#gpsp

[amnglobal]

Out on the trail. #GPSP (at Baltimore County, Maryland) https://www.instagram.com/p/BwNNiLYBwAddHNIxu768tYArNOSkm3amWXKioY0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1o0fwawsz7mz5

[kaervekoimpiedoso]

Ready to gran prix mtg São Paulo 2018!

[ricardold]

A girft to @postrk for second year sign my cards. Tks man, i love your work hahah #gpsp #grandprix #unmask #alter #gift #magicthegathering #mtg

[alackofcharacter]

Handy tips for anyone planning to set up a Raspberry Pi as a retro-gaming machine. It took some work getting my controller to work with gpSP and Mupen64Plus, so I thought I'd save future gamers some trouble.

[blue-is-wrong-for-roses-blog]

In the Next Room

It was awareness that he felt, above everything. Awareness that the fan was licking his face with cold air, that his jeans and his t-shirt were resting on his fragile skin, that his sticky hand was sweating against the amber whiskey bottle. Awareness that he, in this moment, existed as a performance of a person, nothing more.

Marionette strings, once loosened, don’t return their puppet to a position of comfort.

And as his head rushed from standing, he hallucinated. The whirr of the fan. The tap of swinging lanyard in the slight breeze. The crash of shifting headboard from the room down the hall. The moans of pleasure. The buzz of the fluorescent light. The satin rustling of skin against skin.

The roar of angry brown eyes.

Intermission ended. He sat on his bed, his legs splayed and his elbows to his knees, his fingers tousling his hair, his malaise neatly packaged and presented as a mere headache, a good temple-rub away from a cure. He locked eyes with the floor, an ugly white speckled thing between plastic and wood, and searched it fervently for clues, finding only the seams where the pattern began to repeat.

He laid back. He grappled at the navy comforter crumpled at his feet. He pulled it over his head. He closed his eyes against what soft light still trickled through his cocoon. And slowly, his drowning mind drifted into a stuffy haze, microwaved in the bed.

In the bed. Voyeur, participant, voyeur in participating. Not under the sheets. On top of them. Shameless, writhing, baring cotton against flesh. It was a tangle of bodies and everything was lost. No names, no personalities, no distinguishable features at all. It seemed painless, here, in this dream space, no violent thrusts or forcings open, just sliding and breathing. The gentle rubbed rawer than rough did. There was no end, here, no culmination, just endless pleasure so tickling and sensitive that it clawed like a rash, reddening the once smooth skin. It was pleasure here, and it was suffocating. The indistinct mocha and peach shapes were swirling, menacing, swallowing, until all he could do to stay afloat was grab ahold of something solid. And so he seized her by the shoulders and suddenly the storm cleared. He was there, staring into eyes as brown as the whiskey he’d downed to forget them, and he was naked but familiar, defined, plain. And she was there, underneath him, just as bare.

They moved together like music, and it was a performance, but he was glad to be giving it.

[blue-is-wrong-for-roses-blog]

Eyes

“Jesus Christ, Emily, why?!” I said, shielding my eyes with a firm hand as I rushed out of the room.

“Why, what do you mean, why?! I didn’t do this on purpose!” She grabbed a blanket off her bed, muttered a quick apology, and slammed the door, following me out into the dark hall. I whirled around as she flipped the switch, her eyes blinking rapidly in the new light.

“Oh, god, and you’re just going to expose me to more of it?”

She raised a hand to lightly punch me, letting the blanket slacken.

“And you’re doing it again!”

“Peter, you’ve got to calm down!” She gathered the blanket more tightly and took me by the wrist into our kitchenette. “It’s not that big of a deal! I told you I was going on a date tonight.”

“Yeah, I had no idea it was going so well,” I said with a slight laugh, allowing myself to meet her gaze again. She smiled. “Speaking of which, are you really just going to ditch him to talk to me instead?”

She rolled her eyes. “Who said it was a him?”

“Oh, gross. Sex with men I can condone, but--”

She punched me again. “Carol’s fine. I told her I’d just be a minute.”

She was waiting for my witty response, but I was still shocked to the point of not having one.

This shouldn’t scare you so much.

“This shouldn’t bother you so much, you know,” she said with a sly smile. “It’s my body, not a rotten corpse.”

“Whatever! It didn’t make it any less shocking! I mean, I expected to see a toilet, for god’s sake!”

“You know, I’ve never lived with someone so stupid that installing bathroom signage seemed like a reasonable idea.”

“It was dark, and I always lose track of the number of doors when I’m tipsy.”

“You’re tipsy?”

“Are you kidding? I had to take three shots just to get through my Econ homework without bursting into tears.”

“That’s healthy.” Her voice rung with disapproval, but she laughed nonetheless.

Even though Emily and I had only been friends for a few short months, I was already happy about the whim decision we had made to room together. She was a better friend than ones who had known me for much longer, and our conversations, even if uncomfortable, always ended up in cheerful banter like this.

