Happy Birthday to Aya, Happy Birthday to Aya, happy birthday to Ayyaaaaaaa, heheh, happy birthday to her! Well, in case you couldn't tell this is a birthday gift for Aya, I've never had someone request a birthday fic from me before, so I spent the day writing my ass off ^_^' At any rate...
Warnings and Disclaimers: As we all know, I don't own Gundam Wing... but supposedly, I own this story ^_^'
The Following Fic Contains: 1x2, masturbation, psychological studies, a paper, some porn, and lemon a.k.a. sex!
Author: ClarySage

Drug of Choice

I am writing this now with the direct intent and purpose of documenting the following occurrences. For my latest class in psychology, we must do a study of self, set in any media we care to use. My chosen media is writing. My chosen study is not myself, but is instead a study of my roommate and myself.

How will a straight man react to being gay?

And this is where it all starts, with this question.

I've set out to write this much like a diary or journal, a daily transcription of the events that will follow my study, interaction, and eventual seduction of a straight man. I'd rather not use his real name, though all things considered, it could very easily be found out. He is after all my roommate.

My roommate is, as I have stated, straight. He dates women, has sex with them, and claims to have no interest in men at all. I intend to prove him a closeted homosexual. So closeted that he won't even admit it to himself, and that his attempts at dating women are merely, camouflage.

A little background information about my roommate; he's about 5'5, slender, long hair, pretty face, loud mouth, over eager sense of humor, and as horny as they come. His majors so far, are theology and philosophy, that in itself making for an interesting study of him.

I've lived with him now for a total of three months, meeting one another through a post on one of the campus bulletin boards. He's an all right enough roommate; he cleans up after himself, goes to bed at decent hours, and doesn't play the stereo too loudly when he knows I have to study for something. He contains something rare these days, common courtesy.

As for myself, I'm a little taller though about the same weight, dark hair, Japanese descent, quiet, and gay. I knew I liked my own sex by the time I was seven. Not even my family threatening to disown me could stop me from my chosen sexual path. I've always considered myself rather lucky in this respect; I've always known what I was, and what I wanted. There was never any confusion in my mind over it.

Why I've chosen to study my own roommate, and discern whether he is in fact closeted within himself, is not purely on a scientific level I admit. I'm attracted to him, and have been since we met. Neither of us is a stereotype of what 'gay' is, and therefore, it is undetermined as to whether he is or isn't.

Let's start by describing what I've seen of his sexual interests and activities. In this way opening a door to the inner study of Duo Maxwell, and more importantly, to myself.

Since we've moved in together he's had a date almost every night, as well as sex. Since most of the time he'll bring his dates back to the apartment, go into his bedroom, shut the door, and usually not open it again until a few hours have passed. This is a reasonable determination of what goes on behind that closed door. My study starts at this point, as it is Thursday night now, and he has just come home with his date for the evening.

I receive a brief introduction and hello, his female friend acknowledging my presence with a lascivious gleam in her eye. They tend to do that a lot I've noticed. But I can't blame them for it, it's not as if I wear a sign proclaiming "I'm gay, don't touch me." And my hands don't move overly much in flapping gestures, I don't dress the part, I don't speak with a lisp. As a matter of fact, I think I've managed to cull any obviously gay traits out of my behavioral patterns. To the point where Maxwell has made the mistake in thinking, I'm straight as well.

They spend another ten minutes or so in chatting me up, their hands straying towards each other, and then they're off like little hormonal rockets. Nearly running to his room and shutting the door, the sound of moans, screams, giggles, and groans echoing from his bedroom.

To me, it seems as if he tries overly much to show that he isn't interested in his own sex. His excessive dating habits and the fact that he has sex with almost any woman he brings home, helping to cement this idea. What makes me think he would swing in my direction? Simple, it's the looks he gives me.

Attraction can be determined by the following in almost any creature. Stirring of the loins, heart palpitations, sweating, shifting eyes, faster breathing. This unfortunently can often be confused with nervousness. I know that I'm attracted to him, because I feel all these things when he's around, as to whether he feels the same, is harder to say.

For now, let us leave this study until the morning. My porno is screaming my name, my bed calling my body afterwards. My study of myself involves my hand, my penis, and a good long look at various men in interesting sexual situations.


It's morning, as I sit here wiping the sleep from my eyes and gripping my coffee mug with an unsteady hand. Last night it took me nearly a full hour of masturbation and a pair of earplugs before I was able to fall asleep. Maxwell's bedroom is right beside my own, and the sounds of his moans through the wall kept sending my hand back down to my lap. What can I say? I admit to having the normal hormonal urges of any twenty-year-old male. Which is to say my hand might as well be glued to my dick.

I've decided that the language I write this account in will degrade. Already I feel the urge to describe things in a more open and honest light. The technical and medical words for anatomy and feelings just won't do. And in order to better depict the situation, I think a different form of verbal and written study is necessary.

