A Very Straight Retreat

It could’ve passed for a pre-game tailgate party—if the men milling around didn’t look like they were about to face a firing squad. And if even one of the car trunks was open, revealing the sacred trinity of beer, a cooler, and a glorious stash of snacks. Cheesy Doritos? No, wait—Tostitos Scoops with just a whisper of jalapeño and some thick, velvety queso dip. Mmm. Chaz realized he was starting to resemble the drooling emoji, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and rummaged through his backpack. He unearthed a KitKat bar. It had clearly seen things—half-opened, a little scuffed from the battlefield that was his backpack. One stick was gone. The other… mostly intact. Probably safe. Probably edible. Chaz was already lifting it to his mouth when he noticed the man to his right watching him way too intensely—while doing a terrible job of pretending not to. Chaz clocked the look instantly. He sighed, peeled off half the candy, and held it out like an offering. “Here.” The man gave a small, panicked shake of his head. “No, seriously,” Chaz said. “I have eaten. Recently-ish. I think.” “I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking,” the man muttered like a ventriloquist with a sore throat—clearly starving. “Well, I don’t remember that rule,” Chaz replied, matching the hushed tone, lips barely moving. “And anyway, I’m Chaz.” “Tony. But I didn’t tell you that.” “Okay, mystery man. I’ll just pretend we communicated telepathically. Very retro.” Tony chose to respond to this… by blushing. Hard. If he’d had five more minutes, Chaz would’ve introduced himself to the rest of the group—but that window slammed shut the moment two men appeared at the edge of the trail. They looked like they’d just raided the clearance bin at a “Spirit Halloween for Regretful Adults.” The store’s tagline practically flashed in neon behind them: “Not sure if you’re into public humiliation yet? Buy our costumes cheap and find out!” (Fine print: not intended for wear. Do not inhale. Do not ingest. Do not touch exposed skin.) Each man wore a cone-shaped hood that looked vaguely executioner-y—if said executioners had been styled by a drag queen in the middle of both a fiscal and creative crisis. They carried staffs made from sticks adorned with jingle bells, dead leaves, and aggressively fake emeralds. They stopped in front of Chaz. One silently grabbed his backpack and duffel. The other intoned, in a voice like a haunted vacuum: “Follow us.” “Mm-hmm,” Chaz managed, because anything more would’ve turned into a full-body laugh seizure. The mock-ceremony of it all was just too much—especially coming from two squat dudes whose mystical look abruptly cut off at the chest, giving way to flannel shirts straining over round bellies and cargo shorts that could comfortably store every belonging Chaz had ever owned. They walked for two minutes, during which neither of the men answered whether they thought the weather was lovely or when, for the love of carbs, lunch would be served. The guy waiting on the lowest step of the wooden porch was clearly the boss. His hood was red, unlike the black ones worn by the peasants. Chaz clocked it immediately. “Oh! I have seen those things before—at a party,” he exclaimed. “Didn’t recognize them right away because the rest of the costume was… different.” No one responded. Instead, the man in red asked: “What is your greatest fear for the next 40 hours?” “Okay, Mr. Saw, is that you?” “What is your greatest fear for the next 40 hours?” the man repeated, with zero humor and even less charm. Chaz actually had an answer—he was already living it: spending two days surrounded by people who took themselveswaytoo seriously. But he had a feeling that wasn’t the right response. “Not making any progress. Realizing I’m forever trapped in the sinful version of myself.” “Why are you here?” “Seriously? You mean to tell me you skipped my 3,000-word cry for help with metaphors and a climactic paragraph about my complicated feelings toward Chris Hemsworth?!” “Why. Are. You. Here?” Okay, so all laughter muscles were officially on a mandated weekend leave. Wait—what if they atrophy? Like, what if this sense of humor will be lost forever? “Fiiine,” Chaz sighed. “God, okay, if we must relive my tragic origin story… I want to become borrr… I mean, heterosexual. Totally, painfully heterosexual. Like, no more dicks ever. Except my own. That one’s grandfathered in, right? Or is that gay too? You know, you might be onto something. If you can’t touch any of them, maybe you really can be saved. Should we dump litter box crystals all over the bathroom floor to be safe?” “It’s an outhouse,” offered a black-hooded minion. He immediately earned a sharp look from his leader for ruining the vibe. “Oooh! Flashbacks to Boy Scout camp. Very vivid ones.” “Enter,” said the red hood, gesturing toward the door with his stick like a Walmart Gandalf. “Thanks, Your… Radiance?” “Introductions come later.” Chaz nodded and stepped inside. The room’s decor was… startling. Every window had been blacked out with plastic sheeting—the kind you’d expect to find at a very bloody crime scene, right before someone chickened out and decided to reuse it at a slightly less bloody one. The tape job was almost straight, which only made it easier for Chaz to picture the so-called “guides” teetering on furniture clearly not rated for standing, clutching each other by the hips (strictly for safety!) while trying to wrangle rogue strips of duct tape into place. They had the distinct vibe of men whose arms tiredveryquickly. In the center of the room, chairs were arranged in a semicircle—hard, cruel little things that made Chaz’s ass hurt just looking at them. If he’d known in advance, he might’ve eaten an extra ten pounds—strategically, right onto his own damn cheeks. In the corner: a sink (suggesting there was plumbing after all), a table with a clock facedown, and a water cooler. There was also a massive Bluetooth speaker and a folding screen blocking off part of the room, possibly hiding more decor… or a hostage. One star max—and only for the location. The nature outside was stunning, though Chaz had no desire to explore past the parking lot. One by one, the other participants filed in, settling stiffly into their seats and doing an admirable job of pretending they weren’t terrified. Chaz tried to offer a warm, encouraging smile—both to the group and individually—but no one met his eye. Once all ten were seated, the lights went out—which immediately revealed a constellation of pinholes in one of the plastic-covered windows. Chaz had a brief urge to find a pattern in them, but was interrupted by a sudden burst of drumming from the speaker, followed by a trumpet, and then something else he couldn’t name but mentally labeled “vaguely Indigenous-sounding.” One of the guides burst dramatically into the room, now minus his hood and swaddled in a gray fleece blanket. He flung himself onto the floor in front of the group and began rocking side to side. Without warning, he launched two rubber duckies over the heads of the seated participants. Then came the slam of the door—and in stormed the other two guides… wearing baseball caps with rubber duckies glued to them. Chaz slapped a hand over his mouth, but the hysterical laughter still leaked out. And when the leader (now clearly the mother duck, as the plot thickened) finally rose from the floor, he left behind a large plastic egg. It deserved applause. Chaz was absolutely convinced of this. And yet, no one else leapt from their seat, clapped enthusiastically, or shouted “bravo.” “No, but seriously, will you look at that egg? I mean—I’m pretty sure this thing is bigger than a Distractor™! I need a moment to let the warm wave of admiration wash over me while I rethink everything I know about anatomy.” Silence. Either these people encountered ankle-thick butt plugs on the daily… or they were stunned into reverent awe. Chaz sat back down, unsupported in every sense. Meanwhile, the performance had moved on to the dialogue. “What are you?” asked the astonished duck mother, clearly pretending not to recall her one-night stand with some migratory drake from the pond next door. “But let’s not judge the shell. Let’s wait and see what hatches.” Sadly, the hatching wasn’t shown in detail. Mother Duck and the egg vanished behind the folding screen, and soon after, only one duckling emerged—along with their parent and a third character, dressed in rags. Credit where credit’s due: the performers cared about continuity. They explained that Duckling No. 2 had gone off to camp, which is why he wasn’t present. The newcomer, however, immediately became the target of ridicule, mockery, and what felt suspiciously like spiritual ostracism. His main offense? Being ugly. After