20. 20

20

Ant Decker

It’s been hours since the game. I’m back home, buzzed on a few celebratory beers, still riding the high of the win. I’m lying in bed, thoughts racing, scrolling mindlessly to get my brain to slow down.

I’m on TikTok, swiping up on my For You Page the second a video pops up. I’m doing my best to ignore it, but I can’t ignore it completely. I know what I’m doing. I’m looking for something. A video of someone.

I saw it once a couple of weeks ago: Robbie McGuire in a hotel bathroom—a bathroom we shared—shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. I know it’s stupid of me to be scrolling for it like this for many reasons, chief among them being that I’ve already watched the video once and I don’t think they show you the same thing over and over on this app.

Nonetheless, my dumb ass is scrolling through videos with such gusto it’ll be a fucking miracle if I don’t get a repetitive stress injury. And all because I’m too much of a chicken shit to visit his profile page. I mean, how dumb is that? He probably has thousands of people who visit it every day. I’m sure it was just bad luck that he happened to spot when I did it the last time. I’m sure it won’t happen again.

I’m sure it won’t.

I type his name in the search bar with one hand in my pants.

I find the post immediately. It’s his most-liked video of all time. The comments are off the hook.

I didn’t know blue walls were a thing…but I do now.

Boy, that’s a nice, big personality you have there.

I want this man to ruin my whole life.

I love you, Robbie.

Please check your DMs. Did you get my last message?

The video is shot in his usual vintage style. Kind of scratchy and olden-day looking. The overhead lighting is bright, casting harsh shadows under his pecs and exaggerating the lines of his abs. He looks at himself in the mirror, tilts his head back slightly, and gives the viewer a little grin.

Shithead.

He’s pleased with himself.

He likes what he sees .

Much as I’d like to judge him for it, I can’t. I like what I see too. My dick pulses in my hand, giving me an unsubtle nudge that it needs attention.

I start stroking involuntarily.

In the video, McGuire bows his head and rubs a towel roughly over his hair with both hands, shaking his head like a dog when he emerges from under it. His movement slows and tiny water droplets are dotted all over my screen.

The video loops back to the beginning and starts playing again.

Fucking fuck.

I swear to God, it’s almost unbelievable how hot this guy is. His body. His face. The way he moves. It’s too much. It shouldn’t be allowed. I tighten my grip and increase my speed, stroking hard and purposefully, trying to hurry so I can nut and pretend this never happened.

My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me so much I almost let it fall to the floor. I drop my cock like it’s hot and whip my hand out of my pants, looking around shiftily as though someone might be spying on me.

Damn, I hate what being horny does to my IQ.

The message is from McGuire, which does nothing to set me at ease. I hesitate twice and then click on it .

It’s a screenshot. An image. A whole lot of little black letters on a white background.

He’s marked up the text he wants to bring to my attention by framing it with a slightly wonky hand-drawn red heart.

TheAntDecker viewed your profile.

Fuck me dead.

My entire body instantly floods with heat. It rushes up my chest, my neck, flushing my cheeks badly. I’m not someone who usually blushes but I’m blushing my ass off right now, and I can’t even blame myself. This is embarrassing as hell. It might be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.

Robbie McGuire just fucking caught me stalking his socials.

What do I do now? Seriously, what do I do?

While I’m frantically trying to decide what to do next, another message pops up.

I’m still waiting for my memento.

Jesus Christ. This guy.

If I was thinking clearly, maybe I wouldn’t do it, but I’m not, so I do. I create a username and password for him and send him a link to a photo vault app I’ve heard about. He messages immediately.

?

It’s a private messaging app that’s hard to hack. Photos and videos disappear after forty-eight hours. You can’t save or download them, and if you try to screenshot them, I’ll get a message letting me know you’re a perv.

He hearts the message when, really, I think this is one of those times you could get away with a thumbs-up. For some idiotic reason, I find myself smiling absurdly at my screen.

Pussyboy?

Seriously? You made my username Pussyboy?

Aw, thanks, BB—you know I love that shit ;)

I’m smiling because I've had a few drinks. That’s why.

And that’s why I can’t stop.

It’s definitely not because even though I started talking like this to insult and annoy McGuire, I’ve accidentally tripped and fallen face-over-ass into my new favorite kink.

Wait. You’re Ringwrecker?

I was going to suggest Douchecanoe for you…

…but I guess Ringwrecker checks out

He follows that up with a string of hearts and a kissy face emoji. I’d tell him to knock it off if it weren’t for the fact that my hand is back in my pants and my thoughts are coming through a little slow.

