There’s a naked man standing over my bed. He’s holding a clear plastic pane in front of himself with one hand; with the other he’s, well, playing with himself like there’s no tomorrow.
I’m still half asleep, not thinking straight. I pull the blanket over my head, count to ten, lower it again.
The man is still there—only now he’s slowed his pace. He looks at me uncertainly, as if he’s not sure whether I can see him through his pane.
I swear under my breath. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hope I sound pissed off.
The man stumbles back a step, now letting go of his ding-dong and clutching his pane with both hands. “Shit! You…you can see me?”
“Fuck yeah, I can see you!” I exclaim, squinting in the semi-darkness. My memory’s a little hazy, but I think I might have added him from one of the gaming rooms—Robbie. His name’s Robbie. “Now answer my question: What the hell are you doing?”
“I…I thought I was invisible.” Robbie reaches behind himself, fumbling for the keyboard, trying to upload back home.
I get out of bed. I’m grossed out. You hear about pedophiles in the news all the time, but meeting one in person is a whole new level of yuck. “This is what you do with your spare time?”
“I didn’t touch you, I swear!”
“Damn right you didn’t!”
“P-please, this is a-all just a m-misunderstanding. I’ll just be on my way…”
The more Robbie babbles, the more I realize he’s just some witless creep who doesn’t know how to use his messenger properly.
“There’s no misunderstanding,” I say, putting a swagger in my tone. “You downloaded yourself—naked—into a kid’s bedroom. And you were masturbating. So, let me repeat: there’s no misunderstanding.”
Robbie hangs his head. “What are you going to do?”
I think fast. All sorts of wicked ideas pop into my head. “I’m going to compromise.”
He blinks, a tear trickling down his cheek.
“Let’s go to your place.”
* * *
Oh, God…so good.
He didn’t think I’d have this much fun with it.
“Oh, Robbie,” I swoon. “I’m going to drag this out for as long as possible.”
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I’m not some love-starved orphan eager to jump under the covers with any man willing to give me love. I’m simply starving.
Allow me to explain. My grandparents are fossilized idiots. They do everything by the book. What book? Damned if I know. The thing has probably yellowed and cracked and fallen apart with age (not unlike my grandparents). Everything I do is metered and measured. A structured environment. Hence the lock on the refrigerator—a lock. How fucked up is that? They’re so sure fat little Ernie Goodale can’t keep his hands out of the Cool Whip that they’ve padlocked it away, they’ve forced me to improvise—hiding Oreos in my closet, chocolate bars in my hamper.
This Robbie jerk-off…he too has forced me to improvise. So that’s what I’m doing. I lick my spoon, savoring every last smidgen of fudge. I bet Robbie wishes I was licking something else. The two of us—fully dressed—are seated at his kitchen table.
“We have a deal, then?” I ask, looking over the contract I’ve drawn up.
“Once a week—mango gelato. Sugar wafers. Nacho platters from Rubio’s—not that Taco Bell shit?”
He nods. I’ve got him by the balls—and I didn’t even have to take off my clothes to do it. He supplies me with snacks, and I refrain from going to the police. You can say I’m a jerk or an asshole or a severely misguided youth, but really I’m just taking advantage of a sweet situation. Robbie would have done the same. If not him, then someone like mullet Brian and his pranksters. So, no, I don’t feel the least bit “bad” about what I’m doing. I won’t be the victim.