You go out on a Thursday night on a whim. A message from a past roommate brings you to a campus bar for drinks. You have work early at the before-school program in the morning, but it’s okay, you’ll only be out for a few drinks, in bed by ten for sure.
You buy a round, he buys a round, you buy a round. You buy another drink when you run into your favorite coworker from the library. You buy another when you run into a coworker from a media relations job over the summer. Your coworker from the summer is named Emmie. She’s fun and pretty and you can talk about boys with her, so you decide to accompany her to a nearby bar.
It’s past ten, but you’ll just have a few more drinks, you’ll be in bed by eleven.
At the bar Emmie points out a boy she thinks is cute. He is, a boyish, dark-haired, slender silhouette, dancing his heart out with his girlfriends.
“He’s hot, you should talk to him,” Emmie says.
You mumble something about his dumb ass skinny jeans and assume the discussion is over.
After excusing yourself to the restroom, you return and Emmie pounces you in a burst of excitement.
“Justin,” she says, gesturing to the boy in the skinny jeans who is standing next to her, “This is…” and she says a name that you’ll forget by morning. Emmie leans into you and whispers, “He said you were hot.”
Oh my God Emmie I’m going to kill you.
You decide to go with it. Your flirting could use some work and besides, you’re only going to be here for like, one more drink anyway… maybe two. You admire his jawline and his dimples and his hair.
After introductions and small talk, he says, “I’m so drunk.”
He says, “I got these drinks for free.”
He says, “I just broke up with my boyfriend of a year on Sunday.”
Emmie I hate you and I’m never talking to you again. Christ.
Maybe you’ll fuck him just so he shuts the hell up. He suggests talking outside, which you discover is an excuse to smoke.
It’s like you read a manual, “Shit that Makes Justin Not Want to Make Out with You.”
He goes on and on about how he broke up with his boyfriend of a year and how he’s so over it, how he gets free drinks everywhere he goes.
“They call me the King of Twinks,” he says. Apparently you’re in the presence of royalty.
I hate you and Emmie and everything right now.
“The other week a bar paid me to be there.”
Yeah… um… that actually doesn’t make sense and is almost certainly a lie, but I feel like you need to believe it so I’m not going to call you out on how that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
He wraps his arms around your shoulders and presses himself against you, his face lingering too close.
The King of Twinks, tight-bodied and cute and completely disposable. You could take him home, fuck him senseless (which is very possible, considering it would take you forever to get off with someone so easy to forget), and drop him off the next morning on the first street corner you find.
You think back to January, about the man who shared your name who was charming and handsome and capable of keeping up with your banter, and regret not going home with him. What was your reasoning for that again?
“I’m so drunk. I don’t even know what’s going on,” the King of Twinks says, his ash-laced breath getting trapped in your mouth, “Let’s get another drink. I drink for free, you know.”
Your cock wouldn’t be able to taste the smoke in his mouth.
You think about work the next morning and one of your favorite kids (Oh parents? Teachers always have favorites), the one you always joke about kidnapping, raising as your own for a few years, and then giving back to his mom when he hits puberty and becomes an asshole.
The King of Twinks has no business in your imaginary home. He’d leave his free drinks and cigarettes all over the house. Your kid’s real mom would be so pissed when you returned him and she discovered that not only did her son grow up to be an acne-ridden asshole, but a drunk one that smelled like ashes and butane.
“I have to go,” you say, “I have work in the morning.”
“Just go hungover.”
You look at the time and realize that you’re probably going to work hungover anyway.
You return the King of Twinks to his friends, unharmed and unfucked, and tell them to take care of him and that he’s so drunk. One of the girls gives you a warm smile and rolls her eyes at him as if to say, “That is so King of Twinks...”
On your walk home you find yourself hungry, but instead of stopping at the tempting Taco Bell on the way, you decide that if you’re going to work tired and hungover, you might as well stay up late and make something in your own kitchen. Your cooking isn’t the best, but you’ve been meaning to work on it, no better time than two in the morning when you have poor motor skills and work in five hours.
Because if you’re going to kidnap one of the kids from work and raise them as your own, they’re going to deserve some home-cooked meals.
And somebody who doesn’t fuck people who refer to themselves as the King of Twinks.
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