(April) fool for love

by BRK

Joe decides he’s been pining for his roommate Rafe long enough, so he uses his sneakily-obtained knowledge of Rafe’s fringe erotica tastes and the pretext of April Fool’s day to pretend he’s set his roomie up on a blind date with his ultimate dream guy.

2,689 words Added Apr 2023 4,412 views 4.1 stars (7 votes)

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Ah, April Fool’s Day. Not always my favorite day. I’m that guy, the guy who never sees it coming. I’d been snookered a bunch in the past. Heck, when I was 16 my dad spent the whole day convincing me he’d “bought me a car” only to proudly present me with a Hot Wheels Prius after dinner and point to the calendar while laughing his ass off. Hah, funny. Hi, Annoying, I’m “Son.”

This year, though, I was looking forward to it. See, I had a plan. I was going to make Rafe, my roommate crush, finally see me, and then we’d make the sweet, sweet love I’d been jerking off thinking about for a whole semester and a half. I even had the day off from my weekend motorbike delivery job for Mama Fagioli’s. I had the props, the patter, and the timing all mapped out. It was going to be awesome.

I laid the groundwork that morning over bowls of Raisin Bran. We both had early morning classes straight through the week even though he’s engineering and I’m… well, “academically polyamorous” sounds better than “undeclared.” Anyway, we’d gotten into the habit of grabbing breakfast together before heading out, even on Saturdays like today. Rafe gets a friendly face before diving into the stress pool, and I get more primo material for my spank bank thanks to Rafe’s aversion to any kind of shirt in the privacy of our college-sponsored two-bedroom railroad-style apartment suite.

It’s not like he’s ripped like some gym-obsessed fitness influencer or anything. It’s more like he’s just really nicely put together in a very natural way, with lightly tanned skin, square shoulders, long arms, dark hair buzzed close, and enough lean, well-proportioned muscle on his 6-foot-nothing frame to make you think he’d be decent in a scrap even if he’d never thrown a punch in his life. He also had exactly the kind of chest hair I like, short and straight like his head hair, not too much of it, and kind of concentrated on the lower reaches as if to draw attention to the contours there and the abrupt shift to the flat abs below—which were themselves divided lower down by a faint, distractingly dark line that trailed right into his ever-present distresso jeans.

Me, I actually went to the gym so I was a bit more buff than he was. But I’d gotten started lifting late and lacked Rafe’s easy-going confidence, so I always ended up self-consciously wearing baggy white nerd-meme tees at home. Yeah, that’s me, the doofus.

I already had an “in” thanks to his grumping earlier in the week about not having had time to find a date for the epic annual All Fool’s Bash over in the engineering dorm that night, so as we plunked our butts in our dining room chairs, his jeans-clad (of course) and mine still swaddled in my favorite cornflower pajama bottoms, I was able to get straight to the point. As I started pouring flakes-’n’-raisins into my favorite chartreuse ceramic cereal bowl I said, “You know, I think I fixed your problem.”

“Yeah?” Rafe said, taking the giant-size box from me. (We go through a lot of cereal.) “Which problem is that, Joe?”

I winked at him, reaching for the milk jug. “I got you a date for tonight!” I said.

He regarded me with amused skepticism as he filled his own big bowl with dried fruit and grain byproduct. “Did you now,” he drawled.

“Absolutely,” I said, feeling a pleasant tingle run through me as I actually launched the plan I’d been thinking out all week. “You’re going to love this guy. He’s everything you’re into.”

He snorted, still amused, and accepted the milk from me. “Uh huh,” he said.

He was right to be skeptical—I’d had a few peeks at his internet history while he was in the shower and whatnot, and a couple times when he’d left his laptop behind for a engineering club meeting and I’d leapt on it as soon as the door was closed before it locked up. Anyway, his porn choices were a bit extra, but kinda hot, and I was totally there for it. If I could show him I liked him for who he was, even if he was secretly into slightly wacky shit, I was sure that would make him realize the solution to his romantic lacuna was right under his nose this whole time.

“You’ll see,” I said, digging in while it was still crunchy. “He’s totally your ideal fantasy guy.”

Rafe was pouring his milk. “And how do you know that?”

I tapped my head. “Intuition,” I said. “I’m erotically empathic.”

Rafe laughed, finishing with the milk and setting the jug aside. “Uh huh,” he said, sounding strangely like he kind of believed me. “So how tall is this guy?”