another ten minutes of vague symbolic drama, the duck family was publicly disgraced. The central character, who was apparently the actual protagonist all along, changed into a white sheet, performed an emotionally earnest—but deeply uncoordinated—dance, and seemed to fly off into a bright and better future. And still, not a single clap. Chaz couldn’t let it stand. “No, seriously? Do none of you have a heart? You can sit there, unmoved, after having witnessed that beautifully subtle commentary on the triumph of otherness over mediocrity? I didn’t expect to see something like this here, but I am genuinely impressed! And you even resisted falling into the sin of imitating Matthew Bourne—which, let me tell you, is no small feat!” “Thank you,” said the leader, now back in plain clothes and lowering himself into a chair. “I’m Kevin. That’s John, and that’s Jake. We’ll be your guides into the world of normalcy. So… what did you see in this?” Chaz jumped up before anyone else could beat him to it. “Hi. I’m Chaz, and I’m gay. Capital G. Fully, entirely, irreversibly. My thumb and my earlobe are just as gay as my brain and the curve of my lower back. My parents almost named me Chastity.They were this close.The only tiny problem? I love dick. I can’t even say the word without getting a little… choked up. You get it, right?” Everyone pretended they absolutely did not get what he meant. “Not that I don’t love everything else, too! Burying your face between powerful pecs? Yes, please. Endless tongue-time on a sculpted torso? Wrap it up, I’ll take two. I love a showy six-pack, sure. But the quiet confidence of a belly that hugs your lower back on the way down? Mmm. That’s poetry—pure poetry. But I digress.” “Anyway, I’ve realized all this is wrong. And I want to be free of this homosexual—if not downright Sodomite—obsession. As for your performance earlier: like I said. Powerful statement. I too believe minorities need support.” A thoughtful silence followed, during which it was extremely difficult not to sense a trace of longing in the air. Kevin finally shook his head, cleared his throat, and said: “Thank you… Chaz. But I’ll ask everyone to answer the questions more directly, and save personal revelations for a special section of the retreat we call ‘Moral Inventory.’” “Great name! Marketable, ominous, emotionally loaded—10/10.” Chaz gave him a big thumbs up. “Can’t wait.” “My name is Zack. And I’m looking for the path to the light and a happy life,” said the next man, as if the whole phrase were his official name now, assigned at rebirth. He hesitantly added that he believed what they had just witnessed was a metaphor for growing up and becoming a Man. “In a way, you’re right,” Kevin nodded, “but you see we’ve shifted a little from the original concept. It’s no longer Jack and the Beanstalk.” “Oh, wait—so some of you have done this before?” Chaz blinked. “My seventh time,” Zack sighed, like a man who both regretted it and had no plans to stop. Seven more hands went up. Third retreat. Fourth. Fifth. Zack was the reigning champ. “That is so interesting! And honestly, kind of inspiring. Means you love it here too much to quit.” No one had truly penetrated the deeper meaning of the performance, so John and Jake—now speaking in sync like culty PowerPoint presenters—jumped in to explain. It was an allegory, they clarified, about modern society’s rejection of the “good guys”—specifically white, cisgender men, and especially the heterosexual ones. The crowd (a.k.a. the duck family) turns on them, bullies them, tries to convince them there’s no place for them in today’s world. Through shame and propaganda, these men are “converted” into trans women, into gays, or at the very least into cross-dressers. But! Not all hope is lost. This retreat will offer support, and provide the tools to help you resist that fate—and remain pure in body and soul. “Wow. Wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years,” Chaz exhaled, wide-eyed. “Thank you so much for that creative and refreshingly unorthodox interpretation of reality. I feel like I just reread Charles Beaumont. I’m moved. Truly. Tears. Oh, all that propaganda turning us gay, right? Personally, I blame Hemsworth. That man alone led millions of guys off the straight path. And Robbie Velasquez—when I was in ninth grade and deep in an identity crisis, he had the audacity to walk past me shirtless… and wink. Do you haveanyidea what that did to me? I couldn’t leave the house for two days. Scratch that—I couldn’t leave my room. Between boners, I had like a five-minute window to make it to the fridge for water and ice. My wrist had swollen up for some reason. I missed volleyball tryouts because of that. And stupid Robbie? He never even said thank you for the two—or maybe twenty-two—times I blew him. He had the nerve to pretend he was doing geometry on his phone the whole time. Which… okay. That was hot. And honestly, fantastic practice. He had a dick that was just… just…” ahem “Chaz? Inventory comes later,” Kevin interrupted, to the visible disappointment of the room. Another musical sting played, followed—rather abruptly—by the announcement that it was time to address the figure of the father. To make peace with him. And to stop looking for him in other men. There was nothing funny about this one. The fathers in the room had been… diverse: some uninterested, some interested but never satisfied; some were suddenly proud of their child, just once, on a cold day in February—and never again; some violent; some gone entirely; some always home because they didn’t work; some completely disengaged, others controlling every breath. Some were long dead. Some were never known. Chaz asked for a tissue—his things had been taken away, and tilting his head back wasn’t cutting it anymore. Most people spoke barely above a whisper. Even the guides didn’t avoid sharing their own stories. But John stood up, and as he went on, his voice grew louder and louder—until, three minutes in, he was screaming. It got to the point where it felt like the black plastic on the windows had been put up not to block the light, but to protect the glass from this. The room turned to stone. Chaz pressed his hands to his chest—because this was more powerful, more exquisitely performed, than the ugly duckling sequence. It took him a moment to realize… they wanted something from him, too. “My father?” Chaz blinked. “Oh, I don’t want to talk about him. He’s… a certain kind of man. And my mom? No better. “Can you imagine—neither of them ever judged me! I mean, is that even parenting? Picture this: you walk into your son’s room in the morning. You knock,you ask for permission to enter. And there he is, lifting his face from the pillow, and the pillow’s got this perfect imprint—eyebrows, lashes, cheeks… not a single patch missed. The little bastard went and spent twenty-five bucks at Dollar Tree, bought every bit of makeup he could afford, smeared it all on, and then fell asleep like that! “And what do the parents do? Mom doesn’t throw away the devil’s tools—no. She brings me makeup remover. Makeup remover! The horror! Everyone knows a real man’s face should never be touched by lip balm, let alone foundation. What’s left of masculinity after that? Brushed-up eyebrows? That’s the mark of Satan. “And my dad? No better. You know how he reacted to my coming out? He didn’t. Didn’t even choke on his coffee. Waited ‘til I was done with my monologue and the first wave of dramatic sobs, then asked if we were still going to get the oil changed. “They could’ve kicked me out. Saved my soul!” “Your soul can still be saved,” Jake assured him. “Oh! Right. I just remembered something,” Chaz brightens. “There was a year my parents didn’t adjust my allowance for inflation. "Although… in hindsight, not quite as dramatic as Mark getting his foot run over by a tractor. Still! I blame my parents for being enablers. It’s their fault that when I had stress before finals, instead of punching a wall or—God forbid—just pretending stress doesn’t exist, I went to my first orgy. “Now, did I enjoy it? Obviously. The devil never sleeps! Nothing boosts your self-esteem quite like a live demonstration of multiple people wanting you at once. I mean—two people can do more than one, that’s just basic geometry. As for what three can do to one…” he pauses thoughtfully, “that’s where I drew the line. I got the sense you don’t return to civilian life after that. Ever. “Anyway, I passed the exam. But people kept giving me weird looks because I refused to sit down.” “Break!” Kevin announced—almost panicked. “Let’s check out your rooms and have a snack. Everyone remembers rule number five?” “No shorts shorter than seven inches?” Alan guessed. “Shit,” Chaz whispered. “It’s not like I forgot that one, but there was a sale at