Growing up in the middle of nowhere—a tiny town in what’s supposed to be the “free” United States—hasn’t exactly been easy.

It’s not just that there’s nothing to do—no places to go, no cool spots to hang out, barely anyone worth meeting. Job opportunities? Yeah, forget about that. But honestly, I could live with minimum wage forever. That’s not the real problem.

It’s the people. Or, better yet, the lack of people. Specifically, gay people. The nearest gay guy is at least 10 miles away, and that’s on a good day. So yeah, I don’t get laid much. And it sucks—really sucks—because I love men. I love everything about them. I love the way their tight holes grip my dick. I love the feel of thick cocks driving into me until I can’t walk for days. I even love that musky, sweaty scent around their dicks and armpits. But only when I bottom—otherwise, I prefer my boy smooth and smelling clean.

Too bad none of that exists around here. The only sex I get is on vacation, maybe once or twice a year if I’m lucky. And that’s a problem—because I’m a very horny guy. My dick likes to stay busy. I jerk off at least three or four times a day. Every day. No exceptions. I wake up? I start stroking. At work? My lunch break is 30 minutes, but I finish eating in five, just so I can spend the rest in the bathroom cumming. Too bad it’s not down one of my coworker’s throats. They’re old, sure—but beggars can’t be choosers, right? Then I jerk off when I get home, and maybe once more before bed if I’m not too tired.

If I could turn this off, I would. I don’t enjoy being this worked up all the time. And having a big dick? That just makes it worse. It takes me forever to cum, so I end up wasting hours jerking off. I just want to fuck someone already—literally anyone who offers himself up, as long as he’s a guy.

And the cherry on top? This town isn’t just small—it’s conservative as hell. If anyone comes out around here, he might not make it through the week. That’s just the reality. Maybe I should’ve thrown a trigger warning in there, but it is what it is.

I’d love to move, but it’s not that simple. No skills, no money for college—thanks, America. The only way out might be finding someone to hook up with and crash at their place. Kill two birds with one stone: get the sex I’m starving for and a roof over my head.

The only friend I have left from high school is Avery. Everyone else? Gone. We swore we’d stay in touch, but that didn’t happen. Hell, I don’t even remember their names. It’s been, what, three years? Honestly, I don’t care. They were shallow as hell anyway. But if I had to choose between this loneliness and their fake-ass friendships, I’d pick them.

Avery’s different. He talks—a lot—but not just to hear himself speak. He remembers what you say, picks topics he knows you’ll care about. And even after he went off to college, we stayed in touch.

Speaking of touch... God, I want to touch him. Everywhere. In every filthy way imaginable.

Physically, we’re total opposites. I work out—got a six-pack and some decent muscle to show for it. Avery? He’s tiny. I hate calling him skinny because it sounds negative, but yeah—he’s skinny. And so fucking hot. I just want to tear off that oversized shirt he’s always wearing, yank down those tight blue jeans, and throw him on the bed. I want to fuck him senseless. Metaphorically speaking... or not.

I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about that little twink. It’s ridiculous.

I’d tell you what I want to do to him in details, but that means I’d spoil the story for you, because all my lustful desires came true.