You wish you could be as comfortable as she always is.

“Listen, dude, I’ve got a sexy lady to get back to--not that you would know anything about that--”

“Because gross.”

“Because you’re about as mature as the sixth grader who rearranged our lawn gnomes into a plastic ornament orgy, but I digress. But I just wanna make sure you’re okay, first.”

You should be.

“I will be the sooner you take yourself back in there.”

You’re not.

“I’m gonna pretend I think you’re telling the truth. But we’ll talk more later.”

She stood with the afghan and exited, shutting the door behind her.

You watched her leave, memorizing the curve of her shoulders as they sloped into her long neck, and wondered how something so beautiful could disgust you so much. You played again and again the sight you saw in that darkened bedroom. It was just her eyes, that was all. Her dark brown eyes, before so focused on the body moving beneath her, had darted up as the door opened and so directly accused you. You recognized faintly that you were seeing more of her dark skin than usual, but it was the eyes that stripped you and left you startled and confused and saddened and angry, that made you shield your own and run full-force from the storm.

A muffled giggle emanated from the hallway. I sighed. Of course I’d be stuck with the least sexually aggressive roommate in the world, and still end up getting laid less than she did.

As the soft rocking sound began to radiate through the apartment again, I walked back down the hall, careful not to listen too much.

Back to Econ and the whiskey bottle for me.

[blue-is-wrong-for-roses-blog]

Inside Outside

  You were sixteen and it was tolerable. It wasn’t a house party, or a game of truth or dare. It wasn’t a drunken mistake or a sober moment of tenderness. You were sixteen, and it was tolerable.

“Peter, come on! We literally just poured our hearts out to you,” Hannah screeched from the couch.

It was girls’ night, about 2 AM. My internal sleepover clock told me that it was just late enough for brutal honesty, but too early for the inevitable ugly crying. AKA, personal story time.

“Jesus Christ, Hannah, calm down,” I said as I scanned the room. As per usual, I didn’t know half these girls that she decided to invite, and she wanted me to pour my heart out to them? And most of these total strangers were nodding in encouragement? Damn. Straight white girls have some fucked-up logic when they’re buzzed on wine coolers.

But I’ve gotta be honest. I know this story. I love this story.

  Or at least, you love the version you tell.

  “According to yourfavetwinkx.tumblr.com, all gay guys meet their partners online. Tinder, Grinder, Jacked, eCupid, match.com, Christian Mingle--okay, not Christian Mingle, but you get the gist.

“I’d been out for the better half of my freshman year with no luck at finding a boyfriend in the traditional sense, and I was so ready for a some summer lovin’, so I signed up for all of them. Told each pop-up prompt I was eighteen. Hey, it’s not hard to get used to lying when you’re answering the guilt-trip bullshit they ask. Of course I’m gonna say size doesn’t matter. Who wants to date the asshole who admitted it does?

“I labeled myself Tall brunette pup lookin for some fun,” winky face and all, after Googling some gay slang and successfully navigating various weird fetish websites. And, just as the Holy Bible of yourfavetwinkx.tumblr.com foretold, the requests began to roll in.

“Some of them were shitty. I mean, most of them were shitty. But a lot of them were really shitty. Like, these guys just sent pictures of their penises. Just that. Just a picture. Like, what do you want from me, bro? Questions? Comments? Concerns? But after ten dick pics, I’d get someone really sweet. And occasionally, the guy who sent the sweet comment wouldn’t be committing a felony if we did hook up. And once, just once, that sweet, legal 19-year-old was Blake.”

  You weren’t in love with him. You weren’t even sure that you like-liked him. But you did know that he was exactly the type of guy you’d be attracted to.

  “He was kinda short, but one of those short guys who carries himself with the confidence of a bull. And he was swarthy, you know, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Totally gorgeous. Like Tyler from Vampire Diaries. We started messaging back and forth, increasing in flirtatiousness each time, until finally, he invited me over for a movie.”

  You knew what a movie meant and you were excited, not for the event but for the aftermath.

  “Now, anyone who’s ever made out with a guy in a basement knows that ‘watching a movie’ is just code for ‘sticking our tongues down each other’s throats.’ And I was absolutely fine with that.”

  You knew what a movie meant and you were nervous, not because of what you felt for him but what you would feel yourself.

  “So, we end up in his basement, sitting on this enormous leather couch, staring down at this tiny TV that’s faintly playing Brokeback Mountain.”

  You knew what a movie meant, and you felt kind of sick.

  “I don’t even know how it started, but eventually we’re making out like CRAZY.”

  It didn’t feel bad, it just felt weird, moist, sticky, clawing, breathless.

  “And then he pulls off his shirt, and it’s just this mass of thick chest hair underneath, like he’s Wolverine or some shit, and he pulls off mine and I look like a Ken doll.”