Lululemon… and the sales guy said the five-inchers looked better on me. I didn’t even look at the threes, I swear.” “No, that’s rule seven,” Kevin sighed, adjusting his own shorts, which, of course, fell well below the knee. “No unbuttoning your shirt past the second button?” Seymour raised a hand. “That’s rule twelve,” Kevin muttered, shooting a quick glance at Jake who coughed and fastened his second button. Which, for the record, he’d been parading around undone this whole time. Like a total slut. “Limit fiber intake!” Igor lit up. “That rule’s been revised,” Kevin said. “We even have salad greens on the menu now.” The repeat participants brightened immediately and began buzzing like a PTA meeting with secrets. “Oh! There was something about socks,” Chaz exclaimed. “I remember thinking it was surprisingly wise.” “There is a sock rule: under no circumstances are they to be removed.” “Even when you sleep?” Elijah, the other newbie, looked worried. “Especially when you sleep!” John barked. “All temptations must be concealed. Same reason no tank tops—no one needs to see your armpits. And if you’re doing stretches and your nipples might even think about showing through your shirt? Layer up. Sweatshirt. Hoodie. Poncho if you’ve got one.” “I was talking about the ‘Absolutely No Sex’ rule,” Kevin cut in, finally realizing that at this rate, break would never happen. “Even with yourself?” Chaz asked. “Of course!” “Sounds reasonable,” Chaz nodded. “Nothing quite instills purity like twelve oversexed men trapped in one building, actively trying not to touch themselves.” “Riiight. Anyway,” Kevin cleared his throat. “We take the Code very seriously. So for now, head to your rooms, re-read the rules, and we’ll be by shortly to check your belongings. Please make them accessible.” He turned off the Céline Dion playing softly in the background. Room assignments began.

🥤😶📴

“Oh my gawd, is this a time machine?” Chaz blurted, pushing open the door labeled Chaz & Alan. “You can’t say that,” Alan muttered. “What, ‘time machine’? But come on, this place is practically a carbon copy of my old summer camp.” “Not that. The other thing.” “Gawwd?” “Stop saying it.” “Why? Is it a blasphemy thing?” “No. It’s on the list of non-heterosexual words.” Chaz paused in the doorway, one hand still gripping the knob, eyes wide. “I… wow. I didn’t realize words had sexual orientations. Do you have the whole list? I need to know what turns my sentences gay.” “You do realize I can’t say the forbidden words out loud?” Alan replied, already busy unzipping his duffel and starting to unpack onto the lower bunk. The room was aggressively barebones—two beds (stacked), two chairs, and a couple of hooks on the door. The bunkness of the beds must’ve triggered the summer camp flashback. The window was completely bare—curtains, apparently, were too gay, and modesty was for sinners. Chaz dropped his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Well aren’t you a delight. I must’ve been blessed—sorry, I must’ve been strategically assigned the most experienced roommate in the building.” Alan looked up sharply. “You can’t say the D-word.” Chaz blinked. “I haven’t mentioned dicks once since we entered this somber chamber! Whose mind is dirty now, Mr.Let me quickly and smoothly insert my dick in the very first conversation with a guy I barely know?” “I didn’t mean that D-word,” Alan muttered. “I meant delight.” Chaz stared. ”Delight is banned?” Alan went back to unpacking. “Too… evocative.” Chaz paused, then raised his hands. “Okaaay. Avoiding adjectives now. All delight is banned. Message received.” “Say ‘okay’ in a more masculine way,” Alan added without looking up. “How? Through clenched teeth?” “No. Say it how it’s spelled.” “Ohhh… Om. Ff—” Chaz was rapidly devolving into a man who had either forgotten every known word or installed some sort of internal filter that had immediately clogged. Only fragments made it through: syllables, guttural vowels, maybe a consonant here or there. Then, without warning, he lightly slapped himself across the cheek—just enough to reboot—and dropped his voice into a cartoonishly low register. “Hey, asshole. What made you think the bottom bunk was yours? Grab your rags and get climbing. That sounds manly enough?” Alan didn’t even flinch. “Swearing’s not allowed.” “Of course it’s not!” Chaz groaned, throwing up his hands. “Fine. Silence it is.” He dramatically shoved Alan aside (gently, like a gusty breeze with a flair for performance) and began shaking out his belongings with great vengeance and even greater fabric softener residue. Alan watched for a couple minutes, uncertain, then finally offered, “People usually let me take the lower bunk.” Chaz didn’t pause. ”…Because I’m… big,” Alan added, hanging his head slightly, still absently turning a pair of socks over in his hands. Chaz squinted down at him for a beat, then sighed dramatically. “You’re not big. You’re formidable. And that is a catastrophe, because you are, tragically, exactly my type. Try not to look so sexy all the time, would you?” Alan’s hands froze mid-sock. It was unclear how he planned to change them without removing the sacred first layer, which, per the Code, could never be parted from his feet. Was he planning to double up? Perform some kind of illicit sock transplant? “I—uh. I’m not…” he tried. “What, not able to turn it off?” Chaz asked, already throwing his duffel up to the top bunk. “Oh, trust me. I get it. You radiate this thing—it’s like redwood tree stability meets cornfield humidity meets combine harvester agility.” He paused. “And not a single adjective. I’m incredible.” Alan was now holding a T-shirt at full arm’s length, as though presenting it to a royal court or using it to block an incoming confession. “Just so you know,” Chaz added, flopping onto the mattress above, “I absolutely do not spend any time imagining that spade-like hand on the back of my head.” ”…What?” “Live your life knowing I have zero interest in discovering how hard you could crush my skull between your thighs until the only thing I feel is—” “Everything okay in here, boys?” Kevin asked as he nearly burst into the room, John and Jake trailing just behind. The first thing the guides noticed was the T-shirt being held out like a distress signal. It read: JESUS IS MY SAVIOR. So did Alan’s face, although his version was more Lord, help me! “Yeah,” Alan said flatly, eyes wide and unblinking. “All good.” The underlings were already rifling through the duffels and backpacks, checking under mattresses and pillows, cataloging every personal item like TSA agents with a moral vendetta. After inspecting the humble wardrobe each man had brought, they informed Chaz that they’d be confiscating one pair of shorts and a T-shirt they deemed a couple sizes too tight. “Are you serious?” Chaz asked, pausing mid-eye-roll and pretending he wasn’t a filthy size criminal, just a misunderstood man with curves and taste. “Fine. Do I have time for a shower at least?” Kevin smiled ominously. “You should be thinking about cleansing your soul, not your body.” “Are those… mutually exclusive?” Chaz blinked. “Wow. No, actually—that’s smart. I hate how smart that is.” “We’re taking this too,” John added, holding up a small tube like it was radioactive. “It smells like strawberries.” “And what are creams allowed to smell like?” Chaz asked. “Hands? Gravel? Burnt rubber?” “There’s a list of approved scents in your handbook,” Jake offered helpfully, already moving on to the next bag. Kevin held out his hand. “Phones.” Chaz hesitated. “There’s no reception here anyway.” “Unfortunately,” Kevin said, slipping into a tone usually reserved for bedtime threats, “people have found ways to use their phones even without reception. Some have been known to pre-load… inappropriate material.” Well. That was a solid argument. Chaz sighed and handed it over. Once the search party left, Chaz turned to Alan—who was still standing like someone had hit pause on his entire body. “You really don’t have to keep posing like that,” Chaz said. “I’m starting to think all of you shop at the same repressed cult tailor. The fabric is incredible—it doesn’t just hide erections, it probably stops them. Is this the same stuff they used to make World War I tents?” He reached out and gave the hem of Alan’s shorts a curious pinch, purely for research. One knuckle grazed Alan’s thigh for approximately a microsecond—just long enough to trigger full body flight. “I’m gonna go help with the snacks!” Alan yelped, bolting for the door. The snack spread had been laid out on a long folding table outside, covered in a paper tablecloth patterned with Easter eggs and cartoon rabbits—because nothing says “masculine healing” like festive woodland fertility symbols. They clashed violently with the birthday-themed paper