Creep, by Radiohead
The rest of the day passed by under a shroud of general malaise. Jeremy tried to enjoy their time together, the mix of weed and video games and Michael usually a small joy in life, but it all blended into a formless, grey sludge. When asked why he'd come over, or if he had any plans, Jeremy deflected. Lying to Michael twice in a day left him feeling dirty and uncomfortable, but it was certainly better then telling him the truth.
... I can never tell him what's going on, huh?
Jeremy kicked his door closed, throwing his backpack on the bed and collapsing beside it with a thud. Mr. Heere was out again; the therapy he'd started at the beginning of the year had already given back the energy he'd lost after She left, and Jeremy was old enough that an empty apartment wasn't a big deal.
Seeing his dad live again made Jeremy beam with relief (and a touch of pride), but with Michael behind a new disconnect, he felt distinctly alone. Baby oozed back into his mind for the first time since he left the basement, a corrosive burn beneath his skull.
Today was a bust. Somehow, he'd done just enough to isolate himself further, and now he had a new record for feeling worthless and abandoned. Pathetic.
Jeremy rolled onto his side, dragging an old chromebook towards himself. The metallic grey of its lid was covered by faded Artbubble stickers of copyrighted posters and obscure furry references, peppered with random nicks and scratches scattered about to give away it's age. He pushed it open as he sat up, before unlocking with his go-to password ( eraserhead99 , a constant after the 8th grade Lynch marathon).
Apparently, he'd left the browser open on his pinned Tinder tab. The pit of his stomach throbbed. He hadn't been out again since that night (in fact, he'd begun to consider deleting his account altogether), but right now...
Well, it wasn't like Jeremy had much else to do, was it? Every time he tried to engage an activity, the haze of discomfort presenting like a disgusting tackiness to his skin stealing his attention away. All he wanted to do was get through this, yet he felt seconds away from critical failure.
… his arm was itching again.
Jeremy rolled up his sleeve to expose a pale, oblong scar that ran along the underside of his forearm, starting just below the faded tendrils from the squip electroshocks. He thought he was past this, but with the throb growing insistent, he had no choice but to give in; his nails scraped down the length, pressure hard and steady, and the skin turned swollen and red seconds later.
Channel this, he thought to himself, a soothing whisper dipped in poison calling from the back of his mind. Channel the hurt, the depression, the crushing feeling of isolation; filter and purify your emotions. Use them, abuse them, forget you ever felt like anything but a fucktoy. A long list of strangers ready to fill this urge now sit at your fingertips. Why wait?
… Will any of them hurt me?
… Would that be so bad?
20 new messages. Jeremy felt his heart flutter; this feeling, of being attractive and desired , gave him a rush like power to the hungry. His mouth ached at the thought of being fucked raw, memories of tongue to throat and hand up shirt wiping his mind clean. It was hard to remember why he ever wanted to stay away.
His fingers danced faster than his mind. Before he had a chance to stop himself, he'd already hit enter on a dtf . He hadn't even looked at their profile; the preview photo wasn't offensive nor grotesque, and, at the moment, those were his only qualifications.
His skin buzzed. He waited only the time it took to pull up his itunes before he was already messaging another one, two, three-
-everyone.
He was messaging everyone he matched with, as the shrill vocals of Jimmy Urie drilled holes into his skull.
Fuck it. I'm doing this. The worst that'll happen is I have to turn someone down. That's not bad. I can do that. I need this.
I need this.
He really did. Jeremy could feel it riveting through every pore in his body; a desire wrapping tight around his core as a buffer for intrusive thoughts. He closed his eyes, letting restless lust wash it all away. Why think about Michael when you can fantasize about handjobs at the back of Denny's? He had better, more productive things to do with his time.
When Jeremy opened his eyes again, he'd already gotten several replies.
