After countless hours of lying in bed, unable to sleep due to my immense preoccupation with the conundrum that is B.Flow’s so-called-straightness... I’ve come to realize that I’m not of teh ghey.
I’ve disposed of my pink-feather-boa, everything that I own that sports a rainbow motif (I bid the fondest of goodbyes to my Care Bears, that picture of me from childhood with my Rainbow Brite stuffed doll, my carton of Skittles, and my boxes of Crayolas...); I’ve erased all the Elton John, George Michaels, Morrissey, and Madonna off my iTunes; I’ve tossed out my “fag”, “we’re queer, we’re here, get used to it”, and Boysetsfire one-inch buttons; I’ve taken down pretty much all of my posters, except for the Pearl Jam one; I’m painting over my purple walls with... I don’t know... pale yellow or... white... Yeah, white is definitely safe.
I’m calling off all Pride plans this year and every year from this day on...
Riley and I are just really good friends. We’ll kiss and make-out every so often. I’ll lean on him and dance with him all the time, still. But of course, the buttsecks has to go.
Blow-jobs and mutual jerk-offs should be fine though. As long as I close my eyes and imagine he’s not a dude.
See, I am a straight boy who writes slashy erotica/fan-fiction.
I just do not like teh cock. It’s so obvious. My entire life as a homosexual male has been a façade.
Everything makes sense again. And I think it may just allow me to continue life as normal, and not have to see the world as if I’m hung upside-down. All my dilemmas are solved. Everything makes sense again.