plates—each one printed with a chaotic explosion of balloons in roughly twenty different colors. The food options included: slightly squashed sandwiches, unnervingly matte cheese puffs, a sad pile of pretzels with no dip, and chocolate Twinkies that looked like they’d been purchased in bulk during the Bush administration. To wash it all down? Dr. Pepper. Which, of course, made Chaz suspicious. He vaguely recalled a years-old ad campaign for Dr. Pepper Ten—something about it being “not for women.” Then he thought of the retreat’s rulebook. The parallels were becoming too strong to ignore. “Cheers to brunch, everyone!” Chaz declared, raising his (clear, plastic, aggressively gender-neutral) cup of soda. “That word’s not allowed,” John said, mid-chew. “You’ve got to be—okay, fine. Enlighten me, what’s the approved term?” “Snack break. Or, better—refueling,” John offered through a mouthful of cheese powder. Chaz stared at him. “You guys have so many forbidden words. Aren’t you worried you’ll start mixing them up with the banned, the bejeweled, the stray ones?” “Of course not!” Jake snorted. “You just listen to the word. If it sounds feminine—or makes you think of anything unmanly—you don’t say it.” “Hmmm… I should try it,” Chaz murmured, glancing around. “Like, this path—path sounds suspicious already. I’ll just say trail. And butterfly? Absolutely not. It’s an insect, that’s it. No names. Flowers, I assume, are persona non grata too. And when you talk about the wind, don’t describe it unless it’s a gust, because apparently words like breeze are coded for gay.” He paused. “Oh no,” he whispered, eyes widening. “This whole situation is starting to sound like a musical number. Someone stop me before I start singing!” He grabbed John by the arm. “Quick, do you have a way to snap me out of it? Slap me? Splash water on me?” “There’s no need for that,” Kevin said, stepping closer—and exhaling a breath that smelled like hard-boiled eggs and deli-grade ham. He leaned in, solemn and sincere. “Temptation is leaving your body,” he intoned. “You are a man. You are the man who believes only in the union between man and woman.” “I love pussy,” Chaz said, eyes closed like he was reciting scripture. “Big fan. By the wa-a-a-ay—sorry, I mean, by the way—” “No,” Kevin interrupted, fast and firm. “It’s refueling time.” “Fine, I’ll finish that story later,” Chaz sighed. “But I have a question—are we getting a therapist? Because I don’t know about the rest of these guys, but I’m long past due for someone with a clipboard and a couch to tell me I’m not special.” “Excellent question,” Kevin said approvingly. “That’s exactly what’s coming after the break. Since none of us are formally trained, the next section will be led by a licensed psychologist.” Chaz looked around, scanning the trees. “And where are you hiding him? Is your very certified psychologist about to crawl out of the bushes… or parachute in from the empyrean sphere?” “You’ll see,” Kevin said mysteriously.

📺📼📝

They first saw it as a distant silhouette—then watched in real time as Kevin wheeled out a rattling AV cart topped with an ancient box TV. Everything at this retreat seemed to conspire against Chaz’s sense of temporal stability. Another flashback slammed into him like an overripe cheese puff. For a moment, he was back in ninth grade. Any second now, Mr. Cavanaugh would hit play on Glory for the fourth time, ignore the class’s polite reminders that they had, in fact, already seen it three times, and vanish toward the door with a dramatic, “I’ll be in my office. “We’ll discuss the takeaway next class.” Even then, VHS was already vintage. And now? Clutched in Kevin’s hands, the tape looked about as relevant as a Sumerian clay tablet. The form, however, was not nearly as outdated as the content. The man onscreen introduced himself as Professor McKinley, and looked like the living embodiment of 1890s Texas. Like if a barbershop quartet got a minor in theology and a restraining order from modern psychology. He launched into a passionate lecture about the very latest developments in psychology, which, shockingly, proved beyond all doubt that there were onlytwogenders and only one acceptable orientation. Everything else, he declared, was the work of the devil—or worse, liberals. His main, rigorously scientific argument went something like this: “For six thousand years, the traditional family has consisted of one man and one woman—for life. This model is ideal. It has worked for millennia. We must not allow it to be destroyed. Homosexuality doesn’t exist. It’s a social construct. A deviation. A manipulation. No sex outside of marriage—and just to be clear, by marriage I mean the union of one man and one woman, one time only, till death do them part. There is no joy, no fulfillment, outside of this sacred bond. Anything else is self-delusion.” To keep things spicy, the video also included a skeptical journalist who asked dangerous, radical questions like: “Does the Bible actually ban homosexuality?” and “Are there any studies that support your claims?” Professor McKinley, with the cool authority of a man who had definitely tried to exorcise a dog once, responded: “Studies aren’t necessary. Just look at gay sex—none of it makes sense. The parts don’t fit. It’s basic geometry.” “Prep, bro! Just give it a second and it’ll slide right in,” Chaz thought—orat least he meant to keep it non-verbal. He’d been having such an animated internal dialogue for the past twenty minutes that he barely noticed when bits of it started leaking into the real world. Apparently, that last bit? Not as internal as he’d hoped. “Sorry, what?” Kevin asked. “Nothing! Nothing at all,” Chaz said brightly. “I was just speculating that our esteemed professor has probably never seen gay sex. Or any sex, honestly. I’d be happy to volunteer my time to walk him through the basics. Public service and all.” He glanced around. No one laughed. Not even a smile. Tragic. “Actually, it’s kind of amazing how many people don’t understand what to do,” he continued. “One time, during yet another fall from grace, I met a man who had only just, at forty-five, decided to give in to his sinful urges. He honestly thought you could just… walk up and insert. No preamble. No prep. Gurl. Under what rock had he been living?” Several of the men glanced around at each other—hesitantly, sheepishly—apparently wondering if, in fact, they had all been under that same rock. “I had to stop him and give an actual lecture. And I was really strapped for time time! But what can I say, I’m too generous. I was going through a charitable phase that year.” He paused, then added with a sigh, “Of course, then I found out he wasn’t even a top. Classic. The charity at that point was borderline saintly. But again—my altruism knows no limits. I was like an entire pile of Good Samaritans.” He folded his arms, gave a pained little shrug. “A pile trying very hard not to think about how much Ihatetopping. Like—does anyone else feel like their dick is being wrapped in a wet towel and then twisted like a tourniquet?! Ugh! All I want afterward is a cold compress and a week off. It’s exhausting.” “Which only goes to show the unnaturalness of such relationships,” John cut in quickly. “Or,” Chaz said, without missing a beat, “maybe I just needed to date more experienced people—ones who didn’t treat sex like a cosplay of a hydraulic press and a vacuum sealer at the same time.” He put a hand to his chest and smiled sweetly. “But that’s all behind me now! My dick is safe. Vaginas are a very pleasant, very safe place. Like a cloud. Or a flower meadow. Not a single thorn in sight.” “That’s an excellent analogy. Let’s remember that one,” the guides nodded, scribbling like groupies at a motivational seminar. “I like watching clouds,” Aaron said dreamily. “And I enjoy walking through meadows,” added Dakota, with the energy of a man holding a butterfly he’s too scared to name. “Very good,” Kevin praised them. “Just don’t pick the flowers. And no selfies with them.” Everyone nodded solemnly, clearly aware that nothing could be more provocative than a daisy and a front-facing camera. It took them a moment to remember what the session had originally been about. They eventually finished the grainy VHS, and then it was time for the test. And it was brutal. No GRE had ever dared aspire to this level of ideological and academic rigor. Only a highly observant, steel-nerved individual could correctly answer question 1: How many genders exist? a) 1, b) 2, c) 3, d) 50. It got harder from there. Question 3 read: What constitutes a traditional union? a) One man and one woman b) One man and more than one woman c) More than one man and one woman d) Everyone decides for themselves “Yes, Chaz?” Kevin asked, pacing in front of the group like the results of this test would determine whether or not surgeons were getting licensed today. “What if fate leads me to a devout widow?” Chaz asked, wide-eyed. “You know, mysterious are the ways of the Lord and all that. Technically, I wouldn’t be her first man. Would that… cast a shadow on me?” “A shadow. On you,” Kevin repeated, pressing a finger to his eye like he was trying to keep it from physically leaving his skull. He took a slow breath. Maybe counted to ten. “Just answer the way Professor McKinley taught you,” he said at last. “We’ll cover the nuances later. During Womanship Studies.” “Ooh, sounds promising. Is that before or after the Moral Inventory?” “After.” “Right. Makes sense.” Chaz nodded, then quickly checked off the remaining answers on the test.

