an option. Then there’s a gay couple. I’m not in the mood for two dudes, so I flip past it.

And, whoa! Fresh meat. There’s a shot of a couple I’ve never seen before. They’re on a beach somewhere. Her bikini leaves nothing to the imagination. Perfect tits and a stomach so flat that she might as well be on the cover of a magazine.

The guy has a well-muscled arm curled around her little waist. He’s kind of beefy, but his proportions are nice. I’d like to slide my hands down those cut abs and into those swim trunks. They have little red lobsters on them, which makes me roll my eyes.

But all in all, they are a hot couple. Definitely appealing. The photo is cropped at their shoulders, so I can’t see their faces. But that’s just common sense. My photo is the same.

I swipe right.

The screen shimmies. You’re a match, hot stuff, the app tells me.

“Aw, shucks,” I say aloud, because I like my apps to flatter me. Then I get down to the serious business of inspecting the profile.

Male, 20s, in a relationship with female, 20s. She wants a m/f/m threesome for her birthday. I’m totally open to that. Looking for a one night thing in a few weeks.

That’s all he gives me. Oh, and his handle is LobsterShorts, which makes me laugh. At least he can acknowledge the ridiculousness of that preppy bathing suit. Another vote in his favor.

My handle is SinnerThree. Because I acknowledge the truth, too.

I finish my sandwich and set the plate aside. The guy’s profile has a glowing dot in the corner, which means he’s active on the app. I’d lay all my money (which, fine, is none) on him having made this profile only hours ago. He seems kind of green. But that’s not a turnoff. I’d bet the rest of my nonexistent fortune on the fact that he’s never gotten off in front of another guy.

Blowing minds is at least half the fun, right?

As a rule, I keep the app’s geolocation setting switched off. It’s nobody’s business where I am. But when I’m trying to decide whether to engage, I’ll turn it on for a moment just to see if I can guess whether I’m looking at another Darby College student.

With those shorts? Probably. But I change the setting anyway.

Location: .9 miles away.

I turn it off again. Hmm. Less than a mile is pretty close. He could be a student, or an intern at the hospital. Or—and this is the worst-case scenario—a grad student who will show up to teach the next business course I take. Now that would be awkward.

My finger hovers over the message icon. There’s no harm in chatting him up, right? I tap it, then send the standard greeting. Yo.

He doesn’t keep me waiting. Yo.

Nice profile pic, I say. Because flattery works.

Thanks. Um… A laughing emoji pops up on the screen. I never chatted up a dude before. But here goes: Likewise. I can see you’re busy with the ab curls.

You have no idea, I fire back. My tight abs are my bread and butter. So you want a guy for a threesome but it weirds you out to chat me up on an app? How’s that gonna play out for you on the gf’s birthday? You could—gasp—see my actual dick.

Might as well get the tricky questions over with immediately.

LobsterShorts: Simmer down. Just give me a minute to get used to the idea. You’re the first one to DM.

SinnerThree: Aw, I popped your cherry? I’m so flattered. Was I gentle?

LobsterShorts: It was life-changing. I feel like a whole new person.

He adds an eye-roll emoji, and I snort with laughter. A sense of humor is a good sign. Want to show me your pretty faces? If we end up making plans together, I’m gonna see ‘em anyway.

Can’t, he replies immediately. Not on an app. The gf and I haven’t talked yet about when to reveal any personal information.

SinnerThree: Aren’t you worried that I’m ugly?

LobsterShorts: Are you?

SinnerThree: Fuck no. I was actually hired for my job because I please the ladies.

LobsterShorts: Well, my dentist used to put my face on the front of his brochure, until I asked him to stop. So that’s settled.

I laugh again. Can I give you a little piece of advice? If your girl is worried about privacy, take the birthday thing out of your profile. Your neighborhood computer geek could cross reference that against social media pretty easily and find out who you are.

Fuuuuuck is his response. BRB.

Sure enough, his profile description has changed when I refresh the screen a minute later.

Thanks, he says a moment later. You use the app a lot?

SinnerThree: Define a lot. I log in constantly but don’t have time for many meet-ups.

LobsterShorts: Student?

Part-time, I lie. Because you have to keep your distance. You?

LobsterShorts: Student. Full time.

Bummer. I’d rather hook up with people who aren’t part of the Darby College community. These things are tricky.

Have you done threesomes with a couple before? is his next question.

Yeah, I reply, feeling like I’m on a job interview. They’re not as easy to set up as a plain old hookup. But when it works out, it’s some of the most fun you can have.

LobsterShorts: That sounds promising.

SinnerThree: You’re a newb, right? Trust me that it’s fun watching a couple push their own boundaries. It’s like taking part in a porn shoot. Except it’s real.

