Riley seemed startled. The corners of his mouth curled into a smirk. “Tyler, c’mon. I get enough crazy at home.” And there it was: laughter at my tears and calling me crazy.

Just. Like. Darnell. Check.

Men like Riley don’t know what to do when tears are shed. He looked at me curiously before pulling me into an embrace. I hesitated but relented, eager to feel comforted, wanting him to make it right. With his arms wrapped around me, I felt weak. I felt warm and giddy. I felt… an erection in his pants.

I was in trouble.

Riley and I stood in silence a moment before he suggested a late night breakfast. Going home would have been wise but when you’re drunk and horny and pathetically desperate to keep a boy’s attention, you don’t do wise things. You color outside of the lines. You place another bet. You say yes to breakfast. “Or perhaps another drink,” I said, flashing my big brown eyes. Riley smiled, took my hand and led me to another bar. And another. And another. The drinks got stronger and we got weaker, our hands frantically grabbing, pulling and groping at one another. On a dark cobblestoned lane somewhere below 14th Street, the dam of perversion broke and I began speaking as if I were writing a Penthouse Letter.

“You should have picked up that boy at the bar. You could have taken us both home,” I teased.

Riley grabbed my arm and smacked my ass. I yelped and giggled.

Then, I leaned in and whispered in Riley’s ear, “You could have watched him fuck me.”

Riley couldn’t take anymore. He twirled me into a dark alley and pushed me up against a building. Gripping my face with one hand he undid my pants with the other. I squirmed against his weight and bit at his neck, egging him on. He turned me around, pressing my face against the cold and dirty bricks. I pushed my ass against him and he turned my face toward his, spitting in my mouth before making me suck his fingers. His other hand slid down my jeans and his fingers pushed into me. A car whizzed by and I suddenly feared getting caught.

“Wait, wait,” I said, pushing him off me with all my might. He backed away, panting, and I wiped a string of his spit from my swollen lips. “I have to pee,” I lied.

“Okay,” he said, pointing to the brick wall behind me. “Then pee.” I turned and faced the wall to pee. Riley stepped behind me, his breath hot on my neck and his fingers tickling my ass again. I wiggled to escape but it was useless. I stopped struggling and tightened my ass. My face scrunched as I attempted the difficult task of keeping my ass clenched as I peed. “I can’t pee when you’re doing that!” I said, shrugging him away. I tried to think of water. Streams. Rivers. Niagara Falls. Nothing. I closed my eyes, tried to relax.

And then, while I was publicly urinating in a dark alley with Riley’s hands down my pants, the unimaginable happened.

I farted on his finger.

It echoed in the alley, sounding wet and juicy, like a Whoopee Cushion. I held my breath. My heart stopped beating. Riley and I stood motionless, frozen. There was a deafening silence, and then…

“EEEEWWWWW,” he loudly exclaimed.

I turned to face him but he was already gone. Buttoning my jeans I walked to the street, only to see his faint outline vanish as he rounded the corner toward Sheridan Square, coat flapping. I circled the block, but he was nowhere to be found. I walked home alone, embarrassed and humiliated.

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