My first step in this will be to outright ask. Rather than be a complete idiot and avoid ever asking, much could be determined by a few simple questions. My computer is located in my bedroom, right beside my bed. Even now, I can hear Maxwell stirring, no doubt getting ready for his shower. The faint sound of his voice as he talks and sings to himself can be heard through my bedroom wall. I ease out of my chair, checking to make sure I look all right before slipping out my door and over to his. I look like I always do, messy hair, blue eyes, and a facial expression that tends to say nothing about how I'm feeling on the inside. I've practiced this look, honing it until even my own mother can't see my thoughts as they roil behind my eyes.

My fist lifts to knock on his door, and then I stop. Maybe I should wait until after he showers. Until after the smell of last night's sex has been washed off his body. But then my knuckles are already rapping on his door, and I'm left with no choice.

"What?" he calls, and I can just picture him, nothing but a towel wrapped around those slim hips, hair messy around him, that look on his face that says he's tired, and probably still daydreaming of sex. It's confirmed as he opens the door, the mere sight of him shooting down to my groin and lifting my "spirits".

"Maxwell, I have to ask you some questions." Before he can say a word, I interrupt his half-opened mouth. "It's for a psychology paper I have to write." Which is the truth, and makes me feel much more confident in the face of his near nudity and confused expression.

"Ok, shoot." He nods, letting his towel drop. My jaw drops a little as well and I struggle to close it. "Ask while I shower ok, I'm running late for Mr. Teka's class."

This is one of the many reasons I think he's secretly gay. He's all too easy with nudity in front of me. Almost as if he's showing himself off, and wants me to see him like this. So I take a nice long look as he pushes past me and heads for the bathroom, one hand still clutching the towel.

See? Why would he take off the towel, only to bring it with him? Unconscious attempt at flirting? It's hard to say.

I carefully gather my thoughts, ordering my questions and getting ready to fire them at him. "Ok, it's a study in homosexual and homoerotic tendencies as seen from the straight man's point of view." I outright lie to him. "I need to ask you a few sexual questions, if you don't mind."

For a moment, his back seems to stiffen, and then his shoulders relax, and he turns his head slightly towards me. Studying my carefully blank expression. "Ok, I'll try my best."

"Thanks," I wait while he turns on the water in the shower, testing the temperature before stepping beneath the spray. The clear shower curtain does no good at obscuring my near perfect view of him. And I have a hard time controlling my hormones for a moment, watching as he's slicked down, hair plastering to him, eyes closing as he tilts his head back. "Uh, well, the first question I have is this: Do you masturbate?"

I wait, as he seems to ponder this, his hands reaching blindly for the shampoo bottle. It clicks open with a flick of his fingertip and he pours a generous amount onto his palm before answering. "Of course, doesn't everyone?"

"All right, next question. Have you ever masturbated while thinking of, looking at, or contemplating another man?" I almost don't catch the little intake of breath before he answers. That one caught him off guard.

"Well, not really, but then I've never really thought of it either. My thoughts before, during, and after masturbation tend not to be very specific. Just vague images."

Now he's being careful, afraid of how his answers will make me feel towards him. He hasn't a clue of course, that I myself am as gay as the day is long, I've never let on, never felt a reason to. So I nod at his answer, my eyes still following him through his morning shower routine. Despite my control over my own body and mind, I can feel myself growing hard just watching him. And I sit down quickly on the closed toilet lid, trying to lose my erection before he steps out of the shower.

"Have you ever been sexually stimulated by homosexual pornography and or by another man?" He takes a moment before responding, rinsing the suds from his hip length hair. That hair, it's so long and pretty, sometimes I wonder if it isn't his unconscious attempt at being more like a woman. He isn't into the normal criteria for a guy with long hair, doesn't listen to heavy metal, he's not in a band, or hippie ideals, or anything like that. Perhaps too, this could explain his near insatiable appetite for sexual encounters with women. Perhaps they are his forms of study, in trying to find out what it's like to be female. I shift carefully on the toilet seat, willing my dick to go down. Just asking him these questions and thinking these thoughts has sent my lust through the roof.

"Yes," he says at last, briefly turning towards me where I sit, and meeting my eyes through the steam and shower curtain. "My best friend in junior high. We used to jerk each other off. But," he shrugs, "I never really thought of it as a homosexual activity. It was just a way to get someone else to touch me, you know?"

"Yes," I hide my smile, and watch him a little more before asking my next question. Now he's rubbing a palmful of conditioner through his hair, running his fingers through the mass of it. The scent of something fruity and yet oddly masculine drifts on the steam from the shower. I close my eyes for a few seconds, praying to god that I can get my hard on to go away before he gets out of the shower. "Have you had any other sexual experiences related to men?"

