Page 84 of These Secret Years

And the thing with Blake? He posted the announcement on his socials. I gave the post a like, and I haven’t heard from him since. He ghosted. I’m lucky, I guess, that he didn’t block me. Well—lucky isn’t the exact word I’d use, but since he’s my biggest competition, it should theoretically be helpful if I can keep up with his game. He’s a thirst trap, though, and my pathetic ass still jerks off to some of the workout reels he posts.

None of this came up when we spent a weekend in a motel together over the short Christmas break. Not one goddamn time. He fucked me like I was the only piece of ass on the planet, and while neither of us issued any proclamations, he was not shy about doling out praise and compliments—also a lot of gratitude—like for my existence.

What I feel about him now is some toxic combination of devastated and enraged. There’s some fear in there, too. Like if I make one wrong move, he’ll out me, and that thought has tempted me more than once, in my darker moments, to send him the pictures or even the videos of him I took while he was sucking my dick. If I’m going down—so will he, so to speak. And he might be able to pretty it up with a hot fiancée and say he was only experimenting, but it would ruin his future the same way it’d ruin mine.

I haven’t done it yet, and I tell myself he’s unhappy. Deeply unhappy with this stupid direction he decided to take his life without ever once bringing it up to me. I’m still a little obsessed with him. Still check his socials more than once a day. Still think about him almost constantly. And when I’m not thinking about him, I’m thinking about Sullivan. Sometimes about what he told me about other guys on my team, and sometimes just about him. But for whatever reason, thinking of Blake hurts less than remembering Sullivan, which makes no sense at all.

Being burned and ghosted twice in a row has got me comparing what happened with Blake with what happened between me and Sullivan. It’s not easy to compare the two, but there are a couple of major similarities. Both of them used me. Both of them took advantage of how far back in the closet I’ve shoved myself, relying on that fact to protect themselves.

Both of them dropped me without a second thought.

But then I think, well, Sullivan’s not exactly in the closet anymore, is he? Not if he’s selling blow jobs and God only knows what else out of the bedroom in the house he shares with Chelsea and that other dude.

I’m at the gym one day in March—Spring Break has come and gone. I went home for the week, but I stayed with my sister Kora and her family rather than subjecting myself to my father and his particular brand of well-intentioned discouragement. I swear, even showing my face around him brings up that fucking bowl game, and I replay every single thing that went wrong, which technically had very little to do with me, but I’ve still decided I could have fixed everything single-handedly—even my best running back’s torn ACL…if only I were pre med.

Our defense had fucking sucked. And yet, if I’d been able to help the offense get into the end zone more often, we still could have outplayed Pittsburgh. Still—the outcome of the game made it look like the other quarterback had his shit together, and I was outmatched. The one day I spent at my parents’ house was all right, though. My dad didn’t bring up football at all, and in retrospect, I kind of wonder if that was worse than if he had.

The free weights in the gym are right next to the treadmills. Two guys are talking loudly enough to hear themselves over their pounding strides and the whir of the cardio equipment. They’re talking about a party on Oak Street. The location, along with the vaguely coded language they’re using, means it’s one of those parties.

I spent plenty of time after the one I went to trying to figure out how word gets out about when they’re happening, but I never could, and I didn’t want to ask anyone because it’s kinda like I said the first time. I can’t be going to those. I can’t get caught there if something goes down with law enforcement or whatever.

When I get home from the gym, I hole up in my room and try again to track down the source of the information. It has to be online somewhere, right? While I’m great at stalking Blake, finding any information about campus prostitution quickly proves impossible. My failure makes me frustrated, and it’s also got me thinking way too hard about Sullivan sucking dicks. Sullivan in general.

I’m not helpless, though. I’ve got his phone number. My dick hasn’t known anything other than my hand for months, and I blame it for the text I send.

me

How do people find out about these parties?

He takes his time returning my message even though I saw it got read right away. It’s a while, but less than an hour before he responds.

Sullivan

There’s a private group online. But also there’s one every weekend, so no big mystery.

Every weekend?

I have a hundred questions.

Me

Are you always there?

Sullivan

Why? Miss me?

Me

That was a yes or no question.

Sullivan

Yes.

Me

Got it