A big one.
Because I still remember jerking off to the thoughts and very detailed mental images of him after practice, imagining him stepping out of the locker room showers,water sliding down that hot, muscular body of his—
My dick twitches in my pants.
Great.
Not again.
Not over Lex Rothwell of all people. Not over the douchebag who once said I had the personality of wet bread. And keeps calling me a loser and a dork, everytime we run into each other.
Why can’t I be like another other queer guy? Have a crush and inappropriate thoughts and fantasies on like, I don’t know, Chris Evans, or basically fucking anyone that would make much more sense.
But no. I’d like to psychologically torture myself, and think about a toxic, hot frat boy, who constantly bullies me, and shows off in front of everybody.
I force myself to breathe, to push the fantasies away.
Wrong train of thought.
Verywrong.
Back to the nightmares.
They’re always the same.
Always that same suffocating darkness, that same sharp scent of pine and cold air.
Always him – the figure at the edge of the woods. Staring at me from behind a tree.
A tall man, jeans clinging to his legs, black hoodie pulled over his head, and a mask.
Not some cheap Halloween shitty mask from Party City.
This one looks expensive.
It looks dark.
Sleek, matte black, full-face, skull mask – expressionless except for the faint, carved smile that shouldn’t look as beautiful and desirable as it does terrifying.
Like the kind of mask you’d see in those obsession-heavy MaskTok videos.
The kind that hides everything except intent.
He stands still at first.
Watching me.
Seeing through me.
Then he runs.
Full sprint.
Straight toward me.
And right before he reaches me –
I wake up.
