I'm moving into my first year of college and I've found a cheap house share with a couple other guys in my year. The only downsides are that at least one of them has s different girl over every night and they're all always farting and burping and that they leave the house so filthy all the time. I'm honestly too embarrassed to bring my boyfriend over.
You drag the last duffel bag up the splintered porch steps, heart hammering with that mix of nerves and excitement that comes with the first year of college. You’ve done all the right things — honors classes, a sweet boyfriend back home, clean clothes folded in neat stacks — and you’d been so proud of yourself for finding such a cheap house-share near campus. The pictures online hadn’t been great, but they weren’t awful, either.
But stepping inside? It’s like a punch in the nose.
The place reeks of sweat, stale beer, cheap cologne, and something sourer — like fast food grease that never got cleaned up. There are pizza boxes stacked like towers in the living room, beer cans rolling around underfoot, a bong on the coffee table surrounded by ash and sticky rings. Your sneakers make that faint tacky sound against the linoleum as you cross into the kitchen, where the sink is already a graveyard of red solo cups, crusted bowls, and pans with congealed bacon fat.
You freeze, clutching your bag to your chest. God, I can’t bring Alex here. He’d take one look and bolt.
“Yo, new guy!” a voice bellows from upstairs, followed by the sound of bare feet thudding down the steps.
The first one you meet is Griff — broad-shouldered, shirtless, hair sticking up like he just rolled out of bed, even though it’s nearly 3 p.m. He grins wide and slaps you on the back so hard you stumble.
“Fuck yeah, our little gay boy roommate finally showed.” He says it casually, like he already knows everything about you. “Don’t stress, man, we’re chill. Place is your place now. Just don’t bitch about the smell, right?”
You laugh weakly, because what else are you supposed to do?
Two more file in from the kitchen — Tank, who’s tall and built like he eats raw steak for breakfast, and Milo, skinnier, with that wiry twitchy energy. They look you over like they’re appraising meat, but the smiles are genuine enough. Tank’s already cracking open a can of Natty Ice and handing it to you.
Griff leans in close, smirking, voice dropping just low enough to feel intimate: “Yeah, our boy here’s a quick learner. Bet he’ll be fartin’ louder than Tank in a week.”
The second he says it, Tank rips one out, a long, wet, unapologetic fart that echoes against the couch cushions. Milo howls with laughter. You flush red, about to grimace or excuse yourself — but instead, your stomach twists, and you let out a nervous little chuckle. It bubbles up out of you against your will, and suddenly you don’t feel as disgusted as you should.
“See?” Griff grins, baring his teeth like he knows something. “Already loosening up.”
Later, they show you your room. Small, cramped, but at least the walls aren’t sticky. Griff tosses himself onto your bed like he owns it, his musky pit-sweat stink sinking into your clean sheets.
“Yeah, this’ll work,” he says, scratching his nuts through his shorts. Then, with a lazy grin: “Kid’s gonna bulk up fast living here. Ain’t gonna stay all skinny long. Place’ll pack some meat on him.”
You feel a weird buzz crawl over your skin, a hot flush rising in your chest. You glance down at your arms. No difference, really — but your shirt does feel a little tighter in the shoulders. Just stress. Just nerves.
The guys leave you alone for a bit, the sound of them yelling at FIFA echoing down the hall. You unpack carefully, folding your boyfriend’s picture into your desk drawer, out of sight. You tell yourself you’ll get used to the mess, to the noise, to the stink.
But Griff’s words keep rattling in your skull. Not gonna stay skinny long. You swear you can still feel his weight in the mattress, his stink in your sheets. And part of you is already dreading what else he might say.
By the end of the first week, you’ve already learned the rhythms of the house — if you can call them that. Every morning, the kitchen reeks of stale beer and something burned. Plates crusted with eggs and grease sit in the sink until mold forms, and no one seems to notice but you. At night, there’s always at least one girl laughing too loud in someone’s bedroom, the walls paper-thin, the squeak of bedsprings like a metronome.
You text Alex an apology every time he asks when he can visit. You make excuses. Not settled in yet. Still unpacking. Gotta study. The truth is you’re too embarrassed to have him see how you live now. You barely want to see it yourself.
The bros don’t seem to care. Griff in particular thrives in the chaos, barefoot on sticky floors, always smirking like the house itself is his playground.
One night, you’re all crammed into the living room. Someone’s brought wings, and the smell of buffalo sauce mixes with sweat and beer until you feel queasy. Tank’s already shirtless, orange sauce smeared down his chest hair, Milo burping like a machine gun into his half-empty can. You’re perched at the edge of the couch, trying not to gag, when Griff turns his grin on you.
“Look at him, sittin’ all stiff,” he says. “Kid needs to loosen up. Bet he rips a mean fart once he stops actin’ polite.”