"Umm," now he's getting nervous, obviously my questions are hitting sensitive areas. "Well, I've uh, been in a few three-ways, me and another guy, and a girl."

"Did you let the guy touch you?" I blurt out, unable to stop myself from asking.

"Yeah," he pauses for a few minutes, rinsing out the conditioner and grabbing the bar of soap. I close my eyes again, knowing that if I watch him lather up that body, I'll be unable to sit here much longer. "A little, not much though, it made me nervous."

Most likely because he's been trained since childhood that being gay is a bad thing. That letting another man touch you intimately is wrong somehow. "Did you feel nervous because you felt that somehow it was wrong?"

"I felt nervous because I was sixteen," he says with a laugh, the clean smell of the soap sifting through my senses. I open an eye, taking in the sight of him lathering up, soapsuds caressing his blurred form through the shower curtain. "Any more questions, Heero?"

I flinch, wondering if he's noticed my silence, and my eyes boring holes into him. "Just a few more, do you have the time?" "Yeah, I can answer while I get dressed."

I will not cave; I will not show my attraction. If I do, it might ruin my study of him. "Ok, have you in the past few years had any sexual encounters with the same sex?"

The shower shuts off, and I realize he's done even as his fingers reach out for his towel. I hand it to him, opening the door and stepping into the hallway while he towels off.

"No, not since those few times when I was sixteen and seventeen. And never with just another guy and myself, always with a woman involved." He peers around the doorway and grins at me, one hand holding his towel in place, hair dripping onto the tiled floor. "You have any classes today?" he asks out of the blue.

"No, free time today, just writing this paper." He nods, opening the hall closet and nabbing another towel for his hair. "All right, one more question and then I'll leave you to yourself."

"Deal, I'm already a half hour late." He rolls his eyes, and I follow him to his bedroom door, leaning against the frame as he searches through his dresser drawers for clothes.

"Would you be open to letting me test you for homosexual tendencies?" I avert my eyes when he stops to stare at me. This is the question I wanted to ask from the beginning. Having him willing to let me study him, might make all the difference in the world. He clears his throat and I glance at him, watching as he slowly towels dry his hair.

"How would you go about that?"

"A few more questions, a few simple tests, nothing too difficult I think."

"Can I give you an answer later? I need to think about it."

I nod, "yeah, take your time, though I will need an answer by tonight, or else I'll have to find someone else to test this stuff on. Kay?"

"No problem, I'll be home around three-ish."

We nod at each other, and I take my leave at last, nearly running back to my own room. I'm so hard by now I hurt. And I'm very thankful I was wearing clothing baggy enough to hide my arousal. In seconds I've got my dick in my hand and nothing but him on my mind. Vaguely I hear the front door slam shut, and speed up my pace, crying out softly when I come. Have I mentioned masturbation is a hobby of mine? But what red-blooded male doesn't do it?


I've spent the afternoon planning out what I can ask him, and what possible tests I can run him through. He's due home any time now, and I'm still unsure of how I'm going to pull this off without him guessing my true motivations. My number one problem being that Maxwell isn't stupid. Which is fine, I like a man with a brain, but at the same time, it makes it much more difficult to fool him. And on cue, I can hear the front door to our apartment bang open, the sound of him singing off-key following his loud entrance.

In minutes, he's at my door, knocking politely. "Come in," I call, minimizing my screen and turning to face the door. Again, I'm left with trying to control my basic reaction to the mere sight of him. I never did see what he decided to wear today. And am rather excited by the vision of tight jeans and a tight black t-shirt as he nonchalantly leans against my doorframe. His hair is held in a loose ponytail that just brushes the top of his rear, a smile planted on his lips.

"So, are you going to do it?" I ask, unwilling to be held in suspense.

"Well, I guess so." For a moment, he looks nervous, and then he grins at me. "When do you want to start?"

"Right now, I'll need you for the whole weekend I'm afraid. I've got tons of tests to put you through, and this paper is due in a weeks time." I grimace and watch as he winces sympathetically.

"Ok, I'll cancel my weekend plans, but keep in mind you owe me a favor for this."

I can't help but smile at him, with any luck, by the time this weekend is over, any favor he asks of me will be purely sexual.


It is with no small amount of trepidation that I set up my notes and my various "tests". Taking over the coffee table in the living room and littering it neatly with pictures, papers, and even a video or two. I've decided the best way to do this is to start out slowly, get him used to the idea of sexual contact with men as being something that is not wrong in any sense of the word.

"All right," I look up at him where he's sitting on the couch across from me. He's taken off his shoes; sock clad feet tucked beneath himself, a can of coke resting easily on one bent thigh. "Hit me with your best shot," and he grins at me, laughing a little to himself.

