The thoughts come late at night, when his eyes are aching from flickering across his computer screen for too long and his shoulders ache from his hunched over position by his desk. They come after he has taken a piss and brushed his teeth, after he has pulled his shirt over his head and stumbled out of his jeans. They come after he has stretched his body out beneath the sheets, far enough for his palms to meet the chilly surface of the wall and far enough for his toes to curl.
They come when he is alone with nothing or no one but his own thoughts for company and all he can hear is his own breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
There is a very rational part of his brain that tells him that he is stupid. Virginity is a social construct, there is nothing wrong with waiting and all that shit. He tells himself that he is still young, that he has all the time in the world. It is not like there is something wrong with him, he just… There is nothing wrong with him.
He rolls over on his side and lets his fingers dance over his hip. They draw circles across his skin, just a soft pressure and with his eyes closed he can almost pretend that it's not his own hand. He can almost pretend that someone else rubs their thumb over his hipbone and that someone else teasingly drags their finger around his belly button.
He smiles as he wraps his hand around his cock and imagines someone else seeing it. He parts his lips to meet theirs. He tilts his head back as his thumb travels from his clavicle up and over his adam's apple, gently but with a firmness that only comes from determination, sinking back to let his fingertips dig into his hair.
He exposes his throat, shamelessly and willingly, to their enquiring lips, to their teeth. He imagines them leaving marks and gets a thrill from thinking of not covering them up when he goes to school. He gasps, the muscles in his thighs spasm and he spreads his legs further.
He is hard in his hand, in their hand, and he wants, he wants so much. He pleads to them, soft under his breath, please, just a whisper in his quiet room while sweat beads on his forehead.
He trembles when he comes. His lips are parted around an inaudible moan and he rocks back and forth with the waves of pleasure that washes over him. His chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths and his body sinks back, almost reluctantly against the mattress. His hand slips from his flaccid cock and he is left alone again, to stare up at the ceiling and the darkness in his room.
When his breathing has calmed again and he curls in on himself, he is unable to feel the lingering pleasure and satisfaction of reaching an orgasm. He closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat.
He does not want to wait. He wants to be touched. It's just that no one wants to touch him.