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I pull out the phone and flop down on the couch, needing a distraction before I fall back down that rabbit hole.
Unknown: I don’t really think about anything. Relief maybe? How good being touched feels?
Unknown: Last night I thought about someone. I didn’t mean to. I think I drank too much or something.
Unknown: I got hard for a guy. Does that make me gay? Because I’ve never just looked at someone or thought about them and gotten hard.
Unknown: There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?
Not wanting him to take my silence as confirmation—because I’ve been down that road, and it’s a shitty one—I quickly type out a response before digging into the meat of his problem.
Me: No. Not at all. Hold on.
Me: Listen. Sexual attraction can be really complicated, and there’s nothing wrong with having a low sex drive. If touching yourself is enough, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Me: And there’s no reason to be alarmed thinking about a man. Is this new for you? That kind of attraction?
It’s been years since I’ve had a cigarette, since I nixed the bad habit I started growing up in this shithole, but the longer I sit here, the greater the urge becomes. Maybe I should call it a day. Be done with it and go home.
Maybe get a few minutes in with my sketchpad before I have to head to the library to meet the underclassmen I’m tutoring.
I stand up and give the room one final look over, contemplating saying goodbye to Dad, but I can hear the snoring from here, so I don’t bother.
Instead, I head out the front door and nearly have a heart attack when I get to the first of Dad’s not-quite-up-to-code makeshift steps and the wood gives out beneath my foot.
The banister is thankfully strong enough to support my weight as I grip it and straighten myself on the step below which—thankfully—appears sturdy.
Shit, he’s lucky he hasn’t gotten coded for this. If it starts falling apart he’ll really be in shitty waters if the code enforcer comes popping around. I’ll have to see if I can find out when the next drive by is.
Once I’m back in my car with no energy to actually drive it, I check my phone and see I’ve got not only a text from the helpline but also one from Shiloh.
Shiloh: Dinner at the BBQ place tonight?
I smile at the simple message. Shiloh and I have a routine of meeting up at a local Korean barbeque restaurant whenever he needs to unwind. It’s just the two of us, and usually it means my brother is having one of his rare moments where he’s on the outs with his best friend.
I don’t think it’s ever been anything serious, just general frustration that’s better directed at me than at Atlas, and I’m always happy to be that for him. Atlas was there for my brother when I couldn’t be, so I can take this bullet for him. More like a BB-Gun pellet.
After shooting off a confirmation to Shiloh, I switch over to the messaging app and check my mystery texter’s response. If he’s going to stick around, I should ask what he wants me to call him.
Unknown: This might take me a while to explain. You sure you wanna hear it?
I look back at the house, nerves swimming alive in my gut, and card a hand through my hair to tug at the strands just hard enough it leaves a dull ache.
First, I pull up Shiloh’s message.
Me: Does seven sound good?
Then I flip back to the helpline.
Me: You’ve got me for the next few hours. By the way, got something I can call you?
Unknown: You go by B, right? Then you can call me A.
Me: Not sure if you’re copycatting or going full Pretty Little Liars on me.
Unknown: Considering I spent an entire summer binging the series, we’ll go with option two.
Me: Don’t murder me in my sleep. Hi, A. Welcome to Queer Mafia Alliance. If it makes this any easier, I am a cis, ace/bisexual man, early twenties, and I’m a business major.
