What's going on?

March 14, 2011
By , Los Altos, CA
I don’t really know what’s going on.
Just a couple hours ago, Sam was sitting on the armrest of my lawn chair resting her head against mine, her dark skin occasionally grazing my arm. She’d rub her hair against my hair and say something like “We have the same hair,” and I’d laugh and agree even though I know mine is darker and her’s is softer. The warmth of the fire radiated against my legs and her’s too. I started to rest my arm on her leg and it was great—so soft, like her skin was made of feathers.
It was the end of the night, and I didn’t really know what was going on. When it was time to say goodbye, the girls came and gave me hugs. They were firm hugs from beautiful girls. Then it was Sam’s turn. She came over, sat on my lap, her feather legs across my thighs. She wrapped her little arms around my neck and pulled her cheek toward mine. She said, “I love you.” And I laughed. I didn’t really know what was going on. She might’ve puckered her lips for me to lean in for a kiss, but I don’t remember. I thought about kissing her and seeing if her lips were made of feathers too. But I didn’t. I didn’t really know what was going on.
As my friends and I were leaving, I got teased.
“Why didn’t you hook up with Sam?”
I was silent. I looked around as my friends formed a circle around me, shooting questions and accusations like machine guns.
“Yeah, she was practically begging for your nuts.”
Still silent, I looked around for someone to defend me. But there was no one. I didn’t know what was going on.
“Yeah, are you gay?”
The question stung and it didn’t stop. Why didn’t I do it? Sam was everything I wanted, she was the ideal girl for me, and I didn’t pull the trigger. What was going on?

So here I am now, naked, sitting in front of my computer screen, and I don’t really know what’s going on. I couldn’t really tell you. All I know is I’m confused—very confused.
I’m getting up. I’m going to the bathroom. I’m grabbing a tissue. And I’m very confused. I’m going back to my desk chair, resting my naked butt on its fabric cushion. I’m staring at my screen. And I don’t know what to do.
Snoop Dogg stares at me from my desktop and he’s got a beautiful girl under each arm. I’m sure he wouldn’t approve of what I’m thinking of doing.
I’m dragging my cursor over the swimming-pool-blue letter “E” that represents Internet Explorer. The cursor quivers, vacillating back in forth between Snoop Dogg’s face and the Internet browser. Oh, what the hell. Click, click.
The application opens up like a book, and I type the address of my favorite porn site into the address bar. I’m not sure if I feel good about this; a pit in my stomach is telling me, and it doesn’t matter if it’s from a peach or an apricot or a cherry—only fruits have pits inside.
I select the search bar at the top right corner and I’m beginning to type my search.
I don’t know about this.
G-
I don’t know what’s going on.
A-
I’m not sure this is right; it doesn’t feel right. But I’m proceeding.
Y.
Before I can return to my senses, I slam my pinky down on enter. There’ll be more chances to turn back.
But I receive no time to think, as my search immediately yields results—thousands of them, maybe millions. I click the first video that comes up. I panicked, I guess. And now, it’s going to play. Now, there’s no turning back.
…It’s loading.
…Oh God.
…Uhhh.
…What’s going on?
…I don’t know about this.
…What’s he doing to him?
…Ew.
…WHAT’S GOING ON?
I slam the computer shut, silencing the deep moans and groans. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what was going on.





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