Sunday, January 15, 2012


"Been there, done that." My friend Jasper says this when we hang out in the library cafe, when he sees dudes he's fucked last year, dorky, wimpy, bookworm types. His Year of Spunk, he calls it. He points them out with a sort of weary indifference, like they had been too much work for what they appeared to offer, but not too big a deal to go into any details. Jasper is gay and I'd love to fuck his brains out. I'm attracted to him for a lot of reasons but mostly because of his name. Jasper. I whisper it to myself sometimes. I met him at McHenry for the first time three years ago, he had a stack reference books under his arm for this music theory class he was taking, which really got me going. I love books. Books and men together, even better. Three years later, we still hang out. I call him my best friend but never when he's around. I haven't done anything. I'm not one of those people who thinks they can turn someone straight. Like, when the fuck does that ever happen? I used to have fantasies that involved us fucking in the girls wheelchair stall on the seventh floor, him whispering into my ear, "You dirty book slut," me moaning "Jasper" louder and louder. Now my fantasies are getting gnarlier, they're evolving.  I catch myself imaging a Jasper with fangs, or back-hair, or midnight-blue palms that draw blood from my nipples. I don't know what it is, maybe cuz it's 2012.

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