Imagine, if you will, that you're Shane Hollander. The year is 2016 and you know that you are Down Bad for Ilya Rozanov. There is no escape. You also know you're just another name on his roster. You are suffering in silence, because that is what you do best.
Then, out of nowhere, he invites you to his actual house for the first time in 7 years of whatever the hell you two have going. He makes sure you come over early for the first time. He says it's because you flew in the day before the game. He gives you a tour and fucks you slow and sweet and sappy. He convinces you to stay the night, which you have never done before. This pattern of quick meaningless fucking is broken. He is being way too nice, and something about this gives you hope. Hope that he cares.
You take a little cat nap together in the sun. You wake up and he cooks for you, which he has never ever done. It's starting to sink in. This is a date. He cares about you. He wants you in his life. This is real and requited and you might even be able to have him for more than a couple hours in a hotel room 3 times a year.
Then he looks you in the face and says "Do you like girls?" Hold up, what the fuck?
When you deflect any further questions, he takes the opportunity to begin telling you how much he loves fucking other women, especially one he's known way longer than you.
So you jumped the gun. He doesn't feel the same, clearly. You're another name on a list, which you already knew. You let some dumb hope get the better of you and that's fine. Remember your place, this is all you can get. Take it gracefully.
Then this motherfucker moans your first name (again with the fucking firsts today), and all you can think is how amazing that fucking sounded and how you want to do it right back. You do, and fuck that felt perfect rolling off your tongue. You want to do it over and over and over again.
And then it all comes crashing down. You are another name on his list. He is your everything. You can't fucking do this. It's going to fucking kill you. You have to fucking leave. So you do.
The Tuna Melt Disaster wasn't a Classic Shane Hollander Freak Out. It was Ilya Rozanov's Fumble of the Century.
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