“Six-nine,” I said confidently.

He paused in lifting a spoon to his mouth, eyeing me curiously. I grinned. He took the bite, swallowed, and asked, “Yeah? Lanky or muscle-bound?”

This was a trick question, but I had done my research. “Both,” I said. “He can fold himself into a pretzel and show off his guns doing it. Perfect proportions—turns you on to just look at him.”

Rafe nodded as if this were a totally banal conversation. “Abs?” he asked, taking another bite.

“Total twelve-pack, dude.”

He tossed me a look, eyes glinting. “Arms?”

“Four, of course!”

Rafe smiled and went back to his cereal, now apparently certain he was being razzed but willing to go along with it. “Top and bottom or front and back?” he quizzed.

I hesitated. I’d seen both versions in Rafe’s faved erotica, but my props had to decide the issue. “Uh, front and back,” I said.

Rafe shook his head. “See, it doesn’t actually work like that,” he said. “You need dedicated pecs to operate a set of arms, which pretty much mandates a top and bottom arrangement. Like on Barsoom,” he added, lifting his shoulders and spreading his arms a little to show where the extra arms belonged, one notch further down the torso. “Even Edgar Rice Burroughs figured that much out.”

“Trust me, you’ll see,” I said, feeling almost giddy from the effervescence of setting up the night’s payoff—not to mention having a convo with Rafe about what turned him on. “Your guy is real, and he’s got his arms front and back, like I said.”

“Does he,” Rafe said, watching me with slightly curved lips.

“Sure,” I said breezily. “Lots of four-armed guys do. And that’s not all he’s got.”

“Don’t tell me, he’s hung,” Rafe said, returning to his cereal and shoving in another spoonful. He sounded weird, like his skepticism was more about my being able to find such a man and line him up as Rafe’s date than over whether such extraordinary people existed.

I was going to mention the extra fingers, but, okay, I was ready to talk dick. “To his knees, dude. Totally soft. Which he isn’t going to be very often once he sees you.”

Rafe snorted his appreciation of the compliment, though he was obviously taking this whole thing as a joke. “That’s pretty rare,” he snarked.

“It is. He’s, like, ninety-eighth percentile of all human cocks.” I was never very good with math—that was Rafe’s department—but I remembered how proud mom and dad were when I got ninety-eighth percentile on my SAT verbals. I had a faint sense that a shift in average cock size and distribution of hungness would be involved if knee-length was the ninety-eighth percentile, though as to the extent of the divergence I couldn’t have told you even with a spreadsheet and a stack of crunchy YouTube statistics videos to explain it all to me.

Time to move on. “So, yeah. And,” I persisted, “his balls, he’s got these big, densely complex balls that—”

“So he cums a lot,” Rafe said dryly.

“He can cum, like, a whole quart,” I said. (I almost said “gallon,” but I decided not to be too implausible.) “Then he’s ready to go again after, like, five minutes, tops.”

“That sounds handy,” Rafe said blandly. He was definitely thinking I was just pranking him—which I was, but not the way he was thinking. He scooped up the last bite of his cereal, casting me a glance as he did so. “What’s this dreamboat’s name, pray tell?”

I was so tempted to say “Joe,” but I needed to keep up the pretense of this blind date for the night’s bash. I went with my middle name instead. “Michael,” I said. “He’ll be waiting here when you get back from your club meeting tonight.”

We took our bowls to the sink, me trying to hide the half-hardon I had going in my pj-bottoms by trying to angle away from him from the waist down. He turned to me with a smile and touched my cheek affectionately. “I appreciate the effort, Mr. ‘Erotically Empathic’,” he said fondly. “You’ve made my day.”

I smiled widely at him, my cheeks warming even as my half-boner swelled and started working on dispensing with the “half” part of things. “Just be here at nine,” I said, looking right into his eyes. Fuck, I wanted to kiss him, but he needed to see that “Michael” was really me first. He huffed a laugh, like he appreciated that I was committed to the gag. Then he turned away, found his tee shirt draped over the back of his chair, and pulled it on. A moment later he was gone, leaving me boned and buzzing with a level of anticipation I’d never quite felt before.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

I was just putting the finishing touches on my outfit when I heard Rafe coming come a few minutes early. “Joe?” he called out. “Hey, roomie where’s my ‘date’?”

