Every gay guy has The Friend.
The Friend’s behavior is what some call abandoned, others call whatever, and what too many misidentify as careless—but this is what makes this friend The Friend.
We’ve all been there, accusatory eyes, cocked heads, furrowing brows directed toward him as he interacts with [insert random guy here]. We all know—or at least think we know—that he’ll be sleeping with that stranger. Bareback. That night. Or day. Begin the group gasp. Then the traitor-like smile we all return when The Friend comes back and asks, ‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’
And yet, it’s nothing but a deeply disgusting, unhealthy thing. And not what The Friend does but what we do. The Clean. Or the presumption of cleanliness (as godliness always is: presumed). Sitting there, putting on this facade that somehow advertises that we have never—never—engaged in what The Friend does and therefore judging his character silently in his head: ‘He could be cute but of course he isn’t cute because of… You. What I think I know you will do.’
Dude: coolest. Message. Ever. Feel free to reach out: email@example.com
Though I adore sexting—this brilliant mix of literary talent, imagination, and photography skills—there is one thing that is certain: me sexting you doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things.
It has no equivalent to anything in reality when it really comes down to it. It doesn’t mean we’re going to sleep together and it certainly doesn’t mean you’ve seen some intimate side of me. Curated images and text does not equate to reality.
This is nothing short of awesomeness.