Tell Me It's Real(54)
“Uh-huh. And what did you find?”
“So many things,” I muttered. “There are some seriously fucked-up people in the world. Then I started to get turned on and that scared the crap out of me, so I looked up regular porn like normal people.”
“Thank God for regular porn,” Sandy said. “Baby doll, please understand that I love you with all of my heart. I really, really do. But we need to take you shopping in the worst way. I’m pretty sure I just found corduroy, and I’m seriously reconsidering our friendship.”
“Hey, it made a comeback,” I said. “In the nineties.”
He waited.
“The early nineties.”
He waited some more.
“Okay, in March of 1992. But you know I have a hard time throwing anything away.”
He sighed. “I know. But I also know I’m going to turn on the TV one day and find you starring in an episode of Hoarders, and I’ll wonder if I could have done more to save you. By then, I’ll most likely be super famous and living in a palace with a harem of Iranian men who lick my balls whenever I ask, and you’ll be here with your piles and piles of corduroy. I’ll think fondly of you, but your memory would most likely be accompanied with mild disdain.”
“I hope your dreams crash and burn,” I hissed at him.
He probably wasn’t even listening. “Okay, you’ve got thirty minutes before he gets here. Go get in the shower, and I’ll figure out what you’re going to wear.”
“This was probably the worst idea I’ve ever had,” I said, looking around at the disaster that was now my room. “Why the hell did I say yes?”
“Because he was wearing a black jock strap while standing in your living room and you did absolutely nothing about it and this is God’s way of punishing you,” Sandy said. “You must be the only gay boy in the world that would have been able to resist that. If I were you, I’d give serious thought as to what you can do to rectify that situation.”
“It was really hard,” I admitted.
“I bet it was,” he said with a smirk.
“Not like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It was so black.”
“How big was his cock?”
“Sandy!”
“What? If I’m spending my Friday night digging through a closet that, if I didn’t know you I would have assumed belonged to a fifty-four-year-old Russian woman who works in a steel mill, then you can sure as shit give me some details!”
“It looked big,” I allowed. “And his nipple is pierced.”
Sandy made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Sweet Jesus. Baby doll, you know I’ve always been in your corner and I’m rooting for you now, but if you mess this up in any way, shape, or form, I can’t promise you that Helena isn’t going to swoop in and take him for her own.”
“You tell that bitch he’s mine,” I snapped at him.
Sandy grinned. “Territorial, hmm? Go shower while I sort through this mess. You have twenty-six minutes.”
I ran out of my room, tripping on a discarded pair of jeans (stonewashed, no less; why the hell was my closet an interdimensional portal to the previous century?) and almost running into the wall. I grinned sheepishly at Sandy, who just shook his head and muttered something I couldn’t quite make out but sounded suspiciously like “he better love you.”
I hadn’t actually spoken to Vince since I’d dropped him off at his house the day before. He had texted me a few times today, telling me a knock-knock joke that I still didn’t get and telling me he’d pick me up at my house at seven. I had asked him where we were going, and he told me not to worry about it, which, of course, made me worry about it even more. I told him it was important because I needed to know what to wear. He told me I could wear absolutely nothing and that would be okay. Then he started to try and get me to have text sex with him again and I told him that I had to go to a meeting, when in reality I was sitting at my desk, trying to figure out how to get rid of my boner. Speaking to customers on the phone when I had an erection was not the best part of my day.
I was only in the shower for a few minutes, almost slipping and falling when Sandy leaned into the bathroom and shouted over the water, “Do you need to trim your bush?” I screamed at him to get the fuck out of my bathroom and that no, my bush was perfectly fine. I heard him chuckling to himself as he went back to my bedroom, and I glanced down just to make sure my pubes didn’t look like they were Rastafarian. They didn’t, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t think I would be able to put a razor near my junk with how my hands were shaking, and asking Sandy to do it seemed to be stretching the boundaries of our friendship. Friendship should never be about asking your friend to hold your balls out of the way so you can shave your taint.