🍆🕯️🍑

Before the Moral Inventory, everyone was given an hour to reflect and write down their thoughts. They were dismissed to their rooms to do so in silence. Chaz and Alan set up the little table and sat across from each other… for about three minutes. Then one of them—let’s just say the one with strong opinions about proximity—started protesting. The laundry list of complaints included: knees brushing against knees, the unauthorized release of seductive energy (again!), and the looming threat that if said behavior continued, the entire group would soon be subjected to a sonnet about someone’s jawline, Adam’s apple, and shoulders instead of anything resembling a Moral Inventory. Alan’s face turned raspberry red. He yanked off his baseball cap in a desperate attempt to hide behind it, then fanned himself with it like a scandalized church lady. “You’re doing this on purpose!” Chaz snapped, jumping to his feet. “I’m not doing anything.” “You are! You’re sending your scent over here! I’m barely holding it together as is—if I crawl under this table and bury my nose between your thighs, that’s on you!” Alan chose to become a statue. A statue carved by an unusually emotionally intelligent sculptor—eyes wide, pupils blown, nostrils flared, and one bead of sweat slowly tracking down his forehead. “You know you’re going to have to write that down,” Chaz muttered, climbing up to the top bunk. “It’s supposed to be a full inventory, right? Want to compare notes afterward?” “I’m not—” “Not trying to explore the sacred temple that is my pelvis? Yeah, well, in these conditions, I’m not exactly trying either. But Iamreally good at it. Like, possibly the best of my generation. The most powerful of power bottoms—that’s what my headstone would’ve said. If I hadn’t decided to give it all up. What a loss for the world.” He paused, then peered over the edge of the bunk. “Are you okay? You look like you’re having an allergic reaction. Is it the dust? The room is kinda gross.” “I… have a cramp in my leg,” Alan mumbled. “Want me to work it out?” “No!” His voice cracked with pure, unmistakable panic. “It’s… already going away.” The lights in the room were dimmed, casting it into a twilight broken only by a single candle and a couple needle-thin sunbeams filtering through the punctured plastic sheeting. “Are we getting sensual background music too?” Chaz asked, the only one who looked remotely relaxed. Everyone else was hovering somewhere between mild dread and please let the floor swallow me whole. “No,” John replied curtly. “This is a key moment in the retreat. We need full concentration and seriousness.” He set a lone chair in the center of the room. “Each person will have thirty minutes.” “Only thirty?” Chaz glanced at his neatly scribbled three pages. “Guess I’ll have to stick to the highlights. Is there a snack break scheduled?” “Yes. Today, only five of you will go through Inventory. Reminder of the rules: no interruptions, no comments, no reactions. These thirty minutes belong solely to the confessor—sorry, the man giving his inventory.” The speakers weren’t great storytellers. Honestly, the only reason their rambling even resembled coherence was probably because this wasn’t their first rodeo—well, retreat. The guides looked increasingly bored, perking up only when someone mentioned new or particularly recent fantasies, which were supposed to be included in the confession. For many, fantasies were all they had. Not that anyone was going intodetail.Even half-hidden by shadows, the men in the circle managed to deliver little more than Bible-scented euphemisms like, “I longed to know him as a husband knows his wife,” or, “I had sinful thoughts when our eyes met.” The only one with something resembling a plot was Elijah. His story featured a best friend, a long internal struggle, a confession of “inappropriate feelings,” and a soft rejection. That was it. When Elijah finished, Kevin asked gently, “And if he had felt the same way?” “I don’t know,” Elijah muttered, suddenly very invested in the study of his own hands. “But you understood those feelings were wrong?” “Something like that.” “Do you want to change?” “Yeah.” “So much motivation and clarity in that answer,” Chaz mumbled under his breath. “Look at yourself,” Elijah snapped. “Excuse me?! The moment I get out of here, I’m going to start terrorizing women left and right! With their consent, obviously. Strictly marriage-focused. Anyway—when’s my turn already?” Kevin sighed, already resigned. “Go ahead.” The group perked up before Chaz even reached the center of the circle. “So. You’ve already heard about Robbie,” Chaz began. “He was the first guy whose dick I saw outside of a fantasy—or a locker room. And the first I got to know… in detail. Deeply, even. Well, as deeply as I could at the time. Spoiler: a couple inches. He didn’t return the favor. Once he deigned to suggest we jerk off together, and even touched me—but his hands were cold, and I wasn’t into it.” “Senior year, I got a fan. A sophomore. Would not leave me alone. My locker started to smell weird because he kept shoving his sweaty little notes in through the vents. Truly cringe. But hey, at least his hands weren’t cold. Just sweaty.” A beat. “And that’s how I graduated high school a virgin.” The room stayed very still. “College was better,” Chaz continued. “Turns out I was kind of popular. First love, first sex, second sex, third sex. Also when I realized I’m not a top—stop trying to gaslight me, people! — first orgy…” He smiled like he was flipping through a cherished scrapbook. “By senior year, I’d learned so much. Like—there’s no such thing as an unfortunate dick shape. Just the wrong angle of entry. Also? Respect your instrument. Pro tip: figure-eights, big yawns, maybe hum a little Cher. Do that and your face hinge won’t cramp up mid-act like it’s protesting the patriarchy. And sure, being finished in is magical, divine, nothing else like it—but unless you know what to do with all that majestic gift afterward, the next 24 hours will basically be a write-off. So, I suggest experimenting first with the face, the chest, the stomach… the back, even. No bad options!” He was fully glowing now—swept up in memory, storytelling, and the poetry of his lived experience. “And so the devil tried to convince me I enjoyed all of that. Endlessly enjoyed it. And you know what? Despite all that amazing… no, incredible… let’s call it life-alteringly exquisite experience, I came to realize it’s not for me. Even though it was. Still is, honestly. I mean, if I look around this room, Idofeel like any one of your cocks might just be the right fit.” He folded his hands reverently. “And I might—perhaps arrogantly—believe that the moment that thick, pulsing flesh finally slides in all the way, it will feel like truth .Like purpose. Like destiny fulfilled.” He paused. “But then I’ll start moving and that’s when—” A strangled cough tore through the silence. Someone had either been holding their breath for too long or just choked on their own saliva. Kevin shook his head sharply, a bit too loud as he barked: “Is that all?” “Of course not! Do I still have time?” “Two minutes.” “Ugh, that’s nothing! Okay, okay, don’t panic—oh! Earlier today,I imagined what I’d look like riding Alan’s dick. That probably doesn’t qualify as a heterosexual thought, right? I think I should be quarantined in a separate room. Or honestly? Maybe just let me sleep in a hotel.” “There are no extra rooms,” John snapped. “The three of us are crammed together as it is! And obviously,no oneis allowed to leave the retreat grounds.” “Well… I’ll try not to think about Alan sitting on me and stuffing his dick in my mouth,” Chaz said, eyes skyward, like a monk trying to resist temptation. “Yes, please try,” Kevin muttered, clearly unconvinced of Chaz’s willpower. “Tonight’s group activity should help. We’ll be sitting around the campfire. Talking about women.” “Pure magic,” Chaz beamed. “You’ll be shocked to hear I actually havea lot to say on that topic.” No one looked remotely shocked.