I’ve watched the memento video about six hundred times already tonight, and that’s a conservative estimate. I can’t watch it again. I can’t do it. My voice in that video is so unhinged and horny. Hearing it feels like having a nail driven into one of my sinuses.

It’s terrible.

And I can’t click on his profile again. My pride won’t allow it.

Can you imagine if he got another alert about it?

God, no. Can’t do that.

I log into the vault app and send him the video he’s asked for.

There. That’s it. It’s done.

Time to log off .

I don’t though. I’m so wired. I make a mental note to schedule an appointment to see a veterinarian first thing tomorrow. I need sedation. A horse tranquilizer, that’s what I need.

I pick up my phone and put it down again.

I open the vault app and shut it down quickly.

McGuire is still live on it. He’s watching that fucking video of himself gushing cum from his asshole, my cum, and he’s hearing my fucked-up voice when he does it.

I open the app again and let my fingers hover over my screen for a while without typing.

Look, if you have any idea how to message someone and ask for nudes without sounding creepy, hit me up. Just go right ahead and let me know. Tell me what to say, and I’ll do it because I’ve got nothing. Nada.

Send nudes

Jesus, no. Delete.

Send pics

No. That might be worse but I'm not sure why.

You got something for me, Prettyboy?

Great, just great. The problematic porn star is back .

Oh fuck!

I hit send by mistake. Delete! Delete! Shit, I don’t know how to unsend on this app!

Two pink checks appear next to my message. He’s seen it.

I stare at my screen in horror for a few minutes, and when he doesn’t reply, I get up, go to the bathroom, and search my medicine cabinet top to bottom for a horse tranquilizer.

Sadly, if not unsurprisingly, I come up empty. Out of pure desperation, I take a multivitamin and down it with a full glass of water. It was a hell of a game tonight. I’m probably dehydrated. That’s probably at least part of my problem. Not my whole problem, to be clear, but part of it.

By the time I’m back in bed, I have a notification from the vault app. There are two new messages in my inbox.

I pull such a weird face as I unlock my screen that my phone doesn’t recognize me, and I have to manually enter my passcode. Then I have to log in to the fucking vault app. All this security will be the death of me.

By the time the first message opens, I’m a hairbreadth from throwing my phone across the room.

The app does this stupid thing where there’s this countdown before it opens a new picture or video. Numbers flash, changing from red to green.

3

2

1

The image unlocks.

It’s not his dick. Or his ass. Or even his chest or abs.

It’s his face. His insanely beautiful face with a great big derpy smile plastered all over it. His hair grazes his cheekbones in untidy, loose waves and his eyes look a little lazy, almost as though he was starting to blink when he took the photo but didn’t care enough to retake it. His lips are wide open, peeled back so far I can see his molars.

It’s not the picture I had expected, and it takes my breath away. Like away , away. So far away I completely forget that he sent me two photographs.

When I regain my composure, I open the second attachment.

It’s the picture I was expecting and then some. He’s stark naked and rock-hard. The photo has been taken in profile view. The perfect swell of his ass and the strong upward curve of his erection are on display. His dick is dark pink, angry, and wanting, with a fine, silvery string of precum leaking from the tip. The image has been cropped from just above his pecs to the mid-thigh. He has his side to the viewer, twisting his torso, narrowing his waist, and engaging his abs.

I feel woozy.

And chatty. Way, way too chatty.

That’s a slutty waist you have there, Princess.

And a pretty cock.

Is it leaking for me?

Yeah. I’m wet for you.

Are you stroking?

Yeah, I’m touching myself. You?

“Mm, yeah, me too,” I say aloud. Fuck, I hate how stupid he makes me.

I manage to type and send a nearly-legible message.

Ye

And then I lose my faculties.

I flick back and forth from the dick pic to the photograph of his face as my fist works in earnest. I use the dick pic to amp myself up and the photo of his face to slow down. Deep, steady pressure finds me and attacks from all angles. My head tingles, and I swell and grow even thicker in my hand. I try to slow down to make it last longer. I flick to the picture of his dick. It’s too much. Too good. The pressure and promise of pleasure are irresistible, almost overwhelming. I’m already solid steel, hard as I can get, but I somehow get harder. I switch the pictures again, and my mind goes blank. Pleasure erupts and jets out of me in thick, hot waves. I come so hard I feel unsteady.

It’s only after I’ve cleaned up the mess on my chest and pulled up the covers that I realize I didn’t come to the sight of McGuire’s ass or the curve of his dick. I didn’t come to his pecs or even his thick, muscular thighs.

I came to the sight of his face.