The words hang in the air. Everyone laughs, but you feel your guts clench. And before you can stop it — before you even believe it — something bubbles up inside you, and you let out a short, sharp fart that makes Tank choke on his beer.
The room erupts. Milo falls off the couch wheezing. Griff just smirks wider.
“See? Told you,” he says, like he made it happen.
Your face is burning, but the weirdest part? A sick little rush tingles in your stomach, like you’re proud of it. You try to shake it off, grab a napkin to wipe your hands, but Griff isn’t done.
“Yeah, he’ll bulk up. Get that frat-gut from beer ‘n wings in no time. No more of that pretty-boy stomach. Nah, kid’s gonna be solid.”
You freeze. The words feel like they press against your skin. And when you glance down at your t-shirt — swear to god — your stomach looks less flat than it did yesterday. Not fat, exactly, but there’s a sturdier swell under the cotton. Like your abs are hiding under a layer of something heavier. You touch it, and your fingers sink into the soft give of bloat that wasn’t there before.
“Bro, you’re lookin’ good already,” Tank laughs, smacking your side hard enough to make your teeth clack.
You laugh along, but your ears are hot. The more you think about it, the more your shirt does feel tight in the sleeves. You can’t stop flexing your arm against the fabric, trying to tell if it’s real.
The next morning, the stink of the house seems worse. You find yourself scratching your balls absentmindedly in the kitchen while waiting for the toaster, not even noticing Milo watching until he snorts. Normally, you’d die of embarrassment — but instead, you just mutter, “Fuck off,” around a mouthful of bread.
Griff strolls in, eyes half-lidded, yawning loud. “Yeah, kid’s settlin’ in nice. House is rubbin’ off on him. He’s one of us already.”
The words slide over you like sweat. And the thought that should horrify you — one of us — instead makes your chest thrum with a heavy, stupid kind of pride.
When you catch yourself sniffing your pits before class later, grinning at how ripe you smell after skipping your shower, that pride hardens into something you can’t explain.
It happens fast.
A week of little slips, weird changes, half-thought excuses — then suddenly you’re in the living room on a Friday night, beer in one hand, wing sauce on your fingers, surrounded by Griff and the boys. Music thumps from someone’s busted speaker. The floor’s sticky, the air hot with musk and beer farts.
Alex hasn’t texted in days. You don’t even care anymore.
“Look at him,” Griff laughs, voice sharp and heavy like it’s aimed straight at your bones. “Kid’s already smellin’ like a fuckin’ locker room. Bet he’ll be the stinkiest of all of us soon.”
The second the words leave his mouth, a wave of funk blooms under your shirt. Sweat prickles across your back. Your pits throb with sour heat. Tank and Milo groan, waving their hands like you just dropped a bomb.
“Fuckin’ hell, bro!” Milo cackles. “He stinks worse than me now!”
You bark a laugh, chest puffing with pride. It feels good. The shame is gone. The stink is yours now.
Griff leans in close, grinning, his voice curling in your ear: “Yeah, he ain’t no little gay boy anymore. Dude’s straight as fuck. Pussy’s all he wants now. Pussy, beer, and gym. That’s all he is.”
Something inside you snaps. The picture of Alex in your desk drawer burns out of your memory like a match. Your cock stiffens just at the thought of pussy, wet and hot, wrapped around you. You grab your junk through your gym shorts without even thinking, groaning loud enough to make the couch shake.
“Fuck yeah, bro!” Tank yells. “Horny as fuck, just like us.”
Griff’s tongue doesn’t stop. Every word reshapes you: “Look at those arms, veined up, heavy as fuck. Bro’s jacked now. Bro’s cocky as shit. Bet he can’t stop flexin’ in the mirror.”
Your biceps swell right under your skin, sleeves biting tight. Veins throb thick across your forearms. You can’t resist — you curl your arm and watch the peak rise, sweat dripping down. You grin dumb and wide, tongue sticking out.
“Yeah, bro, you love it,” Griff murmurs, his voice a hook in your brain. “Nothin’ in your head anymore but pumpin’ iron, gettin’ pussy, crackin’ beers. Dumb as a fuckin’ rock. But hot as hell.”
The fog rolls in hard. Your thoughts go slack. Words slip out of your mouth without effort: “Fuck yeah, bro. Jus’ wanna lift ‘n fuck, dude.”
The room erupts. Milo’s pounding the table, Tank’s farting loud enough to shake the cushions. You’re laughing with them, deep and crude, your new voice thick with arrogance.
Griff stands, raising his beer like he’s crowning you: “Boys, meet the new king of this house — smelliest, horniest, dumbest fuckin’ frat bro alive.”
And you are. Every inch of you reeks of sweat, Axe spray, beer, and sex. Your jaw’s sharp, your smirk permanent, your cock tenting your shorts. Your mind’s blank except for pussy, gym, bros, and beer. You don’t remember being anyone else. You don’t care.
You’re loud. You’re cocky. You’re trouble.
You’re home.