The girls laugh. They always laugh here.

  It scratched against your bare skin and you felt raw, you felt even nakeder, you felt like he was rubbing off more and more of you with each push.

  “And of course, he eventually starts pushing down on the top of my head, you know.”

The girls nod here. They know.

  You wondered if you were supposed to be trying to distract yourself.

  “And then he... reciprocates.”

The girls say “ooh.” Or maybe it’s “ew.”

  You wondered if it was true, that it would feel better when it was somebody you loved.

  “And then he calls upstairs. ‘Mama, nosotros estamos viendo una pelicula! Nos dejen en paz!’ And then it’s done. And it was way hotter than I expected it to be.”

  It was tolerable. You were sixteen, and it was tolerable. You didn’t like it, you didn’t dislike it, it was tolerable.

Your whole life everyone tells you, if you don’t want it, say no. Well, what if you don’t know whether you want it or not?

You were sixteen, and it was tolerable.

  Usually I ended the story to a chorus of giggles and nothing more. But not this time.

“How hot did you expect it to be?” asked an unfamiliar girl with curly black hair and a dark complexion.

“Um, I don’t know. I thought it would be really gross, and it was only kind of gross.”

Laughter.

  You’re pretty sure it’s not supposed to be gross at all.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be gross at all,” she said with a short chuckle.

I tried to wipe off her contempt with some humor. “Clearly you’ve never had sex with another man before, Miss--ah--”

“Emily,” she said with a smirk. “It’s Emily.”

[blue-is-wrong-for-roses-blog]

Detox

Recovering from Catholic grade school took longer than you expected. You hadn’t realized that your binge-consumption of all things unholy would turn into a hidden addiction. Your shaggy hair went away sophomore year, when you realized that it just wasn’t worth the bedhead. Your ill-fitting pants went away the year after, when you reconsidered why, again, it was bad to care about your appearance. Your contempt went away just a few short months ago, when you gave in to optimism for the first time in a while and kind of liked it, after all. You found yourself seeing a resemblance to the impeccably groomed, carefully uniformed, and systematically oppressed schoolboy in the mirror again, and you were happy. You knew that the desire to be undefined would define you no more.

My neck cracked with frightening force as I swiveled my head to ogle the newest passerby. The foot traffic to and from the hip Thai food place across the street often made for quite a fascinating demonstration of all the wonders the male body has to offer, and we were big fans of watching the show from our study perch in the library. I was still staring after the Bieber-esque hair swoosh when my fellow judges spoke up.

“I don’t really like Asian guys.”

“That’s because you’re a fucking racist, Hannah.”

They cued me with expectant glances.

“I’m with Jules. Eight out of ten,” I said with a shrug.

“You have such good taste, Peter.”

Good taste in not siding with the fucking racist.

As Hannah and Julie returned to chatting, I stared out the window again into the sweltering August afternoon. Jesus Christ, were there a lot of dudes. I’ve seen gay pornography with fewer hot, sweaty men.

Fuck, now I’m thinking about porn.

Why do I always think about porn in public? I don’t even like porn that much. Definitely way less than the average male. In fact, maybe that’s why it always pops into my mind at inappropriate times. Because I recognize it as, frankly, pretty gross. It’s just like how I couldn’t sleep for a week after we dissected that frog in grade school...

Fuck, now I’m thinking about frog intestines.  Ew.

I mean, I’m not saying porn is as gross as frog intestines, no. I mean, porn can be really fun to watch. Of course. That’s why it exists. I’m just not always super into it.

“Red alert! Red alert!”

“Girl, you might be a fucking racist, but you sure do make some good calls. Damn!” Jules bit her lip.

Oh, did I love it when the girls found a sure thing. He was dismounting a bright blue bike at the library entrance. Short and slim, unfortunately dressed in basketball shorts and a tank top. The helmet covered a sexy mop of impeccable brown hair. His face was broad and dotted with the two bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

“Ooh, ten out of ten. He just needs a fashion intervention,” I said, leaning towards the window.

“What the fuck are you talking about? He’s perfect,” Hannah said, slapping the back of my head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Nike shorts were in this season.”

“What?” Jules looked at me with accusing confusion.

Hannah suddenly let out a cackle. “Peter, dude, you’re looking at the wrong guy. Mr. Perfect is there.” I followed her finger to catch a brief glance at a polo-wearing blond jock hovering near the edge of my line of sight.

Julie had joined in the laughter. “Oh my god, Peter, you were checking out a girl.”

I looked back, bewildered, to see his brown mop had fallen out of his helmet into long, unmistakably feminine tresses.

“Don’t turn straight on us, dude,” said Hannah through a chuckle.

“Hahaha, fuck you,” I sneered, tossing a wadded up napkin her way.

You’re wondering what else was just a phase.