The lecture hall smelled faintly of old wood and chalk dust, the kind of place where secrets felt safer because no one ever looked too closely at the back rows. Philip and I always claimed the last bench—far enough from the projector’s glow that our screens stayed private, close enough to the exit if we needed to bolt. Today the room was half-empty, professor droning on about structuralism or semiotics or whatever dead theory he was paid to resurrect this semester. We didn’t care.
Philip angled his phone so only I could see. The video was already queued: two men, one on his knees, the other standing behind him with a hand fisted in dark hair. The bottom’s mouth was open, eager, taking every inch like he’d been starving for it. Slow thrusts at first, then harder, the slap of skin loud even