“Be right there!” I finished strapping on the 10-inch mini-stilts, pulled down the pants legs on my custom-ordered extra=loose, extra-tall jeans, and stepped carefully out of my bedroom (remembering to stoop under the doorjamb) and out into the living space where Rafe was waiting.

“April fools!” I said. “It’s really me. Still want to go on the date?”

My roomie took one look at me and started laughing, clapping his hands in praised as he scoped me up and down.

I had to show off my get-up, so I spread my arms wide, letting the fake but realistic-looking extra arms strapped to my shoulders behind them sag inertly from the sleeves of my snug black tee they were sharing with the real thing. I gestured to the carefully-constructed bulge made from socks and an ace bandage snaking down my right pants leg toward my knee (or rather, past my real knee and down to where my knee would be if I really had legs this long), making “huh? huh?” noises, then lifted my tee to show the extra lines I’d meticulously painted with make-up across the middles of my abs to turn my six-pack into the promised twelve pack.

Rafe nodded, still chuckling. “So you’re my fantasy guy after all,” he said, beaming at me. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” the giddiness I’d felt that morning during the set-up rushing through me even more powerfully than before. “I am your fantasy guy.”

I took a step toward him, thinking I needed to be careful walking on the stilts as I wasn’t used to them yet. Which didn’t make sense, because… I wasn’t wearing stilts. I looked down briefly at myself, taking in the usual extra-long legs and equally extra-long torso, then smiled down at Rafe. “So what do you think?” I asked. “Willing to take a chance on a guy like me?”

Rafe was looking uncharacteristically abashed. “I gotta be honest, Joe, I thought I never had a chance with you,” he said. “I’ve liked you this whole time, you’re so sweet and smart, and so goddamned sexy on top of it, but—”

“But we’re both idiots, because I’ve liked you this whole time, too,” I said. I held his chin with my front right hand, trying not to let the lusty look he was giving me get to a certain knee-length monster as I stroked his sweet lips with my thumb. I had the beast loosely strapped to my leg to keep it mostly out of trouble, but if I let myself get too worked up there was no way it was going to stay shoved down a pants leg.

Rafe, meanwhile, was now eyeing my long, muscular arms with a kind of fascinated reverence, from the largish hands all the way up to the delt-hugging sleeves of the upscale black four-armed tee I’d bought for the occasion. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I still don’t think arms like this should be physically possible. It’s like bumblebees, there just isn’t—”

I rolled my eyes. “Rafe, dude, I’ve showed you the physiology textbooks. The secondary pectorals are situated directly behind—”

Rafe lifted his hands, grinning. “All right, all right,” he said. He met my gaze and drew in a breath. “So, we’re doing this? For real?”

I straightened and offered him a choice of right elbows to take, as if I were escorting him into the palace ballroom. “Your evening of splendor awaits, good sir,” I said. “And, I hope, a lot more evenings after this one.”

Rafe’s eyes told me he hoped so, too. “Then, let us away!” he said, grasping my rear elbow in his firm grip. “To the All Fool’s Bash!”

As things turned out, Rafe and I had a great time at the party. Evidently engineers know a thing or two about having a good time, and there was quality music, top-notch beer, and surprisingly good company. I kind of stood out, of course, but I was used to that. There were a couple of other four-armed dudes there, one stacked and one not, like me, and Rafe engaged them both in the relative merits of each configuration while I stood by grinning. I wasn’t the only hunky six-six-and-above dude, either. I’d noticed a lot of extra-tall guys (my height and above) tended to go into STEM, for some reason, so we were well represented at the bash—lots of built, broad-shouldered dudes ducking under doorways. To be honest, I was feeling a pull toward pre-med myself; four-armed surgery was a specialty all its own, and I had to admit I wanted to explore that path further, though I was happy to keep up my errant polyglot course-load for now.

Eventually we made it back home, put on some sultry music, and made love slowly on the extra-long queen bed in my bedroom, a bed that I was now confident Rafe and I would be spending a lot more time in together from now on. I was as obsessed about him as he was about me: he was just tall enough, just muscular enough, at twelve solid inches erect (a bit above average) he was just hung enough, and his smile and his wry banter made me as crazy-hard and full of spunk as his natural physical beauty and the easy, fluid way he moved and lived. He was my fantasy just as I was his, and I was glad I’d had the courage to spring my little April Fool’s prank and open his eyes to the sexy possibilities that had been there waiting for us the whole time.

2,689 words Added Apr 2023 4,412 views 4.1 stars (7 votes)

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