Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Fan theories have abounded for months. No Grindr message from Porter (too convenient, are you kidding me?) – certainly not Henry, which is just absurd. Alex? Too fresh, too soon.
No, instead the most elusive test answer:
Option D: None of the above.
Colby. Colby from 8th grade health class, who had relentlessly bullied me. You know, despite my whole awkwardness-and-insecurity shtick, I had actually mostly evaded bullies and harassers. Not Colby. I think he was in that special category of predator that can smell weakness, the infrared vision that can see through your middle school emotional walls. He knew what made me tick, and had whispered dumb shit about me being a fag all through 4th period.
And now he was hitting me up on Grindr like we were old friends. What a fucking tool. What a fucking absolute shit-eating moron.
But here’s the thing: My dick was hard as fuck at the thought of baiting this guy right back. I could be the snake, or the velociraptor, or whatever stupid predator makes sense for the metaphor here.
So I tapped out a reply: “Hey man. Long time, no talk. What’s up? ;)” – and yeah, that’s the enticing kind of winky face. Like, the “let’s cut to the chase here, bub” type of emoji. From his profile picture, I could tell Colby had filled out pretty decently in the chest – the kind of pecs that you really just want to suck on. I could get into that, if he could keep his mouth shut.
My hand had absent-mindedly wrapped around my dick. At the thought of bodily contact with Colby, they flew off immediately. No, no, no. That was so far off the plan. Get another dick pic. Jerk off to the dick pic. Get out. You’re letting your emotions compromise the mission here, Connor.
Ding. New message. “Yeah, sorry, wouldn’t have hit you with those pics if I had realized Ankara escort ha.” Can I mention, I really hate when people end a message with “ha” – it’s patronizing. Nobody says ha.
“Can’t say I minded.” I replied, but exhaling and rolling my eyes. I hated playing this game, but I wanted another shot of his cock, like, pretty badly.
“Can I say something?” He answered, and still I’m in disbelief that this conversation has even continued this long. I wanted to tell him how dumb his tribal tattoos were and jerk off to his pics. On the other hand, I wanted to shout him down about how aggravating it is that he bullied the shit out of me and was now hitting me up on Grindr like we were old pals. Still, idiots will be idiots, you can’t reason with them – and I’m trying to be a carnivore, here. But he didn’t wait for my response.
“Idk why you’re acting big, but we both know I did some pretty fucked up shit to you back then. I’m sorry about that.” All I could do was blink and set the phone back down on the bed.
To be honest, coming off the pre-climax encounter that was Alex’s heartbreak, I had come to the conclusion that redemption stories are a lot more fiction than reality. But here I was, in the middle of what seemed like a possible redemption. I’m pretty sure I was giving him a little more credit than was due to him, on account of the new knowledge that he had a decently large uncut dick. But, really, is it completely improbable Ebenezer Scrooge’s redemption was completely devoid of lewd details, knowingly left out?
Yeah, unlikely, but still.
He kept at it though. “This is awkward af and you can block me if this makes it weird, but I’m still sorry.”
For a second, I consider googling: “What do you do when your childhood bully hits you up on Grindr?” – but then I realized how wholly Ankara escort bayan inadequate that was. Try, “What do you do when your childhood bully hits you up on Grindr to apologize after sending you a picture of his hard cock?”
I didn’t actually do it, but I’m fairly confident that there isn’t a Yahoo Answers post that could bail me out on this one. So, I went to the closest thing I knew to a Yahoo Answers with some actual intelligence built in and texted Henry.
“Hen. I’m at home right now and the weirdest thing is happening.”
“You’re back at the dorms already?” He replied, because he’s Henry and even though he knows I’m not at the dorms, the lack of clarity means he needs to ask.
“No. Home like home-home. Anyway, this guy is hitting me up on Grindr that was really mean to me in middle school.”
I could tell he was gearing up for a long one, because the typing dots just keep rolling and rolling. Meanwhile, I had a message from Colby that felt too sincere to just be left alone.
“First of all, you’re hanging on to shit from middle school? Second of all, you’re even entertaining the notion of this jackass because he’s cute, right? Third of all – back in the saddle already on Grindr? That’s my boyyyyy right there.” And I grinned like an idiot at my phone, because Henry was so fucking stupid but I loved him so much.
Still, he made several valid points. I took that context and crafted one of the most insincere things I could have possibly come up with.
“Dude, I don’t even remember back then haha. It’s all good now. Anyway, wyd?” I physically cringed at what a blatant lie I’d told.
I leapt up from my bed, shoving my dick shamefully back into my underwear. Something might still come of this, but it certainly wasn’t going to be jerking off. Not right Escort Ankara now, at least.
I padded downstairs where Mom had started cooking dinner. I practically recoiled at the sight of the grocery bags out on the counter top, bringing me right back to having had a run-in with Porter earlier today. If coming home from school was always going to be this eventful, I might need to consider a Xanax or something before making this trip again.
But seeing Mom rushing around the kitchen again took me right out of painful senior year hotel room memories and the Grindr message that had just buzzed in my pocket, and right back to being a kid again. Whiplash.
I sat at the kitchen island, looking at the old Windows XP computer that my parents kept in a nook. On the little secretary desk were stacks of pens from 5K races I’d run as a kid, floral decorative paper, little wicker baskets stuffed with stickers and rulers and all odd assortment of things. Little symbols of home, the feeling that something is lived in. Someone sits at that desk. Someone leaves things at that desk. Under the random little jewelry box on this crammed desk, there were probably things I’d left there, too.
With Mom still cooking and chatting at me, I wondered. Does a dorm room ever feel like anybody lives there, or would it always feel like I was just passing through? How do you take a messy desk that means ‘home’ and bring it to college with you? Does it just take 20 years to accumulate enough shit that suddenly everywhere in your house is a physical light box of your life thus far?
I wanted to ask Mom how she had possibly kept track of my 6th grade graduation certificate for so long, but a Snapchat from Henry interrupted. I could ignore a Grindr message from Colby. Henry was unignorable.
I popped it open and saw Henry standing in a bathroom mirror, a rare selfie captioned “Miss u. Reply to my text.”
For the millionth time, I wondered again where on earth friends like Henry were manufactured, and how you avoid feeling things you shouldn’t for them.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32