Kate and I have been best friends for six years. I’ve been out for a decade, and she’s thankfully never tried to talk to me about her heterosexual sexcapades, until today, that is.
“Things are going really great with Ben,” Kate said about the bearded hipster man-child she met on Tinder a few months back. “Oh ok… I mean uh, yes, that’s great. I’m so happy for you.” I chuckled while trying not to gag, thinking of that pool party where I had accidentally walked in on him wearing only a bath towel around his waist. There were so many hairs in so many places.
Sometimes I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it. I’m not sure how she knows about the hair in weird places and still wants to touch him. I mean… I’m trying to be understanding and inclusive of the straights, but there needs to be a line. Love is love, I guess, even if he has a big toenail that’s three times larger than what should be humanly possible.
“We had a really romantic night last night. Not to brag but I… uhh…came twice. “ SWEATY, NO. Please stop.
“Ben’s really come around on the whole birth control thing and never complains anymore about using condoms,” Kate told me, glowing a bit with what I assume was pride mixed with gratitude.
She went on to brag about how it lasted 20 minutes. He even went down on her before sticking it in. I mean that’s not how she put it, but that’s all I heard. She said the special underwear and a bikini wax worked like a charm. All I could do was shudder at the circus acts straight women put themselves through to get a man to go downtown, when I’d eat pussy for breakfast any day of the week.
She continued to tell me the details, of which I will spare your pure gay ears. Dear goddess, no. Why is this happening to me? Please make it end, was all that I could think to try to drown out the words that were coming out of my now ex best friend’s mouth. But it didn’t work; I had to hear about the stuff he did with his pointless nipples and square hips while I writhed in private agony.