🔥🪢🚺

After a brief skirmish over who should light the fire, the guides stepped in: “Guys, come on. Don’t fight — we’re all in the same boat. Draw straws.” It landed on Elijah. Elijah, who hadn’t even joined the argument — and didn’t know there was a fire-lighter role in boats, let alone that he might be it. He looked around helplessly. His eyes lingered just a second longer on Alan, who gave him an encouraging smile and said, “It’s easy. We’ll show you.” Everyone nodded. Someone ran back to the parking lot, and soon a full-blown display started forming next to the firewood — a pyromaniac’s wet dream: matches, lighters, torches, gas canisters, alcohol, paraffin cubes, cotton balls soaked in petroleum jelly, kindling, a hatchet to make even more kindling, dry moss, and a flint striker. For the first time all day, it no longer felt like the group was trying to breathe quietly, move soundlessly, or collapse inward into oblivion. Laughter broke out. There were approving back-pats. John and Jake tried to argue that this wasn’t supposed to be some elaborate production, that they just needed a fire, quick and simple — but Kevin stopped them. Left to their own devices, the future heterosexual members of society weren’t satisfied until they’d demonstrated to Elijah every single fire-starting method they knew — and insisted he try them all. Despite his protests — that he didn’t even hike, barely used a grill, and was clearly not meant for this life — they gifted him nearly everything he’d touched. There was a brief moment of collective regret that no one had the materials to make him a scout-style Firem’n Chit. Igor casually mentioned that he could probably do a tattoo with improvised tools. For some reason, Elijah declined. When the group began to veer into a spontaneous knot-tying contest, Kevin reminded them that they were, in theory, supposed to be talking about women and learning how to connect with them — so maybe it was time to sit down and get started. Someone muttered that knot-tying was technically relevant — marriages involved knots, didn’t they? Kevin pretended not to hear that. The general mood dropped immediately, but everyone obediently found a stump or a log and got ready to listen. Turns out, while the less attentive were caught up in the usual woodsy distractions, the guides had managed to drag out a speaker — and now ceremonial music was playing. From behind a tree, Jake appeared, holding out in front of him a cardboard cutout of a woman. It looked like it might have been Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch era — though it was hard to tell, since the cutout was badly faded and someone had apparently stuck a knee-length skirt and a floral top on it. “This,” Kevin began solemnly, “is a woman. The most beautiful creation of the Lord. A vessel of patience and wisdom, modesty and tenderness. She is the center and the foundation of the family. She is the soil in which the seed of future generations is planted.” “If you feel a certain tension in your loins right now,” he continued, “don’t be ashamed. Yes, this isn’t your wife, but as long as you haven’t fallen victim to lustful thoughts, all is well.” “We’re good so far,” Chaz said, speaking for the group. “Maybe we’re just out of range. Try bringing her a little closer?” “No can do,” said John, shaking his head. “One of them already caught fire in 2005.” “That was a witch,” Chaz guessed. “No — Brooke Shields!” John snapped, clearly offended. “Brooke who?” Chaz squinted. “Nope. Lost me. Anyway, keep going. So far we’ve got: woman equals soil and foundation. What else?” “There’s a notion spreading in certain circles these days,” Kevin continued, “that women can actually enjoy physical intimacy.” A few guys nodded — yes, they too had heard these outrageous rumors. “This is false,” Kevin said. “A woman submits to a man’s desire, but her nature does not include a genuine craving for erotic play. If your wife cries after intercourse or refuses to speak with you afterward, that’s perfectly normal. You shouldn’t be upset by it.” “Uhh…” Chaz raised his hand. “What if she doesn’t cry? What if she starts… the deed? I mean, like, proactively?” “Impossible.” “No, seriously,” Chaz continued. “I used to be a lot kinkier than I am now. And every now and then, things happened with women. Usually after a cosmo or an apple martini — though not always. Sometimes even stone-cold sober, if the mood hit right. And listen, I’m not saying my penis was always, like, the guest of honor. Sometimes things heated up so fast it didn’t even get a chance to attend formally. Still a good time.” “Those women were fallen,” Kevin insisted. “Hmm. I’m not thrilled with that phrasing, but I see where you’re coming from,” Chaz mused. “Ohhhh! I just had an idea!” “We will not be inviting fallen women to this event,” the expert in unfallen woman-soils warned preemptively. “No, that’s not what I meant,” Chaz said. “Look, if women don’t get exposed to good sex, they won’t want it, right? So — what if we apply the same principle to the rest of the group? Like, we add a practical component to the program — awkward, low-quality, clearly doomed-to-fail gay sex. I mean, that sort of thing didn’t stop me back in the day, but you all seem a little more impressionable.” “No,” Kevin said. “Right, of course,” Chaz nodded. “Take your time. Let it sink in.” “We’re not letting anything like that sink in,” Kevin snapped. “Ever. Argh. The next exercise is ‘How to Start a Conversation with a Woman.’” “Is that not the same as starting a conversation with literally anyone else?” Chaz asked. “No,” John said, looking entirely serious. “Women induce involuntary awe. Which can be misinterpreted as fear.” “Ah, right. Can’t believe I didn’t take that into account,” Chaz muttered. “Pay close attention to the demonstration,” Kevin said, gesturing toward Pamela — whose expression, despite being two-dimensional, clearly conveyed a desperate desire to fling herself into the fire and end the cringe. Jake turned the cutout to face John. John stepped up, waved awkwardly, and mumbled, “Hi. How’s it going?” “Thank you, pause,” Kevin said. “Now — who can explain why this was the correct approach?” “Because that’s how 99% of people say hello to literally anyone?” Chaz guessed. Incorrect. That was clarified immediately, and Dakota was given the opportunity to answer instead — which he did with honor-student confidence: “This demonstrates interest and isolates the woman from the crowd of others like her.” A gagging noise came from the circle. “I’m fine,” Chaz said quickly, raising one slightly trembling hand to show he wouldn’t faint. “Probably just too many Pop-Tarts. Definitely not the mental image of a room full of identical cardboard women. Though hey — thank you for not using rubber ones, I guess?” “Next, you need to establish shared interests. Observe.” “What’s your favorite Bible verse?” John asked Pamela, deploying what was clearly considered a courting tactic. It wasn’t the only suggested pick-up line — not at all, don’t worry. They also recommended asking her how much she liked Ben Shapiro, which Rob Schneider jokes had really stuck with her, and what her favorite Lee Greenwood song was. Right after that, they called for a volunteer to practice. It was painful to watch — made worse by the fact that Jake, for some reason, wasn’t voicing the woman’s responses, leaving Pamela to embody complete emotional unavailability. The group’s enthusiasm faded by the second — as did the fire, which now looked