I get why that’s hot, he replies.

And—I don’t add this, but it’s the best part—when it’s done, it’s over. Unlike actual dating, there’s no expectations. We go our separate ways.

SinnerThree: Define the kind of hot you’re looking for. What heat level are we talking here?

He takes a few seconds to respond. I’m not sure what you’re asking. Total newb, remember?

I smile, because I appreciate his honesty. A lot. Okay, you said this is your girl’s idea. And you said you’re open to it. But, open to what? I decide to be blunt. Watching me fuck her? Does she want to watch us? Do you want my hands on you or just on her? Want to fuck me? Want to be fucked? Options are endless…

LobsterShorts: Whoa. OK. That’s a lot to think about.

SinnerThree: No kidding. That’s why this shit gets sorted out ahead of time. You can’t just play it by ear.

LobsterShorts: You have to admit, tho, that there’s benefits to making everything a game-time decision. How the fuck do I know what I want until I try it?

I let out a snort of laughter. Do you ask waiters to bring you a taste of everything before you choose your food off the menu?

LobsterShorts: What, like that’s weird? Do you expect me to choose between the tavern burger and the fish and chips with no prior knowledge???

This guy. I hope I’m not being punked by some rando with no plans to go through with it, because I’m starting to like him.

SinnerThree: Okay, look. What kind of porn do you like?

LobsterShorts: The naked kind.

I tap out an eyeroll emoji. Naked women?

LobsterShorts: Yes.

SinnerThree: Naked men?

LobsterShorts: Sure, I guess? I watch a lot of gangbang porn, orgies, etc. Naked women with naked men, in all sorts of combinations. I dunno. My taste in porn is far-reaching. I’m more of a gourmand than a gourmet.

Like I even know what that means. I actually tap into the dictionary on my phone and type in gourmand. It bugs the shit out of me not to know what words mean. It’s like my poverty is showing.

Gourmand: one who is heartily interested in good food and drink.

I knew I liked this guy. You sound fun, I admit. If two dicks in a porno doesn’t turn you off, that bodes well for you. But there’s a difference between seeing it and doing it.

LobsterShorts: True.

SinnerThree: Can I ask you something? Have you ever been with a guy before?

LobsterShorts: No. Why?

SinnerThree: Just wondering if you’d been tempted before.

LobsterShorts: I’ve been with my girl a long time, so it isn’t something I think about.

Alone in my room, I shake my head. This is why I don’t do relationships. When I have an itch, it needs to be scratched.

LobsterShorts: When my gf said “let’s have a threesome with a dude”, I almost swallowed my tongue. But I’m kind of a daredevil. I like skydiving. I once ate an entire packet of crickets on a dare.

SinnerThree: Gross. I can promise that getting naked with me will be more fun than that.

LobsterShorts: Good to know. Although the crickets were seasoned with chili and lime, and had a nice crunch.

I let out a bark of laughter. OMFG.

LobsterShorts: 🙂 Just letting you know that I don’t scare easily.

SinnerThree: Good. But you still have to specify what you want to get out of this encounter. And how far you’re willing to take it. Do some thinking, okay? Like I said—threesomes are fun, but only when the ground rules are clear. No disappointments, no regrets.

LobsterShorts: Roger.

How’d you guess my name? I joke.

Now I get an eyeroll emoji.

SinnerThree: I gotta sign off now. There’s a paper to write so I can work all weekend.

LobsterShorts: What do you do?

Right. Like I’d ever tell him.

SinnerThree: All I’ll say is, you’d laugh your ass off if you knew. And wait—I have a homework assignment for you.

LobsterShorts: Like I need more homework.

I wonder where he is right now. Library? Study session? It’s kind of hot to think that he might be in public, discussing something so dirty.

SinnerThree: No, this is the fun kind of homework. I want you to imagine that I’m going to give you a blowjob. You let me unzip you. Then I reach inside your…briefs?

There’s a short delay.

Boxers, he finally replies.

SinnerThree: Should I keep going?

Another delay.

LobsterShorts: Keep going.

SinnerThree: I reach inside your boxers, and you’re already hard for me.

I stop typing and set my phone down on the bed. I wait.

And????? He types a minute later. I’m waiting here with my dick out. Well, metaphorically, he hastily adds.

I laugh so loudly it echoes against the walls of my tiny room. That’s all I’m saying. Your homework is to fill in the rest of this scenario. Report back tomorrow.

LobsterShorts: What? You cliffhangered me?

SinnerThree: Night, Lobsterman.

I close the app. Leaving people hanging is kind of my specialty, anyway.

And I really do have to write that paper.