Yes, I know it’s him. No, I’m not angry. If anything, I’m simply curious. Curious why he would follow me. Intrigued by the potential reasoning for his watching me masturbate on a webcam. I may not have the answers yet, but I’m damn sure going to find out.
I’ve had my suspicions about the identity of Daddy McScnack for a while now. I never had anything more than a gut-hunch that my OnlyFans aficionado has been hiding things from me, staying intentionally quiet so I wouldn’t put two and two together, but it’s like that stupid poem Bubba always quotes: the truth will out. The moment I drew those cards, I knew it was Johnny.
Johnny is clearly Daddy McSnack. The cards don’t lie. My spirit guide Barbara doesn’t lie, even if Austin keeps telling me her presence is the early signs of a brain tumor. But what does Austin know, huh? Who gave him a doctorate in Spirit Guides 101?
The only reason I’m not launching across this table to scratch Johnny’s eyes out right here and now is because of that ass. My God, it’s a masterpiece. A walking work of art. I’ve fantasized about Daddy McSnack’s ass so many times, and now I know it belongs to Johnny of all people.
“You’re being very quiet tonight, Johnny,” I say. “Cat got your tongue?”
He shakes his head, eyes locked on the table in front of us, occasionally looking up at me with guilty eyes. Oh, he knows. This motherfucker must know I know, because why else would he be so goddamn awkward about it?
“Your hair looks real pretty, Ez,” Johnny says, but it doesn’t sound like it’s what he’s really trying to say. Obviously, my hair is cute. I look like Jem fromJem and the Holograms, of course I’m iconic.
I wonder why he’s so eager to shift the subject. Could it be he’s been a Naughty Nathaniel and decided to flash that fucking ass at me, thinking I wouldn’t track him down and shove my tongue inside it? Actually, that could very well be the case. Catfishing aside, Johnny’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, so I think I’d know if he was doing this for nefarious purposes, like stealing my content and showing it to human traffickers. God knows I’d never survive in a captive-rentboy-minus-the-renting situation where I’m placed on an auction table and sold off to the nearest sodomite. No. I’ve never heard Johnny lie about anything. It’s not that he’s some white knight who stands on honor, I just don’t think he’s clever enough to maintain falsehoods. It works for him, because his idiocracy is adorable. The man is a fucking himbo. All hot and sweaty with muscles the size of a Mercedes Benz, a bulge filling his jeans rather nicely, and a brain the size of a cashew, bouncing off the sides of his skull like a ping-pong ball with each step he takes. The same way his big ass jiggleswhen—
No. Now isn’t the time to picture quite possibly the juiciest ass I’ve ever seen. The fact of the matter is, over the span of almost two months, Johnny has been hiding in plain sight. An OnlyFans sleeper cell, snapping into action whenever it’s time for me to stroke my cock on a live stream.
In my defense, I’m not a complete moron. I sussed him out this morning, but it feels like part of me has questioned Daddy McSnack’s identity since the start. Of course, I didn’t know it was Johnny until we had an actual discussion, but still. I knew I knew him somehow.
“I’m going to message Daddy McSnack later,” I say, trying to gauge his reaction.
“You are?” Johnny swallows, his hands visibly shaking on the table. Fuck. He’s scared. Much to my surprise, I don’t want that. I don’t want to be the source of his fear.
“Yep. I’m going to ask him to send me another picture of his butt,” I say with an unwelcome smile as he dabs his sweaty scalp with a napkin. Before Johnny, I always thought bald meant basic. An eyesore meant for others to appreciate, because I sure as shit didn’t. But I appreciate Johnny. I appreciate the smoothness of his scalp, even though I haven’t had many chances to feel that smoothness for myself. I also appreciate his brown beard with slashes of impossible white, making him look like a baby snow leopard as he nervously sulks across from me.
God help me, I think I’m crushing on my catfish.
“It’s a really, really nice ass, Jonathan,” I say, my voice a little more whorish than the situation calls for. “I’m going to stroke my cock while I stare at it.”
His breathing quickens. “You are?”
“Fuck yes. I’m going to imagine swiping my tongue between his cheeks.”
“Fuck,” he whispers, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I’m going to imagine sliding my tongue inside his asshole.”
“Oh, God,” he groans, closing his eyes, gripping the table hard. His hand is right fucking there. Calling out. Why the fuck is it calling to me? I don’t know, but it is, and it’s a call I can’t deny. So, I reach out, and I fucking take it, squeezing, but not too hard. He jerks his head up and stares at me with these big, wide, beautifully confused eyes. “Ez?”
“It’s fucking stunning, Johnny, and he should be so proud of it.” I lean in closer like I’m trying to make it click for him. Do I want him to know I’m aware of his identity? I hate how nervous he is. I don’t want him scared right now, so I stroke my thumb across his knuckles. “It’s the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen. Can I play with it?”
Before he can get a word out, even though he looks a little speechless, Bubba approaches from behind Johnny, holding two coffees and this frilly frou-frou drink with whirls of pink and orange syrup drizzled against the plastic walls of the cup.
I take the drink, eyeing it curiously. “What is this?”
“They call it The Barbara Eden.” He holds up his receipt and squints his eyes, reading aloud, “With accents of raspberry, rose, and butterscotch. I don’t know what the fuck that has to do with the lady from Bewitched—”
“I Dream of Jeanie,” I correct him, rolling my eyes when Johnny stares at me in awe, I guess, for knowing who the hell Barbara Eden is. “I’m gay. Pop culture is etched into my DNA. Stay mad, straight boy.” I take a sip from my straw and practically bust a nut. I could probably do without the rose, but the raspberry and butterscotch mingle surprisingly well, and I make zero effort to stop the whine from crawling up my throat.
“Well?” Johnny asks. Instead of answering, I reach across the booth, shoving my straw in his face.
“Johnny. Dear God. You have to try this.”
He stares at the glistening clear straw, stained pink with my gloss, then looks up at me. Much to my surprise, he closes his eyes and leans forward, relying on me to guide the straw to his mouth. Once his lips touch down where mine just were, he whimpers. Fucking whimpers! There’s an unbearable heaviness in my chest, like my heart’s swelling up against my ribcage. Johnny sucks and sucks, purring, looking more and more like that snow leopard cub. I can’t bring myself to scold him as I watch half my drink disappear. Totally worth it.
Since the booth they seated us in is round, Johnny and I are wedged pretty far back, leaving it impossible for Bubba to sit between us. He’s going to have to choose, and if he chooses Johnny, it’ll just about break my heart. I stare at Johnny, and he looks just as worried as I feel. I’ve often wondered if the sting of jealousy hurts him as much as it does me, but staring at him now, his hands shaking at his sides, I realize it must. It’s undeniable. Every emotion running through me is painted on his face.
I can’t stop myself.