dull and strangely cold. “Duuuuudes,” Chaz groaned, finally breaking. He’d been trying so hard to look away that his neck was starting to ache. “John, Jake — and especially Kevin. We’ve seen what you’re capable of on stage! You came at us like you’d just graduated from the Lee Strasberg Institute, overflowing with method and passion! And why? Because you had a real scene partner and a clear acting objective! We cannot do this with cardboard. It’s impossible. We are all doomed to fail.” “Next time, we’ll try inviting someone from the community,” Kevin said, chewing his lip. “Next time?! What about now? What if I encounter a real woman the day after tomorrow and I’m not properly armed with the right techniques?” “You said you’ve already… had some interactions with women,” Elijah offered, with a smirk. “You got me,” Chaz sighed. “It’s not about me. I’m just concerned for the others. So fine — I volunteer as tribute. I’ll play the role of a human woman.” “Absolutely not,” Kevin said, crossing his arms. “Oh, come on! I’ll commit so hard you’ll forget it’s me. You’ll think I’m Miss Rebekah Goodman — blonde miracle, purity ring enthusiast, practically still damp from the Mayflower. She’s never known suffering or sin, but she’s already prepared to give birth to eleven children by the stove, without ever taking off her bonnet. She supports you unconditionally, churns butter by hand, and wakes up with her hair already curled and a touch of makeup on. Come on! You know there’s a braid wig and an apron lying around here somewhere.” “I’ll be right back,” Jake said, dropping Pamela where she stood and running toward the main building. “But if I sense this going off the rails, I’m stopping it immediately,” Kevin warned sternly. “Of course,” Chaz said. “Anyone got a multi-use pencil? No? Fine. We’ll go without makeup.” With the arrival of Miss Goodman, things became noticeably more productive. She never stopped smiling — warm but never suggestive — fluttered her lashes just enough, and maintained a tasteful, rosy blush. The gentlemen occasionally improvised beyond the script, asking about not only comedians and musicians, but directors too — clearly believing in Becky’s intellect. Sometimes, this led to complications. When asked, “What’s your favorite Toby Keith song?” Becky replied: “Red, White and Royal Blue.” Instead of: “Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue.” An easy mix-up! But she cheerfully joined in on God Bless the U.S.A., and even answered the Bible verse question. Her answer sounded like: “You know… the one about Jesus? And mercy?” “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy?” Seymour offered, a little too precisely. “That’s it! How did you guess? You’re so smart!” Rebekah’s eyes widened with wonder, and she reached out — as if to confirm that such a witty, insightful man was, in fact, real. “No touching!” Kevin yelled immediately. “Cockblocker,” Miss Goodman muttered under her breath. After that, she behaved more modestly — though she slipped up once, when she invited Alan out for coffee. She was promptly informed that respectable girls donotmake that kind of offer. “Wow. Harsh way to find out my mom’s not a respectable girl,” Chaz said brightly. A wave of confused looks turned in his direction, so he elaborated. “Yeah, she proposed to my dad. Didn’t believe in all those formalities, she said. But one morning they woke up, she looked at him and realized she wouldn’t mind making him breakfast sometimes. So she got up, made it, and shaped a ring out of toast. He said yes. They’ve been together thirty-five years now.” He gestured around the fire circle. “So yeah, I’ve basically been subjected to daily heterosexual propaganda my entire life. Honestly? With everything going on here — this might finally turn me straight.” For some reason, no one rushed to assure Chaz that his mother sounded perfectly respectable. No one commented on his story at all. Instead, Kevin clapped his hands and said everyone had done great, they were on the road to success, and that now it was time for one final exercise. The participants formed a wide circle — or rather, a lopsided pentagon. Five of them stood with their backs to the fire; the other five faced them. After standing in the circle of firelight, it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the shadows. But Chaz immediately noticed Elijah’s displeasure at being paired with him. Elijah rolled his eyes or looked off to the side — and then muttered: “Take the wig off already. You look ridiculous.” “You were much more polite when Rebekah was responding to your advances,” Chaz whispered back. But he tore off the blond braids anyway and tossed the wig to John. A melancholy tune began playing, and Kevin started to speak — murmuring in a tone that was clearly meant to sound hypnotic: “Don’t look away. Look at the man in front of you. Really see him… see what he looks like…” A pause followed — apparently to allow for proper gazing. “Did you get a haircut?” Chaz asked softly, obediently studying Elijah’s face. “What? No.” “Well… you definitely trimmed your nose hair.” “Oh, screw you.” “Look into the heart of this man…” “What if this man doesn’t have a heart, huh?” Elijah muttered through his teeth. “Are you kidding me?” Chaz snapped — slightly louder than intended. “I dropped four grand and gave up my entire weekend to be here!” Judging by the way nearby pairs started glancing over, he hadn’t been whispering after all. He gave them a sheepish smile and a thumbs-up. “No one asked you to come.” “Peer into his soul…” “If you decided to jump off a cliff or tattoo your face, I still wouldn’t wait for permission before dragging your dumb ass back.” “Can we get a little more dramatic here?” Elijah muttered. “There’s no cliff. And I dodged Igor and his offer to sit me on a tree stump and give me a tattoo just fine.” “Go deeper…” Kevin droned. “He’s doing this on purpose, right?” Chaz whispered. “Are you doing this on purpose?” Elijah hissed, trying to step on Chaz’s foot. “I was trying to avoid you.” “No need to avoid me.” “There is.” “Suit yourself. Maybe you’ll find yourself a man here. How about Aaron?” “You don’t need sexual intimacy with another man,” Kevin intoned. “You just need the closeness of another human being. And you can allow yourself that. You can look at other men. You can talk to them. You can hug them. Try it.” “I’m not going to,” Elijah said, stepping back. “Well, I am,” Chaz said — and wrapped his arms around Elijah’s shoulders, refusing to let him pull away. “I don’t want Aaron,” Elijah muttered. “I want—” “We’ve talked about this,” Chaz said quietly. “And I found a solution! This place! But you—” “It’s not a ‘solution’ unless you came here to bag yourself a reliable, mildly confused farm boy. Let’s say Tony…” “What’s going on with you and Alan?” “Oh, we’ve got a herd of bulls and four kids! Two combines, still on loan. Are you a complete idiot? What could I possibly have with Alan? And stop crying — the next person’s going to think you looked into my soul and saw something tragic.” “You don’t have—” “Yeah, yeah. I don’t have a soul because I wouldn’t sleep with my best friend — the one I remember being seven years old.” “I haven’t been seven in a long time, in case you missed it. Same way you haven’t. And you hook up with literally everyone, but somehow I’m the—” “Partner switch!” Kevin clapped his hands cheerfully. “Stop the slut-shaming already. We’ll talk Monday,” Chaz said, releasing him and stepping over to Zack.

