Post-Graduate Plans

There are certain moments in a lifetime when you stumble into a discovery, finding yourself at the mercy of some deus ex machina so lurid and unbelievable that it may feel like you're in a Matrix-world created by Danielle Steele. The results of obsession and research have often resulted in marvelous societal and intellectual advancements and, in most cases, the researchers and thinkers upon whom fall the fruit of these labors experience a certain sense of melancholy. This Weltschmerz is directly motivated by the knowledge of having fulfilled your highest duty to humanity, knowing that your fierce determination (despite numerous setbacks, opposition, and doubt) has humbly offered you your own zenith, has shown you the highest mountain you will ever stand on. From this point on, however, you will never be able to taste air with such a sweet fragrance. You have done the greatest thing you will ever do. Now, while what happened two nights ago to me does not represent obsession or research, it is surely a case of serendipity and fortune that will never be eclipsed, that will never be matched.

Let's flash back to Monday night. I was chatting with an old friend (whom I will refer to as DP) from high school who had sent me a Facebook chat rather unexpectedly. I regret that I was unable to save the conversation, so I will attempt to transcribe a couple of lines purely from memory:

DP: "Hey, do you remember X?"
Me: "Whoaa, what a flashback. Haven't thought about him in years. I'm going to Facebook him right now."

I searched for him. Apparently, the guy lives in Texas now. His profile is laughable, especially the part where, for employment, he seems to have hastily scrawled "own my own business." His duties include, and I assume this is not an inclusive list: "design web cites edit video talent recurter project manger." Seeing as this is not generally CEO-level syntax or spelling, I was quickly intrigued. There are few things more fascinating than failure.

DP goes on to say that he has found something of interest. He asks me my email address. I give it to him. He says the message is sent, and that I need to look at the attached picture as quickly as possible. I refresh my email client 4 or 5 times before the message pops up. I open up, quickly download the attachment, open it in a picture viewer, and ladies and gentlemen, this pops up right before my stunned eyes:

Everyone has seen a picture of this sort from time to time. Well, at least most people who are looking at the Pridesack. The young man with the goatee and the widow's peak is none other than X, one of our high school classmates. Suddenly, the phrase "own my own business" is loaded with allusive power that both of us are too embarrassed to point out. DP had been cruising the internet for gay porn when he came to this site, saw this ad, and saw this. As his boner slowly drained of blood, he thought: "uhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that's X." I believe he momentarily understood what it was like to be heterosexual.

At this point, we are both absolutely stunned. Who, in the fucking vast expanse of a life, is (un?)fortunate enough to learn of a classmate's exploits in gay pornography NOT through word of mouth, but by pure, unadulterated chance? I decided to invest in some investigative effort. It may not be clear, but the "Limited time offer" on that ad extended from Nov. 1st to Nov. 30th, a period of time that seemed to be linked to my classmate's visage. With Google as my sidekick, I searched "Broke Straight Boys" without too much hope, as it was evident that it is a paysite and, well, my investment in gay pornography doesn't run far enough to reach into the wallet. Luckily enough, I was rewarded with the site's blog. Using the archives function, I pared down the entries to those made between Nov. 1st and Nov. 30th. I was rewarded with my classmate's total nudity in the form of .jpegs, awkward entries about his "preparation" for gay sex, and a handful of awkward glances that seem to shout: "this blowjob WILL earn me $1000, but that doesn't mean my distaste for it can't be palpable, right?" I quickly learn that his porn alias is Braden, a nickname so sadly lacking in cleverness that I almost want to apologize to him for absolutely everything, but nothing in particular. Here is a choice article, the first one that I saw. Of particular note is his refusal to bottom; undoubtedly stemming from his phobic aversion that penetrator = masculine, penetrated = feminine. In fact, as you run into posts featuring him (any with the name "Braden"), you will see that his performance is not only uncomfortable, but it is absolutely and sincerely characteristic of the site's intended gestalt: a broke straight boy who, because straight porn doesn't pay enough, has decided that it is better to have sucked dicks and gotten paid than to never have sucked dicks at all.

The sheer amazement of this discovery still blinds me, and for any lapse in form I will blame the ecstatic high it has induced in me. With a website and a name, I was able to return back to Google for more Schadenfreude. The search "Braden Broke Straight Boys" yields VIDEOS. VIDEOS. I will post the first non-pornographic video that I found, the one in which he is given an interview by a brusque cameraman who utters some of the most charming filth I've ever heard. Case:

Cameraman: Do you consider yourself 'gay for pay'?
X: Yes.
Cameraman: Oh okay, that's cool.

The infinity of potential touchstones in this piece is so intimidating that I think I will focus on one detail. Did you happen to catch their small discussion of X's tattoo? It is a Crayola-grade illustration of himself in an angel's embrace. He says that it is "protective." I am compelled to believe that the real world is much stranger than dreams, and that, as he scowls and is too disgusted to finish a blowjob, the undeniably homosexual recipient of this forced fellatio has this tattoo in plain eyesight. I would not be surprised if the painful, fascinating irony of this causes his tattoo to become a strange, impoverished, and Anglo-Saxon iteration of stigmata, bleeding a blood infused with the saline of tears.

In middle school, he was offered $20 dollars to lick another lacrosse player's balls. He did it, got caught, and was forced to give back the money. It is strangely satisfying to think that, as his tongue draped over the other guy's barely post-prepubescent scrotum, his mind washed over with the thought: "hey, I could make a living out of this." The most I can hope now is that he gets to keep the money.