Page 34 of Raspados & Regret

Fuck… think fast. “I’m taking a shit.”

Immediate silence.

Then my tío says, his tone disgusted, “Why would you tell me that?”

“You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for details.”

“Then leave me alone so I can finish.” Please for the love of all things holy… I need to come so bad it hurts.

He mutters something about me being uncivilized and walks away. I exhale so hard I almost laugh, then turn and look down at my phone.

Elías’s face is still there.

“Fucking problemático,” I whisper.

My hand starts moving again, and this time there is no pretending. No arguing with myself.

I think about Elías.

Only him.

His mouth. His thighs. His glasses sliding down his nose. His fingers sticky with syrup. The silver ball in his tongue. The way he looked at me when I told him to watch his mouth, like he wanted to find out exactly what I’d do if he didn’t.

I imagine pushing him against the back of the trailer after closing, and that’s what does it; my orgasm hits fast. Too fast.

It slams up my spine and punches the air out of me. I bite down on my cheek to keep from making noise, hips jerking into my fist as cum pulses out into the sink basin, splattering the porcelain and the bottom edge of my phone screen. The pleasure drags out longer than I expect, sharpened by the piercing, by the tension, and by two days of pretending I’m not crawling out of my skin.

When it finally lets go, I slump back against the wall, panting. My phone sits on the edge of the sink, and my cum hitting the screen must have woken it because Elías’s Instagram is up.

I stare at the ceiling.

“Great,” I whisper.

Fantastic.

Amazing.

This is super healthy. I came so hard I saw God, and God was wearing slutty little glasses. I clean up with paper towels that most definitely don’t deserve to be involved in my downfall. I wipe down the sink with disinfectant spray and a cleaning rag, then wash my hands. Splash water on my face and avoid my reflection for as long as possible.

When I finally look, I expect to see shame.

I don’t—I look flushed.

A little calmer and deeply, deeply fucked. It helped, but it didn’t fix anything.

If anything, it made it real.

My body knows now and is going to bring this up at every available opportunity like an annoying cousin with screenshots. I tuck myself back into my boxer briefs and zip up my pants. The crop top sits too high. My stomach is still showing. The happy trail is still there, dark and obvious, like it had a front-row seat to my bi-awakening crisis.

I pick up my phone, knowing I should close Instagram and get back to being a productive person. Instead, I stare at the follow button under his bio.

Absolutely not.

Following him would be insane, and still my thumb hovers.

Do not.