☕🔦💋

“Ala-a-an,” Chaz murmured, flopping his head over the side of the bunk to look at his roommate. Alan was pretending to be asleep. He’d been faking the breathing pretty well — until now, when he apparently decided that not breathing at all was more convincing. Chaz tossed the pencil he’d been using earlier for that afternoon’s journaling session. Nothing. The mummy act continued. “Wait — are you actually sleeping in socks? Ew. I’m not, see?” He dropped a leg down for dramatic effect. “You gonna report me?” No answer. Chaz wiggled his foot a little, then said softly: “Imagine it… my foot brushing against yours, sliding up, along the inside of your leg…now it’s at your—” “You’re scaring me,” Alan said, very much awake. “Seriously?” “Yeah. I’m not used to… this. It’s a lot. Too much.” “Oh. Sorry.” Chaz nodded. “I’ll adjust the settings.” A pause. “You’re not actually gonna go straight, are you?” Alan asked. “What gave me away?” “Everything.” “So… are you planning to go through with it?” “I want a family. I’ve always wanted kids. I’ve got a house. It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere, but it has decent internet. And the road’s fine.” “Do you have a farm?” “No. I’m a web designer. I also have a pottery studio.” “Okay… and?” “What?” “What does any of that have to do with switching teams to become ‘normal’? You just described the dream man of, like, ten thousand gay dudes: a guy with property, a stable job, plans for the future, and actual intentions.” “I just thought… women were more into that sort of thing.” “Oh please. Like there’s a huge difference. Sure, nobody’s gonna have morning sickness, but other than that? I honestly couldn’t tell you if two guys would need less closet space than a woman and her shoe collection.” “You make it sound like it’s easy.” “Bro. How much money have you already dropped on this scam?” “Twenty grand? No, more — I got the premium subscription and a bunch of extras… here and there…” “Oh. My. God. Please tell me we’ll be the ones starting a class action against these frauds!” “Down!” Alan hissed — loud enough to startle. A beam of light sliced through the room from the window. The beam moved through the shadows — checking walls, floors, even climbing onto a bunk — and then slipped away. “Are you telling me they check on us at night?” Chaz whispered. “Yep. Every forty minutes.” “There must’ve been… incidents.” “There were. Some people come here just to… look at each other.” “I knew it. I knew it. And you think John and Jake—?” “Yeah.” “God, what assholes.” “I mean… not super ethical.” “Look at you, master of understatement.” Silence settled between them. Then, ten minutes later: “Chaz?” Alan whispered. “Mmm?” came the muffled reply from the bunk above — already half-asleep. “Would you get coffee with me?” “Now?” “No. After we get out of here.” “Shit, Alan…” “Never mind.” “No, you don’t get to do that.” Chaz rolled over — this time fully — and dropped to the lower bunk with a thud that nearly took the whole frame with him. “Move over.” Alan quickly sat up, wrapped in his blanket and scooted as far back as possible. “Promise not to scare me?” “I swear on pinkies,” Chaz said, holding his out. Alan hesitated — then hooked his finger through Chaz’s. After that, they both managed to settle down again. “I like you,” Alan said quietly. “Like… is that even surprising? Is it possible not to like you?” “You’d be amazed. You’ve just been looking in the wrong places. No Grindr, okay? No experimenting with Scruff. Definitely not Sniffies. GROWLR… maaaybe, in an emergency. What you need is to meet people the retro way — like volunteering at a soup kitchen on Sundays. Or building houses for the unhoused. Or, I don’t know, helping out at an animal shelter. That could work too.” “I don’t know. Sounds complicated. I’m 34 and I haven’t kissed anyone since prom.” “And what… who happened at prom?” “A girl from my class.” “I’m sorry. Not for her. I mean for you.That you went so long without it. What?” “Nothing,” Alan said, suddenly looking away — a little too fast, a little too intensely. “You keep that up and you’ll still be unkissed at fifty. Here’s a secret: if you say what you want, you might actually have a shot at getting it.” “But you said…” “I didn’t say you couldn’t kiss me — don’t make stuff up.” “…So I can?” “Obviously.” It wasn’t the most spectacular kiss of Chaz’s life. At first, he didn’t do much — just let Alan figure out the direction himself. When Alan got a bit bolder, Chaz gently offered some feedback: “You don’t have to try and suck the other guy’s tongue out like you’re stealing his soul. Also, maybe don’t come back in for round two like you’re charging into battle. Not everyone’s into surprise teeth collisions.” Alan was a fast learner. Pretty soon, Chaz was sitting in his lap, muttering against his mouth, “This is starting to feel… dangerously close to one summer camp fifteen years ago. If we hadn’t signed that whole pledge not to eventryhaving sex…” Chaz breathed, tugging up both of their shirts just enough to be closer. “I never put that one squiggle at the end of my signature,” Alan murmured. “You sly bastard. They already took my shirt — this is literally the last piece of clothing I have.Wanna offer yours in tribute?” “Sure.” “How long ‘til the next guard patrol?” “Ten minutes.” “Plenty of time.” After the guard patrol passed, Chaz dropped back down to Alan’s bunk — after making sure Alan was okay losing a little more sleep. “So… still not getting coffee with me?” Alan asked, kissing his shoulder. “You’ve probably figured out that we’ve got very different priorities right now. So let me just say — you made this retreat way better than I expected. But I’m not going on a date. I’m sorry.” “…But?” Alan asked hopefully, still trying to touch as much of Chaz as possible. “I’m here on assignment. Keeping an eye on a certain dumbass… and collecting material for an article. If you agree to an interview, I’ll even pay for your coffee.” “Oh.” “And I won’t mention this,”Chaz added, nodding down at his own dick — which Alan was, at that moment, attempting to trap between what could generously be described as a chest. “Okay.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “If you want, you can help me with something else. I need to figure out where the others are at — how deep in the cult they are, or if anyone’s starting to suspect something’s off.” “Some of them just like… hanging out.” “Sure. But you can hang out for a lot less money — and without all the extra bullshit.” “There’s another exercise tomorrow. Horizontal cuddling. Two sessions, thirty minutes each, paired with another participant.” “What the actual fuck kind of intimacy exorcism is that supposed to be?” “We lie on the grass. If it’s not raining. We cuddle someone.Then they throw a blanket over us — full coverage, head to toes — and leave us there for thirty minutes. Like… bodybags stuffed with awkward men and feelings.” “I’m not gonna say what I’m thinking right now. But hey — maybe you’ll meet your soulmate.” “Right. I talk to two people. You talk to two.” “Deal. We take these bastards down?” “Deal. Now, could you maybe… scoot a little closer?”