Existential Head.

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You’d like it, but you don’t really need it.

And he’s cool, but you don’t really like him.
He’s pretty, but he’s not all that pretty

You’ve met him before but don’t really know him.

But still you two get together at his dusty ass apartment. Hardly any furniture. A raggedy ass couch and a television on top of a dresser, that kinda shit.

You roll a blunt, but don’t really smoke much.
He pours something to drink, and you don’t really drink much.
He puts on a movie y’all won’t really watch

’cause y’all settled on watching something neither of y’all care about.

Fake watching,
Fake caring,

Almost out of nowhere,

Without warning, he pulls out what he’s packing beneath his faded boxer briefs.
Long and thick, half-hard;he kinda thought this out, but not really.

But what the fuck are you gonna do? Ask him to put it away? Leave?
You didn’t come here to watch this damn movie, no way.

You pull yours out too.

Play with it a bit.
Get it to stiffen up.

Watch him play with his and he watches you play around with yours.
Soon, he’ll play around with yours and you’ll watch him as you play around with his.

It’s all light stuff, nothing you couldn’t have don’e yourself at home, but there you are , and here he is, and in what seems like a split second, and an assertion instead of permission, he wraps his eager lips over your almost hardened shaft.

And you just go with it.

You didn’t really want it but who the fuck turns down head?
There are other things you could have been doing right now, this isn’t your best use of time. While he’s there salivating on your semi-excited parts, you consider those things.

There’s homework you’re behind on.
There’s a test you wont be prepared for.
You compare this head to the kind you got back when you were with what’s-her-name. She was good, but you weren’t feeling it.

And so you thought you should try it with guys.

Not that you’re gay or anything, fuck that, not that there’s anything wrong with it, you just aren’t.

You’re figuring shit out. We all are.

And you don’t like guys, you just like the sex, and not this sex specifically, but you’re sure you’d find someone, some guy even, to have the sex you’d like.

A year or so before what’s-her-name, it could have happened. You found a guy, didn’t know him well, exchanged messages, and pictures. He was lowkey, but cute – nice smile, good features, you remember him? You two texted everyday for a week and a half. You thought this made sense. you wouldn’t marry him or nothing. The two of you could just stay low and build together. Keep the world out of your business.

By the second week, the texts stop coming in as fast and by the third, you weren’t texting at all.

You texted him when you relationship with what’s-her-name fell through; that shit wasn’t gonna last anyway.

He didn’t respond to your text.
You text again a week later.
Nothing, still.
You text him a month after that.
Not a goddam thing.

You’re confused as hell, making sense of shit as best as you can. What the fuck happened? The two of you hadn’t even fucked yet.

So you try and fuck everything else. You fuck anyone who responds and always plan it before the end of the week.

And so there you are, on someone’s raggedy ass couch. Their head bobbing up and down between your legs.

Your head is anywhere else.

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