I know that no one reads this anymore. Hell, I don't even narcissisticly go and read backlogged posts anymore either. But I just can't have one more slutty tale to tell my friends that winds up being mostly me pseudo-apologising for being slutty in the first place. So hello Floygn my old friend, I've come to talk to you again.
A boy came over last night. 20 years old may fall into 'guy' territory but the entire experience felt very 'boy' so just go with it and stop interrupting me. He is from a small, extremely religious town a little over an hour outside my city. We'd been chatting via Grindr since the previous weekend. He appeared precocious, enthusiastic and far too complimentary to not throw up about a dozen red flags, none of which I saw.
We were chatting last night and the conversation veered into, shall we say, erotic make-believe.
"I'll come over. Right now. I'll do it lol"
We discussed it, I myself rationaling that I was less interested in a late-night hook up than meeting in daylight and just letting things unfold. But no, he was determined, and as exhausted as I was, it was pretty exciting.
He arrived and presented pretty much how I'd imagined. Tall, slender, an oversized hoodie over his gangly frame.
Clothes disappeared quick. Inhibitions soon followed. He responded to every touch like a man quenching his thirst after a month in the desert. The enthusiasm was...appreciate, but probably a bit telling.
After about an hour he came. As the last wave of his orgasm left him, it was replaced by a tidal of guilt and shame that gushed forth, tears spilling down his face.
This was so wrong. I shouldn't be here. They'll all hate me. I can't be gay. I can't. It's so unfair. I'm so alone.
No amount of soothing, physical nor verbal, helped at all. He cried himself to sleep before awaking suddenly, lying stiff as a board in my bed, not wanting to be touched, not wanting to talk. I tried curling around him, respecting his space but trying like an asshole to show that should he just roll over onto his side a wee bit, I was ready to be the all-comforting big spoon.
This did not happen. Instead at 3:30am he got out of bed, got dressed, whispered, "I'm sorry, David," into the darkness and left.
I sent him this message: I know we'll probably never speak again, but if at some point in the future you would let me know that you're alright, I would appreciate it.
But we and the internet know that isn't going to happen.