He's nervous, I can tell, small signs of fidgeting, his laughter containing just a hint of tenseness. I tip my glasses up on my nose and peer at him through them. And that makes him laugh a little more, exactly what I'd hoped for. "The first series of questions and tests will start out mildly, and all I need is for you to answer each question as honestly as possible. Ok?"

"Yeah, I think I can manage that. You know I hate to lie to people."

"Unless they're girls," I quip, grinning at him.

"Of course," he shrugs a bit, settling down further against the couch, taking an absent sip from his coke can. The tenseness seems to have leeched from his posture for the moment, and I begin my testing.

The first test consists of showing him a series of photographs of attractive men and women, clothes on. The point behind this test is that in each of the photos, is more than one person interacting. Whether they are talking, sitting, or merely watching television together. The basic idea is to get his first impression of what is happening in each picture. "Just tell me what you see happening in each of the pictures I show you, ok?" is all that I tell him for the moment.

"All right," he leans back a little, trying to get more comfortable, the nervousness again appearing.

The first picture is of two women, sitting close enough together so that their bodies touch, hands gesturing, one is eating an apple, the other is leaning close, invading personal space. "What do you see?" I ask, holding it up for him.

He fidgets for a moment, and I urge him on by pointing out that I need the first thing that pops into his head upon viewing. "They're friends, umm," he pauses, "ok first impression is that the one women is about to either steal a bite of that apple, or kiss her friend." He looks at my face, as if trying to determine whether he has the answer right.

"Ok, next." There are of course no right or wrong answers, and I leave my face carefully void of any expression as I show him the next photo. This one consists of two men sitting together in what looks like a movie theatre; they're both smiling, eyes on something a little above the head of the viewer. One has his arm resting between them; the other has his arm nudging towards the same armrest. Also, a bucket of popcorn is being held out to the man who has his arm already on the armrest.

Duo's eyes shift from the picture to my face before he responds. "Two friends watching a movie?"

"All right, next?"

He nods, looking vaguely confused, which is exactly what I'd determined he'd feel. And I hold up the next picture, which is an exact duplicate of the last one, only in this one it is a man and a woman.

"Just two friends, watching a movie, again." He says, nodding his head in confirmation of his own thoughts.

I find this response interesting, he could have said they were dating, or sexually interested in one another, but he didn't. Instead deciding the body posture also indicated mere friendship. I glance down at my lap, choosing another picture. This one has a man and woman leaning over a café table, faces inches apart. If you look at their hands, the man is handing the women a napkin, and the woman is offering a forkful of food, again both are smiling.

His response is a bit quicker this time, apparently he's starting to get the hang of this. "First date," he says with a smile, "been there myself too many times not to know it when I see it."

I nod; absently scribbling down something on a pad of paper that sits on the coffee table. What I've written is complete gibberish, but I do want to make this appear real in every sense. The next photo is the nearly the same as the last, the major difference being that it contains two men.

He's silent for a little longer this time, "friends?"

That was a false response, I'm almost positive of it. I pick another photograph, this time of another two men. Sitting on a couch much like our own, legs crossed over each others legs, arms touching, both facing one another while they talk.

The silence goes on a lot longer for this photo and I gently prod him to answer. "First response."

"Uh... they, like each other?"

I gesture for him to go on with my pencil, pretending this answer matters about as much as the others did. "Elaborate."

"They, umm, they have sex together? Or will?" he looks adorably confused for a moment, eyebrows drawing together, mouth pursing slightly.

"There are no wrong or right answers, just answer truthfully, ok?"

"Yeah, ok."

I decide that's enough of the nearly ambiguous pictures, and reach for the next set of photos. These ones contain more graphic images, though not by much. They merely make what might not have been obvious in the others, glaringly so.

The first photo contains three people, two women, and a man. The man is sitting between the two women, his hand resting on one of the women's thighs, though his face is turned towards the other woman. "First impression," I say, holding it up.

"Hm, he wants to bang both of them," he answers, grinning from ear to ear.

"Ok, next." This picture has two men, hands touching, one whispering into the ear of the other.

"Lovers," he says softly, this time without the question mark behind it, and I nearly applaud that response.

"One more," carefully I choose the next picture, a man and a woman, the woman sitting on the man's lap, one arm tossed over his shoulders in a carefree gesture, they're laughing.

"Friends," the answer is quick, I nod, laying the set of pictures on top of the first and pretending to do more clinical writing.

"Ok, you did well." I glance up, meeting his eyes, "the next set of tests are a bit different. Again I'll need complete honesty."


"I'm going to give you four short stories to read, each of them containing a different form of erotic literature. When you're done reading them, I'll ask you a series of questions. Ok?"

"Yeah, all right. Are you going to time me or anything?" He's nervous again, but this time I don't need to worry about it, as I won't be in the room for this one.

"No, just read them, and then come knock on my door when you're finished."

With that, I leave him to himself, a fistful of erotic stories in his hand, and another rather cutely confused expression riding his face.