‘Of course. Have some rest. Goodnight, Leo.’
Haha!
I was horny and ready to send my nudes to half the grid of gays in my area.
It was 10 p.m. and I was desperately seeking anyone to be doing some complimenting-my-junk before bed. Or I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Or forgive myself.
My bedroom looked like the last episode of any season of American Horror Story. A dreadful incongruous mess. The insane amount of underwear I owned prevented me from doing laundry often. It would also ensure that for over one week, once the underwear drawer would start emptying, I would get to wear some of the skankiest jockstraps, thongs and weird lacy numbers as regular undergarments. It would make my getting-changed-at-the-gym situation very exciting for everyone looking.
The gym was a sacred place where I’d fuck the most. Something about men lifting 20kg dumbbells gets everyone horny once inside the locker room.
That evening was not laundry day. It was a long working day that needed to end with virtual sex with someone. A little exchange of nudes and then bam! Spunk on the tea towel I kept in my nightstand.
I took my trousers off and sat on my bed. I opened Instagram as a warm-up, and there it was. “Ugh, I guess,” was Sara’s caption. Sara managed to make her engagement announcement cool.
Most basic tramps would write, “I said yes,” but all those people deserved a beating.
Sara told the world by telling Instagram.
She had just about one photo of Alfie posted in the three years they had been together. She wasn’t one to overshare, but she shared this. Proudly.
I had to make a plan. What would I wear? Who would I go with? How would I get to Greece? How the fuck could I even pay for any of that? This was going to be lavish. Her parents were loaded. They bought Sara and her sister a flat each without batting an eye.
I sometimes wondered what my life would have been like if I were born into that family. I wouldn’t have had a heroin-addict father who left used needles around the house while my mother worked three jobs to provide for me, for one.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have needed to watch my mother wilt at every session of chemotherapy. Maybe I wouldn’t have needed to bury her as my adult life was about to start.
How nice it would have been not to be an orphan at twenty-two.
I looked at the side of my bed and there was a dirty glass with wine stains from the night before and, drum roll, at least a glass and a half worth of wine left in a bottle.
Score.
I poured it down while carefully blowing the dust on the glass away. Took a sip and fired up Grindr. A quick load and there they were. The gays, the indecisive and the weirdos in my area. Like a cock buffet of repressed assholes with mother issues united in the pursuit of a face to direct their cum into. Life couldn’t be better.
‘Hey.’ ‘Hey!’ ‘What’s up?’ ‘Fun?’ were all sent by different faceless profiles. I didn’t need that. I wasn’t actually sure what I was into that evening. I probably should have just opened Pornhub and looked for a seriously depraved scenario I could beat my—vegan—meat over. Think “hillbilly orgy”, or “bleeding twink chokes to near death,” or any category I’d be desperate to remove off my browser history in case of a police raid.
That evening I craved contact. I craved attention. I wanted someone to tell me I looked hot. I wanted someone to lust over my cock and tell me how big and veiny it was.
I had plenty of father issues, in my defence.
‘Hey,’ one of those profiles wrote.
I ignored. Realistically you wouldn’t respond to a stranger saying ‘hey’ twice to you in the streets. It’s weird.
Shit, Tom/Craig was showing near me. His name was actually Dean.
Who knew? Did I ever know? Although the most shocking news was that he was just thirty-one years old. And he wasn’t afraid to show pictures of him travelling to all the places. That’s the exact kind of twink that needed choking. Not by me, though.
Picture received.
I was intrigued. I loved a photo. A Grindr photo could tell you a lot about the kind of gay this person was going to be. Were they a closeted ‘straight’ husband sharing the bare minimum for them to get pounded behind a bush in Streatham Cemetery? Were they a hairy bumhole under an orange light and a loose-fitting Andrew Christian jockstrap?
The possibilities were endless. I was curious, so I opened it. It was the double ‘hey, hey’ person. They had a bit of a stubble, a bit of a belly and possibly a bit of a lazy eye. I wasn’t attracted, but I wasn’t a monster. I was going to at least acknowledge the effort.
‘Hey’, I responded. Feeling cool. Mysterious. Feeling I was way hotter than he was. Out of his league, but still nice about it. Like the Lady Diana of British penises.
‘What are you up too?’
Misspeller. Lovely.
I was dealing with the average Londoner. Poorly educated, but brave as hell.
‘Not much.’
I was trying to keep my cool so that I could prompt him to give me a compliment shower.
‘You’re chest looks hot.’
It hurt. I had the compliment I was waiting for and it came complemented by one of the grossest grammatical miscarriages I would have normally broken up engagements for in the past. There was just no excuse for it, but at the same time he was actively endorsing all my efforts I made at the gym.
I was flattered. I was drunk, really. Not enough to misspell basic English, but definitely down that alleyway. He asked me if I wanted fun. I ignored. I did want fun, but there was really nothing fun about me trying to change my underwear and sneak out of the flat. Trying to avoid that angel of a flatmate and those horrible bitching friends of his, including that moron Dean and that photo he took in South Africa fondling a poor penguin.
No, ma’am. I was also kind of hungry and in desperate need to tackle that tub of Pringles I hid to avoid the calories.
I proceeded to dive into my shorts drawer and grabbed the tub. The crisps were paprika flavoured. Exotic, yellow and definitely already opened from another drunken meltdown. Still crunchy-ish. I was fairly content. I was shoving two at a time into my mouth when he demanded the inevitable: a cock pic.
As partially horrified as I was by such a forward question, I was actually not in the mood to have a wank anymore, but I was in a mood to fuck with this probably proud owner of several cat paintings, so I did. I sent my most glorious dick pic. The one. Taken from the angle that makes it look like one of those things you put under the door to stop drafts from coming through. My tool never looked bigger. I wanted him to feel thirsty, but at the same time go to bed annoyed that he wasn’t going to get any. Mainly because my mouth had orange powder on it and I had zero intention of brushing my teeth, but also because I had already put a pair of velour joggers on. And no one was going to get those off me without a good reason.
‘I’d love to suck that off,’ he sent without hesitation.
My work was done. I was a Pirelli calendar model. I got a socially inept man to have a full raging boner in front of a screen and it was all thanks to me. I was a charity, really. I ignored that message, and I was just getting ready for bed. My ego was fulfilled. And then he typed again. This time making things far more interesting for the both of us.
‘£?’
That had not happened before. Sure, I had seen some hairless Brazilian torsos offering massages near Paddington station, but this had not directly happened to me yet.